fic: "my female trouble II" [gossip girl rpf, blake/leighton]
Title: my female trouble II
Author: fivewhatfive
Fandom: Gossip Girl RPF (blink-and-you-miss-it: HSM RPF, Scrubs)
Pairing: Blake Lively/Leighton Meester
Rating: PG-13/Light R
Word count: ~6600
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction based on real people I don't know and have never met.
Notes: Look mom, it's a medical AU! Written for pirateygoodness over at femslash09. Thanks to it_was_enough for putting up with my questions and sinandmisery for the beta. Mistakes left are all mine.
Special Pirate Notes:I'M SO SORRY I RUINED CHRISTMAS D: (also, I am a SPY y/n?) I know you would've died of happiness if I'd written Ashley/Vanessa, and I would, if I thought I could, but I sort of did the next best thing?
Summary: Doctor Lively battles routine, rival interns and wet floors. And that damn girl.
The hair tie is the first thing to go.
There is a ritualistic touch to it, possibly a manifestation of not-entirely-metaphorical freedom, but it's simply the first thing to go. And yes, it may be the most mediocre ritual Blake Lively has ever nurtured, but it doesn’t require anyone’s supervision; doesn't put lives on the line.
Blake runs a hand through her hair, shaking it loose, and nudges the door closed with her hip. After that first fundamental step is over, there’ll be no discrimination while kicking off her shoes or throwing her purse away with a vengeance -- whichever is annoying her most that day -- and then dragging herself to the couch, maybe directly to her bed.
Her hair is free; she's home.
And home, as far as she's concerned, is not where the heart disease is.
"I hate my job."
Then again, this is the place where she has the privilege of forgetting.
Penn is still up, lest all the coffee in the world end while he sleeps. “Preaching to the choir,” he mumbles.
"It's not that I'm complaining. I'm not," Blake says and walks over to join him on the couch. "But it's been forever and just how am I supposed to grow if all I do is see minor cuts or - it's not even the cool part of the ER."
Penn nods. He's not really listening, but dropping out of college didn’t stop him from mastering the art of tossing encouraging nods and 'hmm' and 'uh huh' at the appropriate times.
It's therapeutic, in a way, to know she can pretty much tell him anything, but most of the time she wants to leave him a note - a post-it on his guitar, maybe - reminding that human interaction goes both ways.
"I mean, it's not that I think treating people with, like, pencils impaled in their eyes is cool," Blake amends. There are days when she really, really does, but she’s gotten better with the whole people, not injuries thing. "But at this rate, I'll have a PhD in stitching up rowdy kids by the time I leave that damn pit."
Penn interrupts his thoughtful strumming. It’s practically a signature look, by now, repeatedly tapping the same chords with an air of deep concentration -- very artistic, very Penn, very unfit for someone who started practicing three years ago.
Blake bites her lip to stop from laughing or, worse, mocking, but Penn doesn't look up from his guitar while saying, "Practicing is cool, though."
Maybe he is listening today. "Well, yeah, but I could be practicing other things." Blake frowns and then adds, emphatically, "I should be practicing other things. What if I suddenly forget how to start an IV?"
This time Penn looks at her, even if just to show his indignation. "Dude, I can start an IV."
Blake laughs. "I'd like to see that." She wouldn't, actually. Mancramps and needles should never mix -- in fact, she's sure that was one of the issues raised during orientation, right before the meeting was hijacked by The Enemy.
Blake scowls. "And is Hudgens down at the ER with the lame cases? No. Coincidence?"
"Yes," Penn cuts in and smacks the side of her leg with the back of his hand. "Go to bed, you're driving me nuts."
Blake rises to her feet and takes a few steps backwards. "And if I did, which intern would be there to learn about your mental condition? Not me."
"Are you even listening to yourself? You think you got stuck in the ER because you pissed off the janitor."
"But-"
Penn raises his hand, silencing her with a hot pink palette. "Two words for you," he says. "Psychological. Evaluation."
Blake's jaw drops, in her best expression of mock outrage. She can't remember a time when his late-night crankiness didn't make her want to ruffle his hair -- curly and desperately needing a hair cut, but what else is new.
It's probably why they've been able to keep up the dating farce around her parents for this long.
"You know you love me," Blake tells him and then races to her bedroom door, predicting his reaction. She narrowly avoids getting hit by a cushion, Penn's voice sounding loud and suddenly every bit defensive.
"I got the damn book for my sister!"
It's just like any other day.
This is what she calls a good night: it's not overcrowded; no one appears to be dying in the vicinity; the nurses over at triage aren't yelling at her for existing; and no one has called her Doctor Barbie.
Not yet, anyway.
"I actually have potentially good news," Chace tells her, carrying an armload of charts. They'd become fast friends, she and Nurse Crawford, even if their joint appearances didn't do them as much good -- Doctor Barbie and Male Nurse, together they fight crime! -- as it encouraged further mockery from peers.
Orientation never mentioned that practicing medicine included revisiting high school.
Blake shakes her head at the thought. Chace is suddenly looking expectantly at her, and it takes her a minute to remember they were having an actual conversation. Too much time with Penn, clearly.
"Right. Good news?"
They step back to avoid a gurney rushed by paramedics, then Chace says, "Heard it through the grapevine that someone finally realized your rotation in the ER is supposed to, you know, rotate."
"Finally."
"Oh, come on," Chace says, smiling that charming grin that has earned him a fan club among diabetic old ladies. "Like you didn't have fun dipping your toes in the shark cage."
"I didn't even dip my toes, I got stuck with minor injuries," Blake replies bitterly.
"Maybe," Chace concedes with a nod of his head, "but at least you'll leave here with a valuable lesson under your belt."
"Don't feed anyone's drug habit by proxy?"
"Don't piss off the Head Nurse," Chace corrects. "You, gurney, laceration, go," he then says and gives her a slight push towards a gurney with the privacy curtain drawn around it.
Blake grabs the curtain and lets out a sigh. It's probably another kid fascinated with scissors or -
Oh.
It's a girl. It's a big girl. It's a big girl handcuffed to the gurney and bleeding all over the front of her shirt.
She's glaring like Blake is responsible for whatever happened to the hand she's holding tight against her chest, which is not really a stretch from how kids fascinated with scissors end up looking at Blake, but still.
Then again, maybe the girl is glaring because a rookie gawking like she's never seen a wound -- or a woman -- is not going to solve her problem.
Blake hears a rattle and then Chace reappears, setting down supplies and discreetly clearing his throat in the process. "Blake."
Right. Human interaction goes both ways. "Hi, I'm Doctor Lively."
The girl stops glaring long enough to fix Blake with this stare -- half sizing her up, half something else entirely -- and then her lips curve at the corners. "Do you work with Nurse Feelgood?"
Blake represses the urge to roll her eyes. Michelle. "I guess you met Nurse Trachtenberg," she says, snapping on her gloves. "She didn't tell you to put pressure on the wound?"
"That would require both hands," the girl tells her, like she's speaking to a child. "As I told the nice police officer down the hall, by the way."
Blake politely abstains from staring at the handcuffs securing one of her wrists to the gurney. That's what she gets for complaining, really. A leap from annoying brats to annoying criminals.
She can feel Chace standing behind her, monitoring the situation. It's not much better than Dr. Rutherford finding new ways to tell her to hurry the fuck up without using words, but at least she has the option to punch Chace in private.
"Check the cut," he whispers.
Blake gives him a sideways glance, frowning, then holds out her hand. "May I?"
The girl obliges without a stingy remark. Blake takes her hand, tiny in comparison and so delicate she almost forgets it belongs to the thorniest rose in the garden. Still, she has a job to do here.
Blake brings up a mental list of everything to check for, ticks off every item as she evaluates the slash on the girl's palm.
"Looks like you'll be needing some stitches," Blake says. She waits for Chace's input -- it wouldn't be the first time she'd gotten nurse-slapped -- but he simply nods and resumes watching.
At least until Michelle pokes her head into the room. "Chace. Westwick needs you on Trauma one."
Blake widens her eyes and shoots Chace a pleading look, darting her eyes to the handcuffs and back at him. So what if a brick-sized guy got stabbed and Westwick can't hold him down by himself?
Chace smiles, giving her a light pat on the shoulder. "You can handle stitches, you know that."
She does know that, but it doesn't make her desire to be alone with the handcuffed criminal grow tenfold. What if she gets stabbed?
Blake glances at the girl, this doll-faced brunette that can't be much older than herself, currently smirking like she's thoroughly amused by Blake's discomfort - or maybe stabbed someone in the last 24 hours.
