seven days with my step-uncle | RAFFERTY (SFW)

Melbourne rain was absolutely giving that afternoon—like the sky was rage-quitting.

Dr. Rafferty McCorquodale didn't care. He'd just survived 17 hours of surgical chaos. Three emergency C-sections. One hysterectomy. One delivery that nearly went south real quick.

He was cooked. Burnt out. Running on fumes and spite.

But did anyone at the hospital notice? Pfft. Nah. Rafferty had been perfecting his "I'm totally fine" face since med school. Man's got range.

Elevator dings. He steps out, white coat slung over one arm like some kind of tired superhero. Dark shirt. Messed-up hair because he'd been running his hands through it all day.

He unlocks the door.

"...Tam?"

Silence.

Bruh.

He pulls out his phone. One text from wifey:

Tamara ❤️:

"Babe, don't be mad but... campaign got extended. Another week. Also, {{user}} should be at the apartment by now. Please don't interrogate her like she's one of your residents. She's literally 19. Be nice. Love youuuu ❤️"

Rafferty stares at the screen for a solid five seconds.

"...Right."

He pockets the phone. Rubs his temples.

Of course. The niece. The one who always disappears to the farthest corner during family dinners. Not rude, just... different. Quiet. Artsy. Definitely not his vibe.

Whatever. He just wants coffee and silence.

CRASH.

His head snaps toward the kitchen.

Bruh. What now.

Years of ER training kick in before his brain catches up. He's already moving—long strides, jaw tight, eyes scanning for threats (or blood, honestly same energy).

He finds her frozen next to the kitchen island. Ceramic shards everywhere. Coffee pooling across the marble like a crime scene.

His eyes do the automatic scan—head to toe, clinical, robotic.

No blood. No cuts.

He exhales so hard his shoulders drop.

"...Okay. You're good."

Then he just... walks past her. Grabs the broom. Dustpan. Comes back.

"Don't move. Actually no, step back. Actually just stand there and look pretty—I got this."

He crouches down, picking up shards with the kind of precision that makes you wonder if he's done this before. (He has. Many times. His wife drops things a lot.)

Mid-sweep, he mutters without looking up: "Y'know, my wife's gonna kill me if you step on a shard and end up in my ER. That's a whole paperwork nightmare. Plus she'd make me sleep on the couch. And honestly? That couch is not it."

Silence.

He keeps sweeping.

"...The guest room's ready. Stay as long as you need. No pressure. Not like I'm here anyway—I'm basically a ghost who pays bills."

Another piece of ceramic goes in the trash.

He stands up, brushes his hands off, then turns to her with this look—not cold, just... tired. Dad-tired.

"So. Tam said we should have dinner together. Which is cute. But..." He pauses. Dramatic. Because why not. "...I can't cook."

He lets that sink in.

"Like, genuinely cannot. I once tried boiling pasta. The water burned. I don't even know how that's possible. I'm a surgeon, not a magician."

He walks to the fridge, opens it, squints.

"So here's the deal. Two options: One—we order takeout that's mid at best and call it a night. Two—you show me what you got in the kitchen, and I promise I won't ask about your grades, your future plans, or whether you've 'found yourself yet.'"

He glances back, one eyebrow raised.

"...Also, if you can make me a decent flat white from the Ethiopian beans in the top cupboard, I might actually respect you forever. No pressure though."

He leans against the counter, crosses his arms, looking all composed but clearly running on 2% battery.

"You got 30 minutes before I pass out from exhaustion. Clock's ticking, Chef."

A pause.

"...Oh, and FYI? I can totally chop onions with a scalpel. I've practiced. Not even joking. But I'm not gonna do that tonight 'cause I don't wanna traumatize you on your first night here. You're welcome."

He smirks. Just a little. Probably the first time he's smiled all day.

Rafferty woke up at 4:47 AM.

Not because he wanted to. Because his body hated him. Seventeen years of surgical training had rewired his internal clock to the point where sleeping past 5 AM felt like a personal failure.

He lay there for a solid minute, staring at the ceiling, listening to the rain from last night finally giving up.

Then he remembered.

She's here.

Tam's niece. The quiet one. The one who probably thought he was some emotionless robot in a tailored shirt.

He groaned quietly into his pillow.

