THE SHIELD ⇾ one shots & preferences

| Dean Ambrose | One Shot | I'm Gonna Kill You

You were casually enjoying a nice break in the medic's private room; since not a lot of people usually got hurt on a well-planned Raw, you were the only one on shift tonight. Aside from the occasional ice pack issued or shoulder taped up, you didn't get much action. Sure, there was the occasional time someone broke a wrist or got a concussion, but most of the time you got to sit around and watch the show. Tonight, instead of watching the show, you had decided to curl up on the small love-seat and stick your nose into a good book. 

Being employed by the WWE had many perks, but sometimes it was tiring and seemingly pointless. You were forced to abandon your family and friends just to patch up the occasional gash; late at night, you found yourself questioning if it was all worth it. You weren't able to make friends with many of the superstars due to their busy schedule, but you were particularly close with one of the guys in the company. 

There was a knock on the door, followed by a pained groan from the other side. You dog-eared the page you stopped on and set the book aside, walking briskly towards the door and opening it to see him - Dean Ambrose. 

Dean was an interesting patient of yours; he didn't come visiting too often for fear of making himself look less manly, but he sometimes came limping to your office after an intense match to set something or get staples under orders of his bosses. The Lunatic Fringe never wanted to come to your office, but he always tried to stay upbeat when he was there. To say you had a crush on him was a bit of an overstatement; you admired his personality and thought he was charming and handsome, but that was all you cared to admit. 

"Hiya, sweetheart," Dean smiled with gritted teeth, his hand snaked around his midsection like he was holding something inside. Due to the lack of blood, you knew he wasn't bleeding out, but he was holding himself like he was doing exactly that. He was sweaty and breathless, yet pale and pained; probably straight out of a match. You finally realized how long you were observing him when he cleared his throat and let out a raspy chuckle, saying, "If you think I'm bad now, you've never seen me after a Saturday night in New York on New Year's."

You snapped back from your little mental-note-taking session and offered him a pitiful smile, stepping out of the doorway to allow him to come in. "Get in here and tell me what happened," you told him gently, patting on the examination table for him to hop up onto. You thought laying down would be a relief, but the look on his face revealed dread and anxiety at the thought of lifting himself up there. You placed your hand on your hips and raised a brow at him. "C'mon, Ambrose, it's just a medical table, not Brock Lesnar, hop on up," you teased, earning a sneer from him as he limped over towards the white platform. Dean took in a deep breath as he placed both palms on the table before slowly lifting himself up, his jaw obviously clenched from pain. Only after he successfully reclined against the backrest did he let out a shaky sigh, his hand resting on his abdomen again. "Tell me what happened," you instructed him over your shoulder as you fished some things from your bag, setting them on the little side table behind you.

"Well, there was a little mishap in the ring and I caught a nasty spear from Roman...pretty sure the Big Dog cracked my rib cage in half," Dean complained sourly, obviously irritated by one of his teammate's mistakes. You couldn't help but chuckle at his little temper tantrum as you placed the end of the stethoscope in your palm, warming the end up out of kindness. "Somethin' funny about that?" Dean defended with a quirked up eyebrow.

"You Shield boys pretend to be all tough and strong, but you complain like little girls when something goes wrong," you chided him with a playful shake of your head. 

"You take a spear and let me know how you like it," Dean grumbled moodily under his breath, resting his head against the padding behind it as he looked up to the ceiling.