medicine {h.s.}

CHAPTER NINE

october.

"No way." Arms are crossed firmly over his broad chest, eyebrow raised defiantly. His chest is puffed out. Clearly this is some sort of power trip for him—a chance for him to display his dominance; or perhaps a chance to revert to the childish notion of finders keepers, losers weepers. Regardless, he has his fingers wrapped around the notion of preeminence so tightly, there is no chance of going down without some sort of fight from him. "Absolutely not," he reaffirms, placing a stronger emphasis on his words as he shakes his head from side to side.

"I found him." I remind him, as though it should be obvious.

It should be obvious. I was the one to find Arlo, not Styles. I was the one who was doing my job. I was the one who found the little boy who was so excited to go trick-or-treating as a ninja, that he hadn't waited for his parents. I was the one to find the little boy who had been run over by a car by an underaged teenager—a drunk underaged teenager. I wasn't the one preoccupied in an on call room. (Not that I would mention this leg up to him in the first place. More than once, I know he's seen me slink out of the on call room, equally as disheveled as me.)

"This is my speciality." He deadpans. The raised eyebrow only grows higher on his face, a sure indicator of his disapproval, his dissent. "I am the one who plans on pursuing a track in pediatric surgery. This is my case."

"You wish it was your case," I bite back. Just because peds is not my intended speciality, as is the case for Styles, that doesn't mean this is any less experiential for me. I'm not willing to give up a little boy just for Styles' convenience. "Besides, peds is your intended speciality. Right now, you're just like the rest of us. You're an intern. An intern who is presently on the trauma rotation. So, go find yourself your own trauma. It's Halloween, it's not like there is going to be a shortage of kids coming through the doors. I don't doubt there will be a million kids coming to the hospital tonight."

I look back towards Arlo's bed with sympathy. Rationally, I know he is a person. He's a kid. We should be speaking about him with some more humanity than that of two hungry doctors. At the same time, I see him for the case that he is: six years old. Multiple broken bones. Several internal bleeders. He is, without a doubt, a surgeon's dream case. There is no way in hell that I'm giving this up to him so easily.

"Cunt. You fucking cunt." He hisses between his teeth.

"Why don't you say something that actually comes close to upsetting me," I taunt him, smiling condescendingly. I've never been overly offended by the word. The household I grew up was a vulgar place. Words were just words, and none had more weight than any other. Now, I don't necessarily agree with that educational approach in terms of vocabulary. Some words certainly are more powerful than others. Although, a digression is the last thing I need to support presently.

Styles clenches his jaw. Clearly he had been hoping that I upset more easily. Forcefully, he releases a breath. "Fifty dollars."

I raise an eyebrow in consideration. I'd not expected him to so quickly to resort to bribery, but now that he has, I know he has showed me his cards. He's my bitch. He's made it obvious that he wants this, and that there is no way he's walking out of here without getting what he wants. "You can do better than that."

Pissed doesn't begin to cover the emotion on his face. I'm testing his patience. A moment too late he realizes the mistake he has made. He is equally as aware that he is wrapped around my finger now. "One hundred."

"You know," mocking consideration, I inspect my nails. I'm in desperate need of a manicure or something, but I hardly have the time for such luxuries, and I feel bad taking advantage of Monty so much. After a moment, I return my gaze to his. I shake my head, as though I am helpless, "there are just some things that money can't buy." I finally admit, pressing my lips together in a somewhat forced smile.