`Medical Center
"What's up with her?" Adam asked, trailing Christina out of the locker room with a curious tilt of his head.
"You mean Meredith?" Christina shook her head. "Dr. Shepherd dumped her, and this time it's for good."
"No way, really?" Adam raised an eyebrow, unconvinced.
"He didn't sign the divorce papers," Christina explained, her voice dripping with disdain. "He told Meredith that Dr. Montgomery's his wife—so how could he possibly divorce her? What a shameless jerk! When he first met Meredith, why didn't he just say that? Why not drop that bomb right when they had it out? Instead, he let Meredith swallow her pride and beg him to pick her, only to hit her with that casual line—like she's the one wrecking his family and he's some saint."
"How dare you!" Adam said with a smirk, his tone teasing.
"Huh?" Christina shot him a puzzled look.
"I mean, imagine if Dr. Shepherd had tacked on a 'how dare you' at the end," Adam grinned playfully. "It'd be next-level dramatic."
"You know what?" Christina paused, mulling it over, then nodded. "Yeah, throwing that in would make it even more absurdly hilarious."
---
Emergency Room
"…all that media brainwashing, cramming kids' heads with garbage like 'I love you, you love me, we're one big happy family'—just filthy, laughable nonsense…" Adam caught the familiar rant as he stepped in.
Glancing over, he spotted an African-American guy who could've been Earl from 2 Broke Girls—decked out in a hospital gown, spitting and raving in that signature rap cadence, saliva flying everywhere.
If Joey, the actor who swore clear diction meant spraying spit, were here, he'd shout, "Pro move!"
"What's going on?" Adam asked, intrigued.
"It's—" A young nurse started, but a guy in a white coat cut her off.
"Mr. Rack's got uremia," the guy said in one breath, holding up a coffee tray with a suck-up smile aimed at Adam. "Needs dialysis, but his mouth's pissed off half the staff in New York hospitals. No one'll take him, so he's been hopping from place to place. Dr. Lewis felt sorry for him and let him in. Dr. Duncan, want a latte?"
"Kiss-ass!" the nurse snapped, glaring at the interrupter.
"And you are?" Adam asked, grinning at the eager guy.
"John Carter, sir. Fourth-year at NYU School of Medicine, interning in the ER," he replied, flashing his best polished smile.
"Thanks, Carter." Adam took the latte, gave a nod, then handed it to the nurse.
"Thank you, Dr. Duncan!" Her face lit up like she'd won the lottery.
Carter's smile froze.
"Carter," Adam said, clapping him on the shoulder with a chuckle, "you're a med intern, so here's your first lesson from me, a resident intern: don't ever piss off the nurses."
In hospitals, interns might be the lowest rung of real doctors—still earning a "Dr." title—but med students like Carter, stuck as "Mr." or "Ms.," had zero clout with patients. Unless, of course, they were some rare prodigy. The pecking order was crystal clear: attendings mentored residents, residents guided interns, and interns babysat med students. Carter pegging Adam as his ticket up showed he had sharp instincts.
"Thank you, Dr. Duncan!" Carter bounced back fast, grinning. "Please keep teaching me!"
"Heh." Adam gave a vague smile and headed toward Susan Lewis.
"You're not much to look at, but you've got big dreams," the nurse snorted at Carter. "Wanna tag along with Dr. Duncan? Join the line."
"Line?" Carter froze mid-step, nerves kicking in. "Wait, are other med interns after Dr. Duncan too?"
"I wasn't even counting you med interns," she shot back, puffing out her chest. "Plenty of actual interns are cozying up to Dr. Duncan, hoping to soak up some wisdom. Haven't you seen his open lectures? The guy's a genius—trades words with legends! Rumor has it he's an attending hiding in intern scrubs. You, a measly med student fresh off the boat, think you can skip two levels and shadow an 'attending'? Keep dreaming!"
With that, she grabbed the latte Adam had passed her, sipping it like it was liquid gold, savoring every drop.
Carter stood there, deflated.
"If I were you, I wouldn't overthink it," the nurse said, tossing him a glance. "Start with the basics—don't screw up the simple stuff. Dr. Duncan's not here to babysit you through that. Ask the old-timer nurses; they've seen it all. Once you're sharp enough to call them out, then you can dream about earning Dr. Duncan's nod and shadowing him for the good stuff."
Interns and nurses had a weird dance. At first, nurses dubbed the newbies "Bambi," poking fun at their fumbles. But if those rookies ditched the "I'm a med school grad" ego, nurses would throw them a bone, helping them grow. It was the humblest stretch for doctors and the happiest for nurses—when the divide was thinnest. Usually lasted two or three months. After that, the nurses' wisdom was tapped out, and the shift hit. A nurse might nudge a Bambi about a patient, but the half-seasoned rookies—armed with med school theory—would spot the flaws. Doctors owned the diagnosis gig, not nurses who'd grinded out experience. So, the interns started pushing back, demanding their calls be followed. That's when nurses clocked the golden days were done, muttering a flat, "Yes, doctor." From then on, it was doctors versus nurses—no more laughs, no shared lunches. Unless they hooked up, of course—then who's boss didn't matter.
Eh, whatever works! No shame in it! Interns had it rough, but med students like Carter? They'd better bow low and soak up everything—or the veteran nurses would school them hard.
"Thanks," Carter said earnestly, locking in a quiet vow to nail the basics fast and snag a spot by Adam's side.