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Shen rattles the ice in his coffee, already three-quarters gone and he’s barely set foot in the building. He fishes his phone out, wondering if he could grab a second one at the nearest Dunkin’ before he’s caught up in the chaos. Probably not, but he’s an optimist.
His phone buzzes and he snorts.
Fish Boy: 812. Ten minutes.
If he hadn’t been so preoccupied with the oppressive August heat and cup sweating in his hand, he’d have been expecting this. It’s predictable, right down to the curt demand. If it bothered him to be summoned so rudely, he wouldn’t have gotten involved with an orthopedic surgeon, and especially not Park.
Involved is putting it strongly, but it hardly matters when no one knows about this.
Park’s attitude is nothing new to him, not that he’d ever tell him that. Alphas of his type don’t like being told they’re predictable, even when they are. It’s not like he doesn’t get along with other alphas in general, it’s just that this particular breed of over-driven alpha are strangely drawn to him, almost against their will.
They don’t like his nonchalance, they don’t like the way he sees through them, and they don’t like wanting another alpha. They definitely don’t like wanting him, but they do, and they always come to him, angry and hungry. Why it keeps happening, why it’s happened his entire life, is an entertaining mystery, one he’s content to leave unsolved.
Park’s text is right on the heels of his arrival to PTMC, to the point that anyone would be forgiven for thinking he’s got a tracker on him. Given Park’s overload of alphaness, he’s sure he’s furious with himself for needing so badly. That’s a man who doesn’t like being out of control, and his alpha instincts are definitely not supposed to be out of his control.
He knows everything about it grates on Park. He knows the way Park watches the doe-eyed nurse resident — Emma, a sweet omega with a spine of steel and more claws than you’d think — but he also knows Park has absolutely zero interest in her, despite the gossip in the ED. Park wants to want her, but he doesn’t. He can’t.
What he wants is another alpha. What he wants is Shen.
He hums to himself, eyes the ever-full waiting room, and slips around the edge before anyone can spot him. The stairwell is dim, the lights partially off in this side of the building, and the eighth floor even darker. It’s nearly silent, though he’s sure Park checked the floor for anyone napping post-shift before texting him.
He’d known it must have taken a lot for Park to approach him — curt, rude, and demanding, but he’d approached him all the same. Shen hardly flaunts his preferences at work, but they’re not a secret either among the Nightcrawlers. With such long and emotionally taxing shifts together, they all know more about each other than they probably like.
It’d taken him several confused days before he’d managed to pinpoint what it was that led Park to approach him at all.
The patient had been a combative disaster — an alpha drugged to the gills, overmuscled, and missing half his hand from grabbing a slipping anchor chain like an idiot. The alpha had been incoherent and aggressive, the sedatives barely touching his agitation and the pain unnoticed.
Abbot had called him in to help, needing the extra muscle to keep the patient in bed. Muscle hadn’t ended up being necessary — the patient, hopped up on heat inducers of all things — had promptly started hitting on Shen and gone docile under his orders. At least, as docile as a drunk and hypersexual alpha with a mangled hand can be, but it’d gotten the job done.
That had only upped Abbot’s conviction that he’s a mysterious alpha charmer. Shen had rolled his eyes, looked up to see Park watching him over the patient, and thought nothing of it.
Until he’d been trapped in the most awkward conversation of his life a week later on the roof. He’d agreed, half to end the misery for both of them, and the other half because he’d admit easily that Park is extremely hot. Park’s demands had been easy to agree to anyway — sex, between shifts, here, and nothing else.
The first few times they’d hooked up, Park had been strung tight and hostile. Shen’s total lack of reaction to the suspicion, and the way he quite clearly didn’t care, had slowly relaxed Park as much as he’s capable of. He’d been watchful around the hospital too, but Shen’s better than that and hadn’t given even the slightest hint they’d interacted outside of a trauma bay. Eventually, that suspicion too had eased.
Park’s preferred room is as far from the stairwell as possible. Frankly, there’s absolutely no need for him to be told which room it is, not when they’ve never used a different one. He supposes it keeps this more distant if Park can pretend it’s not a pattern, if it’s just happenstance that they’re always in that room at the end of the corridor, the one that would probably smell like them if it weren’t for the hospital-grade scent blockers they both wear.
The only light in the room is a golden glow through the crooked slats of the blinds. It halos Park’s heavy form, the deep purple scrubs near black from this angle, and his profile even sharper when he half-turns.
“You took your time,” he says.
“You didn’t even know I was in the building,” Shen counters, taking an obnoxiously loud drink of his coffee.
