Ashton: You swing your legs, beating your heels against the table beneath you. The tissue paper is crinkling under you. As you sit in the doctor’s office, you glance around at the washed out room. White walls staring back at you with boredom. Anatomy posters reminding you of biology class. There’s a jiggle of the door handle, followed by the doctor’s entry.
"Hello…" says a handsome, tall, young doctor with outgrown hair. He’s squinting at the clipboard, where he looks for your name. You watch him while he struggles to read, until he finally puts on a pair of thick-framed glasses that suit his attractive face. "Y/N!" he finally smiles.
His smile is beautiful. Vibrant and full of life. You’re kind of distracted by this handsome doctor for a moment, until he clears his throat. “I’m Dr. Irwin. May I ask why you’re at the clinic today?”
You snap back to reality, quickly glancing away from his golden eyes. “I uh…” You struggle to get out, your voice so hoarse. “I’ve got a bit of a chest cold.” You cough for punctuation, a rattling coming from your rib cage.
"Ah," Says Dr, Irwin, stepping closer. "Let me have a look at that."
He presses the stethoscope to your chest, asking you to breathe in and out, the usual. He never breaks eye contact with you. Even when he isn’t smiling his eyes are still beaming with joy and warmth. As he listens to your chest, you can’t help but notice how messy his curly golden hair is, or how big his hands are, one gently gripping your arm, the other pressed to the stethoscope.
He smells wonderful, for somebody who’d probably been on his feet all day. His eyes look a little tired, and he favours his feet, shifting his weight to give his tired feet a rest. Occasionally, he bites his lip when he tries to focus, cocking an eyebrow when you feel your chest wheeze. All in all, you can’t stop staring. And it appears he can’t focus either.
"Well, Y/N," he finally finishes, stepping back to scribble onto his little notepad. "You certainly have a chest cold. A bad one at that."
He rips off a piece of paper, handing it to you. “This is for your pharmacist. And this…” he says, ripping off another piece after quickly scribbling on it. “is for you. When you’re feeling better of course.” He flashes you yet another gorgeous smile, winking before he steps out of the room.
You glance down at the second piece of paper.
My name is Ashton, by the way. But you can call me Doctor if you want.
Followed by a series of digits that could only be his number. You smile to yourself, stepping off the bed, and immediately punching his number into your phone.
Luke: "AHHHHH!!!!" You scream in pain as you limp towards the entrance of the hospital, your friend trying her best to help you, your arm wrapped around her shoulders.
"Just a little longer, Y/N and we can sit down!" She grunts with the effort, pushing the doors to the E.R open.
Once you’re checked in and sitting in the waiting room, you have time to notice that the place is relatively empty. For some reason there were only a few people in need of attention today, which is odd because it happens to be late on a Saturday night. You’d expect the place to be packed with people who injured themselves through horrible decisions made after too many drinks.
That’s why you’re in here. A few beers and you were on the roof of your friend’s house, totally certain you could land on her trampoline from there.
You glance down at your ankle, swollen, purple, throbbing. You wince and hiss at the pain that shoots through it.
"Y/N?" Says a nurse. You nod and sit in the wheelchair she brings to you. Once you’re in the doctor’s office, the fluorescent lights giving your throbbing, tipsy head a headache, she talks you through what’s going to happen next. "The doctor should be here any moment. I’ll leave you to it."
