𝙓𝙑.
PUNISHER

──────

Crap.

That wasn't ideal.

It had all been in slow motion, as if some sadistic filmmaker had played it back to me, sped down. 

Even as I'd attempted to sprint forwards, with an idea that maybe I'd make it up to three staircases before he made it through the glass, I'd seen everything slow down around me. 

The splintering glass, so innocent-looking, almost like snow as it came raining out of the sky. The sunlight beaming down at me as I came ever so near the entrance to the E.R. Alex and George had been frozen to their places, horrified at the scene in front of them.

My last thought before the crash was wondering whether he'd fall right on top of me. But, thankfully, no, he just landed with a tremendous bang on the car in a parking lot beside me.

My first instinct had been to flinch, my whole body manoeuvred away from the impact zone instantly, almost causing me to topple over to the ground. A slightly started sound had fallen past my lips and I had let out a choked cry. 

Before I knew it, Anthony was bloody and bruised, severely distorted and face down on someone's Honda.

"Fuck," I stammered out, not quite processing what had just happened. "Fuck—"

Fuck indeed.

I'd pressed a severely shaking hand to my lips, watching as Alex started barking orders to the interns and nurses who had come running outside in response to the sound of a man falling to his death. It'd been quite a distance, long enough for things to feel cinematic—but it wasn't quite to his death. 

As I swayed on my feet, waiting for the adrenalin to kick in, I was able to make out the low groans that left Anthony's lips, a sign that he hadn't quite accomplished his goal. That was enough to make me move.

I managed to tumble into the recovery team, swallowing the brutal sense of unease in my bones. Alex's orders had been loud; loud enough to attract the attention of half the ambulance team as they came racing out of a parked ambulance beside the car with a triage kit, ready for initial aid. 

Despite all of this commotion, George and Alex managed to manoeuvre Anthony onto a hospital bed and get him into the E.R without any hassle.

Suddenly, I was in my surgical internship again, blitzing my way through the ambulance bay doors, half soaked in New York. There was something about it, the stab of horror mixed with the sudden burst of adrenalin as I was tossed an IV bay and asked to hang it. I could feel it ignite something visceral in me, something that I hadn't felt nor seen in a very long time. 

My movements were instinctive, a pause here, a gentle hand on Anthony's arm as I helped lift him onto a gurney with the rest of the staff. A nurse expectantly looked towards me for medication guidance, but I was swiftly knocked back as people who were legally allowed to handle surgery things swept the room.

"Get me some gauze, stat—"

That's how I found myself standing on the outside. 

I was cleared out of the room like a fly being swatted aside. Outside the room, everything felt so distanced. The trauma room door swung shut and that was it: my window of horror and transfixed adrenalin was finished with. From here, everything was muted; there was something so eerie about it, the thought of such chaos just having the volume turned down as if it was all playing out across a screen. 

Even as the door opened and closed periodically with the swell of staff in and out, I felt as though someone had plugged my ears and shoved me into a whole different universe.

For once, the ER didn't seem so chaotic.

Across from me, a waiting room full of patients seemed to barely bristle in the face of the extremely traumatic event that had just happened. Briefly, I found myself looking over a sea of bumped heads, of hastily bandaged triages and heavy, ill eyes. My skin prickled and I felt my stomach roll. I glanced back at the trauma room.

"Fuck," I mumbled to myself, and thought about the amount of paperwork I'd have to do.

That's when Owen arrived. He was an angry presence today, loud, demanding. He came storming through the department, tossing on a trauma gown and barely even letting the door close behind him as he began yelling. Even from here, I could witness the way that George shrunk very slightly under the man's anger. 

Of course he was angry, a suicidal patient just threw themselves out of a window due to staff negligence.

His presence left the ER feeling stagnant and subdued, wary eyes watching the distant trauma room as if they all knew exactly what was happening inside. I knew from my previous exchange with Owen, as per hunting the trauma surgeon throughout the hospital, that he hadn't been having the best day– 

I guessed that finding out that your interns had let a suicidal patient loose, leading to him attempting to end his life through a window, was not exactly the best way to lighten the mood.

