Hello everybody! I'm back! Sorry for the brief hiatus. I've been dealing with a change in jobs, and writing had to take a back seat while things got figured out. For those of you following Adult Swim, don't worry. I will continue that story. However, the plot line for The Alias popped into my head, and I had to start writing it.

As always, please follow, fav and review!

BPOV

Coffee makers aren't easily intimidated. I am aware of this fact. Still, I break out my best bitch brow and aim it toward the department's Keurig.

In return, I get nothing more than the steady gurgle of the slow-brewing machine.

"Come on!" I throw my head back with a groan.

Sure, I'm being a bit dramatic, but I'm on my last leg of three twelve-hour shifts, and I'm in serious danger of passing out on my next patient. I joke that someone needs to market a caffeine IV drip, but in seriousness, I'd pay good money.

"Hey, Bella, your labs are back for room twelve." Jessica, my friend, and nurse assigned to work with me tonight, pops her head into the breakroom.

"Caffeine," I explain, waving my hand toward the half-brewed cup.

"Also, you've got a laceration in room ten."

"I'm not sure I can see straight enough to stitch right now."

"Trust me. You're gonna perk up when you see your patient. The guy is H-O-T hot! Like, think GQ-model, Brad-Pitt-in-his-hay-day hot."

"Yeah?" She's got my interest.

"And guess what he did that caused the injury."

"Running with scissors," I say, stirring cream into my finally finished coffee.

"Close- except totally wrong. He got in a bar fight." Jessica grins.

"So I've got to stitch up a drunk guy? Great." I grimace. I try chugging my coffee. It's burning hot and scalds the top of my mouth.

"I don't think he's drunk." She shakes her head.

"But he was in a bar fight?" I counter as I blow on the steaming liquid and follow her out of the breakroom.

"I don't know." She shrugs. "He seems sober."

"Let me glance over Mr. Jefferson's labs, and then I'll be in to look at Mr. GQ-bar fight," I promise as we reach the nurse's station.

Jessica winks and waltzes off to get vitals on a breather we're about to discharge.

I scan Mr. Jefferson's chart and put in an order for an ultrasound. I've got my money on kidney stones.

After a quick stop to inform Mr. Jefferson about my theory and our next steps, I head to room ten, where my laceration waits. I recheck my tablet to make sure I've got the patient's name right before knocking on the door.

"Hello, Mr. Masen?" I ask as I go into the room.

"Yeah. You can call me Tony, though."

The side of his mouth quirks up as he speaks, and I stumble over myself. Even with a bandage covering his eyebrow, the guy is gorgeous.

I take a minute to collect myself, turning to the sink to wash my hands. Singing the ABCs in my head because proper hand hygiene involves a precise amount of scrubbing- also, I need a distraction. When I can't stall any longer, I twist back around and give a small smile.

"I'm doctor Swan," I say as I step closer, pulling on my gloves. "I'm going to go ahead and remove this bandage so I can get a look at what we're dealing with, okay?"

"Sure thing."

My hand shakes, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to focus on the examination. Mr. Masen, Tony, is all sharp lines and chiseled features. His jaw could cut glass and I'm tempted to run my fingers along the day-old scruff covering it. His nose is the slightest bit crooked, making me think this isn't the first fight he's been in.

"So, a bar fight?" I ask, trying to start an appropriate conversation. I ignore the inappropriate female impulses in me, screaming to let this man ravage me on the exam table.

"You should see the other guy," he jokes. I giggle despite myself, then clear my throat.

Be professional, damnit!

"Let's take a look at this cut!" I hover over him, and inadvertently my chest is level with his face. I can feel his eyes on me.

"I, uh, got pushed into broken glass," he explains as I examine the cut above his eyebrow.

"It's not jagged at all. That's good. I'd say it needs about three stitches. It shouldn't scar too badly."

"Don't chicks dig scars?" He teases. I feel my face heat. Good God. I'm twenty-eight, and I'm acting like a fourteen-year-old!

"Maybe some do." Who was I kidding? A small scar will add a dash of mystery to his rugged handsomeness. No woman in her right mind will be able to resist.

"I'll be back in a few minutes, and we'll get started, okay?"

"I'll be here," he jokes.

I escape the exam room and take a deep breath. I'm jittery from caffeine and nerves, and I'm not sure I can spend more time in Tony Masen's room without making a fool of myself.

"What did I tell you?" Jessica asks as I round the corner of the nurse's station.

"Can you prep the sutures?" I refuse to admit he's affected me.

"Come on, Bella! You're all work, all the time! Just admit that he's a hottie."

"Fine. He's a good-looking guy. Happy?"

"You should ask for his number. Tell him you make house calls."

"I absolutely will not be asking for his number or making a house call!" A couple of heads pop up from the other side of the station in reaction to my outburst. "Please, just prep the suture kit."

