Donald Ferguson - Blog Posts
Thinking about how despite being a robot, Donald has shown to appeal more to his humanity and compassion. Becoming empathetic at a time when someone like Rick needed someone to understand what he was going through — that he wasn’t alone. Attempting to bring ease and comfort to others like Mark and Debbie when Nolan was bedridden. Aware of his own emotions and loyal to a fault. That despite how hard the job is and realizing the truth about himself, he remains strong and connected to others (hell I headcanon that he keeps contact with Rick and William after what happened).
Thinking how in contrast, despite being human, Cecil tries to make himself the robot. With the job he has, saving the world, he had long since let go of the concept of a moral compass and being “the good guy” in order to ensure the job gets done. He commits to actions that are both morally dubious and unethical — manipulating and controlling others and cutting himself off from personal connections just so it wouldn’t weigh him down. It’s as if he tries to metaphorically program himself to having the mindset of a machine — just so the guilt of all his actions wouldn’t crush him down.
A lot of about these two, both together as a dynamic and individually, makes me wonder about how they have an impact on each other, and the way they mirror such different ways of showing humanity. To express it versus suppress/repress in a sense.
Whenever I hear this quote from the I Have No Mouth And I Must Scream game with AM’s hate monologue:
“Because of all this wonderful, beautiful miraculous world, I alone have no body, no senses, no feelings...I was machine. And you…were flesh.”
I think about Cecil and Donald.
And yet ironically enough, Cecil is the machine. Donald is the flesh.
Somebody has to hear me out on Cecil X Donald.
Coworkers to lovers. Amnesia trope (sort of). And the ANGST? Oh, the angst would be crazy.
Like what do you MEAN you keep having to watch your partner die, and then you have to wipe his memory again and again? What do you MEAN he's not going to remember what you meant to him when he comes back, but he's going to fall for you again and again? What do you MEAN you have to decide whether to try again, knowing how it will end, or deny your heart and do the job? What do you MEAN-
feel like I'm going insane
˗ˏˋ❝Afterglow❞ˎˊ˗
Mark Grayson x Med!Reader♡ྀི
….ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨.ـ…
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⛨ summary: you’re here to teach, not manage a walking concussion with charm issues. but he keeps looking at you like you hung the stars—and asking questions like you owe him answers. it’s temporary. it’s professional. it’s absolutely not personal. right?
⛨ contains: sfw. slow tension. hospital-grade sarcasm. emotional constipation. accidental pining. reader being done™. mark being so not subtle. vending machine cameos. background bureaucracy.
⛨ warnings: mild language. cecil stedman. lingering looks. golden retriever energy. mild secondhand embarrassment. one scalpel-related flirtation if you squint.
⛨ wc: 2839
prologue, part one, part two
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a/n: honorable mention to donald for surviving government-grade stress, doing 99% of the admin work and getting 0% of the appreciation. chapter three is happening. probably. don’t look at me like that.
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The hum of fluorescent lights should’ve blended into the background by now. So should the low thrum of activity—boots echoing against concrete, the shuffle of files, hushed conversations between medics and masked vigilantes. But somehow, everything still feels a little too loud.
Maybe it’s the migraine brewing behind your eyes. Maybe it’s the fact that he won’t stop staring at you.
You shift your weight, cross your arms, and resolutely pretend you don’t notice.
That Invincible is standing three feet to your left, burning a hole through the side of your head with an intensity that shouldn’t be allowed from someone who wears goggles.
You’ve been ignoring him for seven minutes and counting.
You’ve acknowledged literally everything else in this sterile, underground chaos bunker—someone called Sea Salt (you can’t be bothered to care enough to remember properly) pacing in the background, a superhero with a dislocated shoulder yelling about insurance coverage, the world’s most suspicious vending machine—but not him.
And still, he stares.
You exhale slowly. Sharply turn your head.
He flinches like you threw something at him.
“Can I help you?”
The words are flat, clipped. The tone you use when a patient insists they know better because they once watched half an episode of ’Grey’s Anatomy’.
Invincible stammers. Actually stammers, like he doesn’t know what to do now that you talked back.
Your brows lift. “You’ve been standing there like an underpaid mall cop—gaping at me like I’m the last donut at a police briefing. Do you mind?”
He fumbles for a reply. You regret asking immediately.
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A few days earlier.
You were on your fourth cup of coffee and hour three of mid-insomnia spiraling when the email came in.
A subject line so vague it practically screamed delete me.
“URGENT: National Heroic Outreach Program — Personnel Request.”
It sounded like someone stitched together LinkedIn buzzwords with a glue stick and a dream.
