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The nurses say he's quiet. Soft. Sweet.
Tim suspects the man is all those things and more: could be a total ass—incompetent like Schwetje over at OMFs, or panicky like the Psych ward's paranoid Captain America, whose name Tim doesn't know and doesn't care to know, because who the fuck in their right mind would want to socialise with a doctor whose only redeemable quality is his ability to relate to his patients due to similar psychological status?
It's all a ruse, he thinks. Something to cover up the dirt.
It takes him five seconds to take a liking to Eugene Roe.
Quiet, soft, sweet Eugene Roe, who's quiet because he's intense, soft-spoken because he doesn't need to raise his voice to command anyone's attention, and sweet... well. He's got down-turned shaped eyes and one-fourth of a smile that's worth more than the fistful of silver spoons lodged up a Louisiana sugar baron's ass because it's so fucking rare. Unless, Tim later on discovers, you're a child.
Roe is interesting. Roe is punctual. Roe speaks French. At least twice in a day he sings Non, je ne regretté rien lyrically and in tune, unconsciously and under his breath. He likes plaid button downs. He watches Buster Keaton videos on his phone during coffee breaks, always takes exactly eight minutes to shower and dress, and has recently switched from Lucky Strikes to Marlboro.
True to his watery hometown roots, Roe loves amphibians and reptiles and once nursed his neighbour's pet Tokay gecko back to health.
It then apparently refused to stay put in its glass container, complete with tropical plants and a little waterfall, and after several successful attempts of visiting the surgeon, is now a semi-permanent fixture in Eugene's bathroom.
Unless the man is home. It then stays on the wall above Eugene's bed when he goes to sleep.
"He might as well shit lemon-scented rainbows." Tim tells no one in particular, turning away from the sight of Roe smiling gently at a five year old girl with a fractured shin bone. The child, who had been sobbing for its maternal unit up until his fellow surgeon made his appearance, is now adoring and obedient. It's fucking disgusting.
Beside him, Renée Lemaire grins like a fucking all-knowing Cheshire cat.
He decides he does not like her.
Roe runs on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. He is a middle-distance runner. It explains how he is able to sprint from one building to another, dodging equipment, patients and doctors alike, seemingly popping out of nowhere like daisies pop out of the snow.
Roe wears boxer briefs.
Comfortable and practical, Tim tells himself, discreetly going back to changing his own clothes. If he later has to go fuck his own fist twice just to exhaust himself into sleepiness, coming hard with shaky breaths exhaled into his pillow, it's no one's business but his own.
Quiet. Soft. Sweet.
Eugene is all those things and more, but above all else, he is a doctor and an excellent one at that. Tim's an honest man, and he sees no point in beating around the bush. After weeks of discreet observation that can make a Recon Marine proud, he can honestly say—and also after he's seen Roe rip into their department head with quiet but harsh words, a pointed finger, a scowl, and his fist clenched tightly around a pair of scissors—that Eugene Roe is a good, fearless man. He can be a raging spitfire of medical acumen and righteous, explosive anger, yes, but a good man nonetheless.
Tim knows Eugene Roe is an inconvenience. Also: He's totally fucked.
