84. | and number twenty-two thousand three hundred and eight
84.
and number twenty-two thousand three hundred and eight
would be my overwhelming urge to hyperbolate
cook/archuleta (1611 words)
this is for nieliegen because she requested me from the cookleta graphic contest! i'm so glad you liked it, bb! she said that it was cool to post it for the general public, so here it is. it's been a while for me bbs, so please be kind. :)
David slumped in the chair of the break lounge and tried not to fall asleep. "Kid," Carly says, hitting the vending machine abruptly, "You cannot fall asleep in here. Cowell will kill you."
"Not going to sleep," David protests. "I'm just resting my eyes. A little."
"Look, the intern hours suck, I know," Carly says, "but you're doing great! And you've only got like three more before you can head home. So don't worry about it. You'll be fine."
"I'm not sure how much caffeine is in my body right now, but I know that it's not healthy," David comments, rubbing his eyes and trying to put himself into a sitting position. "I'm going to sleep for three days when I get home."
Carly snorts. "Good luck with that," she says, pulling her candybar from the machine. "Back into the fray," she mutters, pushing open the door -- voices suddenly rise up and the sound of machines and gurneys and patients fills the air. Doctors call each other, nurses chatter at the desk, and David tries to pretend he doesn't have to go back into that. He sits for about four and a half minutes longer before getting up and trudging towards the doors.
"David, thank goodness," Brooke says breathlessly, walking up with a chart in her hands, "we've got in a guy who may have broken his arm and I need you to look at him while I deal with that poor woman who burned herself, alright?"
David puts on his best smile and takes the chart. "Oh, a David as well. Cool."
The room is bright and white, of course, and David blinks tiredly and squints at the chart. "Well, Mr Cook, let's have a look at--" he looks up and cuts off abruptly. This guy is like, really attractive, even covered in dirt and glaring at his arm. His hair is messy and there's a leaf in it, and the arm he's holding has several tattoos on it. David clears his throat and continues, "a look at your arm."
"This is not my fault," David Cook says. "Just so you know, I'm not one of those idiots who goes around breaking their limbs because they're too dumb to know better." He looks at David and blinks.
"Um, it says here that you were roughhousing with your friend and you fell off a bunk bed?" David Cook winces a little. "I'm not here to judge you, Mr Cook," David continues, smiling a little bit more. "I just wanna make sure you're okay."
"I'm fine," David Cook insists. "And Mr Cook is creepy, and as trite as this may sound, is in fact my father's name. You can call me David. Or, oh, your name is David," he says, finally noticing David's nametag, "so you can call me Cook, that's fine, I mean--" he cuts himself off and looks frustrated.
David holds back a laugh. and bends down to look at Cook's arm. It has a spectacular bruise forming, and it does look like it was wrenched a bit, but it's not broken and probably not even sprained. David gets him a brace to put on just in case and carefully puts it on. Cook's skin is warm and pale, freckles dotting the skin of his arm here and there. Cook makes a small sound and David grimaces. "Sorry, I hope that didn't hurt too much."
"Um. No," Cook says.
"Well, that's it. If it's still bothering you come back in and we'll do a scan, but as far as I can tell you just bruised it up pretty good." David writes his notes onto the chart and then notices that Cook hasn't left, but is fidgeting with his brace. "Is there something else?" David asks politely, and Cook flushes a little.
"No, no," he stutters, "Um, thank you so much, bye." And he leaves.
"This one asked for you," Syesha says, passing him a file and giving David a wicked grin. "He's super cute, David."
"Oh my gosh," David says, rolling his eyes. "Is is Mr Jenkins? He's old, Syesha, that's not fun--"
"David?" someone says, and it's not Mr Jenkins, oh gosh, it's Cook, with his hand wrapped in bandages and a sheepish grin on his face. "It's me again."
"Oh," David says, somewhat stupidly, "Hello. Um, what--"
"Trying to make dinner, cut myself with a knife. Do your worst with me." He holds his hands out like a prisoner for his handcuffs, and David laughs.
"You know, I said I wouldn't judge last time, but I think I may have to now," David jokes, leading him to the examination room. "So was your friend to blame for this?" David asks, consulting the file and flicking his eyes up to Cook, who curves his mouth.
