❛ 𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄 . . . ❜
016. he's not the sun / i didn't change my number by billie eilish
━━━━━━━━━━━

SEATTLE . . . ❜

Look.

In theory, Beth had been a good kid.

She'd been a good kid in the tradition that the consequences of being anything else would have been devastating. Lines had been drawn before she even knew how to talk: a Montgomery did not cause trouble and a Montgomery did not step out of line.

Bizzy Forbes had taught them better, or, at least instilled the fear of family embarrassment in their hearts.

 If either of Beth's parents were called to the principal's office, there would be hell to pay. It was a passive-aggressive hell, the sort that had been threatened with a soft voice and pointed eyes.

Bizzy had been an expert at that: A gentle hand on the back of a young Beth's shoulder, and a strained smile.

(We don't have time for misbehaviour so do not waste our time.)

She'd blinked at them, both her parents, five years and desperately trying to figure out how to weather the universe, a dent in the space between her eyebrows and wondered whether that was her first threat–– It was.

It had come, once, after Beth had found herself telling a girl to go fuck themselves after they'd barricaded her in a restroom cubicle. She had been eight years old. A gasp caught at the back of teachers' throats and a wail in the back of the bully's.

Eyebrows had raised and Bizzy's number had been dialled and that had been it–– the sound of Bizzy's voice down a phone line as she, very strictly, told Elizabeth that she'd been taught better. She didn't ask where Beth had learnt that language or whether she was even okay; No, she taught Beth about the precariousness of embarrassment, of being the nuisance.

A Montgomery had to be perfectly pacified until they had something useful to offer.

Do not waste our time.

It was hard to place it, but sitting in Richard Webber's office felt like that.

It felt like being called to the principal's office, a young kid in a boarding school a State away from home with her heart in her throat. 

Beth crossed her ankles as she trailed her eyes along all of the accolades, monuments to a very successful surgical career that had amalgamated into running one of the leading surgical teaching hospitals in North America. She'd gotten bored that morning and had Googled it as George made anxious conversation at a stoplight–– this whole hospital? 

Yeah, this was his.

His. Richard Webber's, the man who appeared through the doorway with another woman in step behind him. 

He was older than the other doctors in the hospital, African American with a permanently furrowed brow and a doctors coat that matched the nameplate on his desk.

Chief of Surgery. What a title that was to carry.

The woman behind him was out of uniform but Beth, as always, knew a doctor when she saw one, around the same age, Caucasian and already sighing. Their appearance made the breath catch at the back of her throat. Immediately, Beth was sat a little bit straighter in her chair, eyes flickering between the two doctors as they came to a halt in front of her.

Oh fuck. She was definitely getting told off.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd been reprimanded for something, but she was pretty sure it had been while she wasn't sober. 

That made any complex you'd developed as a child crumble. Accountability was a buzzword on a pamphlet advertising a 30-day program of complete rehabilitation and it was a handful of words tattooed on the inside of her eyelids––

Even so, she was tempted to play dumb.

What attempted breakout? She'd say, pushing her hair behind her ears and regressing feminism forty years, Do you even like... have proof? Because I don't remember even going down into the lobby today––?

Webber cleared his throat and it struck Beth that there was something she hadn't thought about:

Security cameras, right?

Fuck, it was the security cameras, wasn't it?

After all, Archer stuck out like a sore thumb; that gaunt cave to his cheeks, the way that his eyes bugged very slightly and met every passing person as if to challenge them to tell him he couldn't leave. 

Fuck, they hadn't stood a chance.

Security cameras, Beth repeated to herself as Webber rounded his desk as she crossed her ankles, Morgan Freeman didn't have to deal with fucking security cameras.

"Elizabeth," was how the exchange began. Webber spoke, the woman stood at the side of his desk. When Beth blinked, she was a kid again, feet swinging in air and uniform a little too tight around the front of her neck, "I'm sure you probably know why you're here––"

An earnest sigh fell past Beth's lips, "Look, I can explain..."

What could she explain?

  That she'd predicted that this would happen? 