"Nice puppy dog look you had there," the girl comments absently and for once her smile isn't vicious, even if it does nothing to ease the ridiculous tension in the room. It's never been like this. Blake has handled people crying in pain and yelling obscenities in the same breath, but it's never affected her ability to relate, to exercise empathy and just do her damn job.
Blake takes a calming breath and thinks of Dr. Rutherford. She would've told a nurse to clean up the cut for her, by now.
"Are you taking any medication?"
The girl sighs. "Not yet."
"Allergic?"
"Will you be smearing nuts on the cut?"
It's the pain talking, Blake thinks. Anxiety, crankiness of waiting in a stressful environment. Do not irrigate her face in retaliation.
"Aren't you even going to ask my name?"
Shit. "I'm so sorry, Miss..." Handcuffs Mouthoff. "Meester," Blake says after glancing at the chart. "Can I call you Leighton?"
Leighton makes a noise that could be a yes or a no. Okay, then. Blake gently flexes Leighton's fingers and watches out for a gasp, for any sign of discomfort. Pain. This girl is in pain, Blake thinks. It helps, sparking a twinge in her chest, that desire to do something that brought her to med school in the first place.
"Have you noticed any loss of feeling?"
"No," Leighton says, then scoffs. "Now that would be tragic."
"I suppose," Blake mutters, deliberately ignoring the implications. "What happened here?"
"Bar brawl," Leighton answers simply. She lifts her handcuffed hand and points awkwardly at the wound, doing her best to rotate her wrist. "Beer bottle," she adds, then points at herself. "Innocent bystander."
Sure. The look of innocence, right there.
And then a look of outrage, followed by brown eyes narrowing in an unkind manner.
Blake cringes. "I said that out loud, didn't I?"
"Yes."
Grade A patient care, Lively. "I'm sorry," she says and covers Leighton's hand in a way she supposes is soothing. "I am. The last thing I'd like to do is cause you more discomfort, really."
Leighton stares her down for so long, Blake fights the urge to remind her she can't stitch a wound that's over six hours old.
But then Leighton's face breaks into this brilliant smile Blake would never even think her capable of, dimples on each side and just genuine amusement oozing off naturally curved lips. "I'm messing with you. You know that, right?"
Blake is pretty sure her face falls. No, she did not know that, but thanks for the emotional freakout.
"You're funny," Blake says, humorlessly.
Leighton doesn't stop smiling, even when Blake picks up the needle. "I'm a riot."
Chace doesn't look happy.
Blake slows down her footsteps, approaching warily. Anger on Chace is mostly the absence of a handsome smile plus some halfhearted scolding, but he's standing next to a cop looking regular angry, if not more.
Maybe she should go kill time in the supply closet.
Blake starts to turn, but Chace spots her just then. Damn it. He excuses himself and walks away from the unfriendly police officer, coming her way with a look that suggests he might sic an army of diabetic old ladies on her.
Chace takes Blake by the arm and leads her away from the mess around the nurse station. "Did you discharge Leighton Meester?"
"No. Michelle told me to let Ashley dress up the wound." Blake frowns and glances over her shoulder. The cop has found someone new to yell at. "Why, what happened?"
Chace stops walking and lets out a sigh. "She's gone."
"Ashley?"
On cue, Tisdale materializes beside them, over-taned and slightly bewildered. "What? Me."
Chace ignores her and looks directly at Blake, lowering his voice. "Leighton disappeared."
Blake is pretty sure she makes sounds, each one more incredulous than the next, until finally her eyes land on Ashley. "You lost my patient?"
"No," she answers instantly, then her brow wrinkles. "Wait, which one?"
"She was handcuffed to the gurney," Blake says and she knows exasperation will only cause a scene, but honestly now. "How do you lose someone handcuffed to a gurney?"
"Ohhh, that girl," Ashley says. "The janitor said you'd asked for the keys because you wanted to get her on her back."
There is a snickering sound to her right. Blake is pretty sure it comes from Chace, but she's too dumbstruck to react properly. This can't be happening.
"...And you took the keys from the police officer?"
"No," Ashley says, again. It pretty much sounds like a Duh. "I asked, first."
She leaves then, like it's perfectly normal to aid the escape of potential criminals. Blake lets out an incredulous scoff that ends in a whimper. The janitor is so going to get her fired and then Hudgens will be the premium intern, model resident, chief of medicine-to-be, giggling her way to success while Blake stays at home picking up after Penn's stoner trash.
This can't be happening.
Chace throws an arm around her shoulders, shaking Blake out of a disastrous reverie. "Valuable lesson number two," he says and starts walking again, dragging her along. "Do not hand your patient over to the less competent intern."
Blake groans, staring pleadingly at the ceiling. "I hate my life."
It's not like any other day.
Blake kicks the front door closed. Penn rolls off the couch, startled out of his sleep. He struggles to sit up, what with empty bags of chips, magazines, and a random PS3 controller all populating the floor as well.
But Penn succeeds, eventually, sitting up with a questioning look that ends up indignant.
"I lost my patient," she says by way of explanation.
Penn wrinkles his brow. "They died?"
Blake slams her bedroom door shut.
Dr. Szohr accosts her in the hallway near the supply closet on the second floor. Blake expected something like this to happen, and it's not that she doesn't like Jess -- she adores her, really -- but getting caught with the hospital's psychiatrist is not unlike being seen in the arm of the popular jock with an alleged Valtrex prescription. Word gets around.
"Look, I've already had my ass handed to me by three different people from two different departments."
"I can imagine." Jessica smiles kindly, like she sympathizes, but also how Blake imagines she smiles at pyromaniacs and schizophrenics. "I'm not here to fight, I just wanted to know how you were feeling."
"Jess." Really, she could use other kinds of comforting. Like learning someone has yelled at Ashley for a change, who did all the actual patient-losing and showed up today happily chatting about her dog.
Jessica laughs. "I know it's not your first day here," she says. "But burnout catches up with all of us, and it's okay to vent when you're a little on edge." Oh God, not Jessica's psychobabble. "I'm not just saying this because I have to." Yes you are. "But if you need someone to talk to, my door is always open."
Blake manages a genuine smile. "I know," she says. And she does, Jessica's door was also open when she got a visit from Dr. Westwick.
Word gets around.
"I'm alright, really." Blake reaches out and gives Dr. Szohr's arm a light squeeze - when did she become the one trying to reassure the staff's psychiatrist? "That was an exception, that girl was just..."
Jessica looks at her for a long moment, probably trying to psychoanalyze her silence and correlate it to repressed feelings or something equally silly. Of course, if Jessica had spent ten minutes in the unnerving presence of Leighton Meester, she'd be running out of words too.
"Anyway," Blake says, waving it off. "I'm off tomorrow. I'll be doing lots of resting and zero burning of anything, so you don't have to worry."
"I'm not worried. I'm just letting you know that if you need anything..."
"Your door is open," Blake finishes for her and points one enthusiastic finger, almost as enthusiasticly as she then walks off in the opposite direction.
She turns the corner and nearly runs into Chace, who does the polite I-totally-wasn't-listening cough. "I didn't talk to her."
Blake leans into the wall with a slump. "I just want to go hide in the supply closet or something."
"Don't," Chace warns. "Hudgens is in there."
Blake's eyes brighten, hopeful despite herself. "Did you lock her up?"
"With Ashley," Chace adds.
Blake deflates.
"I'm not allowed to be stressed today."
"Decaf, sugary stuff, no stress." Penn counts on his fingers and holds the door of the café open for her. "Got it."
This is no new routine for them -- Penn heads to the counter, Blake finds a table. Experience has taught that Penn's general gloominess will persuade any form of salesperson against chatting more than necessary, while Blake's uncanny ability to charm people into handing over their seats seldom fails.
A perfect match, if not for one thing.
Blake takes a seat and timidly looks around. This is the easy part of that one thing, checking out - no, politely observing the occasional female. The brunette typing in the corner, for example. She's got her hair pinned back, two loose strands framing her face and, okay, those may or may not be the nerdiest glasses Blake has ever seen, plus the unattractive... bandage on her hand.
Leighton.
Leighton looks up the minute the thought occurs to Blake, probably because it's no thought at all and why can't she ever keep those things confined to the safe silence of her mind? Blake gets the urge to hide, somehow, but there aren't many places where someone her size could go.
Besides, even if there were, Blake is pretty sure she'd bump into a million things just trying to get there.
Leighton has already spotted her, anyway. She pauses her one-handed typing and looks over at Blake, arching a questioning eyebrow.
Blake glances at Penn. Now would be the perfect time for him to come back with their order, so she'd look back at Leighton and offer an apologetic shrug or any other reaction that would avoid direct confrontation.