"Nah, Johns was unfortunately not there for me to use as a scapegoat. I was just trying to make a salad and forgot how to use a knife." He shrugs his shoulders and holds up the hand.
The cut's not too bad, which David tells Cook right away, but he'll put a stitch on it and he can come back in a week to make sure it didn't get infected. Cook grins at that, and David feels a bit of a flutter in his stomach. "Um, well. That's done."
"Thank you, David," Cook says sincerely, and David flushes.
"You're very welcome."
"Your boyfriend's here," Carly tells him in passing as he finishes up with an elderly woman who had a bit of a cough.
David goes pink and the elderly woman giggles a bit. "I don't have a boyfriend, Carly," he reminds her, and Carly rolls her eyes.
"That accident-prone guy. With the arm and the cut?"
"Cook?" David asks, and Carly nods with this weird glint in her eye. "He's not accident-prone, really," David starts off, and Carly looks at his file.
"This is his third time in two months," she says flatly, and David can't help but smile, because Cook kind of apparently is accident-prone. He takes the file from her and gives her a look when she bats her eyes suggestively at him.
He walks out to the waiting room and Cook is there, flipping through a magazine and not looking particularly in pain at all. David clears his throat.
"Again, Cook?" Cook looks up and throws the magazine down abruptly, standing up and smiling brightly. He steps forward and then looks down and suddenly grimaces. David tilts his head as he watches Cook drag his right foot behind him a little bit.
Cook limps in and doesn't even bother looking apologetic this time.
"This was totally Johns' fault?" he offers, and David laughs. "I think I might have twisted my ankle."
"Hmm," David says, because it's not swollen or anything, and in fact looks pretty fine. The skin is just as pale as the rest of Cook, and as far as David can tell it's not twisted or broken or even bruised. "Are you sure you hurt it? Something else wasn't bothering you?"
"Uh," Cook says, flushing, "No, it was my ankle. There's nothing wrong?"
David shakes his head and glances at Cook's other ankle, which also appears fine. "Not as far as I can tell. Looks good to me."
Cook swallows and scratches his head. "Well, I guess that's good news. Just thought I should be careful."
David nods, writing down on the chart what his findings were. "It's always good to be safe about stuff like that, so you did the right thing. But you seem okay, so I'm just going to go ahead and sign you out, alright?"
Cook nods, giving David this sheepish smile that makes his heart trip a little bit.
Brooke nudges David while he's clocking out about a week after that and points to the lobby. "Look, it's that guy." David blinks and looks and there's Cook, sitting there flipping through another magazine. David feels a sudden pang of something like exasperation and affection mixed with sadness, because he's not going to be able to check out Cook today.
"Will you look after him, Brooke?" David asks her, and she promises to and waves goodbye to David, who shoulders his backpack and heads for the exit.
"Oh, David!" Cook calls, standing up and tossing the magazine onto the table. He appears to be completely whole again, and doesn't limp or hold his arms or body in any particular fashion. "Hey, how are you?"
"Um," David says, feeling a bit surprised, "I'm good. Are you okay? You're in a hospital waiting. I'm -- I've just clocked out, I can't really look at you--"
"Oh, no," Cook says, grinning, "I'm fine. Well, not fine, but I mean I'm healthy or whatever. But I wanted to see you, and this is the only way I could think of to do it."
"Oh," David says, lost, "See me why?"
Cook takes a breath and then leans down and kisses him hard, right on the mouth. Behind him he can hear Carly let out a whoop and Brooke clapping, but he's too in shock to register anything else. "Was that okay?" Cook says, leaning back a bit. His mouth is pink and David can barely feel his own body. His heart is pounding so loud his ears hurt.
"That was -- that was great. Good. Fine. Yes," he babbles. "Yes."
Cook laughs. "Awesome. So, you said you were off?"
"Um," David says, dazed, "Yes?"
"Let's have dinner," Cook suggests. "Or drinks. Or something." He holds out his hand, and David looks at it for a moment. It's the hand Cook cut the second time he came here. He doesn't even think about it. He takes Cook's hand.