That her brother was an ass that had to get his way somehow and that, of course, Beth was going to be implicated in it? 

That she'd knowingly walked her brother out of his hospital bed, violating all of the agreements that guaranteed him a place in that bed? That she'd inevitably pissed her ex-brother-in-law off even more, just out of the hope that Archer would take his pain medication like a good little neurosurgery patient?

(Despite all of the times she'd complained about Derek and this stupid hospital that seemed intent on ruining her life, she really didn't want Archer to get discharged. She knew what they thought when they saw someone resisting medical advice and she knew the decisions they made–– if they thought Archer wasn't taking his recovery seriously, there was a good chance they'd move him out of his room.)

"I'm not going to pretend that this is an easy conversation to have––"

Oh god, Beth thought to herself, They're going to throw Arch out on his ass.

"I know," She said, figuring that if she spoke first that they'd at least hear what she had to say, "I know that it's not an easy situation––"

"I don't know whether our intern has spoken to you––"

The image of George's hesitation flickered through her mind, making her whole body cringe slightly. He'd been so hesitant to let her go against hospital policy but something, god knew what, convinced him otherwise. Was she low enough to indict this man in the crossfire? Well––

Beth had never quite been a saint.

Her brows pinched together, exaggerated by a long sigh:

"He did," She replied.

"—And I'm not sure what they've said about the situation—"

"George didn't see the harm in it," Beth said, the words rushing out in a lungful of air, "And I didn't either––"

"George?"

A snitch. That had been another one of Bizzy Forbes' commandments: whatever you need to do to save yourself, do it. Of course, she hadn't called it snitching, but Beth had been able to read between the lines. As a kid, that had meant sticking out her tongue and shoving her heel in the ground. As a teen, that had meant paying off whatever authority that had raised an eyebrow.

Across from her, the two doctors seemed to exchange a look. Beth wiped her palms against her pant leg.

I'm so sorry George, She said into the universe, Anything for Archer. Anything for what's left of my family.

(Anything against a man that was, allegedly, stupid enough to develop a crush on her. He'd learn quick enough how the men entangled with her happened to burn.)

"O'Malley?" Webber repeated. She couldn't discern his tone but there was some confusion there.

"Yeah," Beth said quickly, trying to speak before she thought against it, "He gave us permission to take Archer outside. So, if you really look at it, we didn't do anything wrong. We were just following medical advice––"

God, she was too good of a liar. It was frighteningly easy to just––

The woman cleared her throat.

"Doctor Montgomery, this isn't about your brother."

Oh.

Beth cut herself short, eyes bouncing between the two figures of authority as blood rushed to her cheeks. 

She wasn't often embarrassed, but this, yeah, was one of those very rare times. She was nothing short of mortified. Her jaw slackened as she realised that, maybe, she'd completely misread this situation.

Then, she caught sight of the woman's name tag.

"My name is Katherine Wyatt," She said, at the exact moment Beth read it on the small plastic lanyard. Beth just blinked at her, warily at the long hand that stretched to shake hers across the desk. Hesitantly, Beth took it, "I'm the Head of Psychiatry at this hospital."

For a moment, Beth forgot her own profession and was struck by the most panicked thought: Oh crap, this is it, they're finally going to section me. They've finally caught me. All of those years of wild, untreated mental illness is finally coming to bite me in the ass––

"I'm guessing that you didn't talk to Doctor Grey––?"

"Doctor Grey?"

"About my patient," Wyatt said as if it would help jog Beth's memory. The Montgomery, however, was still completely bewildered. A soft smile picked at the corner of Wyatt's mouth, "Well, hopefully, our patient if you accept the proposition."

Beth wasn't sure whether it was just the time of day, the day of the week, or the week of the year, but she struggled to keep up with what was happening. 

She resorted to just gazing between the two doctors, only just digesting the fact that she wasn't in trouble. Archer, hopefully, wasn't going to get kicked out on his ass and George...

Oh, well, despite how Webber assured her that this wasn't about hospital policy as was in fact a good thing, she could tell from the way his jaw settled that the topic was far from put to bed.

