Whistling through his teeth, Healer Fletcher signed off on his most recent patient’s chart and stole a glance up at the clock for the tenth time in as many minutes, still hardly daring to believe it. There was an age-old superstition among emergency staff that if you commented on – or even thought too much about – how slow a shift was, the universe would invariably throw it right back in your face, post-haste, and promptly swamp you with new intakes.
But, sure enough, the clock read 3:57pm – and all was quiet.
Well, mostly. There was no such thing as true quiet in the Emergency Healing wing. The influx of patients had gradually stemmed to a trickle, despite the time (which normally saw an uptick in activity since the typical workday was drawing to a close), and those that
were coming in had very straightforward, relatively minor complaints: a cut from a poorly-attended enchanted kitchen knife that was just a bit too deep for the average
Episkey, an ugly-looking but rather superficial burn from a Fire Crab (though based on the man’s story, Ben was surprised that the Ministry had actually granted this man a license to keep one), and one or two other such complaints. Only a few patients who had been seen remained in the department, and they were merely waiting to be sent up to the floors once beds became available and not in need of any further immediate care.
Today was a rare day, indeed.
Usually when his shift was scheduled to end at a certain time, it was a tacit understanding that he wouldn’t truly be finished with sign-out and whatnot for at least another 30 minutes to an hour. Healing was not about clocking out on time; it was about clocking out once the work had been done, and the patients stabilized and properly signed-out to the next Healer on duty. Today, though, clocking out on time and clocking out when the work was done happened to coincide with exceedingly rare and glorious perfection.
Perhaps he should buy a lottery ticket.
Lingering for another minute to be certain that all was in order and that no one needed any additional help, the Gryffindor alumnus waved cheerily to his colleagues and made his way to the lockers to change back into his street clothes and deposit his robes in the hospital’s staff laundry service. He never wore his Healer’s robes outside the hospital: for one, it was downright tacky and ostentatious to do so; for two, it was a biohazard, considering he’d had a good chance of having Merlin-knew-what contagions splattered all over them throughout the course of the shift.
Coiling his scarf around his neck and shrugging into his jacket, Ben pushed open the double doors to exit the wing. He was dressed a bit more
formally than usual: he had volunteered to be on the planning committee for the Grand Ball for charity scheduled to take place next month, and had to attend a 7am meeting in one of the board rooms prior to his shift starting at 8am.
It felt odd to be leaving after only eight hours of work – Ben typically preferred to work 12-hour shifts, as he found them to provide better continuity with hand-offs – but couldn’t say that he wasn’t enjoying it.
His sense of enjoyment – and his heart rate – took another upward leap when a familiar voice accompanied a light tap on his shoulder.
“Brita!â€
He beamed, not bothering to hide his delight at seeing her. How on earth had she remembered that? It wasn’t as though he’d made a point of mentioning it or anything, and Brita was a busy woman herself. It was a simple gesture, but a warm sensation bloomed in his chest regardless.
“You certainly picked a good day – any other and you might still be sitting there, waiting, an hour from now,†he laughed, showing a flash of white teeth. “Now I know why it was so slow all afternoon: the patients must have known you were coming and behaved themselves accordingly so I’d be able to leave on time.â€
It was only as he tore his eyes away from her face long enough to glance down at the tin in her hands that he realized the ‘pick-me-up’ she’d spoken of was not, in fact, a reference to herself. He stared at the tin perhaps a second too long before recovering himself, eyes widening and putting a hand theatrically to his chest as he took a peek inside.
“What, for
me? You know I’d never turn down sweets.†He dimpled at her, snaking a hand into the tin (“Don’t give me that look, I’ve just washed them!â€) to retrieve a cookie and took a large bite.
“These are
excellent,†he told her emphatically, giving her a thumbs-up with his free hand. “Did you and Liv make these? What exactly are they?â€
Ben knew, obviously, that Brita shared a flat with her cousin Liv, and he also remembered quite well that Christmas cookies were a big deal in the Trickett clan. Baking genes must surely run in the family, as though Crust & Crumbs wasn’t evidence enough: he couldn’t recall a single thing Brita had made that was anything less than excellent.