"Okay," he says, smiling. "Let's do that."
and number twenty-two thousand three hundred and eight
would be my overwhelming urge to hyperbolate
cook/archuleta (1611 words)
this is for nieliegen because she requested me from the cookleta graphic contest! i'm so glad you liked it, bb! she said that it was cool to post it for the general public, so here it is. it's been a while for me bbs, so please be kind. :)
David slumped in the chair of the break lounge and tried not to fall asleep. "Kid," Carly says, hitting the vending machine abruptly, "You cannot fall asleep in here. Cowell will kill you."
"Not going to sleep," David protests. "I'm just resting my eyes. A little."
"Look, the intern hours suck, I know," Carly says, "but you're doing great! And you've only got like three more before you can head home. So don't worry about it. You'll be fine."
"I'm not sure how much caffeine is in my body right now, but I know that it's not healthy," David comments, rubbing his eyes and trying to put himself into a sitting position. "I'm going to sleep for three days when I get home."
Carly snorts. "Good luck with that," she says, pulling her candybar from the machine. "Back into the fray," she mutters, pushing open the door -- voices suddenly rise up and the sound of machines and gurneys and patients fills the air. Doctors call each other, nurses chatter at the desk, and David tries to pretend he doesn't have to go back into that. He sits for about four and a half minutes longer before getting up and trudging towards the doors.
"David, thank goodness," Brooke says breathlessly, walking up with a chart in her hands, "we've got in a guy who may have broken his arm and I need you to look at him while I deal with that poor woman who burned herself, alright?"
David puts on his best smile and takes the chart. "Oh, a David as well. Cool."
The room is bright and white, of course, and David blinks tiredly and squints at the chart. "Well, Mr Cook, let's have a look at--" he looks up and cuts off abruptly. This guy is like, really attractive, even covered in dirt and glaring at his arm. His hair is messy and there's a leaf in it, and the arm he's holding has several tattoos on it. David clears his throat and continues, "a look at your arm."
"This is not my fault," David Cook says. "Just so you know, I'm not one of those idiots who goes around breaking their limbs because they're too dumb to know better." He looks at David and blinks.
"Um, it says here that you were roughhousing with your friend and you fell off a bunk bed?" David Cook winces a little. "I'm not here to judge you, Mr Cook," David continues, smiling a little bit more. "I just wanna make sure you're okay."
"I'm fine," David Cook insists. "And Mr Cook is creepy, and as trite as this may sound, is in fact my father's name. You can call me David. Or, oh, your name is David," he says, finally noticing David's nametag, "so you can call me Cook, that's fine, I mean--" he cuts himself off and looks frustrated.
David holds back a laugh. and bends down to look at Cook's arm. It has a spectacular bruise forming, and it does look like it was wrenched a bit, but it's not broken and probably not even sprained. David gets him a brace to put on just in case and carefully puts it on. Cook's skin is warm and pale, freckles dotting the skin of his arm here and there. Cook makes a small sound and David grimaces. "Sorry, I hope that didn't hurt too much."
"Um. No," Cook says.
"Well, that's it. If it's still bothering you come back in and we'll do a scan, but as far as I can tell you just bruised it up pretty good." David writes his notes onto the chart and then notices that Cook hasn't left, but is fidgeting with his brace. "Is there something else?" David asks politely, and Cook flushes a little.
"No, no," he stutters, "Um, thank you so much, bye." And he leaves.
"This one asked for you," Syesha says, passing him a file and giving David a wicked grin. "He's super cute, David."
"Oh my gosh," David says, rolling his eyes. "Is is Mr Jenkins? He's old, Syesha, that's not fun--"
"David?" someone says, and it's not Mr Jenkins, oh gosh, it's Cook, with his hand wrapped in bandages and a sheepish grin on his face. "It's me again."
"Oh," David says, somewhat stupidly, "Hello. Um, what--"
"Trying to make dinner, cut myself with a knife. Do your worst with me." He holds his hands out like a prisoner for his handcuffs, and David laughs.
"You know, I said I wouldn't judge last time, but I think I may have to now," David jokes, leading him to the examination room. "So was your friend to blame for this?" David asks, consulting the file and flicking his eyes up to Cook, who curves his mouth.
