i.
The first breath of autumn carries a distinct scent.
It was warm, cidery and sweet; like late evenings in early October with close-knitted pumpkin-colored socks and swaddling snug in a dusty quilt from storage, all hues of oranges, reds, and browns, palms heated by cocoa filled mugs nestled between them. Pancakes dipped in maple and honey, surgery on nose hairs as they are on taste buds. Sat in a car with an apple cinnamon freshener fixed to the vent, shuddering with the heat.
The air was crisp and biting, each breeze carrying the last sigh of a leaf's final breath. Goosebumps pimple in tiny eggs beneath sleeves, snaking down the stomach and scaling across the back. Maybe the sun will pull from behind the clouds to cast a spot of warmth, and maybe it was welcomed, or maybe it was unbidden, but it gave brief kisses goodbye before it planned on disappearing for a few months.
At that first smell of fall and that first chilled wind that tickles up her arms, Y/N is transmitted to a higher plane of existence, she's almost absolutely sure of it. It just put her in a much better mood than she would otherwise. Instead of the burning alive in the thick synthetic material of her scrubs, she could sit outside for lunch and detach herself from the sterile air of the hospital. She could stab her fork into sliced strawberries without someone appearing, begging her to take their shift next Saturday, or pleading with her to take the obstinate man in bed 304 who absolutely refuses to take his medicine – like the very act will kill him.
In the courtyard, where there were large trees with thick branches coated in leaves various shades of reddish-yellowish-brown hanging over the sitting areas, she was at absolute peace. Looking at the clock, she doesn't dread that it's just half past noon and she has a little over six more hours to go. Instead, she thinks in six short hours she will be snuggling her face into the soft fur of her dog (a Swedish Vallhund – the Viking dog – properly named Ubba), in ghost printed slippers, with her belly full of the roast that she put in the pot before she left, and watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer on the TV. She'd be content beyond belief and that was something to look forward to.
Plus it was a pretty calm day, or as calm as days could be at the hospital. She'd admitted a new patient, helped a sweet old woman ambulate after her knee surgery, passed her meds, helped a new PCA with a bed bath, and discharged a patient who finally got a kidney transplant and could go off dialysis. It had been a while since she had a day float by so nicely, where she could sit outside with a sandwich and fruit and feel at ease while she was there.
And hell, once she had finished eating she hadn't even gone out of her way to avoid Niall – a prick of a nurse who liked to dump his difficult cases off to her. Went right past his med cart without even a glimmer of a thought to speed behind him...had even raised her hand up to greet him, but as soon as he locked eyes with her, his shoulders sagged with what looked like relief.
"You're just the person I wanted to see," he jabs his thumb at the doorway of the room he'd been looming outside of, and if her day had been a new, shiny vinyl Niall had just scratched the record, "Two things: the man in there is a rotten arsehole who won't eat or take his medicine – he's one of Dr. Pogsky's – and he's got the same first name as another one of my patients, n'y'know how me head gets boggled. Do me a favor and switch me?"
It wasn't as if Niall was bad at being a nurse either, which was the stupid part; little old ladies loved him, middle-aged men thought he was a lads lad, women in their late twenties to early thirties thought he was just a doll, and kids went googoo for him when he started slinging suckers – but old men hated him. Hated his guts, actually, and neither he nor Y/N could pinpoint exactly why. Normally they're just grumpy old men who don't much like Y/N either but are more inclined to be complacent with her because she offered them pudding cups.