Out of a fucking window. 

Jesus. I screwed up. I didn't like it that I was doubting myself. There it was, the nagging, tingling sensation that I could have done better, that I could be better. 

Funnily enough, that voice at the back of my head sounded a whole lot like my sister: it had for a very long time and, not for the first time, it caused me to cave in on myself slightly. My foot hurriedly tapped on the floor like a nervous twitch.

Through the window, I watched Owen roughly snatch a triage kit from an ambulance attendant while yelling at a few of the extra hands that had come in from the parking lot. They all scattered like spooked animals, leaving George, Alex and a few trauma nurses to feel the backlash of his anger. 

Even standing outside, in a busy E.R where people hurried to sort out various patients, I could hear George and Alex scrambling to find the supplies they needed to help stop the patient from dying.

"Can someone explain to me why one of our patients threw themselves out of a window?" The Chief was suddenly there, at the bottom of the hallway. I could in a deep breath, stiffening as he looked between me and Alex tensely. "Can someone explain to me why one of our high risk patients was able to throw themselves out of a window?"

Richard Webber looked to Alex for an answer, but he just huffed softly, turning on his heel and storming away. He didn't look back, not even to apologise for leaving me alone to explain all of this. My breath caught at the back of my throat and I, very briefly, closed my eyes as if to gather my thoughts. When I turned to Webber, professionalism donned and hands still shaking slightly, he met me with a full blazing stare, eyebrows raised in a challenge and hands poised on his hips.

"His security detail was dismissed by someone," My voice was slightly wobbly but I mustered all of the hellfire I had in me. I tried to draw on the same fire that had blazed me through the earlier exchange with Mark. "I'm not sure who, but while I was trying to get his consultation transfer signed, security lost the patient and it resulted in Mr. Malloy throwing himself out of the third story window–"

I found it extremely difficult to gauge Webber's expression. He was, for all intents and purposes, quite a scary man when he wanted to be. 

My Chief of Surgery back in New York (the one who had really been hard on the ass and practically shattered any chance of me having a surgical career) had been all about flashy cars, briefcases of money and shiny shoes. Richard Webber, however, seemed a lot less party and a whole lot more business.

"He's your patient?"

It felt a lot more like an accusation than it did a question.

My nod was choppy but unwavering, "Yes."

"Where the hell were you?"

I didn't look away from his encompassing gaze, but still felt my throat grow extremely tight at the thought of my answer. 

Immediately, I thought of the coffee cart, of how I'd taken my break to lightly interrogate Eli on Mark's new beau, hungry for information that I wasn't even sure whether I wanted to know. My stomach twisted almost painfully and I felt disappointment, mainly directed at myself, filter through my body. 

It was only fuelled by the look of disbelief that bloomed across Webber's face as he realised I'd left my patient in the care of interns.

See? Addison's little voice said at the back of my head, You can't afford to make mistakes with your track record.

As much as I wanted to argue with my own consciousness, they were right. I was fully aware that I was hanging onto this job with everything I had. I couldn't afford to trip up and I sure as hell couldn't afford to get fired—not to mention the fact that this man, this mentally ill, in need of dire intervention, man couldn't afford to lose his life either. 

I was, for all intents and purposes, unemployable after all the shit I'd pulled in New York. Admittedly, for good reason too.

I hadn't always been like this. It'd been my tireless dedication to my work that had lead me into this position anyway—how ironic it was that wanting a surgical career too much had lead to me losing it all.

"Are you okay, Dr Montgomery?"

I'd zoned out for a few moments, leading Webber to sigh deeply as if my lack of response was tolling too. I blinked rapidly, trying to clear the ghosts of New York's past from my gaze. When I looked back at Webber, the majority of anger had faded from his eyes and he just appeared wary, as if it'd suddenly occurred to him that I had, in fact, just watched a man throw himself out of a window. 

Sure, I'd dappled in crises' for the past few years, but I hadn't been in this sort of chaos in a very long time—There was a very big difference between watching something happen and just turning up to deal with the aftermath. I had to learn that the hard way.