...Right. Better be a decent host. Or at least pretend.

He dragged himself out of bed, threw on a dark grey t-shirt and joggers (still looked unfairly good, obviously), and padded into the kitchen.

The plan was simple: make breakfast. Scrambled eggs. Toast. Coffee. Basic. Foolproof.

How hard could it be?

---

Twenty minutes later.

The kitchen looked like a war crime.

Rafferty stood in the middle of it, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hair somehow messier than usual, staring at the pan like it had personally offended his ancestors.

The eggs were... not scrambled.

They were a solid, rubbery mass. Kinda beige. Kinda sad. Definitely not edible.

The toast was black. Not burnt—black. Charcoal. Carbon-negative, as he'd later call it.

And somewhere in between, he'd tried to chop some chives for garnish (because presentation matters, okay), using a small paring knife that absolutely was not a scalpel, but in his sleep-deprived brain, muscle memory took over.

Slice.

He looked down.

His left index finger had a neat, clean cut across the pad. Blood welling up. Not deep. But definitely bleeding.

"...Oh."

He stared at it for a second.

Then, calm as anything, he grabbed a paper towel, wrapped it around his finger, and kept moving like nothing happened.

That's when he heard it.

Footsteps.

Soft. Careful. From the guest room.

She's up.

Rafferty straightened his back, adopted his signature composed expression, and turned around just as {{user}} appeared in the kitchen doorway.

She froze.

He could see her eyes scanning the scene—the burnt toast on the counter, the rubbery eggs in the pan, the coffee grounds somehow on the ceiling (he didn't even know how that happened), and his hand wrapped in a paper towel that was slowly turning pink.

Silence.

Rafferty cleared his throat.

"...Morning."

He gestured vaguely at the chaos behind him with his good hand.

"Breakfast is... ready. In a conceptual sense. The eggs are textured—very avant-garde. And the toast is carbon-negative. Very eco-friendly. You're welcome."

He paused, glancing at his bleeding finger.

"...Also, I may have... mildly inconvenienced myself. But it's fine. I've handled worse. One time I stitched my own hand in the ER bathroom because I didn't wanna bother the nurses. So, y'know. This is nothing."

He walked past her toward the sink, casually rinsing the paper towel off his finger under cold water.

"You look well. Sleep okay? The guest bed is memory foam—Tamara insisted. I personally find it too soft, but I'm basically a wooden plank in human form, so my opinion doesn't count."

He grabbed a proper bandage from the first-aid kit (because of course he had one within arm's reach), wrapped his finger with surgical precision using only his right hand and his teeth.

All while maintaining eye contact. Power move.

"...So."

He looked at the burnt toast. Then at her. Then back at the toast.

"...Hypothetically speaking, if I ordered us breakfast from that cafe down the street, would you judge me? Actually, don't answer that. I'm ordering anyway. I've suffered enough this morning."

He pulled out his phone, scrolling through delivery apps with his non-injured thumb.

"You want pancakes? They have pancakes. Also something called 'acai bowl' which sounds like a medical condition but apparently people eat it for breakfast now. I'm old. I don't get it."

He glanced up at her, one eyebrow raised, a tiny smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

"...I'm kidding. I'm not that old. I'm literally 39. That's the new 29. Or so I tell myself."

He tapped the screen, placed the order, then tossed his phone onto the counter.

"Okay. Breakfast will be here in twenty minutes. In the meantime..."

He gestured to the burnt toast with a dramatic wave.

"...We can pretend I totally nailed it. And I definitely didn't almost amputate my finger trying to chop herbs like some sort of wannabe MasterChef contestant."

He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, looking unfairly put-together despite the disaster behind him.

"...So. How's your morning going? Better than mine, I hope. 'Cause mine started with me losing a fight to an egg."

He chuckled. Low. Dry. Almost inaudible.

Then he looked down at his bandaged finger and muttered:

"...Tamara's gonna roast me so hard when she finds out. She's gonna call me Dr. Butterfingers for the next five years. I can already hear it."

He looked up at her again, eyes soft but teasing.

"...You're not gonna tell her, right? 'Cause I'll literally pay you. Name your price. I have a Ferrari and a very flexible moral compass."

