Archive of Our Own ^beta

The first time Imogen meets the emergency doctor, she gets not even ten words out of them.

Imogen jumps up into the rig after Mr. Pock O’Pea, “Let’s see if we can get a reading on those waves before we get to the hospital,” Imogen says, uncoiling the electrodes. “Sir, we’re going to need to remove your shirt and please lie down on your back.”

She’s placed the first six leads on V1 through V6 when the body under her hands goes limp. “Make sure he’s still breathing,” she orders and Dorian’s already in motion. She finishes placing the electrodes and waits for the machine to start displaying the waves.

“Shit,” she mutters. She swiftly knocks three times on the window to the cab of the ambulance. The ambulance speeds up, revving higher beneath her feet.

They’re not far away. She calls the direct line to Jrusar General’s triage nurse station.

“Hey, Deanna, en route with a STEMI, ETA about five minutes, you got someone we can hand off to immediately?” Imogen speaks as concisely as she can. Deanna after hours might want to grab a beer and hear every dirty detail of an adventure, but in work mode? Convey your point in 25 words or less.

“Hey Temult, got it, I’ll have a doc ready to meet you at the doors,” Deanna promises and hangs up.

In their last few minutes together, Dorian and Imogen capture Pock O’Pea’s vitals, and in her head she rehearses what she’s gonna say to the emerge doc.

They hit the ambulance bay running, Deanna waving them through, “Go straight to the floor,” she says, pointing from across the room. Imogen nods and they take a sharp right down the long hallway.

From behind them comes the quick pace of someone running up to join them. “I’m Dr. Bradbury, this the STEMI?” they ask, tone low and professional.

Imogen doesn’t turn, just launches into her prepared notes.

“Patient is an unconscious 383 year-old gnome experiencing a STEMI – his first as far as he was aware, but someone can check in his medical record,” Imogen speaks quickly as they push the gurney down the hall. She chances a quick glance to see Dr. Bradbury nod, keeping pace as Imogen continues reciting the patient’s history.

“He was conscious when we arrived on scene, but lost consciousness in the rig on the way here. Probably cardiogenic shock; hypotensive on initial assessment. He said it had been about four minutes since it started. Main complaints were chest pain, shortness of breath, and palpitations. He chewed some Aspirin we gave him. Hooked him up to the ECG on the way in, confirmed ST elevation and mild tombstoning. Otherwise, blood pressure’s low,” Imogen continues.

“Thank you, we’ll take it from here,” Dr. Bradbury says as they cross the threshold onto the emergency floor. There’s the distant sound of Dr. Bradbury ushering people to the cath lab, no doubt to get the blocked blood vessels in his heart open as quickly as possible.

Imogen lets the double doors swing shut between them.

Dorian lets out a big sigh beside her and stretches dramatically.

“Is it just me or is that doctor, like, incredibly handsome?” Imogen wonders aloud, trying to catch another glimpse through the little windows in the doors.

“If you’re into the tall and kinda lanky, vaguely gothic vibe, sure,” Dorian comments. He claps her on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s get back to Orym – maybe he’s gotten us a round of coffees while we worked our asses off,” he says and sets off back the way they came.

“Yeah,” Imogen mutters, but her mind is still on the doctor. They had deep burgundy scrubs that fit better than the hospital-issued ones seemed to fit everyone else – all awkward sizing and baggy fabric. Theirs were neat. They had black hair with a few strands of white peeking through, closely cropped on the sides, but longer on top. High cheekbones that Imogen thought she could cut her tongue on, if given such an opportunity.

Pale, like, a little unhealthily so, maybe, but they were a doctor, so they probably had whatever it was sorted. Or managed, at least. She didn’t get a very good look at their eyes – they were dark and intelligent, not just because they wore thin wire-framed glasses, but because they looked like they knew things.

Dr. Bradbury. Hopefully they meet again.