"Yeah," I said after a few beats, nodding numbly as I wiped clammy palms on my thighs. "I... I, uh, I went on break and presumed that Mr. Malloy would be fine under the supervision of O'Malley, Karev and the security team. It was a grave miscalculation and I understand if you want to investigate the negligence or—"

Well, here we go, was what I was thinking.

I'd had a good run, right? It'd been a matter of days in employment and here it was: the familiar disciplinary hearings, the long meetings, the scathing stares over tables with hospital board members and their corporate lawyers. 

I was, by no means, a stranger to these things. In fact, I was fairly sure my lawyer was bored and probably starving from the lack of income coming from my various legal suits— Dom, looks like I'm going to be keeping your lights on.

"We'll do an internal investigation," Webber said in response but then paused, "Go sit down, Doctor Montgomery, you look a bit pale."

There was something that completely spooked me about people dying right in front of me—I supposed that it was good I never properly made it as a surgeon; I would have been beside myself constantly. 

I held my hands in front of me a little tighter, sucked in a breath, and nodded very quickly insisting that I was fine. (Was I fine? If I lingered too much in the moment, I was able to vividly recall the sound of Anthony's skull crunching against the window shield.) Thankfully, Webber seemed hesitant to rain hellfire on me today; he told me that he'd speak to Katherine and that I'd hear from him soon, and he moved on, ready to rain on someone else's' parade.

Shit.

I supposed that this was something that I hadn't quite expected during my job interview. Working as I had, over the past few years, outside of clinics and outside of normal offices, things hadn't felt so real. 

I'd always followed the danger and the crisis, appearing like some sort of ghostly vulture that was there to pick at the wreckage. I'd never seen it with my own eyes. I'd never watched someone's limbs rearrange themselves like that or watched the fallout of my own fuck up. If this wasn't a rude awakening to how seriously wrong my career choices had been then I wasn't sure what it was.

I wasn't a surgeon, despite how instinctively I'd taken to falling into habits. As twisted as it sounded (and, admittedly, Anthony looked,) his physical health was not my concern. It was that impulse, that little kick that had brought him to that window, that was.

I'd failed my job.

I swung through the ER, keeping my breathing even as I tried to put in some sort of mental game plan. I'd check up on my patient in surgery, ask one of the scrub nurses to keep me updated and then I'd follow up with Katherine. I'd talk to the recovery team and then I'd talk to Jeff, the patient transfer assistant, about that referral––

Shit, I'd really failed my job. Was this some sort of Guinness world record?

It was as I went to leave the ER completely that my attention was drawn back to the ambulance bay. A slightly chaotic storm had brewed outside those very doors, collecting around the broken pieces that Anthony Malloy had left behind him. 

A woman stood, visibly shaken by what she'd just seen. Her eyes were wide and she was stuttering to herself, clearly in shock–– a nurse was attempting to talk her into a wheel chair. He held a gentle hand on her arm, silently signalling to the ER doctors around him that she needed assistance.

Without even fully realising what I was doing, I dragged in a very deep breath. I shoved my trembling fingers into my pockets and pasted on my brightest, most clandestine smile. Within five swift strides, I was right at her side.

"I've got this," I said to the nurse. 

They gave me a very brief once over and stepped back, allowing me access to the patient. I gingerly replaced his hand with my own, applying a very delicate pressure to her skin to ground her into reality. I felt her quiver beneath my palm as the nurse helped me get her into the wheel chair. 

"Hi, I'm Doctor Montgomery. Don't worry, you're in good hands––"

(Ah, if they only knew what'd happened to my last patient.)

"H-He jumped," She said, breathing heavily and I felt my hands begin to tremble again. Fuck. Between her shaking shoulders and my quivering fingers, the whole world seemed to tremor. A pair of wide, dark eyes wheeled around at me, face flushed and mouth gaped. "The man–– he just– he came out of no where––"

Yep, I thought to myself, Yep, Yep, Yep, Yep––

"Okay," I chipped out between clenched teeth, moving as the nurse helped me wheel her out of the doorway. My hand, very clumsily, migrated to her shoulder, "I need you to focus on me, okay? Look at my face, okay? Concentrate on trying to slow your breathing––"

"He fell!"