Penn is still stuck waiting in line.
Blake breathes a long-suffering sigh, then returns Leighton's stare and gives a little wave. They could avoid confrontation, technically. Leighton hasn't called her over. Leighton hasn't done anything but stir her coffee, really, watching Blake from behind those thick-rimmed glasses.
There is really no plausible reason for Blake to be making her way over there.
Except she is.
"Hi."
Leighton tilts her head, looking up. "Hi."
She keeps stirring her coffee, her bandaged hand resting beside the laptop in front of her. Blake pays attention to that like it's important, plus countless other little details, like how the top button on Leighton's shirt is missing and her earrings don't even match.
This is so awkward.
"Sit down," Leighton says.
Blake does, grateful that it gives her something to do, even if for ten seconds. She grasps for anything to say, anything that won't sound like Sorry about the other day, which really means What the hell was your childhood problem?
Instead, she blurts out, "Please don't sue the hospital for misplacing you."
Leighton actually laughs at that, which is more of a relief than Blake would care to admit. "Misplacing me?"
"Yeah, you know." Blake shrugs. It's not as much "misplacing" as "facilitating escape", but she's not about to point that out. "Shouldn't you be hiding?"
"From?"
"The cops."
"Ah." Leighton gives it some thought, taking a sip of her coffee; Blake ignores the perfect red lipstick imprint she leaves on the paper cup. "NYPD sort of has an unofficial order to arrest me on sight if I'm near trouble, yeah."
Oh god, she is a criminal.
Leighton must read that thought in her eyes, but she does nothing to placate Blake's fear. "Issued by the Commissioner, even," she says, in this hushed voice, like they're coconspirators. She waits a beat, then adds, "My dad."
Blake releases a relieved breath that resembles a laugh. "Oh."
Leighton smirks over the rim of her cup. "So don't fret."
"I wasn't... I just-" Leighton raises an eyebrow, somehow halting all and any excuses. "Okay, I was worried."
"Now you don't have to be," Leighton tells her, setting down her cup and -- lord help her -- batting her eyelashes.
Blake doesn't know when she went from wanting to punch this girl to wanting to do something else altogether, perhaps involving this table and bending of the human body. Her cheeks must be on fire.
"Your friend is coming back," Leighton says, disrupting the moment.
Blake turns around, spying Penn making his way to their table and visibly wondering where she went. "I should probably go back."
Leighton resumes stirring her coffee, signaling that whatever happened here is, in fact, over. Blake stands up, not expecting a proper goodbye. There is a narrow window between smooth exit and awkward stagger, and she's pretty much exhausted this week's awkward quota.
"I guess I'll see you next week," Leighton says. "Doctor Lively."
Leighton makes it sound so obscene, Blake nearly trips on her own feet when she turns halfway, acknowledging the comment with a nod.
Her cheeks must be on fire.
Blake slowly creeps around the corner. Janitor Watch is not unlike measuring the distance of a bolt of lightning. Replace thunder with whistling and run for cover at the appropriate times.
On second thought, regular eavesdropping would still work in this scenario.
Blake waits for the sound to fade. This is her first day back on her old shift, she refuses to have it ruined. So when the whistling is nearly too far to hear, Blake breaks into a sprint and heads across the hall, on her way to Intensive Care. She just needs to run and - oh no. Wet floor, wet floor, wet floor.
Ow.
"Doctor Lively."
And as these things go, she does see Leighton again. Upside down, while possibly nursing a concussion or skull fracture. "Hey."
Leighton smiles down at her and holds out her hand. Blake accepts it, pulling herself back up with the few scraps of dignity she still possesses.
"I think the janitor is out to get you," Leighton says, wiping something off Blake's shoulder.
Blake's head shoots up so fast, she feels the stethoscope bounce around her neck. "He is." She sounds so earnest, it's ridiculous. But whatever, it's not every day people agree with her conspiracy-theory-slash-fact. "All I did was point out he could be... cleanlier. I mean, this is a hospital."
Leighton shakes her head. "You hurt his janitor pride," she says, and it occurs to Blake that maybe she is being laughed at instead of with.
Blake eyes her suspiciously. "So, what are you doing up here?"
"I wanted to thank you."
Blake lowers her eyes. Leighton's hand is no longer bandaged or bloody, but hanging casually by her skirt. "Oh, you got the stitches out."
Leighton nods. "You can barely tell," she says and holds out her hand, palm up, presumably for Blake to inspect. And fine, it makes her slightly giddy to be commended for something, even if it's something she can do with one eye closed by now.
She takes Leighton's hand, as gently as if it were still wounded. "Yeah, it was a pretty awesome hand job..." Blake says, distractedly. It echoes back one second too late. "Oh! I meant- I mean, I didn't. I'm just good with sutures."
But Leighton doesn't mock her, this once. Instead, she pulls her hand out of Blake's grasp and reaches up, idly fingering her stethoscope.
"What time does your shift end?"
Blake quirks one eyebrow. Is she...? She can't be. "Early."
It's the dumbest answer Blake has ever given -- including the ones that made Dr. Rutherford's expression lines fight the Botox. Blake opens her mouth, trying to amend it in a way that attests the existence of brain cells, but there is a tug on both ends of her stethoscope, and then Leighton is rising on the tip of her toes and - oh.
Oh.
It's a light touch of lips, with just enough pressure to ensure that this kiss is no hallucination, nor is the whiff of citric shampoo or the nails scraping lightly over the hairs on the back of her neck.
And then it's over, just when Blake thinks to react. Leighton pulls back, but her hand lingers briefly over Blake's chest, her eyes a darker shade of brown.
"Palpitations," she says. "You should see a doctor about that."
Penn turns away from the mirror -- the mirror -- and runs a hand over his hair, freshly cut courtesy of one Blake Lively.
"And that was it?"
Blake nods. "That was it." She wouldn't say she was sulking, per se. Hugging a cushion with some semblance of disappointment, yes. Sulking? No. It's not like Leighton explicitly indicated she would be waiting for her by the end of her shift.
And it's not like she told Leighton when her shift would end.
Blake sinks back into the couch, exhaling in her best dramatic fashion. "I'm an idiot."
Penn inspects his hair. Again. Then gives the lapels of his jacket a satisfied tug and turns away from the mirror. Again. "You really need to get laid."
"Look who's talking."
"Dude, I am so getting laid," Penn says and walks over to the front door. "In fact, this is me, going out to likely get laid."
Blake half-expects him to stick his tongue out, but he just unlocks the door and steps outside. "I'll see you in the morning."
The door closes, punctuating his sentence. Blake is mid eye-roll when it opens again and Penn half-leans inside. "Oh, your mother called. Apparently we're cordially intimated to dinner this weekend."
"Nooo." Blake scrunches up her face. "Why didn't you tell her I'd be on call?"
"I did," Penn says. "And Blake, I love you, but if I have to listen to a very detailed narrative of how your niece is actually following people with her eyes now, I swear I'm telling your mom you're banging the anonymous biker chick in 4B."
Blake gasps. "Don't you dare." She'd never hear the end of it, and then there would be random silent treatment followed by unprompted advice on adoption agencies and surrogacy. God, her mother.
"You'd feel better," Penn tells her, honestly.
"Easy for you to say." Blake sighs. It's not like she hasn't thought about it, but she hates these sort of conversations, the insufferably annoying part of that one thing. "Besides, you know I need-"
"Extensive planning, yeah, yeah," Penn says and reaches for the doorknob again. "You do that, I'll go get laid."
Blake rolls her eyes again. This time, the door stays closed and respects her privacy. Blake picks up the remote, turns on the TV, and concentrates on not sulking.
Primetime television doesn't help as much as she'd thought, however, and the itch on the back of her hand is inevitable. Penn left and she could use something to improve her mood, there's really no reason why she shouldn't indulge.
Twenty minutes and one adorable lampshade on the Home Shopping Network later, Blake's mood has improved considerably. Sure, some of that time was spent imagining herself throwing said lamp on Leighton's head, but harmless fantasies never killed anyone.
Sadly.
Blake has almost dozed off when she hears the sound. A thump, then something vaguely metallic, then another series of thumps.
And a knock on the window.
Blake sits up on the couch, alarmed. Burglars. How many times did she tell Penn they should've gotten an apartment somewhere safer, without a joke of a doorman and that damn fire scape that facilitated robbery and tetanus more than any actual escaping?
She jumps to her feet and scans the apartment for a nearby weapon. Her eyes pause on Penn's guitar.
He's going to kill her.
Blake picks it up, one-handed, which turns out to be an even dumber idea than she could've predicted. She sways, thrown off by the unexpected weight, and that's when she hears it.