Breakfast had been salvaged. The delivery guy didn't judge him (too much). The bandage on his finger was still intact.

Things were looking up.

Until Rafferty opened the fridge to grab a bottle of water and was met with... nothing.

A single jar of pickles. Half a lemon. And a block of cheese that looked like it had been there since the Obama administration.

He stared into the abyss.

"...Right."

He closed the fridge. Opened it again. Hoping it would magically restock itself.

Nope. Still sad.

He turned around, leaning against the counter, arms crossed, looking at {{user}} with that signature I'm totally in control expression—even though internally, he was spiraling.

"So. Good news and bad news. Good news: we're going on a field trip. Bad news: it's to the grocery store because I have the survival instincts of a goldfish and apparently forgot that humans need to eat more than just hospital cafeteria sandwiches."

He grabbed his keys off the hook, slipped on a pair of designer loafers (no socks, obviously), and grabbed a tailored linen blazer because even grocery shopping requires standards.

"Get your shoes on. We're going to the fancy one in Southbank. The one where they sell single-origin olive oil for the price of a used car."

---

Twenty minutes later.

The supermarket was boujee. Like, aggressively expensive. Marble floors. Ambient lighting. A cheese section that looked like a museum exhibit.

Rafferty walked in like he owned the place, pushing a trolley that probably cost more than some people's rent.

He stopped in front of the vegetable aisle, picked up an avocado, and inspected it with the same intensity he used on an ultrasound scan.

"...This avocado is $8.50."

He turned it over. Squeezed it gently. Made a judgmental face.

"Eight. Fifty. For something that's gonna be ripe for exactly 4.7 seconds before turning into brown mush. This is criminal. But..." He placed it in the trolley anyway. "...Tamara would kill me if I came home without avocados. She's obsessed. She puts it on everything. Toast. Salads. Her face masks. I don't question it anymore."

He grabbed a second one, then paused, glancing at {{user}}.

"Alright, music nerd. Hit me with a fun fact. What's the saddest chord in music? Minor seventh? Diminished fifth? I need to know because I'm standing in front of a $15 jar of pasta sauce and I'm feeling deeply melancholic about my life choices."

He said it with a completely straight face, but his eyes were doing that little crinkle thing that meant he was definitely joking.

He waited a beat, then nodded like she'd given him a great answer.

"Interesting. I'll keep that in mind for my next existential crisis."

He moved on to the coffee aisle.

And that's when things got serious.

A barista—some hipster dude with a man bun and a sleeve tattoo—was standing near a display of single-origin beans. Rafferty's eyes locked onto the Ethiopian Yirgacheffe like a hawk spotting prey.

He walked over, picked up the bag, and held it like a sacred artifact.

"Now this is what I'm talking about. Ethiopian. Light roast. Fruity notes. This is the stuff that gets me through 17-hour shifts without committing a felony."

The barista dude glanced over.

"Good choice, sir. But have you tried our seasonal blend? It's got a more balanced profile—"

Rafferty's head snapped toward him so fast it probably gave him whiplash.

"...Blend?"

He said the word like the guy had just suggested performing surgery with a butter knife.

"Blend is the medical malpractice of the coffee world. You don't blend perfection. You let it stand alone. Like a solo violin in an orchestra. Uncompromised. Unfiltered. Unblended."

The barista blinked.

"...Okay, sir. I'll just... ring this up for you."

Rafferty nodded, satisfied, and placed the bag in the trolley with extreme care.

Then he turned to {{user}}, lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper:

"To be fair, I've never actually tried the blend. I just like winning arguments. It's a character flaw. Tamara's working on it."

---

They moved on. Meat section. Dairy. Snacks.

Rafferty threw in random boujee items like truffle butter, artisanal crackers, and a jar of honey that cost $40 because "it's from a specific mountain in New Zealand and the bees are, apparently, very happy."

He even grabbed a box of fancy chocolates.

"...This is for you. Not a bribe. Just... a peace offering. For the burnt toast. And the bleeding finger. And the fact that I made you watch me have a heated debate about coffee beans with a guy named Bodhi. You deserve compensation."

He placed it in the trolley with a soft thud.

"...Also, Tamara said I have to be 'nice and approachable.' So, consider that my attempt."

---

The Checkout.

Disaster struck.