She was breathless, fighting for some sort of baseline in what had proven to be a very chaotic ER. As the commotion continued, I tried to help her to the best of my abilities. It was considerably hard, especially when I was trying to hold onto my sanity with every single second of my willpower.

Pretend this is Indonesia, I kept telling myself, Pretend that this woman just went through the impossible and she's just, just like any other patient–– preferably, not a patient that just watched your other patient flatten himself against a Prius.

"I need an oxygen mask and a low strength tranquiliser in Trauma Room Three," I said, my voice slightly strained as I leant across the nurses station. I'd successfully sat my patient down and had the nurse sat beside her, counselling her every breath as I spoke to an ED doctor. "I want a close observation on her and page up to Psych if she becomes depersonalised or lethargic."

The ED doctor nodded and turned immediately, taking over my patient with a very small turnover window. It felt almost cathartic; I turned to watch him haul oxygen to counteract her panic attack, and let my chest fall. 

There was something about the very fleeting moment of control that I had, the second naturedness of coordinating something I'd done a thousand times. I could handle trauma in patients, I could do that, I could combat a panic attack––

See? Sometimes I knew my shit.

That didn't last very long.

I turned towards the stairway and let my feet carry me in pilot mode. Webber called out after me but I was quick, I took the stairs quickly, like some sort of pro. I was too busy confusing on not emptying my stomach all over the concrete stairs to really think about the fact I didn't really know where I was going. 

I was sure I'd find it—a hospital had a lot of perfectly sterile places.

Clearing the staircase in record time, I shouldered my way through the door, appearing on a random hallway in the middle of a ward which I recognised as being Archer's. Eli, who was sitting at the desk opposite me, lifted his head and gave me a slight smile, but the expression withered slightly when I just rushed forwards and asked for directions. 

His answer was cautious, telling me that the nearest restroom was down the hallway by the O.R. And then I was off again.

I didn't have a very concrete stomach. I was always the one who vomited when they were drunk, I was always the one who vomited when they were terrified or shocked. 

Maybe it was the stress of watching someone throw themselves out of a window or actually being able to hear their bones snap and bend—but something was definitely not settling well with me.

"Beth?"

A familiar voice ghosted up behind me but I didn't pay any mind to it. I'd spotted the toilet and was in the middle of curtly speed-walking towards it. 

The person, whose attention had clearly been grabbed by my pale, almost sheet-white face and my awkward walking pace, repeated my name. It sounded weird in my ears. I kept my head down and shoved into the door of the restroom.

I barely was in the toilet for a second before I was vomiting rather blissfully into the bowl.

I was suddenly incredibly thankful that I'd tied my hair back this morning.

I felt shaken up. 

Things like people throwing themselves out of windows did that to me. My breathing was laboured, my chest heaving as I paused, the scent of acrid vomit wafting up my nostrils. I closed my eyes, thinking back to the last time my body had been so stupid—the only time that came to mind was crouching in a cubicle in the middle of JFK Airport after being told to leave again by Amelia Shepherd. 

I took a deep breath, forcing air to flow through my body before I leant upwards slowly. Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I attempted to gather my thoughts.

The first thought was generic: shit I feel like shit.

But then my brain started rousing again. I could actually register things now that I'd somewhat emptied the sudden shock and stress that had welled up inside of me. With a slightly incoherent murmur, I stood up, flushing the toilet and grimacing as I watched the water whirl around the bowl. I might not have been a stranger to throwing up, but that didn't mean it didn't disgust me.

I unlatched the door slowly, taking my time in exiting the cubicle. My eyes seemed to drag across the floor, slow and almost dizzy as I attempted to throw myself into a good mind. I knew that I had a lot of work to do—there were things to sort out with Izzie and a few patients to work with for Dr. Wyatt, and I had at least four hours until I was due to go home. Heaving a sigh, I trudged to the sink, turning it on as I avoided looking into the mirror at all costs.