"Blake?"
Blake stops, awkwardly holding the guitar, then turns towards the window. Burglars shouldn't know her name.
There's another knock, more insistent now. Blake finally approaches the window, dragging the guitar along, just in case, and yanks the curtains back.
Leighton is scowling on the other side of the window.
"Leighton, what the hell."
Leighton ignores her, naturally, eyeing the guitar instead. "Were you gonna serenade me to death, El Kabong?"
It takes Blake a full minute to recompose. In her defense, this sort of thing never happens to her. She's got a life built on routine; a career that doesn't allow flights of fancy in the OR. Nowhere did she sign up for the lunatic climbing her fire escape in the middle of the night.
Speaking of. "How did you even get-?" Blake brings a hand up to her forehead, at a loss of words. This is gonna give her a migraine. "How do you even know where I live?"
Leighton shrugs, suddenly coy, and taps the window with her fingernail. "My dad is not the only one who can abuse NYPD's resources," she says. "And I know you're off tomorrow, so you have no excuse not to go out with me."
Blake nearly drops Penn's guitar. "Really? You were handcuffed when I met you."
Leighton pretends to think, then tilts her head. "Is that bad?"
That damn smile. Blake presses her lips tight, trying to prevent one of her own. She's supposed to look upset, here, however little her chances of actually saying no. This thing in her chest would burst and kill her, if she said no.
So Blake sighs, reaching for the window. She pulls it halfway up and then stops, leveling Leighton with a look she hopes is convincingly serious. "We're going out of the regular door."
"There isn't gonna be a brawl tonight, right?"
Leighton accepts their drinks from the bartender and turns away from the counter. "Not if we're lucky."
Blake steps aside to let her through, then approaches the counter herself. She reaches for a plastic cup filled with straws and plucks a blue one out of the bunch. When she turns back, Leighton looks horrified.
"You're gonna drink beer through a straw?"
"I like straws," Blake says defensively and steps around Leighton. "I'll get us a table."
She does, in record time. All it takes is turning up the charm, a little laugh and an embarrassed, Oh, I didn't see you guys coming, which gets an older couple to exchange pleasantries and apologies before heading to another table.
"I can't believe that worked."
Blake sits down and flashes her best smile. "It's a gift."
Leighton shakes her head, like she hasn't quite accepted it, but sets their beer on the table and climbs on a stool, herself. She's wearing this dress with a white-and-blue pattern that shyly makes it past her thighs, in no way appropriate for adventures in the fire escape. It's unbelievable.
Blake pokes the straw into her beer bottle. Leighton starts laughing after the first sip, nearly spitting back her own beer.
"You're so thoughtful, oh my god," she says, between sporadic bursts of laughter. "You look like a child."
Blake lifts an eyebrow. "A drunk child?"
"I'm sure you see those all the time at work."
"Yeah. We give them lollipops instead of banana bags," Blake deadpans, with a soft chuckle. She takes another sip, then says, "That's actually really sad."
"Sorry," Leighton says and brings the bottle to her lips.
Blake likes to think she's checking for lipstick imprints when she follows the gesture with attentive eyes, but somewhere along the way her gaze drops to Leighton's neck, trails over her collarbone and ends on the fair skin of her shoulders, dusted with freckles.
Leighton catches her looking, so Blake asks the first thing that comes to mind. "Why does your dad want you arrested?"
Smooth.
"Nice ice breaker, Doctor Lively," Leighton comments.
"Thank you. I try."
"He thinks it's an effective scare tactic." Leighton shrugs. "Just awesome parenting skills, I guess."
"Doesn't it bother your mom?"
"She'd rip him a new one, if she knew. But she's got better things to do than worry about an insecure old man," Leighton says. "And I can take care of myself."
Blake smirks, inevitably glancing at Leighton's hand. "I can see that."
"My dad is a cop, my brother is in the military, mom used to be a lawyer, I'm fairly sure my little brother wants to be a spy," Leighton tells her. "Someone has to be the odd one out."
"Is that supposed to win me over?"
"Like it hasn't."
Blake furrows her brow. "You're awfully conceited."
Leighton rests both elbows on the table and leans forward, saying, "I don't promise anything I can't deliver."
She's looking at Blake's lips while she speaks, and her voice takes this sultry tone that has Blake shifting on her seat.
Leighton obviously notices. She sits back and clasps her hands together, placing them under her chin. "The last thing I'd like to do is cause you more discomfort, of course."
Blake rolls her eyes. "I'd never guess."
"I just like watching you blush."
And Blake, of course, blushes like a laughable twelve years old who can't even look at pictures on a biology textbook.
Leighton looks thrilled by her success, until some guy parks in Blake's personal space and quotes Shakespeare. "You ladies look like you could use some company."
Leighton gives him a blank stare; it's as if she's another person entirely and he's suddenly unworthy of sticking to the soles of her shoes.
She blinks. "Fuck off."
He does, after some unoriginal compliments and Blake grasping Leighton's arm so firmly, there are red prints on it when she lets go.
"It's okay, calm down," Blake says. "Miss Innocent bystander in a bar brawl."
Leighton scoffs, most likely at the guy rather than the joke. But she does calm down, settling for a glare across the room.
"You're feisty for your size."
Leighton isn't exactly glaring when she turns back around. "You don't know the first of it."
She's close as it is, but she shifts closer still and gently grips the white buttoned-down shirt Blake threw on before they left. "Can I?"
Blake thinks to say no. She likes things a little quieter than some bar bursting with activity, but it's hard to even look at her surroundings when Leighton is so close Blake can feel her breath; when her eyes are brimming with something more touching than incorrigible smugness.
Rather than answering, Blake leans in and kisses her. Leighton's fist tugs slightly at the fabric of her shirt, kissing back with surprising patience. There are catcalls, Blake is sure, but she can’t bring herself to care, with the way Leighton licks at her lips and slips her tongue into her mouth.
When they pull apart, Leighton’s fist has wrinkled Blake’s shirt. She lets go and touches Blake just under the corner of her mouth.
"Lipstick," she mutters, but her fingers keep tracing Blake’s bottom lip, her mouth.
Blake turns her head and presses a kiss to Leighton’s palm. "I think we should go."
"Look who's coming out of her shell," Leighton notes appreciatively.
Blake smirks. "You only pried it open with a hammer, after all."
Leighton smiles unapologetically and stands up, smoothing down her dress. Blake is so busy staring, she doesn’t understand why Leighton isn’t moving. Then she looks up and finds Leighton glaring at something beyond her shoulder.
"Is that his girlfriend?"
"Why did you have to do that?"
Leighton pauses to catch her breath, leaning heavily into a brick wall. "Why did he come hit on us if he was waiting for his girlfriend?" she retorts.
Blake rolls her eyes. "He's a guy."
"And I can't believe he was gonna hit a girl," Leighton scoffs.
"I can't believe you hit him."
"Whatever." Leighton pushes off the wall, squinting over Blake's shoulders. "I think we lost them," she says, then turns back and gestures further down the street. "And look, your building is just over there. Safe and sound."
Leighton starts walking, like that's the end of it and she didn't just make them run two blocks, wobbling on high heels. She gets a good five steps before noticing Blake isn't following, then turns around and nods towards the buildings, beckoning.
"You know what? I knew this was a mistake," Blake tells her.
"Oh, come on."
"No. You're insane, and presumptuous, and irresponsible-"
"And you're completely in love with me," Leighton says and Blake can see she's smiling, the pest.
"Fuck you."
"Trying to."
Blake points, which is essentially what a child would do, but whatever, "And you're rude."
"Whatever, go home. I don't care," Leighton snaps back.
She starts walking -- stomping, really, and Blake has to stop herself from grabbing her by the arm and just- god.
"No, you only stalked me until I went out with you," she fires back, anyway.
Leighton stops, spreading out her arms. "You were right, it was a mistake," she says. "Obviously you'd rather sulk at home between shifts for the rest of your life."
"Maybe I do. And you should respect that."
"Fine!"
"Well, bye."
"Bye, asshat."
They stumble through the door. Blake reaches blindly for the doorknob, but it's hard to make estimates and pinpoint distances with Leighton's mouth attached to her neck. Her shirt got unbuttoned, somehow, and Blake is pretty sure the wannabe rockstar kid from 1D saw her breasts hanging out, which - okay, a little uncool.
Then again, Leighton climbed the stairs with her dress bunched around her waist, so.
Blake finally gets a hold of the doorknob, this close to pulling the door all the way shut when Leighton licks at her bottom lip and ruins everything.
"You're so annoying."
Leighton pulls her by the belt. "I know."