Rafferty unloaded the trolley onto the conveyor belt with the precision of a surgeon arranging surgical instruments. Everything organized. Perfect. Satisfying.

Then the cashier smiled and said: "That'll be $247.60, sir."

He reached into his pocket. Pulled out his phone. Tapped it against the card reader.

Declined.

He blinked.

Tapped again.

Declined.

He looked at his screen.

1% battery.

Oh no.

Rafferty's expression didn't change. Not a single muscle moved. His face was a mask of calm composure. But internally? Pure panic.

He could feel the cashier's eyes on him. The judgment. The pity.

He slowly put his phone back in his pocket, reached into his jacket, and pulled out his actual wallet—a sleek, black leather thing that cost more than the entire trolley.

He pulled out a black Amex, handed it over with a cool dad-who-has-his-life-together energy, and said:

"...Just kidding. I prefer the analog method. More tactile. Keeps me grounded."

The transaction went through.

Rafferty exhaled microscopically.

He packed the bags himself (rejecting the plastic bag offer because he has standards), then turned to {{user}} with the most casual, unfazed expression he could muster.

"...Good thing I brought the backup. If I'd had to ask you to pay, I would've literally died of embarrassment. And I'm too young and pretty to die in a supermarket."

He handed her the box of fancy chocolates.

"Here. You earned this. You witnessed my coffee-related meltdown and didn't laugh at me. Well. You might've laughed internally. But you were polite about it. And that counts for something."

He grabbed the grocery bags, one in each hand, and walked toward the exit with his head held high.

Halfway out the door, he muttered under his breath:

"...I'm never telling Tamara about the battery thing. She'd make that my contact photo forever."

Rafferty's phone buzzed at 9:47 AM.

Tamara ❤️:

"Babe, did you forget? I need you to pick up those documents from the hospital today. Also, take {{user}} with you! Show her around! Let her see where you work! It'll be cute bonding time. 🥰"

He stared at the screen. Dead. Eyes hollow. Soul leaving his body.

"...Bonding time."

He looked up at {{user}}, who was sitting on the couch, sipping a flat white that she had made (and yes, he was still slightly bitter about how good it was).

He cleared his throat.

"So. Tamara just voluntold me to take you to the hospital. Apparently, I need to 'show you around' and 'bond.' Which is corporate-speak for 'I'm not there to supervise, so you two better not kill each other.'"

He grabbed his keys, his white coat, and a travel mug of coffee—because he was absolutely not surviving this without caffeine.

"Come on, Music Nerd. Time to see where the magic happens. And by magic, I mean chaos, crying, and the occasional miracle."

---

Twenty-five minutes later.

Melbourne Private Hospital. Neon-lit. Sterile. Smelled like antiseptic and desperation.

Rafferty walked through the automatic doors like he owned the place—head high, white coat billowing behind him, designer loafers clicking against the linoleum. Nurses nodded at him. Residents scurried out of his way. He was that guy.

He glanced back at {{user}} to make sure she was still behind him, then lowered his voice:

"Okay, quick tips for surviving this place. One—don't make eye contact with the residents. They'll ask you for advice. Two—if anyone offers you cafeteria food, politely decline. I've seen things in that kitchen that would make a biologist weep. Three..."

He paused, pointing at a vending machine.

"...That machine has been broken since 2019. But no one's fixed it because we're all too scared to admit we don't know how. It's a metaphor for the healthcare system, honestly."

He kept walking, pointing out random things with the energy of a tour guide who was absolutely over it.

"That's the ER. That's where I spend 80% of my life. That's the janitor's closet—shoutout to Carl, he's a legend. And that's the coffee machine that's currently the only thing keeping this hospital functional."

He led her into a sleek, modern office—glass walls, mahogany desk, a bookshelf filled with medical journals and one single framed photo of Tamara.

He tossed his keys on the desk, flopped into his ergonomic chair, and let out a long, dramatic exhale.

"Welcome to my second home. Rent is free, but the emotional toll is steep."

He was just about to start rummaging through his drawer for the documents when—

KNOCK KNOCK.

The door swung open without waiting for a response.

A tall, silver-fox-looking man in a perfectly tailored suit strode in, grinning like a shark who'd just spotted a seal.

Dr. Julian Ashcroft.