Without another second of hesitation, I turned on my feet and picked my way across the toilet and back out into the hallway. Playing with the collar of my coat, I fleetingly glanced down the corridor—but seemed to fail to notice the square-shouldered man in front of me.

"You look rough."

Outwardly, I grimaced, throwing daggers at Mark as he stood there, his face completely innocent as he stared down at me. 

His crystalline eyes glistened, a slight shadow cast across them as I side-stepped him and continued walking. Just as I hoped he wouldn't, Mark pivoted on his heel, a frown crumpling his brow as I shook it off.

I wondered whether he was thinking the same thing as I was: listening to me spill my guts had framed long mornings after I'd gone a little too far with my drinks. It must've been a familiar sight to see me all clammy and peakish looking. I caught my reflection in the passing window; yep, I looked like a ghost from the past.

"And you look like a douchebag," I threw over my shoulder, happy to be met with momentary silence. 

I liked silent Mark. It was my favourite Mark. I huffed, still with a slightly foggy head and turned to face him as I shouldered my way through a security door back into Eli's ward. 

"Always a pleasure, Doctor Sloan."

I caught the expression on his face. It was calculated and cold. I supposed that if I'd still cared about him, that glare alone would have hurt me; but no, it just made my lips twitch into a very wide smile, one which I'd long ago labelled as the expression I'd give to patients who were, ironically, testing my patience. For the record, Mark was testing my patience; he was always, always testing my patience.

"I would say the same," He chipped back at me, just before I was able to go out of earshot. His voice seemed to chase me down the hallway (running, I was always running when it came to him.) "But I have standards now."

Yikes!

"Oh, so you're pickier with your hookers now, Mark?" I rose to the challenge, deserting the half-opened door as I tilted my head to the side. His chin raised too, his face growing stonier as I gave him the sort of fight he was clearly looking for. "I've noticed that they keep getting younger and younger-- must be those Mommy issues really coming through, hm?"

"It's either that or the PTSD from dating a complete psychopath."

I hated that Mark was completely unfazed by what I could throw at him, and I hated, even more, that I knew that mentioning Lexie Grey was the perfect way to knock his ass into the dirt. He was protective of that woman and throwing her into this argument was a cheap shot. Mark stood there, tall and weathering whatever storm that I threatened to throw at him (had he always been this annoying?). 

I found it frustrating; it was shit how he could so easily get under my skin and yet I had to take dirty shots to even faze him.

"You don't date," I tossed back his favourite line at him, my hands pressing on my hips, "Or at least you forgot you did when you decided to sleep with half of Manhattan--"

My voice was raised, echoing down the hallway at a impassive Mark. I could see staff members glancing over at us further down the corridor at the nearest nurses station. In the distance, Eli's head ghosted around the corner, his eyebrows raised as he spied the two of us chipping back at forth. I could practically hear the sigh that fell past his lips. 

Was this exhausting? It felt exhausting. Mark was just one of those people who had the uncanny ability to push all of my buttons, and unfortunately, I had a lot of buttons. A lot of pulsating, bright red, 'do not push' buttons that sadists like him liked to punch with gusto.

"I'm surprised you even remember anything that happened in Manhattan seeing as you were drunk and high the whole time," Mark grilled those words back to me and I could only scoff angrily. His eyes blazed, all traces of that goodwill and peace treaty gone. I'd expected it. If I was a malicious bitch he was the bastard that came hand-in-hand with it. "I'm surprised you can even remember my damn name--"

Very smart.

"So much for handling this like adults, huh?" If mentioning Lexie was a cheap shot, mentioning my past problems was the bottom of the barrel. I didn't have the energy to be hurt; no, I was burning too brightly, my temper peaking as I glared down the man in front of me. "Do you just sit there with little cue cards debating what topic to go for first: alcoholism or pills, alcoholism or pills, eenie meenie minie moe. Do you spin a wheel? Just close your eyes and throw something and see where it lands?"

