Chapter Text
Aaron kept his head down and his mouth shut. It worked better that way. Made it easier to focus without wasting energy on idiot questions from idiot peers with the personality of a traffic cone. He wasn't here to make friends. He was here to get through his internship without killing anyone or losing what was left of his sanity.
The coffee in the hospital cafeteria tasted like shit, but it was freshly brewed and bitter and did its job. Aaron drank it lidless, too hot to be safe, but he liked the burn. It gave him something to focus on besides the headache building behind his eyes.
Katelyn had tried to talk him into staying in bed this morning, and nearly succeeded. She’d curled around him, warm and sleep-heavy, mumbling that one lazy morning wouldn’t kill him. He'd told her that wasn't how any of this worked. She'd hummed something against his chest, and said he needed rest. He'd kissed her shoulder and meant to say something reassuring, but the words got lost somewhere between her skin and the ugly truth: he didn't know how to stop anymore.
She told him not to be an asshole on her way to the pediatric ward. He said he’d try. She smiled like she didn’t buy it, but it amused her anyway.
The hospital was the same as it always was, too cold, too loud, and too crowded. The ER was short-staffed again, which meant the interns were getting dragged into more cases than they should be touching this early. Aaron didn't mind. The more they threw at him, the less time he had to think.
Aaron skimmed the morning charts, already halfway through diagnosing the guy in 403A before the second-year even looked up from his coffee. A cardiac patient with a history of AFib and a malfunctioning pacemaker. There was also someone post-cesarean with more bleeding than anyone wanted to admit. Definitely not Aaron's problem yet, but the floor was thin and no one was following the damn schedule.
His pager buzzed as he was pitching his empty coffee cup. He checked it without stopping.
Room 2B. Intern Minyard requested.
He stopped walking.
Requested? That wasn't a thing. No one requested interns. Especially not interns three weeks into their first rotation who were still technically shadowing more than working.
He read it again. Still said 2B. Still said his name.
Aaron sighed and turned toward the ER. Probably a mistake. Some dumbass in administration clicking the wrong name. Or maybe one of the other interns trying to dump their grunt work on him. Wouldn't be the first time.
The ER was running triage like a warzone, which was par for the course. Nurses barked codes over each other while patients stacked in beds like bad Tetris. One of the charge nurses didn't even look up when Aaron gave his name, just pointed him toward the hallway.
"Room two," she said. "Combative male, mid 20s, won't talk to anyone. Refused vitals, refused painkillers, refused treatment. Told us to get Aaron Minyard or fuck off."
Aaron blinked. "You're serious?"
"Do I look like I have time to joke?"
She didn't.
Aaron muttered something vaguely polite and made his way to 2B, already irritated. Whoever was behind this was about to get a crash course. Aaron had no patience before 5 p.m.
He pushed through the curtain.
Then stopped.
Neil Josten was sitting on the exam table, wrecked. His posture was all wrong. Too still, too tightly wound. His gaze flicked up and locked on Aaron like a trigger being pulled.
And leaning against the wall beside him, arms crossed, was Andrew.
Aaron's stomach sank.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me."
He didn’t move. Just stood half in, half out of the curtain, staring at the mess in front of him. Josten's shoulder was out of socket. Knuckles busted. Shirt torn enough to see ribs that looked like someone tried to fold him in half. Aaron took in the injuries with a trained eye, cataloging the damage automatically.
Then he looked at Andrew.
Arms crossed, unreadable expression, posture too casual. Aaron didn’t buy it for a second. He was closer to Neil than he needed to be. Watchful. Steady.
Aaron hated it.
He stepped inside and let the curtain fall. The rings clicked overhead — too loud in the silence.
"What the fuck," Aaron said, louder this time.
Josten didn't respond. Just sat there with his good hand braced against the table and his jaw clenched. He didn't look happy to see Aaron either. Good. At least they agreed on something.
Aaron crossed his arms and stared him down. "I assume you fought someone. Or several someones. In public. While wearing your team's logo."
The redhead tilted his head, unreadable as ever. "You going to treat me or file a report?"
"If you think I want to treat you, you're actually more concussed than you look." He turned towards his twin. "Why the fuck would you bring him here?"
Andrew huffed. "I didn't."
Aaron paused. "What?"
"I told him to bring me here," Josten said
Aaron blinked, then glared at Andrew. "You expect me to believe that?"
Andrew shrugged, the barest movement. "I don't care what you believe. It wasn't my idea."
Aaron looked at Josten. Really looked at him. His jaw was tight. Eyes tracked every shift in the room. His good hand clenched the table like a tether. He looked like a caged animal about to snap, and yet... he was here. In a hospital. Presumably voluntarily. Asking for Aaron, of all people.
"You know there are better options," Aaron said flatly. "Ones that come with actual qualifications."
"They come with questions."
"So do I."
"Yours are easier to ignore."
Aaron turned away before he said something he couldn't walk back. He scrubbed a hand over his face and exhaled slowly through his nose.
He hated this. Every part of it.
It wasn't just that Josten was here. It was that Andrew had let him be. That Andrew was standing there like backup instead of driver, that he looked calm but not careless. Focused. Like all of this mattered.
