Welcome to Gaia! ::

Well, they'd called him back--great--and he'd gotten confirmation of his residency in the form of a badge--also great--but they'd wanted him to start literally a week after giving him the job. Considering Nick had plans for his summer, that wasn't ideal. Considering he wanted a job to feel slightly more secure than he had been, he wasn't going to say no. So he gave Kaatje his hours at the hospital and promised to lend a hand with installing toilets and crown molding when he got home from work.

The first few days had been little more than just... getting used to how the hospital worked. He did that pretty quickly, and then he was put in the pharmacy to look at dosages and check to make sure there weren't any missing medications. Especially the ones in the yellow and red cabinets, he had been told, many times.

He also had to handle records requests.

It seemed like the kind of work better given to the interns, and lucky for him, he had one. He'd had the job for a week and the intern--Olivander Ferrand--was supposed to come in... today.

Nick turned the page in Allegiant. He'd churned through the Hunger Games in the first five days, done Divergent and Insurgent over audiobook while painting an apartment on the third floor, and now he was going to finish the damn series. If anyone said anything, he'd... well... he'd explain very calmly that his girlfriend liked dystopian youth fiction. Sorry Tallulah.

A guard walked a young man in through the staff access door and Nick folded the corner of his page and shut the book. "Hey, good morning," he said from his desk, smiling. "How're you doing? I'm--" Oh man he could introduce himself as a doctor now! "--Dr. Wellington. Are you Olivander Ferrand?"

"Parlez-vous français," asked Nick, both surprised and pleased. The intern looked like the nervous sort, but he also was--pretty much what Nick would expect from any aspiring doctor, including his past self. Neatly dressed, neatly coiffed, and straight-backed. Good posture was important; the fact that Olivander might speak French was less so, but it was the detail Nick focused on. Nick's dad was Quebecois, and whenever he'd gone to his father's to visit he'd spoken French. It'd been a while, even ignoring his recent purification and the issues it caused (namely, everyone who knew or loved Paul Wyndham assuming he was dead).

He shrugged casually at the comment on the book. "We've already settled the lunchtime medication," he said. "We handle other orders from the emergency room as they come in, and it's a slow day. Wait until the fifth of May, then it ought to pick up." Then he hefted the novel and said, "And it makes my girlfriend happy."

Sorry, Tallulah. It was true, though. She was the one who'd gotten him into the dystopian fiction mess. She could take the blame and save his reputation in front of his new coworkers. (He didn't think she'd blame him all that much. She did like them. He thought. Maybe.) "I was going to check the stock in about fifteen minutes," he said, checking his watch. "We could step that up, give you the tour?"