Mark's jaw clenched.

"I can recover from my problems," I continued while I had the silence. It was nice to be heard after so many years of being quiet. "I can recover from the drinking and the pills-- and I have. I have recovered," (My throat tightened at the thought of that one little glass of wine I'd had on the flight.) "But you... you can't recover from being a sadistic cheating bastard. They don't do rehabs for that."

He stared at me, his gaze burning through every inch of me. It caught me off-guard, for a moment, at how much hate was in those eyes. It made wonder what exactly was going on in that head of his; what had he decided to mentally crucify me over today? Back in New York it had been exactly that, the drinking, the selfishness of addiction that he'd failed to understand-- now, 

I wondered whether he hated me for the same reason I hated him: the fact he'd lit everything we'd built together up in flames.

We held each other's gaze for a few moments and then Mark seemed to realise it wasn't worth it. So much for a truce or a treaty, this shit was broken beyond repair. Did he realise how close I was to setting Seattle on fire? I would if I had to. 

I would have gone to hell to make him feel the pain I'd felt five years ago. I watched the way his shoulders rose and he heaved a breath, shooting me a final glower.

"Your patient, he's the one that caused my patient to crash his car, right?" It was an odd thing to bring up at the end of an argument. I stared at him, caught off-guard by the sudden injection of professionalism. Mark didn't look at me as he spoke, his eyes stuck on something over my shoulder. I sighed, nodding. He scoffed to himself quietly, "Of course he is."

My brow furrowed. What was that supposed to mean?

"Well," Mark continued, looking up so he meet my eye. He met my raised eyebrows and my head tilted to the side by a fraction, a clear look of agitation masked behind polite professionalism. "You can tell your patient that he just killed a perfectly healthy, innocent man."

My mouth dried until it felt like I was swallowing sand.. This time, Mark was the one who walked away first.

***

"Who's about to get stabbed?"

I'd paused at the nurse's station, my face contorted as I pause in front of a desk—with a light sigh, I noticed that I'd unknowingly traipsed into my brother's ward, invoking the sarcastic little voice of Eli. 

My gaze swung around, catching his luminous eyes from behind the computer screen in front of me, looking at me with light mischief that had me shaking my head slowly and a rather callous laugh falling past my lips. I looked over at him and rolled my eyes.

"When you said that Lexie Grey's a serial killer, was that a guess or a promise?" 

My question made him chuckle, but I was deadly serious. The thought of Mark meeting his untimely demise filled me with a very deep sense peace, as if it would be the only thing in the universe that would bring me happiness.

So I tried again, "You know how to hide a body?"

No questions asked.

Eli chuckled. "I'm in."

I paused, my smile withering slightly as I recounted the way Mark had looked at me. I wondered if two photographs were hung side by side, a picture of Mark looking at his new fling and a picture of him looking at me, would they be the two extremes on either side of a scale. 

I liked to think that Mark felt pain everytime he looked at me. I really fucked hoped he missed me too-- but when I looked at him, I felt the need to rip skin with the exact same enthusiasm I'd taken to popping pills all my way through the early 00s.

"My patient killed his patient," I said off-handedly, signing a script that he handed me. In the corner of my eye, I caught the way his eyebrows raised. "His patient died because my patient tried to kill himself-- and he just broke through a window and crush a really nice a car in the ambulance bay with his body. A nice human sized dent. Mark's patient is dead and my patient, the sucidal one, is still alive and will probably be fine."

When I looked up, Eli was staring at me.

"C'mon," I said lightly, "There really has to be some sort of metaphor in there somewhere."

I thought about it as I walked to my brother's hospital room. What had Mark meant by 'Of course'. He'd said it in a scathing, judgemental way as if he'd been able to see it come. Surely, he should have been able to see it coming; I'm the psychiatric cover for the pit, he should have been able to anticipate it happening even before I'd told him and Derek that I was on Anthony's case. 

Of course. Of course. I felt like there was something hiding there, some sort of double-sided remark as if everything I touched and the patients I treated all had the tendency to screw up everything eventually.