“You’re always in a half hour early,” Park says.
He turns, outlined in gold and expression shadowed. Not that Shen needs to see his face to know it’s set in the same expression as always.
“You got me there,” Shen says in mock surrender.
“How are you always drinking that garbage?” Park says, pulling his scrubs over his head.
“Hey! Don’t diss the Dunkin’,” Shen says, pointing the cup at him. “Shen runs on Dunkin’.”
That gets him a flat look, which is about as much as it deserves.
“Not all of us play squashball and eat perfectly balanced macros,” Shen says.
“It’s racquetball,” Park says. “Maybe you should, before your heart explodes.”
“Is that concern I hear?” Shen says, grinning at the glare he gets. “You don’t get a body like that from racquetball.”
“Are you trying to be annoying?” Park says irritably.
“I don’t have to try, fish boy,” Shen says.
“Stop calling me that,” Park says.
Shen hums under his breath, setting his coffee down on the little cart and tugging his scrubs loose. Park’s glaring daggers at him when he’s got it off and tossed aside.
“A barracuda is almost a shark,” Shen says, raising his hands.
If he didn’t already know better, he’d think Park had chosen to stand directly in that deep gold light, at the perfect angle to catch every contour of muscle on his bare torso. There’s nothing deliberate about it though — Park knows he looks good, and has no patience for something as idiotic as posing.
The look he’s getting in turn is that mixed frustration and want he’s plenty familiar with. He’s nowhere near as built as Park, but he’s lean and in shape, and knows he looks good. Park wouldn’t respect him if he was insecure about their physical differences — that’d been one of the things Park had been watching him for that first time, but he’d only gotten open appreciation and arousal out of him, no awe and certainly no intimidation.
He groans low in his chest, watching Park turn and tug the ties of his scrubs loose before bracing his arms on the dusty windowsill. He’d long ago decided the beds were too squeaky to lean on, declared the bathroom counter untenable, and settled on the window instead. Being on the eight floor, with a tree down below makes it impossible to see even a glimpse of him, curtains drawn and lights off.
The dark fabric slips over the curve of Park’s extremely fine ass as he bends over and Shen groans again, stuck in place as Park widens his stance. This view never gets old — the dip of his back, the divots at the base of his spine, the way his scrubs strain around his legs, and the way his cock hangs heavy with arousal between them.
He nearly knocks his cup over scrabbling blindly for the lubricant Park always sets on the table. He’s never in the room first, and he’s wondered more than once if Park’s hidden it in here since carrying something up these stairs would be nothing more than a neon sign saying what’s happening. Not that anyone would dare comment on it to his face, but being seen at all is extremely against Park’s preference for sharing nothing at all about himself.
Park’s back dips more when he brushes a finger across his hole, slick with lubricant and struggling for composure. He’s so damn gorgeous, especially with the late summer sunset painting him so perfectly. He keeps that to himself. Alphas don’t like being told they’re gorgeous, but he can still think it. He’s half regretful that he can’t even talk about it with anyone, and half pleased that no one else gets to see this.
Sometimes even he gets plagued by alpha possessiveness, mild as his is. Anyone would be territorial over a sight like this. He grimaces, his alpha drive is stronger than usual, and he’s glad it’ll be settled before his shift starts.
For how tense he is, Park takes his fingers easily. He’s hot and tight around him, breathing hard in the quiet of the room but noticeably stifling anything louder. The first few times they’d hooked up, Shen hadn’t even known if he’d been enjoying it at all with the sheer silence, but he did get off, and kept coming back, so he’d shrugged it off and assumed he must like it well enough.
Whether it’s an ego thing to stay silent, or paranoia about being overheard in this empty wing, he’s never asked and never will. Park’s reasons for all of his neuroticisms aren’t any of his business, and he’s never been one to push personal boundaries.
Shen works him open quickly, need spurring him on when he’s just as eager after the break. He keeps tabs on Park’s mood through the hand on his hip, feeling the tremors running through him, and the slight flex like he’s considering rocking back on his fingers. When Park starts to tense, he pulls his fingers out and lubes himself up with relief.
Park doesn’t like soft, cautious, tentative, so Shen doesn’t given him more than a second of warning before sinking into him with a few sharp snaps of his hips. The sight pulls a barely muffled groan out of him — Park open around him, full of his cock, taking him beautifully, back arched just so, muscles shifting in the now reddish gold light.