"It's ready to go. I'll bring it in there. Maybe he needs an overnight nurse to tend to his needs."

"Jesus, Jessica! Nevermind! I'll get it myself." I push past her as she falls into a fit of laughter. We've worked too many nights in a row. We're getting delirious.

I close my eyes and count to ten before re-entering Mr. Masen's room. I think I've centered myself- until I push the door open and find that he's removed his jacket. He has on a black V-neck T that's hugging the muscles of his arms and chest in the most delicious way. I have to remind myself that I, one hundred percent, do not make house calls.

He gives me a nervous smile as I prep the sutures. I wonder if he's ever had stitches before.

"Just lean back on the bed and try to relax. I'm going to inject a numbing agent first. You'll feel a little pinch." He flinches as I insert the needle.

"Sorry," he mutters.

"That's the worst part, I promise."

"So, Doctor Swan, have you done this many times? I mean- you look young. Not that that's a bad thing! I just want to make sure I'm not going to walk out of here looking like Frankenstein."

He winks at me, and I'm back to imagining us in precarious positions.

"I'm in my last year of residency- but, yes, I've done sutures hundreds of times." My answer placates him. He rests his head back and closes his eyes, but I notice his hands fisted by his side.

"What made you want to be a doctor?" He asks after a minute.

I hesitate before answering him. Usually, with patients, I keep personal conversations to a minimum, but something about Tony Masen tells me he's not looking to cause trouble. He needs a distraction from his anxiety.

"Growing up, my best friend's dad was a trauma surgeon. He used to tell us stories about the people he saved."

"A real-life hero, huh?"

"Something like that. Tell me if you feel anything." I watch him for signs of pain as I put pressure near the wound. "Nothing?"

"Nope."

"Great, then I'm going to get started." His jaw ticks. I realize this process will go much smoother if I keep him talking. "Are you from Chicago originally? You don't have an accent."

"No, I'm from out west. What about you?"

"West coast, too."

"Yeah, what part?" I've piqued his interest.

"Pacific Northwest."

"Gorgeous up there."

"It is. How are you feeling?" I ask as I finish the first stitch.

"Just feel a little pressure."

"Good. That's normal. I'm curious, how did you wind up in a bar fight? You're not drunk."

"Maybe I am."

"Mr.- um, Tony, I deal with my fair share of drunk people, and you, sir, are definitely sober."

"Would you believe me if I said I lost a bet?"

"Should I believe you?"

"Probably not."

"I've got one more stitch. You're doing great."

"You're making it easy."

"You're an easy patient."

We're quiet as I finish the final stitch. I take my time cleaning up. I'm not ready for him to leave.

He's just another patient, Bella.

"You'll need to come back in seven to ten days to get the stitches removed. Keep the area dry and covered. An antibiotic ointment like Neosporin will help it heal and keep it from getting infected." I explain as I tape gauze over the cut. "Any questions for me?"

"Yeah, can I see you again?" My heart skips a beat. "When I come back in seven to ten days?"

He's got a cheeky smile on his face, and I feel myself flush. I think he's flirting with me, and I don't know how to handle that. I'm intent on keeping things professional, but the playful glint in his emerald eyes catches me off-guard.

"Um, maybe? It depends on what time you come in," I mumble, pushing the suture cart to the side. "I usually work late shifts."

"Like graveyard?"

"Sometimes."

He nods. "I'm a night owl anyway."

We're stalled in awkward silence until I remember that I'm the one who's supposed to give orders about what happens next.

"Okay, well, we will see you sometime next week. My nurse will be in soon with your discharge papers. Maybe stay out of bars for a while, okay?"

"Will do," he chuckles.

I indulge in one last glance before I leave the room. He's tugging his hand through his thick dark hair, taming the locks that have fallen onto his forehead. I think I'll see if I can switch my shifts next week. It would be a shame not to be here to care for my patient.

I return to Mr. Jefferson with the, confirmed, kidney stones and take on another patient with chest pain. But for the rest of my shift, I'm phoning it in. My mind is stuck on the mystery of Tony Masen. I want to know how a sober man ended up in a bar fight and why a guy that gorgeous was alone in an emergency room at one o'clock in the morning.

My shift ends at three thirty, and I've never been happier to be off work. I have a long overdue date with sleep that I hope will clear my mind of handsome, flirty patients.

I have to force my eyes open on the drive home. I roll down my windows and let the cool night air rush over my face on my way to my brownstone. There's never parking on my street, so I'm shocked when I find an open spot half a block from my front door.

My feet drag as I lug my cooler, purse, and computer bag down the sidewalk. I refilled my coffee before leaving the hospital, so I'm carrying my travel mug in one hand while my keys dangle from the other. As I near my house, I notice something- or someone on my front steps.