Sorry George, She said again, hoping that wherever he was he at least felt her genuine guilt, My bad.

Once that was out of the way, Beth's mind fixated on the next thing: Patient. Proposition. A very apprehensive but hopeful pair of doctors standing right in front of her––

"You want me to consult on one of your patients?"

She echoed back a rough summary of what had just been told to her, eyebrows raised as she realised what exactly this was leading to. 

They were offering her a job, well, a patient, just one. A specific patient that they didn't feel they were appropriately staffed for. That made Beth sit a little straighter in her chair, chin raising and posture fixing itself.

"I do," Wyatt confirmed, nodding, "I think you'd be an invaluable member of their care team. I'm not sure how long you're planning to stay in Seattle for but any help you can offer would be deeply appreciated."

Again, Beth looked between the two doctors: these were powerful people in powerful positions. 

She'd once read a surgical journal article by Richard Webber on the process of liver rejection in African American transplant patients, and somehow, Beth got the feeling that if she searched up Katherine Wyatt, in this very moment, she'd be met with a handful of books and even more TEDtalks. 

Webber, in particular, had a job that she'd once been willing to kill for.

And yet, here they were, asking her, of all people, for help––

"I appreciate being asked, and everything," Beth said honestly, gesturing to the patient's file that had been slapped down onto the desk. It remained unopened as Beth frowned slightly, "But, I, uh... Why are you asking me?"

It was sad to say, but Beth had learned to be sceptical of anyone who was willing to give her any type of employment, even if it was temporary. Not a lot of people trusted their patients with a woman with a history like hers; especially not when she was barred from practising surgery in 49 states.

Wyatt, however, just smiled.

"You perfectly fit the person we need. You have the right interests," She said, and Beth knew, from that alone, that she was good at her job. She was calm, level and wonderfully disarming. "And you, also, come highly recommended."

Oh?

"Doctor Grey," Webber said, his arms crossed over his chest, "The intern. Lexie. She overheard Katherine mentioning that they had no staff on hand to deal with highly traumatised individuals. She was more than happy to give us your name––"

Ah.

Beth bit into the inside of her cheek to stop herself from smiling.

Lexie Grey.

Oh, of course. 

She'd made it clear to her: A trauma psychiatrist. She'd verbally underlined it twice. A trauma psychiatrist. Not a couples therapist or a 'what-am-I-doing-with-this-guy-I'm-seeing?' shrink. A trauma fucking therapist. She'd even told Lexie to give her a call, right?

This wasn't quite a plane crash but...

"She did, huh?"

...Beth supposed she could let it slide.

Wyatt nodded, "Told us you were very passionate about your work... Something about giving really good pep talks?"

Beth just chuckled to herself. 

She appreciated the vouch of confidence, she didn't get those often. She knew that she wasn't the best in Seattle, and that Lexie probably didn't even think it was true, but what she did know was that her Mother hadn't been the only person to instil teachings into her. 

Her Father had too and The Captain had been nothing if not a workaholic.

(Oh, and maybe an alcoholic too.)

Beth knew that she shouldn't have been working, especially when she was still on contract with her employers out in Indonesia. They didn't do stuff like this, not in hospitals anyway. 

She knew, additionally, that this was supposed to be a leave of absence–– Charlie, knowing her better than she knew herself, had made her promise that she wouldn't get herself involved in a bunch of cases, now while she was going through all of this shit with Archer too––

But, oh, wasn't it tempting.

She was needed. A patient needed her. She was the perfect fit.

She gazed at the folder on the desk and was reminded of how Addison had done it–– she'd juggled a surgical case and Archer, all at once, right?

 She'd done it so effortlessly that Beth hadn't even noticed. She'd saved a life and Beth had, what? Become a very pretty but sad art installation of Archer's hospital room.

It wouldn't hurt.

It was just one patient.

She took Lexie's recommendation and, very slowly, slid the patient's file towards her.

Fuck it.

"How can I help?"

──────

Helping, as expected, included a costume change.