"Nah, Johns was unfortunately not there for me to use as a scapegoat. I was just trying to make a salad and forgot how to use a knife." He shrugs his shoulders and holds up the hand.
The cut's not too bad, which David tells Cook right away, but he'll put a stitch on it and he can come back in a week to make sure it didn't get infected. Cook grins at that, and David feels a bit of a flutter in his stomach. "Um, well. That's done."
"Thank you, David," Cook says sincerely, and David flushes.
"You're very welcome."
"Your boyfriend's here," Carly tells him in passing as he finishes up with an elderly woman who had a bit of a cough.
David goes pink and the elderly woman giggles a bit. "I don't have a boyfriend, Carly," he reminds her, and Carly rolls her eyes.
"That accident-prone guy. With the arm and the cut?"
"Cook?" David asks, and Carly nods with this weird glint in her eye. "He's not accident-prone, really," David starts off, and Carly looks at his file.
"This is his third time in two months," she says flatly, and David can't help but smile, because Cook kind of apparently is accident-prone. He takes the file from her and gives her a look when she bats her eyes suggestively at him.
He walks out to the waiting room and Cook is there, flipping through a magazine and not looking particularly in pain at all. David clears his throat.
"Again, Cook?" Cook looks up and throws the magazine down abruptly, standing up and smiling brightly. He steps forward and then looks down and suddenly grimaces. David tilts his head as he watches Cook drag his right foot behind him a little bit.
Cook limps in and doesn't even bother looking apologetic this time.
"This was totally Johns' fault?" he offers, and David laughs. "I think I might have twisted my ankle."
"Hmm," David says, because it's not swollen or anything, and in fact looks pretty fine. The skin is just as pale as the rest of Cook, and as far as David can tell it's not twisted or broken or even bruised. "Are you sure you hurt it? Something else wasn't bothering you?"
"Uh," Cook says, flushing, "No, it was my ankle. There's nothing wrong?"
David shakes his head and glances at Cook's other ankle, which also appears fine. "Not as far as I can tell. Looks good to me."
Cook swallows and scratches his head. "Well, I guess that's good news. Just thought I should be careful."
David nods, writing down on the chart what his findings were. "It's always good to be safe about stuff like that, so you did the right thing. But you seem okay, so I'm just going to go ahead and sign you out, alright?"
Cook nods, giving David this sheepish smile that makes his heart trip a little bit.
Brooke nudges David while he's clocking out about a week after that and points to the lobby. "Look, it's that guy." David blinks and looks and there's Cook, sitting there flipping through another magazine. David feels a sudden pang of something like exasperation and affection mixed with sadness, because he's not going to be able to check out Cook today.
"Will you look after him, Brooke?" David asks her, and she promises to and waves goodbye to David, who shoulders his backpack and heads for the exit.
"Oh, David!" Cook calls, standing up and tossing the magazine onto the table. He appears to be completely whole again, and doesn't limp or hold his arms or body in any particular fashion. "Hey, how are you?"
"Um," David says, feeling a bit surprised, "I'm good. Are you okay? You're in a hospital waiting. I'm -- I've just clocked out, I can't really look at you--"
"Oh, no," Cook says, grinning, "I'm fine. Well, not fine, but I mean I'm healthy or whatever. But I wanted to see you, and this is the only way I could think of to do it."
"Oh," David says, lost, "See me why?"
Cook takes a breath and then leans down and kisses him hard, right on the mouth. Behind him he can hear Carly let out a whoop and Brooke clapping, but he's too in shock to register anything else. "Was that okay?" Cook says, leaning back a bit. His mouth is pink and David can barely feel his own body. His heart is pounding so loud his ears hurt.
"That was -- that was great. Good. Fine. Yes," he babbles. "Yes."
Cook laughs. "Awesome. So, you said you were off?"
"Um," David says, dazed, "Yes?"
"Let's have dinner," Cook suggests. "Or drinks. Or something." He holds out his hand, and David looks at it for a moment. It's the hand Cook cut the second time he came here. He doesn't even think about it. He takes Cook's hand.
"Okay," he says, smiling. "Let's do that."