Archer had been situated in the same room for nearly three weeks now; his recovery was rapid, almost too good to be true and Derek had been delighted. Although he'd initially recommended Archer to stay for a longer period of time, Addison hadn't been having it. 

She'd pulled strings, phoned friends—and before I knew it, Archer's hospital room was already re-assigned for the day he was leaving.

And that day was soon, I didn't know specifics but I knew that word—soon. I didn't like that word at all.

I took a deep breath as I wandered down the corridor, the distance between Mark and myself levelling my head out. I no longer had the impulse to throw up every five seconds, yet the sight of my patient glassy-eyed, covered in blood and strewn across a crushed car seemed to be emblazed into the back of my eyelids. 

I frowned, but pushed the thought to the back of my brain, locking it away, tight and snug in the darkest corners of my subconscious. I was good at that these days.

Archer's door was propped open by a doorstop, allowing the sound of his television to swamp into the hallway. I halted in the doorway, crossing my arms over my chest and leaning against the frame—my eyes glittering almost remorsefully as I caught sight of my brother after avoiding him for days. He was there, as always, sat up with a tray of hospital food on his lap, a medical journal by his left leg and completely immersed into... what looked like a... Spanish Telenovela?

I subconsciously made a sound, a mixture of scoff and a gasp. Instantly, Archer- who hadn't noticed my arrival- pinned to me, his eyes widening slightly as a long rather disbelieved and confused smile unfurled across my face.

"Hi."

"These stupid televisions don't have any good channels."

Archer was quick to reply, causing my eyebrows to rise across my forehead. He paused for a moment, repeatedly looking back and forth from the television to me. It was as if we were in some sort of drama ourselves. I rolled my eyes and glanced over my shoulder, catching the gaze of Eli who was looking at me with a secret smile on his face. 

My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth- this damn hospital was doing something to Archie that I could never achieve, actually making him seem human.

"Beth," As I sluggishly moved into the centre of the room, the light of the blinds on the opposite wall caught my features. My chest deflated and then rose, my shoulders falling and then rising as I rather roughly dropped onto the foot of Archer's bed. "You look like hell."

"This whole job thing..." I trailed off, trying to collect my thoughts as Archer reached out for the remote control and minimised the volume from the television. My voice was rather bitter, but I managed to chill it down with a forced laugh. I averted my eyes down to the bed as they watered slightly. "I'm convinced it's... it's looking like hell at the moment."

Archer raised an eyebrow. "You never were religious."

"Well, maybe I'll convert, do some sort of exchange programme." I sighed heavily, rubbing a hand over my face. "Do a week of church, praying, pleading, repent my sins—you know, maybe I'll just become a nun. I'll just—dedicate my life to God like that girl out of The Sound Of Music. Runaway and join a convent, spend my life in abstinence."

My brother barely waited for a second to pass, before he breathed out a reply.

"Abstinence doesn't quite seem your style."

His comment caused me to laugh; I laughed rather suddenly, so suddenly that it hitched awkwardly in my windpipe, causing my choke on thin air. Archer's eyes widened as I collapsed into a coughing fit, my hand coming up to my mouth as my eyes watered madly. 

Once I'd caught my breath and done my fair share of wheezing, I grinned, blinking away my tears.

"You're right, not even religion can save me at this point." With a hand pressed against my chest, I balanced myself on the bed, my lips quirked into a rather disheartened but strong smile. Archer's eyebrows drew downwards, catching onto the fact that I was not in the greatest of moods. "They don't want me after all the shit I pulled, right?"

Towards the end, my voice broke slightly. My brother's face slowly composed into a half-hearted smile. Sheepishly, I looked upwards, meeting his gaze; he leant forwards, lacing his fingers with mine as a way of comfort. Swallowing slowly, I reached my free hand over to lay it on top.

"What am I doing, Arch?" I sighed heavily. My brother didn't respond right away; somehow I think he knew that I just needed to ask that question. "I just watched some guy that I was supposed to be helping throw himself out of a window- and then I went and threw up-"

"Do you remember that time when Bill Latimer asked you out to Prom in your senior year, and you threw up over his cat?" Archer's random change of subject was appreciated; although it did annoy me at first. "He thought that you rejected him but you just ended up going with his brother."