Beth found herself re-entering the hospital twenty minutes later in a completely new outfit, dressed head to toe in what she could only describe as desperate last-minute chic. 

None of these clothes were her own. She'd packed jeans, sweats and band tees, but psychiatry called for something a little more stuffier. A hurried text message to Meredith and there she was, wearing the surgical resident's shirt, Izzie's blazer and a pair of pants that Beth had found in the drier.

(She was pretty sure they were Alex's.)

"Shit, you got a court hearing?"

Beth's eyebrows raised as she heard a familiar voice calling over the front plaza, causing her to look over towards two men sat beside a wall in front of a pit of shrubbery. 

Her face cracked into an unlikely smile as she rerouted right towards them.

Archer had made it out in the sun and now sat there, his chin tilted back as if he was trying to maximise the exposure. 

From afar, it looked as if he were a plant, craning himself into the sunlight to photosynthesise, but up close, he looked like what he was: a weak man in a pair of sunglasses and accompanied by an apprehensive surgical intern.

"Surprisingly, no," Beth answered with a wry smile, not missing how Archer chuckled, "I think you might have gotten away with your suicide mission, old man."

Behind those sunglasses, he rolled his eyes.

"I told you it would be fine," Archer responded, "Any hospital that's dumb enough to hire Derek Shepherd is a hospital that can turn a blind eye to let one patient take a breather for ten minutes."

Her face crinkled with a smile, but she didn't say anything more. 

Instead, she looked over at George as the resident settled on the wall. He, too, seemed to be appreciating his very short break in the sun. His legs were outstretched, almost dangling off the floor from the height of the wall.

"You got him out?" She asked, trying not to sound as surprised as she felt. 

In all honesty, Beth had been expecting George to get spooked. He seemed like that sort of person, a little gentle and a little impulsive, too.

"Oh yeah," George said, and he shrugged, almost coolly, "I mean, it was as easy as pie, really––"

"Loverboy almost cried," Archer interjected dryly. His eyes were closed as he continued to bask in the sunshine. "I thought he was going to shit himself right when that announcement came over the intercom."

Loverboy.

A dent appeared in between George's eyebrows.

Oh for fucks––

Beth's head tilted to the side and she shook her head softly, a slight smile picking at the corner of her mouth. She had to bite on the inside of her cheek to stop herself from kicking the side of his wheelchair.

He's ill, She had to remind herself, He's ill and hopefully high off of his ass. He's allowed to be an asshole.

"Thank you for staying with him," Beth said instead, nodding with a whole body filled to the brim with guilt. 

Thank you for staying with him while all I did was use you as a scapegoat. Thank you for being a better person than I am. 

 "You didn't have to––"

"No," George said, shrugging, "It's okay, he needed some company––"

(By the way, Beth had said as she'd exited Webber's office, I didn't mean to say that stuff about George.)

(The two doctors had just stared at her. She wasn't sure whether they'd been convinced.)

"I wasn't sure when you'd be back," The end of his sentence felt a lot more concerned than she would have liked. Beth's smile turned strained, "I didn't want to leave him on his––"

"I'm sorry about him," Beth said and she was, "I'm sorry if he's been––"

"No," George cut her short, shaking his head, "It's okay."

She just stared at him for a beat, her brow furrowing slightly, and then nodded back. Her eyes, very gradually, swung around to stare at her brother. He was staring back at her, eyes squinting through the black fog of his sunglasses.

"Why are you dressed like Mom?" was all Archer said.

Her mouth opened and then closed, chin falling to look down at what she was wearing. Her mind couldn't quite process what he'd just said, instead getting caught up on all the little inflexions in his face. 

He'd deadpanned it, ever so seriously that it had almost knocked her clean off her feet.

"I'm not dressed like––"

"Beth," He said, and he said it in a way that had Beth's eyes widening.

"Oh fuck," She said, "I'm dressed like Mom."

She looked between the men, at the way Archer nodded as if to say 'See I told you so', and how George just squinted at her, visibly confused. 