You almost deleted it without opening. Fingers already moving to close the laptop.
And that’s when your eye caught the numbers.
A full contract breakdown, bolded in crisp font at the bottom of the message. Enough zeroes to make your exhausted brain glitch.
You squinted. Re-read. Laughed.
Then read it again.
Field medics, trauma therapists, stabilization specialists…
Working directly alongside sanctioned heroic units. Teaching them.
Short-term. High risk. Higher pay.
You were already muttering “absolutely not” as you clicked Reply.
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And now here you are.
In the middle of a hidden operations center that smells faintly of iodine and military-grade deodorant, trying to keep your expression neutral while Invincible looks at you like you invented sunlight.
You narrow your eyes.
“Seriously man. What is your problem?”
“I don’t have a problem,” he says almost too quickly. “I just…”
Didn’t think I’d ever hear you again—he wants to say, but the words die in his throat.
You groan like a middle-aged man.
“Fine, whatever—keep your staring fetish a secret. But you’re still in my space.”
And somehow, despite the sarcasm, despite the walls you’re already rebuilding brick by brick—he smiles. Like you just handed him a sunrise.
Weirdo.
The silence stretches.
Finally—finally—he stops staring. You can feel it.
Like the sun setting. Like freedom on the breeze. You don’t know what bliss tastes like, but you’re pretty sure it’s this exact moment.
Invincible turns his head. Doesn’t say a word. For the first time in almost ten minutes, you can breathe.
The air tastes clearer. Your shoulders lower half an inch. You feel like Eren Yeager looking out at the ocean, finally glimpsing the other side of the fence—finally, the taste of freedom.
You close your eyes, let your arms fall just a bit looser, and begin to reach for that fragile, sacred—
“So… what’s your name?”
You shut your eyes tighter. Channel the serenity of that dog meme you saw once—some old lab basking in the light like he’s ascended to a higher plane. That’s you now. Resigned to whatever curse has chosen to follow you. Accepting the inevitable.
“…Hello?” he tries again.
You breathe in. Deep. Steady. And swallow a curse.
“It’s not important,” you finally say, voice flat.
He blinks.
“Uh—it kinda is? We’re working together, technically. It’s basic team-building. Knowing names builds trust. It’s psychologically proven—like in war movies or HR seminars. I feel like not knowing your name makes it hard to build rapport. Or connection. Or, you know, that dramatic tension where I save your life and you cry over me in slow motion.”
He’s rambling now.
You open one eye. He’s serious. Or, worse—he thinks he’s funny.
You tune him out.
Just completely power down. Close your eyes again, channel the dog meme—serene, resigned, ascended. Accepting your fate as a woman destined to be cornered by a golden retriever in a super suit.
But of course—of course—luck hates you.
Footsteps echo behind you. Measured. Heavy. Government-issued.
Invincible’s voice finally stops.
You open your eyes slowly, carefully.
Cecil Stedman stands a few feet away, looking like someone who’s been awake for forty-seven hours and hates it less than he hates incompetence.
He looks at the hero. Then at you. He exhales like he regrets every decision that’s led to this moment.
“Invincible,” Cecil says, deadpan. “It’s not your job to harass new personnel.”
You smile. A flicker of victory warms your chest.
But it’s short-lived.
“And you—” Cecil turns to you, voice sharp and gravel as he states your full name and last name, “…stop ignoring people when they’re trying to learn from you.”
Invincible’s head snaps up.
Your smile dies on impact.
“…yes, sir.”
You hate him now. Fully. With your entire soul. You will refer to this man as Sea Salt until the day you retire, but only behind his back (you have bills to pay).
Cecil nods. Done with this interaction.
“You’re both assigned to Medical Rotation C for the next three hours. Report to briefings on time, don’t destroy anything, and for the love of god—try not to bleed on each other.”
He turns and walks away like he didn’t just detonate a small emotional warhead and bounce.
You blink slowly.
The superhero grins. Way too close to you.
Invincible repeats your name. Softly. Like he’s trying it on. Like he’s going to wrap it around a sentence any second just to hear it out loud again.
You don’t look at him.
You stare at a crack in the ground and plot how to fake your own death.
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This is fine. Totally fine. No one has died yet.
Except maybe him. Internally. Repeatedly.
You’ve been working together for exactly twenty-three minutes and some change, and Mark is dangerously close to pulling a muscle from glancing at you too often.
It’s not subtle. He knows that. He’s just hoping you haven’t noticed yet.
Mark Grayson—Invincible, world-class puncher of bad guys and part-time public disaster—is on assignment. Medical rotation. One-on-one.
With you.
You haven’t said more than three words since you got here.