Aaron didn't know what was worse: knowing Neil fucking Josten mattered to Andrew, or knowing how long it had taken him to believe it.
"No," Aaron said finally, turning back to them. "Fuck this. Get someone else."
Andrew shifted, not quite stepping forward but definitely moving. "You owe me one."
Aaron narrowed his eyes. "For what?"
"Your cheerleader's tire last winter. The one you never told her you blew out on the ice."
Aaron's mouth flattened. Andrew had pulled over at two a.m. in the middle of a sleet storm to get him back on the road before Katelyn noticed anything was wrong. No lecture. No gloating. Just a jack and a muttered "don't be a fucking idiot."
Aaron hadn't mentioned it since.
"You said that didn't count."
Andrew didn't look away. "Changed my mind."
Aaron clenched his jaw. "Of course you did."
Josten hadn't moved. Still watching. Still silent.
"Fine," Aaron snapped. "Let's get this over with."
He pulled his gloves on too hard and stepped in. No permission. Just business. Detached. Clinical.
Except it wasn't. Because this wasn't just a patient. This was Neil fucking Josten. And Andrew was still standing there, still watching like it meant something. Aaron had never hated a room more in his life.
The shoulder was definitely dislocated.
Aaron had seen enough dislocations to recognize the tension, the wrong angle, the way Josten's arm hung. He didn't need imaging to confirm it. Didn't need anything, really, except another pair of hands.
"I'll need a nurse to help reset it," Aaron said, already reaching for the curtain.
The striker sat up straighter, good hand clutching the edge of the table. "No."
Aaron didn't stop moving. "It's a two-person job. You want the joint back in place or not?"
"No nurses."
Aaron froze mid-motion and turned back. "Why the fuck not?"
Josten's voice was flat, but there was a flicker in his expression. Something sharp and wary around the eyes. "I said no. Just you."
"What, you think I've got three hands?"
"Then don't do it. I'll handle it later."
Aaron stared at him, disbelief edging into irritation. "You're going to walk around with a dislocated shoulder like it's a fucking sprained ankle?"
"If the alternative is being touched by someone else, yeah."
Andrew shifted beside the table. "Just fucking show me what to do."
Aaron reeled. "Excuse me?"
Andrew didn’t glare, but it wasn’t a question either. "You need another pair of hands. Use mine."
Aaron almost told him to go to hell. He didn't want Andrew involved. Didn't want him standing there like a silent bodyguard, either, though. Frankly, he didn't want to be part of whatever fucked up intimacy this was.
Josten still sat stiff, silent, breathing shallow. Aaron didn’t feel like dragging it out just to make a point, it would just waste everyone's time.
"Fine," he snapped. "Just don't screw it up."
He ran through the setup, short and clipped. Showed Andrew where to brace, how to hold the arm without putting pressure on the wrong tendons. Andrew didn't speak. Didn't question it. Just followed directions like he'd done this before.
Aaron repositioned himself and said, "On three."
Josten gave him a look. "Just do it."
He did.
The joint slid back into place with a muted pop. Josten hissed, went rigid, then slumped as the pain receded.
Aaron stepped back and stripped off his gloves. "Congratulations. Try not to beat anyone with that arm for at least a week."
Josten flexed his fingers slowly, testing the motion. "This is why I wanted to come here."
Aaron raised an eyebrow. "Because I'm a glorified med student with a short temper and no time?"
"Because you're an asshole. But there are no surprises with you."
"What—" Aaron started, but Josten cut him off.
"I want predictable. That's what you are."
"I'm not even technically a doctor yet."
"That's part of the point. You're not one of them."
Aaron had no idea what that meant. He didn't ask.
He snapped a fresh pair of gloves on and leaned in to examine the ribs. "You've got at least three bruised. Maybe four. Nothing cracked, but they'll feel like shit for a while. I'm wrapping them. Don't argue."
Neil didn't.
Aaron worked efficiently, focusing on the task instead of anything else in the room. Andrew hadn’t moved. Still tracking Neil with quiet focus.
Still standing too close.
It was absurd, the way they orbited each other. Like gravity. Like it wasn't even a choice anymore. Aaron hated it. Hated that his brother looked at the other man like that, with recognition, with intent. Aaron couldn't remember Andrew ever looking at anyone else that way.
He taped the gauze down and moved to Josten's hand. The knuckles were raw, still oozing where old bandages had peeled. Aaron peeled them off, cleaned the cuts again, and applied fresh ones.
"You'll need to change these daily," he said. "Keep them dry. Disinfect. If they get infected, don't be a fucking martyr."
Josten didn't answer. Aaron wasn't sure he was supposed to.
He stood back and crossed his arms. "You shouldn’t be on the court for at least a week. Two, if you actually want to heal. But you won’t fucking listen."
Josten's mouth twitched. Almost a smirk. Almost.
Aaron rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Not my problem."
He looked at Andrew, then immediately regretted it. The look Andrew was giving Josten was quiet and full of something Aaron didn't want to name.
He looked away again.
"I'll go write up the discharge. Try not to start another fight before I get back."
He didn't wait for a response before walking out.