"It's the shirt," Archer noted, exhaling heavily out of his nose, "It's totally the shirt—"

"I like your shoes," George said, and then he seemed to search for something, "It really brings the whole outfit together."

Beth looked over at him, her jaw slackening as she watched George struggle to give her a smile.

 Then, almost ceremoniously, her head dropped to stare at the rubber-tipped sneakers that peeled out from beneath her pants. She didn't have anything else. She would've chosen heels, but she'd only packed one pair of shoes and had no money to buy any other options—

Converse went with everything, right?

──────

It was with that in mind that Beth Montgomery entered the hospital for her patient. 

Converse went with everything just like she was able to acclimatise to any scenario, any hospital, any country, any shitstorm––

"Doctor Montgomery," Wyatt acknowledged as Beth appeared, an awkward hello on her lips and the patient chart wedged under her elbow, "Glad to have you with us."

The Head of Psychiatry met her outside of the patient's room, alongside other doctors that Beth didn't recognise. She looked between them, nodding earnestly at each and trying to place them. 

No, this was a corridor full of faces that all stared back, as jarred by the sight of her as she was towards them.

"Hi," Beth said, her hands balling into nervous fists against her outer thigh, "Glad to be here."

"This is Beth Montgomery from The Peace of Mind Group," Wyatt introduced, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. The psychiatrists all just blinked back at her. "She's in Seattle for personal affairs but has been kind enough to work as a consultant on Oscar Afualo. She's been briefed on all of the case information and will be leading Afualo's rehabilitation in regard to recovering a victim testimony for the police."

And they outlined it all, summarising the case for peer review: Oscar Afualo, twenty-eight, injured in a home invasion that lead to the violent assault of his elderly mother, was attacked with kerosene and set on fire, suffered intense third-degree burns to...

Oh Jesus Christ, Beth thought to herself, So much for taking things easy.

But, she was used to this right? Seeing people's pain, reading someone's worst pain and trauma on a page and then trying to make something beautiful of it. 

She blinked at the chart, trying to refocus her eyes.

"She'll be working with Mr. Afualo over the next few days alongside you, trying to pass on some of her organisation's protocols," Beth read through the details over and over, just as Wyatt said things she'd already heard, "As you're all aware, this is a weakness in our team. We're completely unprepared to handle the trauma of some of our patients. I hope you all take this as an oppurtunity to develop your skills as mental health specialists––"

And then Beth's eyes caught something she hadn't noticed before.

A name, printed in a space that had, before, been empty.

Just under a header saying 'Lead Burn Specialist'.

Oh fuck.

Beth felt her throat tighten and she closed the medical file abruptly, the sound clapping its way through the hallway. 

A few of the psychiatrists glanced over at her, eyebrows raising at the sudden sound. She tried her best to appear nonchalant, playing it off as just a freak of timing.

No, everything is completely fine. 

Why would it not be completely, utterly fine?

"Okay then," Wyatt finished, smiling faintly, "If we haven't got any questions then let's get this all started. If you'll all follow me––"

"Beth."

Oh fuck (reprise).

The voice that cut through Wyatt's words was serrated like a scalpel. 

It was equally weighed as it was sharp, both professional and both deeply personal. It sounded from behind her, a voice that didn't have a face but she knew immediately. Oh, of course, she knew.

Of course, she knew.

Just as she knew his name on the page, she knew the sound of Mark Sloan's voice.

And god, he sounded pissed.

Beth was convinced that she could've so easily written a research paper on it: A Comprehensive, Intimate Study on the Rage and Temper of Doctor Mark Everett Sloan. She knew his anger like she knew hers and was able to pick it out in the vaguest handful of syllables.

Despite how deceivingly level it sounded, she knew exactly what his temperament was. 

She knew exactly how his face would've been so clear, so clean of any misfortune or tell-tale. He repeated her name, Beth, and Wyatt paused, eyes finding the psychiatrist as Beth, very briefly, closed her eyes. She squeezed them shut and listened to the echo of his voice down the hallway.

"Doctor Montgomery?"

Everyone else was staring at her, completely confused as to why the Head of Plastic Surgery, and their patient's surgeon, was calling for her across the corridor. 

