Kiss it better (karamel AU)

1

It's Monday. He's working the night shift and is already on his third cup of hideous, watery, hospital cafeteria coffee. The evening has been quiet, which only means that it's going to get crazier and crazier later on, and although he doesn't want to jinx it, he's worked through too many nights in the ER to know peace doesn't exist within these walls. There's only a calm before the storm.

Stopping by the nurses' station, he grabs the stethoscope he'd left there earlier and takes a look at the case board. His last patient has been moved up to recovery, another one having been discharged, thus for the time being, he's free. So Mon-El stands there, having nothing else to do, and accepts the papers one of the nurses hands him to fill out and sign.

"Hey, Mon-El? Can you handle Exam 3 for me? I'm swamped," he hears from his left and nods before even turning to look at Dr. Olsen.

"No, I got that one," his friend, Dr. Winn Schott, cuts in. "Take Bed 4. It's your fed," he says with a knowing smirk and pats Mon-El's shoulder as he passes by.

Mon-El rolls his eyes in response and hands the signed papers back to Eve. She's got something to say, he can sense it, but he doesn't stall enough for her to add to her boyfriend's teasing. Instead, he quickly grabs the chart she's put in front him and heads toward his familiar patient's bed.

"Back here already, Danvers?" he says as he pulls the curtain open, gaze rising from the chart to find her unfocused, unamused face. "You missed me that much?"

"You know I did," she smirks at his words, her demeanor shifting when she sees him, but he can see the edges of her mouth faltering and her jaw tightening in discomfort.

He studies her for a moment, glad to notice that the nasty bruise she'd been sporting around her eye the last time he'd seen her was no longer there. "You know, you don't have to go and get yourself hurt every time you want to see me."

"What can I say, Matthews? I can't help it. You've grown on me."

He quirks an eyebrow at that, surprised at her response. Usually, she never lets him get the upper hand. She keeps him on his toes, dodging all his innuendos and throwing back harder, smarter, until he has no other choice than to accept defeat. The one thing she's never done is to indulge his flirting and overconfidence in a way that spells anything but challenge and rejection. That alone, however, tells him enough to know this is not a simple bumps-and-bruises kind of ER visit.

"Were you working tonight?" he asks as he begins to assess her condition. He knows she's hurt her wrist because there's ice resting on it and he did catch a glimpse of the purple and bluish skin underneath. There's also a blooming bruise on her jaw and a small cut across one of her eyebrows. Those aren't worse than her usual injuries, though, and they don't explain the change in her mood. So he's left with a whole list of questions he needs to ask and a full checkup he needs to go through, since she isn't feeling particularly talkative tonight.

She offers him a nod and hisses when he shines light directly into her eyes, having to force her head to stay still and not turn away.

"Did you hit your head?" He places a gloved hand on her shoulder. "Follow the light, please."

"I fell down a flight of stairs," she elaborates and does as told.

"Damn, Danvers." With a click, the light is off, but Mon-El's features only twist in concern. "What happened?"

"Caught a suspect. We fought for a minute or two and then he pushed me down some stairs. I blacked out long enough for him to get away."

"What about your partner?" He reaches for her injured wrist. "Please don't tell me you went out alone like that other time."

"There were two suspects," she simply says and Mon-El cannot tell whether she doesn't want to or isn't allowed to explain further.

He holds her wrist in a gentle grasp but she still bites her lip to hold pained sounds back every time he moves the limb even the slightest bit. "I know it hurts, but can you try to move your fingers?"

"It's not broken," she wiggles her fingers long enough for him to nod in agreement, watching his skeptical expressions carefully.

"It's probably sprained but I'll have a nurse take you up for an x-ray to see what's going on." He gives her the ice pack back. "Any nausea? Dizziness? Headache?"

"All of 'em," the words are accompanied by a grimace.

Mon-El makes a humming sound in his throat. "Definitely a concussion, so I'm ordering a CT scan too."

"Is there any chance I'll be out of here early enough to catch some sleep, doc?"

"I'll try. I don't know how long the tests are gonna take but I'll try to speed things up, okay?"

"Thanks," she mumbles and lies back on the bed as soon as Mon-El pulls his stethoscope from around his neck. She knows the drill by now, this must be the forth (maybe fifth?) time she's been in the ER with him. It's got to the point she knows most of the nurses by name and for some reason, although she would never make such a request, they always assign her to Matthews.

He rubs the end of the stethoscope to his scrubs to warm it up, being the usual thoughtful ass that he is, and she doesn't make a comment about him wanting to feel up her boobs when he listens to her heart. She does, however, attempt another smirk – a more successful one this time – when he slowly lifts her shirt up. "Woah, Matthews, slow down. A lady likes to be wined and dined before you start to take her clothes off."

He chuckles at that, shaking his head as he presses down on several spots. There are a few superficial bruises across her stomach but there's no pain or rigidness and her ribs look unscathed. "Everything seems okay here. Is there any pain I should be aware of?"

"Nah, I'm okay, I just took a nasty fall, that's all."

"Okay," he nods, gray eyes turning away to focus on her chart. He writes some things down and hangs it at the end of her bed. "One to ten, where's your pain at?" That's supposed to be his last question, but he knows it's unlikely she'll give him a straight answer.

"Maybe a four?"

He raises an eyebrow at her.

"Four and a half?" she tries again. He still doesn't look convinced.

"Five and two thirds. That's my final offer."

Mon-El laughs, dimples adorning both of his cheeks and making her stare. He notices that, just like he noticed the way she checked him out earlier, although she didn't make a comment about how his ass looks in those scrubs this time. He's heard it before, and truth be told, there are some things he's learned to expect from her. Their banter and flirting seem to go in circles, hinting at truths and carefully restrained attraction they both know they feel toward the other but refuse to act on.

"So you're definitely a six," he says, pretty sure she's downplaying her pain level again.

The blonde startles him with an exaggerated gasp. "What did you just call me?" she feigns offense. "I'm a solid ten, thank you very much."

"That's not what I meant," he shakes his head, amusement evident in his stormy gaze. "Okay, so," he takes a step back, "a nurse will come to get an IV in and take you up for your tests. I'll take a look at your CT scan as soon as it's done and then we'll take care of the wrist. Three hours at most. Sounds good?"

"Perfect," she says sarcastically but there's a genuine – albeit small – smile on her face.

"You can take a nap after your CT," he offers. It's more of a bribe to get another smile from her (he's that weak) but it actually works.

"Now, that's something. Thanks, Matthews."

"Anytime," he tells her and walks away all too aware of his racing heart.

Damn, that woman... She's done a number on him.

***