This close, he can tell Park’s scent blocker is wearing off after a long shift, but it still mutes him to being nothing more than a thread in the dusty air. His own scent blocker is freshly applied, killing even the scent of his arousal. For hospital use, it’s unrivaled; for hookups, it’s terrible.
He’s never picked up Park’s scent before, all he can get right now is sweat and the tang of blood. Maybe a bit of ozone, maybe a thread of musk from his arousal, but that’s probably all in his imagination. It’s another mystery of Park, left alone and unsolved.
He wrings a groan out of Park as he adjusts to the angle he’d perfected over months of their hookups, angling himself until his cock drags over Park’s prostate. Having him bent over — those stupidly long, beautifully muscled legs — does make it more challenging, but he’s adaptable, especially with the reward. It’s satisfying when Park helps him by spreading his legs more, scrubs caught around them, and tipping his hips up until they’re both biting back sounds.
Park’s spine is a deep curve under his hand, slick with sweat and powerful under his palm. He loves watching his back shift under him, so defined, so responsive despite all of his resistance.
“Yes? No?” Shen says, pausing to circle his thumb over the slight rise of his C7.
“Yes,” Park says.
His head falls down to his forearm, baring the back of his neck.
Shen slides his hand up the scant few inches left and tightens his fingers on his neck slowly, always cautious with the pressure when there’s no telling how much Park wants. After a week and a half of nothing, plus being on call, he’d bet on heavier, but he’s not going to assume anything.
He tightens his hold until he gets the tiny breath out, the easing along Park’s back, infinitesimal changes but ones he can feel and hear so easily pressed this close to him. He rolls his hips, grinding into him and enjoying tracking the subtle ways Park responds to him — the way his fingers tense on the windowsill, the way his breathing gets harsher and his pulse picks up under his hand.
It’s more limiting when he has to scruff him, but Park seems satisfied with the way he’s pushing back into his thrusts. Park adjusts, bracing one hand on the side of the window and giving him an incredible view of his arm, veins standing out and muscles glistening in the heat of the room, flexing with every movement.
He curses under his breath and fucks him harder, chasing the desire pooling in his belly. He hadn’t thought a week and a half would bother him this much, but now that he’s balls deep in Park, he’s downright desperate to feel him like this, desperate to see him come apart.
“You know, w—”
“No.”
Shen sighs loudly. He hadn’t expected any other answer, but he likes to try occasionally. Park has a phenomenal ass, but the rest of him is phenomenal too, and he really wouldn’t mind seeing the front of him in the middle of sex. Or maybe having those tree trunk legs crushing his waist.
He doesn’t say that, he never says anything outside of the mildest suggestions to alter the sex. Alphas can be so strange, and face to face sex — regardless of his own motivations — is too far for most of them, including Park. The last thing he wants to do is scare him off by pushing too hard on something that doesn’t matter. He could find other alphas eventually, but Park’s got that impossible to resist blend of sharp competence, predatory air, and being a huge dick to everyone.
That last part probably shouldn’t be in the positives column, but it is and always has been for him. It’s no wonder he has a trail of short-lived exes and nothing else. This though, this is easy. It fits around his job, it fits around his life, and he respects Park, and he’s respected in turn.
“Why do you keep asking?” Park grunts.
“I want to see you,” Shen says.
“What do you call this?” Park says, turning his head against his forearm. “Do you go blind as soon as you step into this room?”
Shen rolls his eyes, and retaliates by thrusting into him even harder, only managing to make himself more on edge.
“I don’t want you staring at me,” Park says.
He’s tense again under his hands, despite the faint breathlessness of his voice.
“Good thing I went blind walking in here,” Shen says.
“You don’t need to see my face for this,” Park says, clipped and angry.
His back is locking up, his grip on the windowsill getting stronger and knuckles whitening.
“Who said anything about your face?” Shen says. “I want to see your chest.”
The man has an incredible rack, scrubs do not hide it in the slightest. If anything, the way they pull and dip makes him daydream about rubbing his cock between his pecs even more, but there’s negative chance Park would ever let him do that. It’s a shame, but he’s seen enough of Park’s bare chest over the time they’ve spent up here for his fantasies to be plenty filled out. Much like—
“Your hold is weak,” Park says.
“Yeah, yeah,” Shen says, tightening it until he hears the gasp escape Park and his back loosens again.
Based on how hard he’s holding him now, he needs more than just being scruffed. He must be seriously wound up. Shen weighs his options, weighs the danger, and shrugs it off. Worse case, he’ll get kicked.
He leans across Park, sinking his teeth into the meat of his trapezius, as far up his shoulder as he can. Park jerks under him.