Wyatt called out tenderly, visibly confused at what was happening. Beth swallowed the lump at the back of her throat.

"One moment," Beth said, her voice perfectly even. This wasn't her first rodeo. "Excuse me for a second..."

She caught the way Wyatt's brow furrowed just as she turned on her heel, just as she caught sight of the storm standing paces behind them. 

She met Mark's eye before she met his fury: his clenched jaw, his stationary form in a busy flow of traffic through the hospital floors and the way his stare was the closest he, a professional, could get to a glare.

She wondered whether he caught it too: the way that her smile completely faded as she turned to face him, dropping clean off of her face like a stone. 

What was left was something far more pointed, something that didn't hesitate to meet the animosity she knew was hiding inside of him.

Motherfucker, she said to herself, You Motherfucker. What could you possibly want––?

"Good morning, Doctor Sloan," Beth's tone was nothing but pleasant. She was sweet and passive, eyes staring at him innocently as a vein in his forehead throbbed. "How can I help you today?"

"We need to talk."

His tone wasn't pleasant at all. 

In fact, he spoke through a clenched jaw, his voice lowering as she just hummed lightly, looking down at the medical file in her hands. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, as if he had so much anger in him that he didn't know what to do with it.

"No," Beth said, flipping a page in the patient chart, "No we don't––"

"No, don't do that––"

"You interrupted a patient briefing––"

"I don't care, we need to talk."

"Talk?"

Her eyebrow raised at the way his voice was so hushed and so furious. (Jesus, someone got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.) Beth had expected him to be far from friendly once he figured out that she hadn't left Seattle, but this anger was almost more than she'd anticipated.

A slight chuckle got caught in between her lips and she shook her head.

God. We need to talk? Who the fuck does he think he is?

"I'll see you in the patient's room, Doctor Sloan," She barely batted an eyelash, shutting down whatever conversation he'd wanted to have. She wasn't stupid, a conversation would have unravelled into an argument. She held up the medical file, her smile short and sweet, "We're colleagues now. I'm on your team."

"Don't––"

"It's almost nostalgic, right?"

"We need to talk about me and you––"

"There's not really a me and you, Sloan––"

"Beth––"

"Oh no..."

She kept up her smile, shaking her head very softly as if to scold him. 

It was a wonder how she was so bad with kids when she found it so easy to treat him like one. She almost called him baby. She had to bite the tip of her tongue. The next words came out on a breath that felt almost victorious.

"It's Doctor Montgomery to you."

Beth had really meant the whole one-moment thing, as that was exactly how she'd left him: staring down the corridor after her as she turned on her heel, going back to the job she was here for. 

No, he didn't deserve her time. He deserves to just talk. She walked away without looking back, but knew that he glared after her.

She could feel it, feel the heat of his stare singed the hair on the backs of her arms. She hadn't exactly helped that temper of his, only making things worse–– of course, she had, she was Beth and he was Mark. 

Their whole lives, at certain points, had been built around pissing off each other. He was probably peed off over how flippantly and nonchalantly she'd dealt with him. He was probably peed off by the fact that she was completely unaffected by him while he was just floundering––

Beth wiped nervous, sweaty palms on her pant leg, heaving a long breath as she willed herself into something put together.

"Now," She said, clearing her throat as everyone just stared at her, "Where were we?"

──────

His eye twitched as he watched her walk away.

Fists and jaw clenched, a ticking time bomb in the centre of his chest, Mark averted his eyes as Katherine Wyatt shot a wary glance over her shoulder. Beth didn't look back once. He looked around, around at passing faces that looked bewildered by his anger.

Without her, he was just an angry man in a corridor, grasping to something unsolved that had been left to rot in a corner of his mind.

Bitch.

Mark just sighed to himself, silently willing his heart rate to lower back down, and shook his head.

No, this wasn't going to work. This wasn't going to work at all.

──────

Meanwhile, outside in the sunshine, George O'Malley turned his head towards Archer Montgomery, a pestering thought trapped at the base of his skull. 