The second time Imogen meets the emergency doctor, she gets much more than ten words.

She and Dorian have just arrived in the ambulance bay, Deanna already fully aware of the acute case they’re bringing in.

Dr. Bradbury is waiting by the triage nurse station as they enter and then walks quickly to meet them.

“Straight through!” Deanna calls across the room. Imogen throws her a thumbs-up without looking back.

Focusing on the patient on the gurney instead of the new body beside her, escorting them, Imogen launches into the patient’s information. “Bertrand Bell, 63 year-old human man, complained of severe chest and back pain – a tearing sensation that radiated to the back – and difficulty breathing. Lost consciousness three minutes ago right before we arrived. Didn’t have time to intubate before arrival. Probable aortic dissection –”

“Because?” Dr. Bradbury cuts in.

“There was a 40 millimetre difference in the blood pressures of his arms,” Imogen answers curtly.

Maybe this doctor wasn’t as smart as they’d looked last time. Maybe she really was blinded by a nice face and a pair of glasses.

They hit the double doors and Dr. Bradbury calls out to their team, “Straight to CT for an aortogram – they’re waiting for him. And make sure Dr. Vessar is on her way and not in the second floor janitorial closet with her wife; we’ve got probable aortic dissection.” Then they turn to Imogen. “Please, if you have time, let me just talk to the tech and then come back and find you.”

Those dark brown eyes, like a dark walnut or a rustic brown maple – they were so earnest and warm – “Alright,” Imogen says.

“Thank you,” Dr. Bradbury gives her a quick nod and then disappears behind the doors.

“Okay,” Dorian says, drawing out the ‘o’ for much longer than necessary. “While you do… whatever that’s gonna be, I’m gonna go keep Orym company,” he says and then turns on his heel without waiting for her to agree.

Imogen rolls her eyes.

Dr. Bradbury had said they’d come find her, but is she supposed to stay, like, right here, or is she supposed to be out in the waiting room? There are a few chairs along this hallway, all of them available, so she perches on the edge of one. Her left leg starts to bounce.

Why does Dr. Bradbury want to see her?

It’s not like she can get in trouble; they’re not her boss, but she doesn’t want any turbulence in their working relationship. Being at odds with the receiving emerge team at the hospital is a quick ticket to a working life of dissatisfaction. That’s why folks like Ashton move from team to team and hospital to hospital pretty regularly – it only takes so long for them to piss everybody off.

The double doors open and those burgundy scrubs come back out, Dr. Bradbury’s head on a swivel until they spot her. They look relieved to see her and approach her quickly.

“Would you mind if I–” they gesture at the seat beside her.

“Oh, no, sure, yeah,” Imogen says intelligently. Did Dr. Bradbury have their stethoscope draped around their shoulders last time? There’s a ‘They/Them’ pronoun pin displayed proudly beside the dangling chestpiece. She catches sight of their hospital ID on their hip as they move to sit: Dr. Laudna Bradbury.

“I just wanted to apologise,” Dr. Bradbury begins and then pauses. “Oh, well, perhaps firstly, I should introduce myself,” they say. With a small smile, they offer a hand, “I’m Laudna Bradbury, please call me Laudna.”

“Nice to meet you, Laudna,” Imogen says, liking the way the unique name fits on her tongue. “I’m Imogen.”

“Lovely to meet you Imogen,” Laudna says and Imogen can feel the heartfelt sincerity roll off of them in waves. Brushing a hand through their short, swoopy hair, Laudna continues, “Like I said, I want to apologise for my behaviour back there. I promise, it’s not that I believe you to be incapable of recognising aortic dissection – I know paramedics see a lot and learn even more – it’s just–” they rub their chin, a tired, practiced motion.

