The Doctor's Mates (Moving to Galatea)

The blue hospital door burst open with a clamor. Startled by the sound, I choked on a piece of cheddar popcorn.

“I’m not spending another second near those assholes.” Mia tossed her hands in the air as she stomped across the break room. I coughed to dislodge the popcorn kernel in my throat and my phone clattered to the ground.

I cursed, wiping white cheese dust off on my scrubs and bent down to make sure my level on Candy Crush hadn’t been messed with.

I shoved the phone in my scrub's pocket and stood as Mia dramatically threw open the metal door to her locker.

“What’s going on? What assholes?” It was a relatively calm night at the Emergency Room, though I didn't like to jinx things. And I'd only been on my dinner break for ten minutes.

Doctor Mia Chen and I had been residents at the same hospital in Colorado and were offered jobs at the ER after we'd passed our board exams.

“Two huge guys brought their buddy in with a gunshot wound. He clearly needs surgery. But this guy's 'friend' wouldn't let me or the nurses near him. What’s the point of bringing him into a hospital if he’s not going to let me do an examination?” She glared into her shadowed locker. “And then he had the audacity to yell at me in Russian like I have any fucking clue what he’s saying–”

Mia kept her cool with patients and in the operating room. I respected her for that. What I didn’t really care for was when she dropped her walls and emotionally dumped all over me. I should have been glad to have a work friend at all, but at the moment, it was annoying.

“Okay,” I began slowly. “Did he say why he didn't want you touching his friend?”

Mia grabbed a pack of cigarettes she’d sworn she was going cold turkey from at the beginning of yesterday's shift. No judgement here, wasn't like I didn't have my own vices.

“Do I look like I know Russian? Ana, I know you’re on break, but you gotta take them over for me. I’m going to smoke and pray to Jesus I don’t come across another Russian mobster prick tonight.”

I paused at the sink just before I could turn on the faucet. My fingers trembled and I glared at them, willing them to still. “Why are you assuming they're in the mob?”

Mia gave me a withering look with lifted brows. “Babe. It’s just us. C’mon.”

I rolled my eyes. “Wow. Way to jump to conclusions. You are such a shining example of humanity. A humble healer of the everyday people. It brings a tear to the eye, honestly.”

She flipped me the bird and stomped off. I smirked, earning that little jab since I was now the proud doctor of aforementioned asshole trio.

I pulled on my lab coat and stepped into Room A with my laptop in hand. The floor and exam table was covered in blood and missing my patient. Only two maintenance workers in full-blown hazmat suits stood there, both blinking at me.

“What happened?” I asked with an upraised palm.

One middle-aged worker, Gabe, pulled off his mask and nodded his head to the left. “They got moved. To the back. The blonde guy was screaming and scaring everyone.”

“Got it.” I spun to leave but Gabe called my name and I glanced over my shoulder.

“Have security to go with you. I’ve seen guys like that before.” He shook his head. “And whatever you get paid? Trust me, it won’t be worth what you deal with in there.”

I smiled at him and winked in understanding before making my way to the far back of the ER.

This part of the hospital had been unused for the simple fact it was old and lacking in the same kind of amenities that the newer, front half had.

I faltered as the the hallway fluorescent lights flickered ominously above me. It was like being dropped into a horror film at times, being back there.

After taking in a sharp breath to prepare myself, I put on my biggest smile and burst through the door.

“Hi there! I’m Doctor Hansen– whoa– that’s a lot of blood." A ridiculously large, tanned and tattooed brunette male was bent over with his hand against his side, spurting blood out like a real life Taratino film. His raven-haired companion pressed his hand on top of it as if that would staunch the flow of red.

Before I could approach them, a tall, golden blonde male in black jeans and a leather jacket stepped up and forced me to crane my head up, meeting his ice-blue eyes.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I registered that he was insanely beautiful. They all were. Mia failed to mention that part, she'd gotten hung up on the screaming and yelling, I guess.

The golden-haired man said something in Russian and I blinked, noticing his eyes were bloodshot, pupils blown.

I rest my hand on his shoulder and he suddenly stopped with a sputter, looking down at our contact with a gaping mouth. As if I’d committed some terrible, unspeakable act.

"I'm here to help." I tapped my name tag where, in big block letters, it clearly said DOCTOR beneath my name and cheesy grinning photo. It had been taken the first day of my residency, and the jerk in administration told me he would only let me update it if I went on a date with him.

So the picture probably didn’t help my case in trying to be a reassuring symbol of calm and experience, but hey, I was trying.

The Russian man stared at my name tag for an unusually long time. “Anastasia. Hansen.”

His accent was gone, words now soft. I blinked at the abrupt change of demeanor. “Um, have you experienced any notable head trauma lately? Or partake in any interesting street drugs?”

He grunted at me and I pat his shoulder again. “Sorry. Right. We'll circle back. I think your shot friend probably needs to see me first. I’m just going to examine him, not hurt him. I signed an oath and everything. Yes?”

Reluctant, the golden-haired man shuffled aside with a sheepish nod.

The larger male holding the victim’s wound gave me a double-take and then suddenly straightened as if he were sizing me up and vice-versa.

Who the hell were these guys?

I was five-foot-four, 130….ish pounds, and zero muscle. The super fit Physical Therapist I had a crush on last year told me I was adorably soft, which meant I wasn’t as thin as I should have been.

Man, seriously, screw that guy.

But my point was, I wasn’t threatening. I silently urged him to take a look at my goofy damn ID photo as I'd done with his friend.

“I know you’re worried about your friend,” I began gently as his shoulders slumped. “But I’m here to help. Nothing else.”