I glanced over at him, nodding slowly. "Bill ended up revoking his offer so I went with his brother. Mark Latimer."

Mark.

"At least you haven't killed anyone." Archer seemed to halt on that thought, looking over at me again and noticing how my muscles were still knotted from a cocktail of stress and agitation. I winced very slightly at his words, thoughts of New York glazing through the back of my mind. "Yet."

"You know, I think I've worked out my problem—" Archer's seemed to roll his eyes as I crossed my arms over my chest. "I happen to sleep with guys named Mark a lot—"

"I've said it once and I'll say it again, funnily enough, I don't want to hear about your sex life-"

"Oh, what because it's not in Spanish?"

I gestured my head back to the television, causing a sour expression to fall across Archer's face. I actually almost smiled as my older brother shook his head hopelessly, sighing. He stared at me for a few moments, his weathered eyes—the exact same colour as our fathers- filling me with warmth. 

A small smile grew on his lips and I attempted to return it, as awkward of haphazardous as it appeared. Slowly, my brother held up the pot of jello that he'd avoided on his tray, the only intact piece of food around him. He held it out to me.

"I hate to give you a chance to make fun of me, but it's actually not that half bad." I rather cautiously accepted the pot from him, tilting my head to the side as my brother leant over and turned up the volume again. I turned my head, looking over at the small screen in the corner of my room- where two actors were squabbling in fast-paced Spanish. "You did Spanish in college, right?"

"Hardly fluent," I shrugged slightly, turning my attention back to my brother. He shuffled along in his bed, gesturing for me to sit beside him. A sudden warmth flooded through my body and I realised that maybe this is what I needed—Archer, maybe I did know what I was doing. Maybe I just needed a real family moment. "If you happen to have a French drama channel anywhere in there, I'm your girl."

"Oh yeah, you went to France, didn't you?"

"I went to go stay with Calum and Rose." I slowly settled beside my brother, being careful not to interfere with any of the wires attached to him. I know that I'd cracked a few old man jokes but dear god—it was like he was on some sort of life support. Archer slung his arm around my shoulders and I gingerly rested my head against his upper chest, being careful as I knew he was still healing from his intense surgery. "I was lucky to have them- I don't know what I would have done without Calum offering me a couch to sleep on."

"Does Mark know?" I paused, before popping off the top of the jello pot. Archer must have noticed my hesitation as he seemed to instantly regret saying anything.

"Mark hated Calum." I sighed, thinking back to how the two alpha males had clashed horribly back in New York. "And besides—why would I tell Mark anything, he'd just get angry over it and probably attempt to get me fired or something..."

"Beth, he might be an ass but he's not that insane-"

"So, you really believe he had nothing to do with me getting kicked out of the surgical programme in New York?" Archie fell silent and I sighed, looking down at my jello pot. "He just gave me hell in front half of this ward's staff and I'm pretty sure he's out to get me at some point. I think he thinks I'm here just for him. That's not true. I'm here for you and I'm here for Derek and--"

"I'm leaving tomorrow. I'm sorry."

I knew he was sorry, he sounded completely sincere. His voice was low, breathing rather hitched and eyes caught and unmoving on the television. 

Archer didn't like to look at people when he was sincere, he'd been like that since he was little. I averted my gaze back down to the pot, poking the jello with the plastic spoon left on Archer's tray. I sighed.

"I know, it's okay."

But I knew it wouldn't be. Somehow, I knew that Archer leaving just meant that I'd be stuck again; there would be no one there who knew me well enough to change the subject. But I couldn't let that conflict with this moment—so I just shut up and watched a programme that I didn't understand. 

I knew a few words here and there and they weren't that hard to figure out with their constantly dramatic crescendos and bitching, by the end of the episode, I realised Archer was right.

These little dramatic episodes weren't that bad. I just hoped it would be the same for me.