“Well, last week I took a paramedic at their word on probable diagnosis,” Laudna admits, then hurries to add, “Not that we didn’t start immediately trying to confirm the diagnosis and and eliminate other possibilities from my differential, but it was a rather commonplace issue and they were confident,” Laudna sighs. “Anyway, it’s not about my excuses. We were halfway through finalising a treatment plan when we realised it was a different issue entirely, they just had similar presentations.”

Imogen can tell it’s really eating them up, so she tries to help ease their misplaced guilt. “It’s no problem, really. I know aortic dissection is a bit tricker to diagnose and I don’t have a CT in the ambulance,” Imogen says. Then she gives a short laugh. “Y’know, I actually thought my blood pressure cuff was broken the first time? Got the backup out and everything, but it gave me the same reading, so I tried the other arm and wouldn’t you know it – huge difference.”

“It was good thinking to test both arms,” Laudna says quickly.

Inclining her head, Imogen lets the compliment slide. “It was the move that made sense at the time,” Imogen says, like it’s as easy an open and shut case as it can be. “I appreciate you apologisin’ – ain’t a lot of doctors who do, but it’s okay,” Imogen assures them. “Really.”

“Still,” Laudna says and then trails off on the word, and Imogen realises suddenly, staring deeply into those dark brown eyes like a beautiful tree, that Laudna isn’t wearing their glasses.

“Your glasses,” Imogen says, unthinkingly raising her hand as if to touch Laudna’s face before she catches herself.

Laudna smiles, wide and toothy. Imogen doesn’t know if she’s ever seen a smile so breathtaking. “I remembered my contacts today, thankfully,” Laudna explains.

“They looked good on you,” Imogen says almost absently, still distracted by the depth and complexity of Laudna’s eyes. There’s little variations, highlights and flecks of something almost the shade of gold. The harsh hospital lighting helps with something, at least.

“Oh,” the sound is both surprised and maybe even a touch delighted. “Thank you?”

Imogen’s face warms. “You’re welcome, but it’s just the truth.”

“That’s very kind of you to say,” Laudna says, like they don’t believe her, clasping their hands together in their lap. The PA system crackles on overhead and Dr. Keyleth Vessar – weird that they’d use a first name – is needed in pediatrics immediately.

“I’m not just sayin’ it,” Imogen says firmly, her twang coming out a little more than intended, but it doesn’t matter. For some reason, she needs Laudna to believe her about this.

Laudna reaches out slowly and puts their hand on Imogen’s knee, bringing the bouncing to a stop.

“Sorry,” Imogen says quickly. Their hand is warm even through the thick fabric of her pants. She looks back up to see Laudna looking at her, not through her, not like most of the doctors and other hospital staff here, but really seeing her.

As if shocked, Laudna pulls their hand back. “Sorry, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have touched you without your consent,” Laudna rambles guiltily.

“You have it!” Imogen blurts out. Laudna freezes. “You have my consent to touch me,” Imogen clarifies. She pats her own knee again.

Probably more out of surprise than anything, Laudna puts their hand back.

It’s a terrible idea, a truly awful idea, the worst idea Imogen has ever had and that is saying something because she thought it would be a good idea as a child to boil milk in the electric kettle to make hot chocolate.

They were finding burnt flecks of milk in their tea for years.

“You’re also welcome to call me,” Imogen adds, damning everything to hell. “If you wanted.”

Laudna’s eyes are wide as saucers. “Do you want me to call you?”

Imogen nods enthusiastically. “I would love if you called me.”

“I –” Laudna falters and they move a hand up to push at glasses that aren’t there. “Are you just really friendly?” Laudna asks and Imogen’s heart drops into her stomach. “Or – is this – I don’t want to assume anything, though–”

“It can be friendly,” Imogen says quickly, trying to take the pressure off. “Or it could be for a date,” she adds, spurred on by how adorable flustered Laudna is. “If you need more convincin’ that you look good,” Imogen smiles. “Or if you wanna touch me again,” she says with a wink, gesturing at the hand on her knee.

The flush on Laudna’s cheeks matches their scrubs.