Kiss it better (karamel AU)

2

"Time of death 6:30pm," Mon-El announces, taking his gloves off with such brusque movements they snap as they slide off his fingers. A heavy sigh escapes his mouth, the newly acquired weight of losing a patient doubling atop his shoulders, and he storms away before the nurses can even pull a sheet over the late girl's face. "Damn drunk drivers," he mumbles as an afterthought, eyes lowering to his blood-soaked scrubs.

There's an ache lingering in the muscles of his arms due to the time he spent doing compressions and he uses his short sleeve to wipe the sweat along his hairline. His mouth is dry, his chest tight and the sound of the straight, unchanging line of the monitor is still ringing in his ears in a way he can't tell whether the machine has been shut off or still echoing. There's blood splattered on his shoes too, he notices, which will undoubtedly be a nightmare to wash off later, but that's also an afterthought.

His steps are heavy and he can sense several gazes following him. He doesn't lift his head to meet them, though. He knew it was touch-and-go the moment the girl was brought in; he doesn't need anyone reminding him of the fact in a feeble attempt to absolve him of his guilt. Still, he can't help entertaining all the what-if's and the could-have's. The girl was only eighteen, she had her whole life ahead of her. What if there was something more he could've done? What if there existed even the slightest possibility of saving her and he, for whatever reason, hadn't made use of it?

Before he knows it, he's walked into the restroom and shut the door behind him. He stalls there for a minute, back against the wood, knees weak and hands trembling, counting inhales and exhales. He hadn't lost anyone in a while — he almost forgot how cold and helpless it always makes him feel.

The place is empty and mostly quiet, so Mon-El tries to fill up the silence with his own presence. The faucet is left running, his breath is still loud, his shuffling feet adding to the cacophony. The water on his face does little to soothe him, more like putting a bandaid on a bleeding gunshot wound, and when he attempts to clean some of the blood off his clothes with paper towels, he only succeeds in making a bigger mess of himself.

When he hears the unmistakable click of the door and it's pushed open, he forces his head to stay still. But when a pair of familiar eyes find his own in the stained mirror, his breath gets caught in his throat.

"Hey," Danvers calls out to him softly, in a tone he's never heard from her before. "I saw what happened. I'm sorry you lost your patient," she takes a careful step closer, as if afraid of his reaction.

Mon-El tries to smile at her. "Happens all the time," he mumbles, "it's okay."

"It's not," she shakes her head, not fooled by his half-hearted pretence. She takes another step, still watching him, and when she's certain it's okay to approach, she stands next to him.

They don't talk for a long time, both looking at each other through their reflections. Mon-El is struggling to calm down, to silence his asphyxiating doubts, to drown the worst of his thoughts. But there's a calmness in the way the blonde is watching him; she is not judging, just merely standing beside him for the sake of it. And he doesn't know her, not really, he's only treated her a few times and gotten to know some of the most basic things about her life. There's something in her eyes though, something that tells him she understands how he's feeling. So he holds onto that, easing his fingers from their tight fists, allowing his lungs to fill enough that his heart stops pounding after a minute or two.

Her hands are careful, her motions still slow when she grabs some paper towels and soaks them under water. She gives him a questioning look, gesturing to the side of his face and he nods in approval without any words being said. Gentle fingers touch his cheek, wiping the dried droplets of blood there, and then move to the side of his neck only to repeat the process.