The man thickly swallowed so that the wide column of his neck flexed, then he nodded, releasing his grip on his friend. I gave him a smile in thanks as I reached for a fresh pair of neoprene gloves just above the sink counter.

From my short distance to the exam table, I could see the bloodied wound clearly on his back. They'd taken off his shirt, revealing all of his wide, muscled body. This guy was in incredible shape.

To spare repeating myself, they all were. To the point it almost looked photoshopped.

“Okay. Bullet puncture wound that…” I peered over and lifted his hand to peek at the opposite end. “Looks like it went through the other side.”

“That’s a good thing,” the raven-haired male said and I blinked at him.

“Not always. You gotta worry what it hit on the way out.” I gently rest my hand over the patient's back and then frowned, deciding to not apply pressure or prod around. No point. I needed to make sure his organs were in tact, no internal bleeding.

I picked up my paging radio and clicked the talk button. “Hey, it's Hansen here. I need a CT and MRI scan, and just in case, get the operating room prepped stat for a gun shot wou--" The larger man smacked the radio out of my hands and I watched it clatter to the ground.

“Hey!” I was having Candy Crush nightmares all over again. “What the hell?”

“No operating rooms. No scans. No more sets of eyes. There's not enough time.”

“Wh… what?” I cried, holding my hands out wide. “What are you talking about? This man– your friend– could die if we don't check that the bullet didn't--"

"We just need his wounds cleaned and closed up. No cutting him open or scanning. No poking and prodding around in there."

I gawked at the fucking audacity. A man, clearly not a doctor, telling me what to do. All I could do was laugh wryly. “Oh, medical professionals, are you?”

“I was an army medic,” The now not Russian man said, patting his own chest and I rolled my eyes.

The man nodded at his friend. "See? Ilya has training."

A hand went to my hip. “Sir, this isn’t your hospital. You don’t get to make those sorts of calls." The black-haired guy wasn't the only one who bristled at that, both the patient and Ilya visibly grimaced in unison, making my brow drop.

"What exactly are you worried about that’s important enough to risk your friend bleeding out and dying?”

“We’re shifters," Ilya answered.

"Ilya," the black-haired man snarled at his friend in warning.

That made me pause. “Um, is that a... cult or something?” Motorcycle gang, maybe?

“He’s a wolf," The black-haired man explained in an impatient tone after he tore his discerning gaze from Ilya.

He stood, towering his six-foot-something-frame over me and his hardened expression took nothing away from his beauty. Hard planes of sharp jaw lines and high cheek bones, a thin nose, and plush lips. I didn't ogle him, but I could feel my neck and ears beginning to burn as I firmly held his gaze.

His demeanor and attitude made it clear he was used to giving orders and being obeyed. “...And the longer we let him bleed, the weaker he gets, the more likely he is to shift. From man to wolf. So unless you want to scare the ever loving shit out of everyone in this hospital and deal with a rabid wolf out of his mind in pain from silver poisoning, then I need you to keep this in here. Between us. Close him up. Nothing more.”

Well. Not the craziest thing I’d heard this week. Or today, actually. Two patients back, a man told me he was a lizard from another solar system before he vomited on my shoes.

Anyway, proclaiming to be a wolf wasn’t that bizarre for an ER at 4 in the morning on a Thursday. Considering I had another 12-hour shift coming up and was on-call all weekend, this easily could become buried as yesterday's news.

Yet he seemed to believe his own words. In fact, all three of them seemed to believe it, which made me wonder if the Russian guy wasn't high on something or suffering from a head injury.

"So..." The black haired-man's disheveled long bangs fell across his forehead in altogether too attractive way, masking one of his eyes. “Please. Help us.”

The room quieted, both the Russian male and the injured man looked at him in awe.

“Eric,” Ilya said with weight to his tone, touched for some reason.

What? I glanced between them, trying to figure out this dynamic. Was it unheard of for this guy to say please?

“I want to help your friend. It's my job. He's in pain and I really, really want to help him." In fact, my fingers were itching at the chance to jump in and triage this entire fucking caustic mess. "But it’s against hospital policy and procedure to do what you're asking me. I could lose my job and my license.”

“It won’t come to that,” the man whose name I’m guessing was Eric said, his gaze direct and assured. “I’ll keep an eye out. No one will see. Ilya has medical training. He’ll assist you, if you need it.”

I gave the man a once over, hesitating. His large eyes were paired with thick, long black lashes. I mean, like I said, they were all beautiful. But this man loomed larger, more proud. Powerful. And his words held a certain confidence to them, one that urged me to listen and pay heed. Even if I didn’t really want to.

I looked at their friend in pain, and anxiously pursed my lips.

This wasn’t about pride or ego, or following hospital policy. This was about helping someone.

I grunted to myself, knowing I'd already made up my mind. “Fine.”

As I picked up my radio, Eric tensed as if prepared to slap it out of my hand again. I held up my palm to placate him.

“Hansen here. Cancel my last order. Those guys up and left. I’m going back on lunch. Page me if you need me.”

“Copy that, Doctor Hansen,” the supervisor replied.

I moved the radio back into my pocket and then removed my gloves, dumping them into the hazard bin. I began to wash my hands a second time.

"So, you're Eric. Blondie over there is Ilya. What's the patient's name?"

"Damon," Eric answered.

"Alright. Damon, I'm going to do what I can for you and suture the wounds closed. But if you have internal injury and suffer later on from it? Torn spleen? Kidney? GI bleed? I hope you know that you can send your funeral bill to these two men sitting in the room next to you, not me. Capish?"

"What is capish?" Ilya muttered behind me.

“It means understood, dumbass,” Damon panted out, and I swiveled my head in his direction, surprised he was able to talk from the clear amount of pain he was in.