Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
❛ 𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄 . . . ❜ 017. heads will roll ━━━━━━━━━━━
It seemed as though staying in Seattle and taking the job at Seattle Grace came with various terms and conditions, some which Beth hadn't exactly thought out.
The first, although obvious, was arguably the most inconvenient: avoiding Mark Sloan.
The whole practice of it was an Olympic sport. There was something about going out of her way to stop them from crossing paths that made Beth feel as though she deserved a gold medal.
It involved ducking out of many corridors, almost barrel-rolling through doors and simply refusing to speak in a few conversations–– a few times following Beth's official induction onto Oscar Afualo's case, Mark had approached her again, attempting to talk about them or about her...
Yeah, talk my ass.
Beth knew the moment they started 'talking', one of them would end up yelling. It was a film she'd seen before. It was the same every time. They tried to talk, and behold, giving Archer his stress-free weeks of relaxation would be the last thing on the agenda.
Beth supposed it made sense that she was a pro. Mark, after all, seemed to be under the impression that running was all Beth could do.
It took a lot of her pride to admit that she couldn't stand being in a room with him, but she figured that she probably would've needed to admit herself into psychiatry if she had been actually able to anyway.
The second condition, naturally, came with Katherine Wyatt's most pleading, gilded smile.
"So they want you to give a talk?"
It was pitched sceptically across the foot of Archer's bed as he fumbled with his ice chips, squinting over his sister as she rooted around the bottom of her purse.
The nurse from before, Eli, was attempting to change his sheets on his left. His chin raised to glance between the two siblings, eyebrows raised.
"Yeah," Beth sighed, "A full lecture in the hospital auditorium––"
"Wait," Eli drawled with the dryness of a friendship that had been established over late-night coffee and early morning sarcasm, "You're important? People actually want to hear what you have to say?"
Beth rolled her eyes.
"Apparently, there aren't any hospitals in Seattle that are trained to deal with and mass trauma therapy," She said, still trying to find her lipstick, "I mean... imagine that–– all these award-winning ERs and trauma centres and none of them even know how to treat and appropriately diagnose PTSD––"
"So what do they want you to do about it?"
Admittedly, that had been Beth's question too.
She supposed that Izzie hadn't been exactly wrong when she'd said that Beth had made a name for herself. Not quite a psychiatric wizard but at least a well established professional that worked for a fairly reputable organisation.
