Sweet to the Bitter || Harry Styles AU

chapter three: when things go south.

For the first time this week, it wasn't raining when I left my house in the morning. The optimistic in me saw it as a sign. A sign that the surgery would go well, that I'd be able to follow Dr. Styles' every step and, perhaps, even awe him into keeping me on his service for a record amount of time. The sun was shining; it was going to be a good day.

I should have known it was too much of an hopeful scenario.

In reality, I'm living my worst nightmare. The scenario everyone anticipated and Dr. Styles so bluntly ignored. It's been six and a half hours since he opened up and he's barely made another move. Or say a word, for that matter.

I've thought about engaging in conversation but I know that look. He's zoned out, and while sometimes he needs conversation to keep him focused, today I'm too afraid to cut an important train of thought.

However, my arms and legs are beginning to feel numb. We've all been standing still for longer than anticipated, too afraid to make a bathroom break and miss his first move, and my patience is reaching its limit. I feared it would take him a bit to make a decision - but how long is too long?

It takes a look from Margareth, his most trusted nurse, to prompt me into action. She looks worried but I know she respects him too much to say something. Even though I do respect him, also, it's like she knows I have the guts to do it and she's asking me to do so. I return her look with a nod and, then, take a deep breath.

"Dr. Styles?" I glance up at him as my voice fills the silent room. It's a bit raspy - another sign of what's not happening in here.

It takes him a few seconds to look away from the cut, his eyes locking with mine then. "Yes, Dr. Coleman?"

It doesn't look like he's trying to rise up a reaction, so I let it pass. Not the time, Loren.

"I was wondering, do we have a plan yet?" I ask, as sweetly as I can, noticing how he swallows hard once he registers the question, his eyes making his way back to Toby's spine. I wait a minute before concluding he isn't going to answer. "Can you think out loud, please?"

He looks around the room, meeting everyone's eye before deciding if he should. I don't know if he sees what I see - a room full of worried people - but he nods.

"The vessels are more intricate then the MRI showed." He begins, looking at me.

"You were able to decompress enough, though." I point out.

"Yes. But there isn't a clear path to dissect." He looks back to the open spine between us. I look, too. "There's less vascularity around T-7, so maybe I should start there? Yeah. We could start there." He makes a move, but then stops. "No, I'd risk only getting function below the chest. That's not going to happen. I'd also risk rupturing the anterior spinal artery." He stops, clearly dismissing the idea. "Higher. I should start with T-2. Yes, T-2 shows less potential for bleeding." He nods to himself, clearing not speaking to me anymore. I don't mind. "No. T-3, maybe. Either way, I risk sending him into hemodynamic collapse. I-"

He looks at me, eyes wide as I've never seen them. I fear his next words, even before he begins to mouth them. "I - I can't-"

I shake my head and stop him. "You need a bathroom break, Dr. Styles. Yeah?"

"Toby's been open in this O.R. for about eight hours. The risk of infection is increasing. We need to cl-"

It doesn't pass through me that he just said Toby. Not this patient, as any other time. It also doesn't sit well with me that he's giving up so easily, proving everyone right. He's Dr. Harry Styles, a pain in my ass, but one of the most promising neurosurgeons in the world right now.