His brow furrowed and he chewed on the inside of his cheek, wondering how exactly to bring it up.

A pause. And then another pause.

Archer still had his eyes closed, chin tilted upwards like a cat stretched in the sun.

George cleared his throat but Archer didn't move–– a couple more seconds passed and then he gave in. A nervous and unsteady question that made Archer, himself, pause:

"What did you mean when you called me Loverboy?"

──────

She was good at Psychiatry, but she supposed that she'd once been good at surgery too.

But, right now, Psychiatry was a rhythm she could keep up with. 

Gone were scalpels, scrub caps and bedpans and here came the DSM, mental health questionnaires and strategic conversation. It had never been so apparent as it had been when Webber had suggested Beth change into some scrubs to avoid rushing home to change.

She'd laughed and waved a hand,

Oh God no, she'd said, I don't want to get confused for a surgeon.

(And then she'd apologised to Webber for insulting his profession. He'd just shrugged and said something about not blaming her when his hospital was in the state that it was, namely Derek Shepherd's current state.)

"Hi, Mr. Afualo," Beth said as she blew into a hospital room on the westerly wind, "I"m Doctor Montgomery."

A socialites smile was perfect for a room this and a man like this too. It was well-practised and trimmed neatly by Manhattan streets. 

He'd been through hell and back, all over the span of the past few weeks and Beth knew exactly how to approach it. A seminar down in Sacramento had taught her that sometimes patients didn't need to be coddled or protected, that just needed something normal.

So she stood in the centre of the room, watching as the surgical staff gave their daily overview of his progress. The man who had scowled at Beth over the counter, Alex, now spoke concisely and professionally, and all Beth could think about was how easy it was to change. 

Different rooms meant different voices, different climates meant different coats––

"I'm happy with how you're progressing," Mark said to his patient, smiling widely as if nothing in the world was wrong.

And, of course, different people meant different faces.

Oscar Affaulo seemed like an earnest man. 

She could tell from his grin that he'd tried his best to be an optimist; but then there were the bandages, tied so tightly to him that looked hard to breathe. Then, also, there was the look on his wife's face as she sat at his bedside.

"Doctor Wyatt says you're going to help him with his memory?" The wife asked, tearing her eyes from Mark and directly onto Beth. "They said that you're going to try and help us out?"

She cut Mark halfway through his sentence as he praised himself for his own work, and Beth stood a little taller under her attention. Mark visibly faltered. 

In the corner of her, she noticed how Mark didn't look over at her. It stood out in a room full of people that seemed incapable of looking away. Even Alex stared at her. Beth knew why, it was the unspoken rule of being the outsider, of the newcomer in borrowed clothing and shoes.

(Holy shit, She thought to herself, Please don't recognise that I'm wearing your pants.)

"Yes," was what was said out loud. A soft smile to pair. "That's my job."

"You're gonna help us get him?" That was Oscar who spoke, his voice partially muffled by the gauze that had been painstakingly pieced together around his face, "You're gonna help us get that son of a bitch? Make me remember his face?"

It'd been a while since Beth had felt this, she had to admit. 

The past few months she'd been helping people rebuild their lives and grieve loved ones, and she couldn't remember the last time she'd faced a blood thirst like that. He was in pain and he wanted justice, he wanted vindication for the pain that had been inflicted on his family.

Wow, imagine that.

Very briefly, her eyes flickered to the man on the other side of the hospital bed.

Imagine wanting pain to be worth it, just to see someone else suffer.

"We're gonna give it all we've got," Beth said and then she flashed a secretive and mischievous smile, "But, between you and me, I like to consider myself a bit of specialist in making people pay."

And she could've sworn, that, for just a moment, she saw Mark flinch.

──────

　　NEXT CHAPTER ! . . .
beth and mark navigate working with each other in seattle (while simultaneouly wanting to murder each other) and derek returns from his (unconventional) camping trip (but not without getting his ass handed to him first <3)

WORD COUNT ! . . 5760
REWRITTEN ON THE 4TH OF APRIL 2022