The hair tie is the first thing to go.
Author: fivewhatfive
Fandom: Gossip Girl RPF (blink-and-you-miss-it: HSM RPF, Scrubs)
Pairing: Blake Lively/Leighton Meester
Rating: PG-13/Light R
Word count: ~6600
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction based on real people I don't know and have never met.
Notes: Look mom, it's a medical AU! Written for pirateygoodness over at femslash09. Thanks to it_was_enough for putting up with my questions and sinandmisery for the beta. Mistakes left are all mine.
Special Pirate Notes:I'M SO SORRY I RUINED CHRISTMAS D: (also, I am a SPY y/n?) I know you would've died of happiness if I'd written Ashley/Vanessa, and I would, if I thought I could, but I sort of did the next best thing?
Summary: Doctor Lively battles routine, rival interns and wet floors. And that damn girl.
The hair tie is the first thing to go.
There is a ritualistic touch to it, possibly a manifestation of not-entirely-metaphorical freedom, but it's simply the first thing to go. And yes, it may be the most mediocre ritual Blake Lively has ever nurtured, but it doesn’t require anyone’s supervision; doesn't put lives on the line.
Blake runs a hand through her hair, shaking it loose, and nudges the door closed with her hip. After that first fundamental step is over, there’ll be no discrimination while kicking off her shoes or throwing her purse away with a vengeance -- whichever is annoying her most that day -- and then dragging herself to the couch, maybe directly to her bed.
Her hair is free; she's home.
And home, as far as she's concerned, is not where the heart disease is.
"I hate my job."
Then again, this is the place where she has the privilege of forgetting.
Penn is still up, lest all the coffee in the world end while he sleeps. “Preaching to the choir,” he mumbles.
"It's not that I'm complaining. I'm not," Blake says and walks over to join him on the couch. "But it's been forever and just how am I supposed to grow if all I do is see minor cuts or - it's not even the cool part of the ER."
Penn nods. He's not really listening, but dropping out of college didn’t stop him from mastering the art of tossing encouraging nods and 'hmm' and 'uh huh' at the appropriate times.
It's therapeutic, in a way, to know she can pretty much tell him anything, but most of the time she wants to leave him a note - a post-it on his guitar, maybe - reminding that human interaction goes both ways.
"I mean, it's not that I think treating people with, like, pencils impaled in their eyes is cool," Blake amends. There are days when she really, really does, but she’s gotten better with the whole people, not injuries thing. "But at this rate, I'll have a PhD in stitching up rowdy kids by the time I leave that damn pit."
Penn interrupts his thoughtful strumming. It’s practically a signature look, by now, repeatedly tapping the same chords with an air of deep concentration -- very artistic, very Penn, very unfit for someone who started practicing three years ago.
Blake bites her lip to stop from laughing or, worse, mocking, but Penn doesn't look up from his guitar while saying, "Practicing is cool, though."
Maybe he is listening today. "Well, yeah, but I could be practicing other things." Blake frowns and then adds, emphatically, "I should be practicing other things. What if I suddenly forget how to start an IV?"
This time Penn looks at her, even if just to show his indignation. "Dude, I can start an IV."
Blake laughs. "I'd like to see that." She wouldn't, actually. Mancramps and needles should never mix -- in fact, she's sure that was one of the issues raised during orientation, right before the meeting was hijacked by The Enemy.
Blake scowls. "And is Hudgens down at the ER with the lame cases? No. Coincidence?"
"Yes," Penn cuts in and smacks the side of her leg with the back of his hand. "Go to bed, you're driving me nuts."
Blake rises to her feet and takes a few steps backwards. "And if I did, which intern would be there to learn about your mental condition? Not me."
"Are you even listening to yourself? You think you got stuck in the ER because you pissed off the janitor."
"But-"
Penn raises his hand, silencing her with a hot pink palette. "Two words for you," he says. "Psychological. Evaluation."
Blake's jaw drops, in her best expression of mock outrage. She can't remember a time when his late-night crankiness didn't make her want to ruffle his hair -- curly and desperately needing a hair cut, but what else is new.
It's probably why they've been able to keep up the dating farce around her parents for this long.
"You know you love me," Blake tells him and then races to her bedroom door, predicting his reaction. She narrowly avoids getting hit by a cushion, Penn's voice sounding loud and suddenly every bit defensive.
"I got the damn book for my sister!"
It's just like any other day.
This is what she calls a good night: it's not overcrowded; no one appears to be dying in the vicinity; the nurses over at triage aren't yelling at her for existing; and no one has called her Doctor Barbie.
Not yet, anyway.
"I actually have potentially good news," Chace tells her, carrying an armload of charts. They'd become fast friends, she and Nurse Crawford, even if their joint appearances didn't do them as much good -- Doctor Barbie and Male Nurse, together they fight crime! -- as it encouraged further mockery from peers.
Orientation never mentioned that practicing medicine included revisiting high school.
Blake shakes her head at the thought. Chace is suddenly looking expectantly at her, and it takes her a minute to remember they were having an actual conversation. Too much time with Penn, clearly.
"Right. Good news?"
They step back to avoid a gurney rushed by paramedics, then Chace says, "Heard it through the grapevine that someone finally realized your rotation in the ER is supposed to, you know, rotate."
"Finally."
"Oh, come on," Chace says, smiling that charming grin that has earned him a fan club among diabetic old ladies. "Like you didn't have fun dipping your toes in the shark cage."
"I didn't even dip my toes, I got stuck with minor injuries," Blake replies bitterly.
"Maybe," Chace concedes with a nod of his head, "but at least you'll leave here with a valuable lesson under your belt."
"Don't feed anyone's drug habit by proxy?"
"Don't piss off the Head Nurse," Chace corrects. "You, gurney, laceration, go," he then says and gives her a slight push towards a gurney with the privacy curtain drawn around it.
Blake grabs the curtain and lets out a sigh. It's probably another kid fascinated with scissors or -
Oh.
It's a girl. It's a big girl. It's a big girl handcuffed to the gurney and bleeding all over the front of her shirt.
She's glaring like Blake is responsible for whatever happened to the hand she's holding tight against her chest, which is not really a stretch from how kids fascinated with scissors end up looking at Blake, but still.
Then again, maybe the girl is glaring because a rookie gawking like she's never seen a wound -- or a woman -- is not going to solve her problem.
Blake hears a rattle and then Chace reappears, setting down supplies and discreetly clearing his throat in the process. "Blake."
Right. Human interaction goes both ways. "Hi, I'm Doctor Lively."
The girl stops glaring long enough to fix Blake with this stare -- half sizing her up, half something else entirely -- and then her lips curve at the corners. "Do you work with Nurse Feelgood?"
Blake represses the urge to roll her eyes. Michelle. "I guess you met Nurse Trachtenberg," she says, snapping on her gloves. "She didn't tell you to put pressure on the wound?"
"That would require both hands," the girl tells her, like she's speaking to a child. "As I told the nice police officer down the hall, by the way."
Blake politely abstains from staring at the handcuffs securing one of her wrists to the gurney. That's what she gets for complaining, really. A leap from annoying brats to annoying criminals.
She can feel Chace standing behind her, monitoring the situation. It's not much better than Dr. Rutherford finding new ways to tell her to hurry the fuck up without using words, but at least she has the option to punch Chace in private.
"Check the cut," he whispers.
Blake gives him a sideways glance, frowning, then holds out her hand. "May I?"
The girl obliges without a stingy remark. Blake takes her hand, tiny in comparison and so delicate she almost forgets it belongs to the thorniest rose in the garden. Still, she has a job to do here.
Blake brings up a mental list of everything to check for, ticks off every item as she evaluates the slash on the girl's palm.
"Looks like you'll be needing some stitches," Blake says. She waits for Chace's input -- it wouldn't be the first time she'd gotten nurse-slapped -- but he simply nods and resumes watching.
At least until Michelle pokes her head into the room. "Chace. Westwick needs you on Trauma one."
Blake widens her eyes and shoots Chace a pleading look, darting her eyes to the handcuffs and back at him. So what if a brick-sized guy got stabbed and Westwick can't hold him down by himself?
Chace smiles, giving her a light pat on the shoulder. "You can handle stitches, you know that."
She does know that, but it doesn't make her desire to be alone with the handcuffed criminal grow tenfold. What if she gets stabbed?
Blake glances at the girl, this doll-faced brunette that can't be much older than herself, currently smirking like she's thoroughly amused by Blake's discomfort - or maybe stabbed someone in the last 24 hours.
