Chicago Med [x Reader]

☞Conciousness: Gone

"Well, hello there Superman," your cheery voice broke through the moment you stepped behind the curtain. You looked at the parents before switching your gaze to the bed, currently occupied by a boy adorned in a Superman inspired costume. He had a cape and everything. Even fake, foamy muscles. It was adorable.

You turned to look at the parents after he gave you an encouraging greet back, "I'm doctor Y/LN. I'll be treating your son today."

The father chuckled, "Good luck with that."

It brought out a laugh for sure, and you had to cover it with your sleeve. His wife, a small, blonde woman, looked up at him to scold his behavior. "Jack, now is not the time!"

"It's never the time," he retorted, throwing you a fun look. "So why not make time. Right doc?"

Ah, finally.

A fun parent in the ER.

Suddenly your headache was lifted off your chest, and you gave the man a smile, encouraging his light behavior. "Let's see what's up with Superman."

You handed the tablet over to a nurse and circled the bed to examine the boy's arm. It appeared to be broken at first glance, but you couldn't be so sure with all those fake muscles. "Phew, look at you."

The boy giggled when you squeezed a fake muscle and acted out a wolf whistle, "I bet you work out a bunch, huh?"

"A lot!"

"Yeah, no cap," you joked, feeling up his wrist, "My only workout is walking up and down these stairs. When I tell you, I die every single time..."

"Thank god for the elevators," the nurse added in a sing-song voice as she buzzed around the equipment, making both parents chuckle.

"Don't know what we'd do without them," you agreed, flinching in that exact moment when pain struck your forehead. Your head spun for a fraction of a second, but your vision completely cleared out after. You turned to look at the boy as if nothing had happened, "Listen up, buddy."

The boy perked his ears, "We'll have to take off your muscles, so I can take a good look at your arm. Where does it hurt?"

He pointed toward his elbow with his healthy hand, "What do you think?" Asked his mother.

"Until we take off these bad boys," you nodded to the nurse as a signal for her to fetch a pair of scissors before returning to the fake foam, ignoring the buzz in your head, "I can't know for sure. But I suspect it's a fracture. How did he land on his arm?"

***

"You really don't look good," Ethan Choi said when he joined you by the computers. It was a busy day, and you almost wondered how he had time to stop by and ask how you were. Almost being what it is due to the immense ache in your forehead.

"Gee, thanks," you retorted sarcastically, one hand on the computer mouse and another one braced against the desk for support. Your eyes felt droopy, your mouth dry.

"You know I didn't mean it like that," he said, closing in on you when he leaned against the desk. On a normal day, his muscles would be a distraction. A big distraction.

Now, on this day, they were a blurry mess. Less sexy because you couldn't see them properly.

"Y/N you can't work like that," he tried to reason.

"Ethan, I'm telling you," you said with vehemence, "I'm fine."

There was no point in arguing with him, you realized, as nothing you told him could ease his claws on you. There were patients in greater pain than you, therefore they had the advantage.