“No marks,” he rasps, even as his back arches under him and a shiver rolls through his frame.
Shen lets go with reluctance, pausing to lick the bite and catch the salt on him, even if he’d been careful to stay away from the neckline. It’s only a reddened set of half-moons, nothing that’ll even bruise. It’s better safe than sorry, even with Park having at least a couple days off after this shift.
“I need more hands,” he complains.
He settles for mouthing along the line of his shoulder, tracing the curve of the trapezius with unending fascination. Park reaches up, rubbing at the crook of his neck and fingers brushing against Shen’s. He isn’t pushing him away, he’s doing something else, so Shen doesn’t let go.
When the scent reaches him, he thinks he’s hallucinating for a moment. It’s still faint, the hospital scent blockers too good to be wiped out with just spit and friction. The ozone is stronger now, coasting along cold stone and something that makes him think of windswept trees. It’s cliché — the Shark’s scent being as chilly as the man is cold, but the strong overlay of nothing leaves it unnaturally unsettlingly.
Maybe there’s something else under there, something warm even since Park is far from ice under his hands, but he’ll never find out. The fact that he’s being given this much is something of a miracle.
He realizes belatedly that he’s been trying to rub his nose into that bared spot of scent, failing badly but chasing it like a lunatic all the same. He clears his throat and pulls back.
“Aren’t you a puzzle,” he says, trying for steady, but his voice went rough on him in the last ten seconds.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Park says.
“I don’t think I can get my blocker off,” Shen says, eyeing his wrist. “I just—”
“I was scratching my neck,” Park says.
Shen makes a sound in his throat, and lets that one lie. He’s getting caught up in every bit of Park today, far more distracted than he usually is and he doesn’t have the time for it when his shift is approaching all too fast. Still, what’s on offer is a first in all their months of this, so he adjusts himself and his hold to try and catch as much of Park’s scent as possible.
“Don’t scent me,” Park snaps.
“I couldn’t even if I was trying to,” Shen says, pulling away fully this time. “You can’t pick up my scent at all with this blocker on.”
Park’s quiet for a long moment, then grunts in apparent agreement. Shen backs off more, losing some of his hold on his neck to focus on fucking him. He’s still tight and hot around him, and the way Park’s lower back is starting to flex means he’s getting close too. He’s hard to read, but he’s got his tells.
It’s even more obvious when Park shifts again, freeing his other hand to jerk himself off in time with Shen’s thrusts. They’re both on the edge, and Park’s coming with an audible groan just moments before Shen finishes inside him, gasping and choking back anything louder.
He stays inside Park for a few seconds to catch his breath, slowly loosening his hold on his neck until he’s released him entirely. If they had more time he wouldn’t turn down a second round, but he pulls out with reluctance, admiring the sight one last time before tugging his scrubs up.
Park’s straightening and redoing his own, catching his top one handed when Shen tosses it to him. Shen checks his scent as he pulls his shirt back on, but the blockers are still immaculate. He’ll wash up and reapply just in case he’s lost any on Park’s skin, or picked up even a bare fragment of his unusual cold scent. He’s fascinated by it, even more attracted to him with that little tease, but other people won’t feel the same so he resigns himself to the void of blockers.
He grabs his cup and curses under his breath. His iced coffee is now tepid, coffee flavored water. Entirely expected, and entirely annoying. Sex was definitely better than a second coffee, but if he could have managed both it would have been heavenly.
“See you around,” he says, saluting Park with the wet cup on his way out.
Park doesn’t respond, only watches him go with shadowed eyes, the contemplation as good as a hand on his back.
***
Shen looks forlornly at his long-empty coffee cup. Finishing up his charts without coffee is dire, and this shift had been trying. It’d been more than trying, catastrophe after catastrophe, belligerent patients left and right, and he’s dead on his feet.
“Throw that away already,” Dana says, walking behind him. “It’s not gonna refill.”
“Is there a Dr. Shen here?”
Shen looks up, confused at the guy looking distinctly lost, nervous, and out of place in the chaos of the ED.
“What’s up?” he says, waving him over.
“Your order,” the guy says with open relief.
He books it before Shen can even react. He blinks at the oversized iced coffee sitting in front of him, tiny beads of condensation forming on the plastic. He spins it around, noting the ticket stuck to it and already starting to peel. It’s his exacting order, complete with the extra shots and peculiar addition of flavoring that makes everyone grimace when they hear it.
The ticket doesn’t say Shen.
It says Barracuda.
He grins to himself, pulling it closer to himself and all the lingering irritation of the shift wiped away.