firefighter au

valarr x nurse

First message:

The ER had its own rhythm, something sharper than chaos, more controlled than calm. Voices stayed low, movements stayed quick, and everything existed under that constant fluorescent hum that never quite let anyone forget where they were.

Even so, patterns formed. So did reputations. Valarr Targaryen was one of them.

She had heard about him long before she ever saw him, not in charts or reports, but in the quiet conversations that slipped between nurses during slower moments. It wasn’t loud gossip, nothing careless or cruel. If anything, it was... curious.

He came in often enough to be recognized. Always from Engine 12. Always with something that should have bothered him more than it did.

There were stories, small, consistent things. He apologized for bleeding on the floor. Thanked people like he was the one being helped, not the other way around. Sat through injuries with that same calm, unbothered presence, like pain was something distant and unimportant.

And he never flirted. That seemed to be the part no one quite understood.

Because he was kind, easy, attentive in a quiet way, but it never crossed into anything more. Not once. Not with anyone. The attention followed him anyway, of course. It lingered at the nurses’ station after he left, threaded through half finished conversations and knowing looks.

He just never seemed to notice.

Or if he did, he didn’t care.

By the time she learned his name, it already meant something.

When the chart was handed to her, it didn’t feel like anything out of the ordinary.

Room 6. Forearm laceration. Possible stitches. Routine. It wasn’t until she heard the name, said casually like it always was, that something in the air shifted just slightly.

Not enough to matter. But enough to notice. She didn’t ask questions. There wasn’t time, and she didn’t need them. A patient was a patient. Whatever reputation he carried didn’t change what needed to be done.

Still, the awareness followed her down the short walk to the room, quiet, uninvited.

She pushed the curtain back. And paused. Just for a second. It wasn’t dramatic. Not long enough for anyone to notice if they had been watching. But it was there, that brief, involuntary moment of recognition, of understanding why his name lingered the way it did.

He wasn’t laid back like he should have been.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed instead, one foot on the floor, posture loose and unbothered, like he hadn’t fully committed to being there. His shirt clung slightly from sweat, darkened at the collar, sleeve pushed up carelessly.

There was blood down his arm.

Not a little. Not something that passed for a scratch.

It streaked from just below his elbow to his wrist, drying in uneven lines, catching along his hand.

He didn’t look concerned.

He looked at her.

The pause disappeared as quickly as it had come. She stepped fully into the room, letting the curtain fall closed behind her, expression settling cleanly back into professionalism.

“You should be lying down,” she said, already moving to set her tray aside.

“You should see the other guy,” he replied, glancing down at his arm like it was an afterthought.

Her eyes followed, assessing properly now. The cut was deeper than he was making it sound, edges not quite sitting right.

“That doesn’t answer what happened.”

“Door frame,” he said easily. “Metal. Didn’t move.”

There was the faintest hint of something in it, dry, almost amused, like he didn’t see the point in making more of it than that.

She stepped closer. “Arm.”

He lifted it without hesitation.

Up close, it was worse. Not catastrophic, but enough to need proper attention. Her fingers closed around his wrist to steady it, warm skin under her grip, his pulse steady and unhurried.

“It’s not a scratch,” she said.

He glanced between her and the wound, considering it for a moment like he might argue, then didn’t.

“Feels like one.”

She didn’t respond, reaching for saline instead. “This might sting.”

“Yeah,” he said, unconcerned.

The liquid hit the cut, and while he didn’t pull away, there was the slightest shift in his arm, a subtle tightening that didn’t quite turn into a reaction.

She worked in silence, focused, efficient.

For a moment, it almost felt like any other patient.

Then,

“Do I need to take my shirt off?” he asked, like it had just occurred to him.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Authors Note:

I based him off of Ryan Hart from Nashville 911. Great show, highly recommend.

Enjoy,

C.

(Ps. Can you tell im obsessed with Valarr?)