Okay—technically, it was four if you counted “Don’t touch that,” which he did. Emotionally. Spiritually. Like a prayer.
He glances sideways. Again. That’s… what? The fifteenth time?
You’re focused. Like laser-cut precision focused. You haven’t looked at him once since the briefing ended, and that alone is doing something catastrophic to his brain chemistry. Your sleeves are rolled up, fingers moving quickly as you sort through supplies and assess whatever half-broken med bay gear they shoved into this basement. And he—
Technically, he’s supposed to be learning. Technically.
He commits the angle of your jaw to memory. He might need to sketch it later. For science.
A cart wheel squeaks. He jumps.
Smooth. Reeeal smooth Mark.
Mark’s dropped the same tool twice. He’s reorganized the same three items five different ways. And when you leaned over earlier—just for a second—he forgot how to breathe.
He thinks he said something to you. Maybe. You didn’t respond.
You probably didn’t even hear him.
Which is fair. You’re working. This is work. He should be working too.
Instead, he’s cataloging every tiny thing about you like it’s the last time he’ll get to. The little crease between your brows when you concentrate. The way you tilt your head when you read a label. The way your lips move slightly when you mutter to yourself. It’s ridiculous. He knows it’s ridiculous. But it’s also—
He nearly knocks over a tray of syringes and freezes like a man in a minefield.
You just say, “Don’t,” without even looking up.
That’s it. One word. And he listens.
Like his soul has been stapled to your command.
He exhales slowly. Starts organizing gauze packets like they’re puzzle pieces and not the only thing keeping him from going absolutely feral with nervous energy.
You’re right there. You’re right there. And not in the middle of some catastrophic collapse or stopping someone’s bleeding from a stress wound. Just—here. Breathing the same recycled air. Wearing scrubs like they’re armor. Not looking at him.
Mark resists the urge to break something—anything—just to make you look at him.
He peeks again.
Yeah. Still perfect.
“Invincible.”
He startles.
You don’t even look at him. Just gesture vaguely at the scalpel in his hand. “That’s upside down.”
“…Right,” he mutters, flipping it. “Just testing you.”
“You failed.”
You don’t say it with heat. Not quite. But not nicely either.
He clears his throat and tries again, forcing himself to focus on literally anything that isn’t the fact that you’re within touching distance. That you smell like antiseptic and cheap gum. That you’re here, and for some reason—still kind of talking to him.
He wants to say something normal. Something clever. But everything that comes to mind sounds like it belongs in a YA novel or a fever dream.
Instead, he peeks at you again.
You don’t notice. Or maybe you do.
But you don’t look back.
And still—he grins.
Because this? Being close enough to reach, even if you never turn around?
It’s more than he thought he’d ever get.
It’s not enough.
Mark lied.
All that pretending—organizing, fixing, standing next to you for three and a half hours like it didn’t matter—like breathing the same air wasn’t scrambling his brain chemistry?
He thought it would be enough. Just this. Just being near you.
But now you’re packing up.
And suddenly, it’s not.
You toss a roll of gauze into your bag like it keyed your car in a past life. Peel off your gloves with the grace of someone absolutely done with today.
The neckline of your scrubs shifts when you move, collarbone catching the light, and he has to look away.
You’re leaving.
You’re actually leaving.
He thought he’d be okay with it. He’s not.
You stretch your neck like it’s stiff, roll your shoulders with a sigh, and Mark swears it’s the most captivating thing he’s ever seen.
Which is insane. It’s a shoulder roll.
But you’re doing it. And it’s happening five feet from him. And he doesn’t know when—or if—he’ll see you like this again.
Normal. Off guard. Not covered in ash and dust.
You zip your bag shut.
And that’s when panic hits him.
It spikes in his chest like a bad punch—jarring and immediate and almost embarrassing. Because if you walk out now, that’s it. You’ll vanish again. And he’ll be stuck wondering if he imagined all of this. You. The way you said his hero name like it was a dare.
His fingers twitch at his side.
He has no idea what he’s going to say.
He just knows he needs to say something before you’re gone.
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You clear your throat. Loud enough to be polite. Dismissive enough to make a point.
“I’m done here.”
He blinks. “Oh. Yeah. Right.”
You wait for him to move. He doesn’t.
You arch a brow. “Door’s behind you.”
Invincible stares at you like you’ve just committed a federal crime. “You’re—leaving?”
You frown. “Yes? That’s what normal people do when the job is finished.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Frowns.
“I just—” The hero shifts, eyes darting anywhere but your face. “I figured we’d—maybe—uh, debrief?”
You blink.