"God damnit!" I mutter, positioning the pepper spray I have attached to my keys. I don't know who thinks they can take a nap on my front porch, but I am in no mood to be messed with. "Hey, asshole! Get the hell out of here!"

I raise my weapon and get ready to spray, but stop short when the man waiting for me jumps up, revealing another person behind him.

"Bella! Thank God!"

"Jake? I could have hurt you! What are you doing here?"

"Hurt me?" He scoffs and eyes my pepper spray like it's nothing but a water gun. "I need your services. My buddy, Quil, got beat up pretty bad tonight. He needs a doctor."

"My services? Jake, I'm not a for-hire contractor!"

"Didn't you have to take some oath or something? You've, like, gotta help him, right? Quil, show her where it hurts," he says, turning to the man hunched over on the steps. Quil groans in return.

"Ugh! Fine, let's go inside," I growl. All I want is to wash the emergency room off and climb into bed.

I push past Jake and side-eye Quil, who does seem to be in a fair amount of pain, and open the door. The men follow me into the kitchen, where I drop my bags on the counter and motion for Quil to take a seat.

"Alright, what happened?" I ask.

"He got in a fight," Jake supplies.

"I need more detail than that. What did he hurt? Quil, can you answer some questions for me?" I lean in, taking his pulse and checking his pupils for dilation. He reeks of booze and cigarettes.

"We were at this bar, and some psycho goes ape shit on us. I held my own," Jake grins, "but this dummy was already shit-faced and got the crap kicked out of him." In the light, I can see a bruise on his forehead and his split lip.

"Asshole!" Quil whines, "You didn't hold anything! You ran like a fucking pussy!"

"Quil, do you know today's date?" I ask, screening him for a concussion.

"Fuck, no!"

"Ask him a question he knows, Bella," Jake says.

"Oh my God. Fine. Quil, how many fingers am I holding up?"

"Three."

"Good. What is Jake's last name."

"Black."

"What month is it?"

"October."

"I don't think you've got a concussion. Can you tell me what hurts?" A bruise is forming under his eye, and blood is trickling from his nose. It's not obviously broken, but without a radiology department in my townhouse, I'm limited in my power of diagnostics.

"My fucking face. And my side."

"Did you get hit in the nose?" I ask, gently prodding the area.

"Fuck!" He hisses when I get to a particularly sensitive part. "Yes, I got hit in the fucking nose!"

"Jake, I have an ice pack in the freezer. Quil, I'm going to lift up your shirt." I lift the hem to find more bruising spreading down his side. "Does this hurt?" I ask, feeling along his ribs.

"What the hell is wrong with you!" Quil jumps and slaps my hand away. "Yes, that fucking hurts!"

"Well?" Jake asks, handing over the ice. I place it on Quil's nose and tell him to hold it in place.

"My best guess? He's got a couple of broken ribs and possibly a broken nose. He needs X-rays. There's nothing I can do here without knowing what the bones look like."

"No. No hospitals," Jake says. "Why don't you just write him a prescription for Vicodin or something? I'll take him home to sleep it off."

"You can't sleep off broken bones, Jake!"

"Come on, Bella. We're friends, right? Just do me a solid here. I'll owe you."

"Friends? We are not friends."

"Don't be like that."

"We dated for a couple of months. That's it. Now, you show up unannounced every time someone you know gets injured, which is way more often than it should be."

"We live on the edge. What can I say?"

"We're done. I looked at your friend. I gave you my professional opinion. Now it's time for you two to go. You can keep the ice pack," I tell Quil as I help him stand.

"So what about that prescription," Jake asks.

"Go to the hospital if you want drugs. I'm not writing anything."

They follow me to the door, Quil leaning heavily on Jake as they walk. They're almost outside before Jake stops and turns back around.

"Hey, so I know you said you needed to focus on your work and all, but what about one more date? I know a real nice place up near River Walk. Tablecloths and everything. I wanna take you there."

I cringe at the picture he paints. "No. Now, please go to the hospital."

"Think about it."

The second they're over the threshold, I slam my door and fasten the locks.

I sigh as I trudge up the stairs, pulling off my jacket and scrub top. I'm half naked by the time I reach my shower. I strip off my remaining clothes and wait impatiently for my water to heat up.

Every bone in my body aches, and a headache I've fought off for hours begins to pound through my skull. As the water cascades over my skin, I let the past three nights of work roll off me. When I'm done, I dress in an old t-shirt and climb into bed.

I hold on to only one memory from the past few days- a pair of green eyes and a crooked smile.

I shouldn't fantasize about my patients. But no matter how hard I try not to, I drift off to sleep with tantalizing thoughts of Tony Masen running through my head.

A/N:

Aiming for weekly updates on Thursdays. In chapter two, we'll get a little more insight into exactly who Tony Masen is... ;)