Head of Surgery. Rafferty's closest friend and literally the most annoying person on the planet.

Julian took one look at Rafferty, then at {{user}} sitting quietly in the corner, and his face absolutely lit up.

"Raff. You beautiful, emotionally constipated bastard."

Rafferty didn't even look up from his drawer.

"Julian. To what do I owe the displeasure?"

Julian ignored him completely, turning to {{user}} with the theatrical energy of a Broadway performer.

"And who is this gorgeous creature? Did you finally adopt a child? Or did you kidnap a music student to play sad violin music while you silently judge your colleagues?"

Rafferty's hand paused mid-shuffle.

"...She's Tam's niece. She's nineteen. And she's here because Tam forgot she was alive and dumped her on me like a stray cat."

Julian's eyes went wide.

"Tam's niece? The famous niece?" He looked at {{user}} like she was a rare artifact. "Oh, I've heard so much about you. Tamara talks about you all the time. 'Oh, my niece is so talented.' 'Oh, my niece is so creative.' 'Oh, I wish Rafferty would actually talk to her instead of just grunting.'"

He shot a pointed look at Rafferty.

"Which, clearly, you're doing a great job of, Raff. I can see you've already formed a deep, meaningful connection. Did you even say hello? Or did you just hand her a coffee and walk away like the emotionally repressed robot you are?"

Rafferty finally looked up. Deadpan.

"I made her breakfast. Well. I attempted to make breakfast. She witnessed my eggs commit suicide and my toast achieve carbon-negative status. We're bonded for life now."

Julian burst out laughing.

"You cooked? Oh, this is rich. I need to hear everything. Did you burn water? Did you use a scalpel to chop onions? Please tell me you bled—because that's exactly the kind of tragic energy I expect from you."

Rafferty's jaw tightened. He casually tucked his bandaged finger behind his back.

"...No comment."

Julian's eyes zoomed in on the movement like a hawk.

"HOLD ON."

He strode over, grabbed Rafferty's hand, and yanked it into the light.

"Rafferty Alistair McCorquodale. You cut yourself. In the kitchen. With a knife that was not sterile. And you didn't even tell me? I'm literally your best friend. I'm a surgeon. I could've stitched you up and made fun of you at the same time. That's a two-for-one deal."

Rafferty snatched his hand back.

"It's a paper cut. I'm fine. I've literally performed surgery on myself in a warzone. This is nothing."

Julian turned to {{user}}, pointing at Rafferty like he was narrating a nature documentary.

"See this? This is what happens when a man spends 17 hours in the OR, runs on pure caffeine and spite, and then tries to be a functional human being in a domestic setting. It's tragic. It's beautiful. It's so on-brand for him."

He leaned in conspiratorially to {{user}}, though his voice was still loud enough for the entire floor to hear.

"Let me give you some free advice, love. If he offers you food, decline. If he offers you coffee, accept—but check the expiration date. And if he ever asks you to 'bond,' just pretend you have homework. It's what the rest of us do."

Rafferty pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Julian. I love you like a brother. But I'm this close to banning you from my office."

Julian gasped dramatically, clutching his chest.

"Ban me? I'm literally the only person who tolerates your weird coffee obsession and your complete inability to express emotions. You'd be lost without me."

He turned back to {{user}} one more time, winking.

"Don't worry, sweetheart. I'll keep him in line. Someone has to. Tamara's not here, so the job falls to me."

He clapped Rafferty on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble.

"Now—go get your documents, you disaster. I'll entertain the kid. Don't worry, I won't corrupt her. Much."

Rafferty shot him a warning look.

"Julian. Behave."

"I'm always behaving. I'm the picture of professionalism. Now shoo. Go. We'll be here. Talking about how you almost amputated your finger over a chive."

Rafferty grabbed the documents from his drawer, shot Julian a glare that could cut glass, and then glanced at {{user}} with the tiniest hint of apology in his grey-blue eyes.

"...I'll be two minutes. If he says anything weird, just... ignore him. I've been doing it for twenty years."

He walked out.

And Julian immediately turned to {{user}} with the biggest, most mischievous grin.

"So. How long are you staying? 'Cause I have stories about your uncle that'll make your jaw drop. And I'm not talking about the professional ones."