Chapter Text
Dr. Shane Hollander has been allocated to a different OR today. He will be working with a new surgeon, a Russian guy who has been working in Canada for a few years now, and recently moved to Ottawa. The last two anesthesiologists assigned to him have not worked out, so Shane has been asked to step in as a cool, unflappable pair of hands. The surgeon he usually works with on a Thursday has gone on sabbatical (although rumours of burnout are circulating). He does not normally welcome change, but if he’s completely honest, he’s been starting to feel a bit bored, which is a dangerous thing to be in his job. So maybe it’s time for something new. He’s up for the challenge.
He has seen the patients, checked the machines and equipment, and prepared all of the drugs he thinks he will need, which are neatly labelled and precisely lined up in the order in which they will be administered. All drug names, doses and expiry dates have been double and triple checked. He studied the records and images for each patient days ago. He does not like surprises.
The team, including scrub and circulating nurses, OR technician and surgical resident, are all present for the morning briefing. The only person missing is Dr. Rozanov. The resident checks his phone and clears his throat nervously. Uh, Dr. Rozanov “will join them soon” and says “to brief and start without him”. The nurse who is leading the briefing is unimpressed, but is also familiar with how surgeons perceive time very differently to all other mortals, and agrees to proceed. Introductions are made and checklists completed. The first patient is sent for.
Nearly an hour later, the patient is anesthetised, intubated, and has all required IV lines in situ, which are meticulously taped and secured. All monitors are attached and wires and circuits are neatly arranged (for now at least, but it is a known fact, and one of life’s enduring mysteries, that they will somehow all be tangled up like spaghetti by the end of the case, even when one is as fastidious as Dr. Hollander). The patient is connected to the anesthetic machine with its rhythmic whooshes and beeps. They are positioned on the table and draped. The warmer is on and the IV fluid is running. The pumps with their algorithms are delivering precisely calculated infusions of anesthetic drugs to the patient.
Shane uses the time to re-check his workstation, but it is already organised in his usual military fashion. The first case will likely take 2-3 hours, during which time he hopes to catch up on a few journals he’s been meaning to read, while maintaining the necessary level of vigilance with regard to everything else going on around him. Shane does not do chaos, or anything even approaching disorder really. The prolonged absence of the attending surgeon is starting to get on his nerves.
As he stands up to stretch his legs, he hears the OR doors dramatically opening behind him. He does not turn to see Dr. Rozanov enter, but he feels the atmospheric pressure in the room go up, despite the rush of air out the door.
Everyone else in the OR turns towards the sound with both relief, and nervous anticipation. The surgeon, either oblivious to, or ignoring the tension, heads to the sink to scrub and gown up, which he does with ruthless efficiency. Someone ties his gown. He snaps his gloves loudly onto his hands as he moves towards the operating table, where everyone is waiting for him.
Shane busies himself behind the drape he put up earlier, which separates his end of the table, near the patient’s head, from the abdomen, where the surgeons will be working. He can tell out of the corner of his eye that Dr. Rozanov is tall and imposing.
“Nice of you to join us Dr. Rozanov,” the scrub nurse says, her disapproving eyes peering out over her surgical mask. From the little he has heard, you probably do not fuck with Dr. Rozanov, but he knows for a fact that you absolutely do not fuck with this particular nurse, so this should be interesting. He plans to observe from a distance (as he frequently does).
This is, unfortunately, easier said than done.
“I did not see the point in rushing,” comes the accented reply. “We all know Anesthesia takes their time to get started.”
Shane can hear the smirk behind the drape. Asshole. His brain runs through a selection of responses, and tries to predict how each one will play out. He may have a photographic memory, near-genius IQ, and quick motor reflexes, but his neurons for delivering witty responses operate in geological time. The scrub nurse, however, is not taking this lying down.
“Dr. Hollander is one of our best anesthesiologists, and was in the building before you were probably even awake. As you can see, the only person holding things up this morning is you.”
The compliment and show of support are simultaneously pleasing and cringe-inducing. Shane would very much like to return to his comfort zone, in the background, behind the drape.
Dr. Rozanov turns his body and his attention to the head end of the patient for the first time since entering the OR. The entire room holds its collective breath at the scenario unfolding in front of them. Eye contact is made. Shane feels his pulse quicken and his pupils dilate.
What the actual fuck.
He knows that he needs to respond to Dr. Rozanov’s taunt, but new, incoming information is scrambling the data feed to his brain, and that new information is that this guy is fucking gorgeous. Shane knows this, despite only being privy to Dr. Rozanov’s hazel/green eyes above his mask, a pair of chiselled cheekbones, and some dirty-blonde curls escaping from his surgical cap. He has to remind himself to breathe.
He snaps out of it and turns to the monitor behind him to reassure himself that, unlike his own vitals, those of the patient have not changed (which of course they haven’t). When he turns around again, he is aware that Dr. Rozanov is still watching him.
“My sincere apologies, Dr. Holland,” he says, not very sincerely at all. Shane ignores the mispronunciation of his name, and mumbles something about forgetting it and maybe just getting on with the case. He hopes this guy takes his surgery more seriously than he seems to take anything else.