"Nice puppy dog look you had there," the girl comments absently and for once her smile isn't vicious, even if it does nothing to ease the ridiculous tension in the room. It's never been like this. Blake has handled people crying in pain and yelling obscenities in the same breath, but it's never affected her ability to relate, to exercise empathy and just do her damn job.
Blake takes a calming breath and thinks of Dr. Rutherford. She would've told a nurse to clean up the cut for her, by now.
"Are you taking any medication?"
The girl sighs. "Not yet."
"Allergic?"
"Will you be smearing nuts on the cut?"
It's the pain talking, Blake thinks. Anxiety, crankiness of waiting in a stressful environment. Do not irrigate her face in retaliation.
"Aren't you even going to ask my name?"
Shit. "I'm so sorry, Miss..." Handcuffs Mouthoff. "Meester," Blake says after glancing at the chart. "Can I call you Leighton?"
Leighton makes a noise that could be a yes or a no. Okay, then. Blake gently flexes Leighton's fingers and watches out for a gasp, for any sign of discomfort. Pain. This girl is in pain, Blake thinks. It helps, sparking a twinge in her chest, that desire to do something that brought her to med school in the first place.
"Have you noticed any loss of feeling?"
"No," Leighton says, then scoffs. "Now that would be tragic."
"I suppose," Blake mutters, deliberately ignoring the implications. "What happened here?"
"Bar brawl," Leighton answers simply. She lifts her handcuffed hand and points awkwardly at the wound, doing her best to rotate her wrist. "Beer bottle," she adds, then points at herself. "Innocent bystander."
Sure. The look of innocence, right there.
And then a look of outrage, followed by brown eyes narrowing in an unkind manner.
Blake cringes. "I said that out loud, didn't I?"
"Yes."
Grade A patient care, Lively. "I'm sorry," she says and covers Leighton's hand in a way she supposes is soothing. "I am. The last thing I'd like to do is cause you more discomfort, really."
Leighton stares her down for so long, Blake fights the urge to remind her she can't stitch a wound that's over six hours old.
But then Leighton's face breaks into this brilliant smile Blake would never even think her capable of, dimples on each side and just genuine amusement oozing off naturally curved lips. "I'm messing with you. You know that, right?"
Blake is pretty sure her face falls. No, she did not know that, but thanks for the emotional freakout.
"You're funny," Blake says, humorlessly.
Leighton doesn't stop smiling, even when Blake picks up the needle. "I'm a riot."
Chace doesn't look happy.
Blake slows down her footsteps, approaching warily. Anger on Chace is mostly the absence of a handsome smile plus some halfhearted scolding, but he's standing next to a cop looking regular angry, if not more.
Maybe she should go kill time in the supply closet.
Blake starts to turn, but Chace spots her just then. Damn it. He excuses himself and walks away from the unfriendly police officer, coming her way with a look that suggests he might sic an army of diabetic old ladies on her.
Chace takes Blake by the arm and leads her away from the mess around the nurse station. "Did you discharge Leighton Meester?"
"No. Michelle told me to let Ashley dress up the wound." Blake frowns and glances over her shoulder. The cop has found someone new to yell at. "Why, what happened?"
Chace stops walking and lets out a sigh. "She's gone."
"Ashley?"
On cue, Tisdale materializes beside them, over-taned and slightly bewildered. "What? Me."
Chace ignores her and looks directly at Blake, lowering his voice. "Leighton disappeared."
Blake is pretty sure she makes sounds, each one more incredulous than the next, until finally her eyes land on Ashley. "You lost my patient?"
"No," she answers instantly, then her brow wrinkles. "Wait, which one?"
"She was handcuffed to the gurney," Blake says and she knows exasperation will only cause a scene, but honestly now. "How do you lose someone handcuffed to a gurney?"
"Ohhh, that girl," Ashley says. "The janitor said you'd asked for the keys because you wanted to get her on her back."
There is a snickering sound to her right. Blake is pretty sure it comes from Chace, but she's too dumbstruck to react properly. This can't be happening.
"...And you took the keys from the police officer?"
"No," Ashley says, again. It pretty much sounds like a Duh. "I asked, first."
She leaves then, like it's perfectly normal to aid the escape of potential criminals. Blake lets out an incredulous scoff that ends in a whimper. The janitor is so going to get her fired and then Hudgens will be the premium intern, model resident, chief of medicine-to-be, giggling her way to success while Blake stays at home picking up after Penn's stoner trash.
This can't be happening.
Chace throws an arm around her shoulders, shaking Blake out of a disastrous reverie. "Valuable lesson number two," he says and starts walking again, dragging her along. "Do not hand your patient over to the less competent intern."
Blake groans, staring pleadingly at the ceiling. "I hate my life."
It's not like any other day.
Blake kicks the front door closed. Penn rolls off the couch, startled out of his sleep. He struggles to sit up, what with empty bags of chips, magazines, and a random PS3 controller all populating the floor as well.
But Penn succeeds, eventually, sitting up with a questioning look that ends up indignant.
"I lost my patient," she says by way of explanation.
Penn wrinkles his brow. "They died?"
Blake slams her bedroom door shut.
Dr. Szohr accosts her in the hallway near the supply closet on the second floor. Blake expected something like this to happen, and it's not that she doesn't like Jess -- she adores her, really -- but getting caught with the hospital's psychiatrist is not unlike being seen in the arm of the popular jock with an alleged Valtrex prescription. Word gets around.
"Look, I've already had my ass handed to me by three different people from two different departments."
"I can imagine." Jessica smiles kindly, like she sympathizes, but also how Blake imagines she smiles at pyromaniacs and schizophrenics. "I'm not here to fight, I just wanted to know how you were feeling."
"Jess." Really, she could use other kinds of comforting. Like learning someone has yelled at Ashley for a change, who did all the actual patient-losing and showed up today happily chatting about her dog.
Jessica laughs. "I know it's not your first day here," she says. "But burnout catches up with all of us, and it's okay to vent when you're a little on edge." Oh God, not Jessica's psychobabble. "I'm not just saying this because I have to." Yes you are. "But if you need someone to talk to, my door is always open."
Blake manages a genuine smile. "I know," she says. And she does, Jessica's door was also open when she got a visit from Dr. Westwick.
Word gets around.
"I'm alright, really." Blake reaches out and gives Dr. Szohr's arm a light squeeze - when did she become the one trying to reassure the staff's psychiatrist? "That was an exception, that girl was just..."
Jessica looks at her for a long moment, probably trying to psychoanalyze her silence and correlate it to repressed feelings or something equally silly. Of course, if Jessica had spent ten minutes in the unnerving presence of Leighton Meester, she'd be running out of words too.
"Anyway," Blake says, waving it off. "I'm off tomorrow. I'll be doing lots of resting and zero burning of anything, so you don't have to worry."
"I'm not worried. I'm just letting you know that if you need anything..."
"Your door is open," Blake finishes for her and points one enthusiastic finger, almost as enthusiasticly as she then walks off in the opposite direction.
She turns the corner and nearly runs into Chace, who does the polite I-totally-wasn't-listening cough. "I didn't talk to her."
Blake leans into the wall with a slump. "I just want to go hide in the supply closet or something."
"Don't," Chace warns. "Hudgens is in there."
Blake's eyes brighten, hopeful despite herself. "Did you lock her up?"
"With Ashley," Chace adds.
Blake deflates.
"I'm not allowed to be stressed today."
"Decaf, sugary stuff, no stress." Penn counts on his fingers and holds the door of the café open for her. "Got it."
This is no new routine for them -- Penn heads to the counter, Blake finds a table. Experience has taught that Penn's general gloominess will persuade any form of salesperson against chatting more than necessary, while Blake's uncanny ability to charm people into handing over their seats seldom fails.
A perfect match, if not for one thing.
Blake takes a seat and timidly looks around. This is the easy part of that one thing, checking out - no, politely observing the occasional female. The brunette typing in the corner, for example. She's got her hair pinned back, two loose strands framing her face and, okay, those may or may not be the nerdiest glasses Blake has ever seen, plus the unattractive... bandage on her hand.
Leighton.
Leighton looks up the minute the thought occurs to Blake, probably because it's no thought at all and why can't she ever keep those things confined to the safe silence of her mind? Blake gets the urge to hide, somehow, but there aren't many places where someone her size could go.
Besides, even if there were, Blake is pretty sure she'd bump into a million things just trying to get there.
Leighton has already spotted her, anyway. She pauses her one-handed typing and looks over at Blake, arching a questioning eyebrow.
Blake glances at Penn. Now would be the perfect time for him to come back with their order, so she'd look back at Leighton and offer an apologetic shrug or any other reaction that would avoid direct confrontation.
Penn is still stuck waiting in line.