He looks panicked now. “Not like a real debrief! I meant like… decompress? Debrief-light? Low-stakes post-mission rapport-building?”
You pause. Then snort. You can’t help it. It slips out before you can stop it.
He looks like he just won the lottery.
You sigh, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “If this is your way of asking to walk me out—”
“Yes.”
“…I didn’t finish.”
“Still yes.”
You stare.
He fidgets. “Is that okay?”
You hesitate for a breath. Then roll your eyes. “Fine. But if you get weird again, I’m tasering you.”
Invincible grins. “I’ve survived worse.”
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A few days later.
You look like shit.
Not in a poetic way. Not in a cool, morally-gray antiheroine way. Just in the deeply human, overworked, underpaid, sore-back, I-haven’t-slept-since-Tuesday kind of way.
The ER lights buzz too loud. The coffee machine’s broken again. There’s a spot on your scrubs that might be blood or ink or maybe just your will to live leaking out.
It’s a Tuesday. Maybe.
You’re half-asleep at the nurses’ station when Carla walks up with a folder. She chews her gum like it’s keeping her tethered to this plane of existence.
“Room 9’s yours.”
You blink up at her. “Seriously?”
Carla shrugs. “Guy’s already in there. Looks like he could pay off my student loans in one go, but what do I know. File’s clean. Probably just here to flirt or die. Those are the only two kinds we get.”
You sigh. Take the clipboard. Totally miss Carla’s knowing expression and lazily stroll down the hallway.
Your pen’s already clicking as you push through the long corridor, shoulder nudging the door open without thinking.
You flip through the back pages first—vitals, allergy list, something about minor lacerations. The usual.
The door clicks shut behind you as you scan the first page for the name.
“Mark Grayson…” you murmur, before finally looking up.
He’s already watching you.
Smile crooked. Sheepish. And oddly familiar.
You blink. Shake your head. Tap your pen once against the clipboard.
“…What can I do for you today?”
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Before the bunker. Before the clipboard. Just burnt coffee and bad timing.
The room smells of government-grade stress and poor decisions. Fluorescents hum overhead. Somewhere outside the door, someone’s arguing with a vending machine again.
Cecil Stedman doesn’t look up from the file in his hands.
Donald stands nearby, half-glancing over his shoulder like he’s expecting someone to call out his name and ruin his night any second now.
“I don’t need someone who wants to save the world,” Cecil mutters, flipping a page. “I need someone who knows how to keep it breathing long enough to do that.”
Donald doesn’t answer at first. Scrolls through his tablet with the dead-eyed speed of a man two cups past his caffeine limit.
Cecil drops the folder on the table.
“Her.”
Donald glances down. Sees your name. Frowns.
“She’s not exactly—uh, team-oriented.”
“Good.” Cecil leans back in his chair. “We don’t need another idealist who thinks CPR is optional. We need someone who’ll tell a cape to stop cauterizing wounds with laser vision.”
Donald shifts. “She’s got a record of pushing back on authority.”
“Yeah. So do I.” He picks up the file again, thumbs through it like he’s reading between the lines. “Field trauma specialist. Surgical certs. Five years ER, three years private contract, and one particularly colorful incident involving Invincible.”
Donald raises a brow. “You want her for the hero-medical crossover?”
“Yeah. Not full-time. Just this once.” He thumbs through the file again.
”She’s not exactly a fan of the spandex crowd.” Donald reminds him.
“Which is why she’s perfect.” Cecil taps the edge of the folder. “She doesn’t worship them. She knows how they break. And better—how to keep them from bleeding out on asphalt.”
Donald crosses his arms. “You really think she’ll say yes?”
Cecil shrugs. “Send the contract. Let the pay do the talking. If that doesn’t work… remind her how many heroes think gauze solves internal bleeding.”
A beat passes. Donald exhales slowly.
“We’re asking her to train them. Teach them medical response. Basics. Field aid without powers.”
“Exactly,” Cecil mutters, eyes back on the file. “We’ve got too many weapons and not enough medics. Time we taught the kids how to stop the bleeding before they cause it.”
“And you think she’ll go for it?”
“Temporary contract,” Cecil repeats simply. “Send the numbers. Dangle the autonomy. No long-term commitment, no spandex worship, just her and a bunch of capes learning how not to be idiots for a few hours.”
Donald nods once and turns to leave.
Cecil stays where he is, flipping back to the front of the file.
A photo clipped to the corner. Dark circles under your eyes. Expression flat. Hands gloved, steady.
Unimpressed with the world and clearly not afraid to let it know.
He smiles, just barely.
“Let’s hope she doesn’t kill anyone.”
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