Asystole ✷ Mark Sloan

𝟬𝟯𝟲 rumour has it

𝙓𝙓𝙓𝙑𝙄.
RUMOUR HAS IT

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"WHERE DO YOU need me?"

"In the waiting room," the head nurse, whose name tag read Daphne, was attempting to direct me in the right direction.. She barely had time to look up from her desk, her arms bundled with various folders, hair spilling out of her messy bun. Her glances up at me were brief and brisk. "Mr. James Preaker, recently discharged from the VA but—" She glanced at her desktop screen. "Displays auditory hallucinatory symptoms- Diagnosed with PTSD-"

"Great, I've got it thank you." I shot her a smile but she wasn't looking upwards to see it.

It was hell in the pit today. 

Too many people were here; we were a few days away from Christmas and the holiday hysteria seemed to have already hit full force. The doors to the ambulance bay seemed to be wedged open, a constant stream of injuries being wheeled across the threshold. 

I walked around a procession of worried family-members, dipped out of the way of an incoming trauma and smiled fleetingly at Owen as he rushed past, the yellow plastic protector already wrapped tightly around his chest. He looked stressed but incredibly focused, he didn't even notice me as I navigated around the chaos— he was in the zone, they all were.

Derek was carrying out a neurology examination in a private room. Meredith was helping Bailey and a trauma nurse lift a patient onto a bed. 

Cristina was hot on Teddy Altman's heels as they met one of the incoming patients, Jackson close behind them. Out of the corner of my eye I caught Mark in the middle of a plastic consultation, his patient looking stricken and burnt, and Reed buzzing at his elbow, eager to help. Everyone was being put to work. 

I ducked in the direction of the waiting room, grabbed Mr. Preaker's chart from a trauma nurse and gathered the perfect posture of a doctor who hadn't just exited a room that reeked of stress.

It was stronger here, someone. It almost hit me at full force. A sea of faces turned in my direction, spying my uniform and the chart in my hands. For a moment, I thought there was definitely going to be a stampede; the tension peaked. I cleared my throat.

"James Preaker?"

The heads all turned away from me, visible disappointment and anguish on their faces, all but one. A pair of angry eyes met my professional smile. I felt my heart sink. Oh here we go—

"About time." 

His mutter was loud enough for me to hear. Frustration was deeply underlined into every crack and crevice of his weathered face. He got to his feet, quicker than I'd anticipated, and walked with a curt and impatient step towards me. He was quite possibly the angriest person I'd ever come across but far more reserved than I'd anticipated. 

Idly, I wondered if I pressed a hand to his red face, would I feel the heat of his anger against my palm?

I wasn't really in the mood to find out.

"Dr. Elizabeth Montgomery," I introduced myself with my stellar, curt tone and my smile barely wavered as he shot me a glare. Thankfully, living with Addison's chiding for years had taught me how to keep a composure in professional situations (personal life could really do some work). "Thank you for your patience, I understand it's been very busy down here today."