Blake breathes a long-suffering sigh, then returns Leighton's stare and gives a little wave. They could avoid confrontation, technically. Leighton hasn't called her over. Leighton hasn't done anything but stir her coffee, really, watching Blake from behind those thick-rimmed glasses.
There is really no plausible reason for Blake to be making her way over there.
Except she is.
"Hi."
Leighton tilts her head, looking up. "Hi."
She keeps stirring her coffee, her bandaged hand resting beside the laptop in front of her. Blake pays attention to that like it's important, plus countless other little details, like how the top button on Leighton's shirt is missing and her earrings don't even match.
This is so awkward.
"Sit down," Leighton says.
Blake does, grateful that it gives her something to do, even if for ten seconds. She grasps for anything to say, anything that won't sound like Sorry about the other day, which really means What the hell was your childhood problem?
Instead, she blurts out, "Please don't sue the hospital for misplacing you."
Leighton actually laughs at that, which is more of a relief than Blake would care to admit. "Misplacing me?"
"Yeah, you know." Blake shrugs. It's not as much "misplacing" as "facilitating escape", but she's not about to point that out. "Shouldn't you be hiding?"
"From?"
"The cops."
"Ah." Leighton gives it some thought, taking a sip of her coffee; Blake ignores the perfect red lipstick imprint she leaves on the paper cup. "NYPD sort of has an unofficial order to arrest me on sight if I'm near trouble, yeah."
Oh god, she is a criminal.
Leighton must read that thought in her eyes, but she does nothing to placate Blake's fear. "Issued by the Commissioner, even," she says, in this hushed voice, like they're coconspirators. She waits a beat, then adds, "My dad."
Blake releases a relieved breath that resembles a laugh. "Oh."
Leighton smirks over the rim of her cup. "So don't fret."
"I wasn't... I just-" Leighton raises an eyebrow, somehow halting all and any excuses. "Okay, I was worried."
"Now you don't have to be," Leighton tells her, setting down her cup and -- lord help her -- batting her eyelashes.
Blake doesn't know when she went from wanting to punch this girl to wanting to do something else altogether, perhaps involving this table and bending of the human body. Her cheeks must be on fire.
"Your friend is coming back," Leighton says, disrupting the moment.
Blake turns around, spying Penn making his way to their table and visibly wondering where she went. "I should probably go back."
Leighton resumes stirring her coffee, signaling that whatever happened here is, in fact, over. Blake stands up, not expecting a proper goodbye. There is a narrow window between smooth exit and awkward stagger, and she's pretty much exhausted this week's awkward quota.
"I guess I'll see you next week," Leighton says. "Doctor Lively."
Leighton makes it sound so obscene, Blake nearly trips on her own feet when she turns halfway, acknowledging the comment with a nod.
Her cheeks must be on fire.
Blake slowly creeps around the corner. Janitor Watch is not unlike measuring the distance of a bolt of lightning. Replace thunder with whistling and run for cover at the appropriate times.
On second thought, regular eavesdropping would still work in this scenario.
Blake waits for the sound to fade. This is her first day back on her old shift, she refuses to have it ruined. So when the whistling is nearly too far to hear, Blake breaks into a sprint and heads across the hall, on her way to Intensive Care. She just needs to run and - oh no. Wet floor, wet floor, wet floor.
Ow.
"Doctor Lively."
And as these things go, she does see Leighton again. Upside down, while possibly nursing a concussion or skull fracture. "Hey."
Leighton smiles down at her and holds out her hand. Blake accepts it, pulling herself back up with the few scraps of dignity she still possesses.
"I think the janitor is out to get you," Leighton says, wiping something off Blake's shoulder.
Blake's head shoots up so fast, she feels the stethoscope bounce around her neck. "He is." She sounds so earnest, it's ridiculous. But whatever, it's not every day people agree with her conspiracy-theory-slash-fact. "All I did was point out he could be... cleanlier. I mean, this is a hospital."
Leighton shakes her head. "You hurt his janitor pride," she says, and it occurs to Blake that maybe she is being laughed at instead of with.
Blake eyes her suspiciously. "So, what are you doing up here?"
"I wanted to thank you."
Blake lowers her eyes. Leighton's hand is no longer bandaged or bloody, but hanging casually by her skirt. "Oh, you got the stitches out."
Leighton nods. "You can barely tell," she says and holds out her hand, palm up, presumably for Blake to inspect. And fine, it makes her slightly giddy to be commended for something, even if it's something she can do with one eye closed by now.
She takes Leighton's hand, as gently as if it were still wounded. "Yeah, it was a pretty awesome hand job..." Blake says, distractedly. It echoes back one second too late. "Oh! I meant- I mean, I didn't. I'm just good with sutures."
But Leighton doesn't mock her, this once. Instead, she pulls her hand out of Blake's grasp and reaches up, idly fingering her stethoscope.
"What time does your shift end?"
Blake quirks one eyebrow. Is she...? She can't be. "Early."
It's the dumbest answer Blake has ever given -- including the ones that made Dr. Rutherford's expression lines fight the Botox. Blake opens her mouth, trying to amend it in a way that attests the existence of brain cells, but there is a tug on both ends of her stethoscope, and then Leighton is rising on the tip of her toes and - oh.
Oh.
It's a light touch of lips, with just enough pressure to ensure that this kiss is no hallucination, nor is the whiff of citric shampoo or the nails scraping lightly over the hairs on the back of her neck.
And then it's over, just when Blake thinks to react. Leighton pulls back, but her hand lingers briefly over Blake's chest, her eyes a darker shade of brown.
"Palpitations," she says. "You should see a doctor about that."
Penn turns away from the mirror -- the mirror -- and runs a hand over his hair, freshly cut courtesy of one Blake Lively.
"And that was it?"
Blake nods. "That was it." She wouldn't say she was sulking, per se. Hugging a cushion with some semblance of disappointment, yes. Sulking? No. It's not like Leighton explicitly indicated she would be waiting for her by the end of her shift.
And it's not like she told Leighton when her shift would end.
Blake sinks back into the couch, exhaling in her best dramatic fashion. "I'm an idiot."
Penn inspects his hair. Again. Then gives the lapels of his jacket a satisfied tug and turns away from the mirror. Again. "You really need to get laid."
"Look who's talking."
"Dude, I am so getting laid," Penn says and walks over to the front door. "In fact, this is me, going out to likely get laid."
Blake half-expects him to stick his tongue out, but he just unlocks the door and steps outside. "I'll see you in the morning."
The door closes, punctuating his sentence. Blake is mid eye-roll when it opens again and Penn half-leans inside. "Oh, your mother called. Apparently we're cordially intimated to dinner this weekend."
"Nooo." Blake scrunches up her face. "Why didn't you tell her I'd be on call?"
"I did," Penn says. "And Blake, I love you, but if I have to listen to a very detailed narrative of how your niece is actually following people with her eyes now, I swear I'm telling your mom you're banging the anonymous biker chick in 4B."
Blake gasps. "Don't you dare." She'd never hear the end of it, and then there would be random silent treatment followed by unprompted advice on adoption agencies and surrogacy. God, her mother.
"You'd feel better," Penn tells her, honestly.
"Easy for you to say." Blake sighs. It's not like she hasn't thought about it, but she hates these sort of conversations, the insufferably annoying part of that one thing. "Besides, you know I need-"
"Extensive planning, yeah, yeah," Penn says and reaches for the doorknob again. "You do that, I'll go get laid."
Blake rolls her eyes again. This time, the door stays closed and respects her privacy. Blake picks up the remote, turns on the TV, and concentrates on not sulking.
Primetime television doesn't help as much as she'd thought, however, and the itch on the back of her hand is inevitable. Penn left and she could use something to improve her mood, there's really no reason why she shouldn't indulge.
Twenty minutes and one adorable lampshade on the Home Shopping Network later, Blake's mood has improved considerably. Sure, some of that time was spent imagining herself throwing said lamp on Leighton's head, but harmless fantasies never killed anyone.
Sadly.
Blake has almost dozed off when she hears the sound. A thump, then something vaguely metallic, then another series of thumps.
And a knock on the window.
Blake sits up on the couch, alarmed. Burglars. How many times did she tell Penn they should've gotten an apartment somewhere safer, without a joke of a doorman and that damn fire scape that facilitated robbery and tetanus more than any actual escaping?
She jumps to her feet and scans the apartment for a nearby weapon. Her eyes pause on Penn's guitar.
He's going to kill her.
Blake picks it up, one-handed, which turns out to be an even dumber idea than she could've predicted. She sways, thrown off by the unexpected weight, and that's when she hears it.
