Yoongi Was Outlawed When He Didn T Work

The thing is, Yoongi loved working. Not the work itself, just working - he hated when he had no means of occupying himself. When he worked, he usually continued until he ran out of things to do, got too frustrated, or was forced to stop.

Working in a hospital as a surgeon, those things rarely happened - especially when he was one of the best. Because of this, he habitually worked two or three twelve-hour shifts in a row - while some areas had outlawed this particular practice, Yoongi, thankfully, did not work in one of them - so he worked, often without decent sleep or an actual meal.

But that was okay, because he was busy; he had to stay busy - the awful thoughts and compulsions gripped his mind when he wasn’t. Constant working probably

He’d performed six operations, two of which had resulted in patient death - one of them was a boy, only nine years old. Usually, Yoongi didn’t lose patients.

Usually.

The deaths weren’t his fault, really; realistically he knew they weren’t, but his anxiety would insist so until he gave up and believed it and, well, there hadn’t been much of a fight this time. Each patient was highly advised against the surgery, as they both had minuscule chances of survival, but they insisted, and Yoongi had to break the news to two families; it was awful, but he remains stoic, repeating the same lines he’s said to only a handful of people before.

Finally, after four shifts and three power naps in empty beds, Yoongi finds himself stumbling into his office in search of his wallet, phone, and apartment keys. He drops into his desk chair and exhales relief because his feet /ache/ and his eyes /burn/. He digs around in the top left drawer, disturbing the arrangement of other items he knows he’ll fix later and stands, shakily, making his way out of his office and down the hall to the locker room. He hastily changes out of his scrubs and coat into more casual street clothes, ignoring the looks from other

He turns on the water, wets his hands then squeezes a dollop of soap into his palm.

“Working.” He answers simply, trying to keep his tone light. He can tell what mood Taehyung is in - the younger didn’t necessarily approve of Yoongi working himself half to death almost daily, Yoongi knew that.

But working was Yoongi’s life, and Taehyung knew that; he rubs his hands together, working up a nice lather, then rinsing; he squeezes out another dollop of soap. He needs to do it again, he didn’t do it right.

“You haven’t been home in almost-” Taehyung clicks the power button on his phone, most probably to consult the time. “ - four days.” Taehyung is infuriated, Yoongi can tell. He lathers his hands, rinses, squeezes out more soap, repeats - he’s stuck now.

Filthy. Anxiety supplies and yeah, he was.

“It was busy.” Yoongi mumbles out, lathering his hand for the third - or was it the fourth time? He’d already lost count, but he still wasn’t doing it right; another rinse, more