"Blake?"
Blake stops, awkwardly holding the guitar, then turns towards the window. Burglars shouldn't know her name.
There's another knock, more insistent now. Blake finally approaches the window, dragging the guitar along, just in case, and yanks the curtains back.
Leighton is scowling on the other side of the window.
"Leighton, what the hell."
Leighton ignores her, naturally, eyeing the guitar instead. "Were you gonna serenade me to death, El Kabong?"
It takes Blake a full minute to recompose. In her defense, this sort of thing never happens to her. She's got a life built on routine; a career that doesn't allow flights of fancy in the OR. Nowhere did she sign up for the lunatic climbing her fire escape in the middle of the night.
Speaking of. "How did you even get-?" Blake brings a hand up to her forehead, at a loss of words. This is gonna give her a migraine. "How do you even know where I live?"
Leighton shrugs, suddenly coy, and taps the window with her fingernail. "My dad is not the only one who can abuse NYPD's resources," she says. "And I know you're off tomorrow, so you have no excuse not to go out with me."
Blake nearly drops Penn's guitar. "Really? You were handcuffed when I met you."
Leighton pretends to think, then tilts her head. "Is that bad?"
That damn smile. Blake presses her lips tight, trying to prevent one of her own. She's supposed to look upset, here, however little her chances of actually saying no. This thing in her chest would burst and kill her, if she said no.
So Blake sighs, reaching for the window. She pulls it halfway up and then stops, leveling Leighton with a look she hopes is convincingly serious. "We're going out of the regular door."
"There isn't gonna be a brawl tonight, right?"
Leighton accepts their drinks from the bartender and turns away from the counter. "Not if we're lucky."
Blake steps aside to let her through, then approaches the counter herself. She reaches for a plastic cup filled with straws and plucks a blue one out of the bunch. When she turns back, Leighton looks horrified.
"You're gonna drink beer through a straw?"
"I like straws," Blake says defensively and steps around Leighton. "I'll get us a table."
She does, in record time. All it takes is turning up the charm, a little laugh and an embarrassed, Oh, I didn't see you guys coming, which gets an older couple to exchange pleasantries and apologies before heading to another table.
"I can't believe that worked."
Blake sits down and flashes her best smile. "It's a gift."
Leighton shakes her head, like she hasn't quite accepted it, but sets their beer on the table and climbs on a stool, herself. She's wearing this dress with a white-and-blue pattern that shyly makes it past her thighs, in no way appropriate for adventures in the fire escape. It's unbelievable.
Blake pokes the straw into her beer bottle. Leighton starts laughing after the first sip, nearly spitting back her own beer.
"You're so thoughtful, oh my god," she says, between sporadic bursts of laughter. "You look like a child."
Blake lifts an eyebrow. "A drunk child?"
"I'm sure you see those all the time at work."
"Yeah. We give them lollipops instead of banana bags," Blake deadpans, with a soft chuckle. She takes another sip, then says, "That's actually really sad."
"Sorry," Leighton says and brings the bottle to her lips.
Blake likes to think she's checking for lipstick imprints when she follows the gesture with attentive eyes, but somewhere along the way her gaze drops to Leighton's neck, trails over her collarbone and ends on the fair skin of her shoulders, dusted with freckles.
Leighton catches her looking, so Blake asks the first thing that comes to mind. "Why does your dad want you arrested?"
Smooth.
"Nice ice breaker, Doctor Lively," Leighton comments.
"Thank you. I try."
"He thinks it's an effective scare tactic." Leighton shrugs. "Just awesome parenting skills, I guess."
"Doesn't it bother your mom?"
"She'd rip him a new one, if she knew. But she's got better things to do than worry about an insecure old man," Leighton says. "And I can take care of myself."
Blake smirks, inevitably glancing at Leighton's hand. "I can see that."
"My dad is a cop, my brother is in the military, mom used to be a lawyer, I'm fairly sure my little brother wants to be a spy," Leighton tells her. "Someone has to be the odd one out."
"Is that supposed to win me over?"
"Like it hasn't."
Blake furrows her brow. "You're awfully conceited."
Leighton rests both elbows on the table and leans forward, saying, "I don't promise anything I can't deliver."
She's looking at Blake's lips while she speaks, and her voice takes this sultry tone that has Blake shifting on her seat.
Leighton obviously notices. She sits back and clasps her hands together, placing them under her chin. "The last thing I'd like to do is cause you more discomfort, of course."
Blake rolls her eyes. "I'd never guess."
"I just like watching you blush."
And Blake, of course, blushes like a laughable twelve years old who can't even look at pictures on a biology textbook.
Leighton looks thrilled by her success, until some guy parks in Blake's personal space and quotes Shakespeare. "You ladies look like you could use some company."
Leighton gives him a blank stare; it's as if she's another person entirely and he's suddenly unworthy of sticking to the soles of her shoes.
She blinks. "Fuck off."
He does, after some unoriginal compliments and Blake grasping Leighton's arm so firmly, there are red prints on it when she lets go.
"It's okay, calm down," Blake says. "Miss Innocent bystander in a bar brawl."
Leighton scoffs, most likely at the guy rather than the joke. But she does calm down, settling for a glare across the room.
"You're feisty for your size."
Leighton isn't exactly glaring when she turns back around. "You don't know the first of it."
She's close as it is, but she shifts closer still and gently grips the white buttoned-down shirt Blake threw on before they left. "Can I?"
Blake thinks to say no. She likes things a little quieter than some bar bursting with activity, but it's hard to even look at her surroundings when Leighton is so close Blake can feel her breath; when her eyes are brimming with something more touching than incorrigible smugness.
Rather than answering, Blake leans in and kisses her. Leighton's fist tugs slightly at the fabric of her shirt, kissing back with surprising patience. There are catcalls, Blake is sure, but she can’t bring herself to care, with the way Leighton licks at her lips and slips her tongue into her mouth.
When they pull apart, Leighton’s fist has wrinkled Blake’s shirt. She lets go and touches Blake just under the corner of her mouth.
"Lipstick," she mutters, but her fingers keep tracing Blake’s bottom lip, her mouth.
Blake turns her head and presses a kiss to Leighton’s palm. "I think we should go."
"Look who's coming out of her shell," Leighton notes appreciatively.
Blake smirks. "You only pried it open with a hammer, after all."
Leighton smiles unapologetically and stands up, smoothing down her dress. Blake is so busy staring, she doesn’t understand why Leighton isn’t moving. Then she looks up and finds Leighton glaring at something beyond her shoulder.
"Is that his girlfriend?"
"Why did you have to do that?"
Leighton pauses to catch her breath, leaning heavily into a brick wall. "Why did he come hit on us if he was waiting for his girlfriend?" she retorts.
Blake rolls her eyes. "He's a guy."
"And I can't believe he was gonna hit a girl," Leighton scoffs.
"I can't believe you hit him."
"Whatever." Leighton pushes off the wall, squinting over Blake's shoulders. "I think we lost them," she says, then turns back and gestures further down the street. "And look, your building is just over there. Safe and sound."
Leighton starts walking, like that's the end of it and she didn't just make them run two blocks, wobbling on high heels. She gets a good five steps before noticing Blake isn't following, then turns around and nods towards the buildings, beckoning.
"You know what? I knew this was a mistake," Blake tells her.
"Oh, come on."
"No. You're insane, and presumptuous, and irresponsible-"
"And you're completely in love with me," Leighton says and Blake can see she's smiling, the pest.
"Fuck you."
"Trying to."
Blake points, which is essentially what a child would do, but whatever, "And you're rude."
"Whatever, go home. I don't care," Leighton snaps back.
She starts walking -- stomping, really, and Blake has to stop herself from grabbing her by the arm and just- god.
"No, you only stalked me until I went out with you," she fires back, anyway.
Leighton stops, spreading out her arms. "You were right, it was a mistake," she says. "Obviously you'd rather sulk at home between shifts for the rest of your life."
"Maybe I do. And you should respect that."
"Fine!"
"Well, bye."
"Bye, asshat."
They stumble through the door. Blake reaches blindly for the doorknob, but it's hard to make estimates and pinpoint distances with Leighton's mouth attached to her neck. Her shirt got unbuttoned, somehow, and Blake is pretty sure the wannabe rockstar kid from 1D saw her breasts hanging out, which - okay, a little uncool.
Then again, Leighton climbed the stairs with her dress bunched around her waist, so.
Blake finally gets a hold of the doorknob, this close to pulling the door all the way shut when Leighton licks at her bottom lip and ruins everything.
"You're so annoying."
Leighton pulls her by the belt. "I know."
The hair tie is the first thing to go.