Dr Danny Castellano

"Why do you have green flamingos on your bra?"

Danny never finds out. Before he knows it, he's lifting Mindy onto her desk, paperwork floating to the floor, stationary clattering around them, computer screen flickering in his peripheral vision as he mouths down her neck, fingers scrabbling roughly with the rest of the buttons on her blouse.

She doesn't say anything. Doesn't answer any of his questions but she has this hungry look in her eyes and it drives him on. He helps her with his belt, pushes her skirt out of the way and gives her what she's begging him, over and over, for. When he captures her lips, it's like the whole world starts to shake.

( Woah )

It's a good thing Danny had found a gym so soon after arriving in Darrow. Without one, he's pretty sure he'd have had trouble even lifting Mindy's purse from her desk, let alone lugging it down a few flights of stairs, her coat slung over one arm. He's not sure what she carries in there and he has no desire to find out, but if it means she'll follow him downstairs faster, an aching bicep is a price he's willing to pay.

She had been with a patient when he'd left, so Amelia is tasked with ensuring Mindy not only gets the message but gets a move on too. She doesn't really know what's going on but there's been no doctor drama or slamming of doors, so she's counting today as a good day. So far, anyway.

She's a little tentative as she catches Mindy leaving phlebotomy.

"Doctor Castellano said to tell you he's waiting for you downstairs." She checks her notepad in her hands. "Also that he-- I'm quoting-- has your bag and will donate an item from it to a homeless person every thirty seconds that you're not there. He also said you have to use the stairs..."

There is one fundamental flaw in Darrow.

Scratch that, there are plenty of things wrong in Darrow and Danny's figured that out in less than a week, but there's only one that is currently at the centre of his most recent tirade.

"They're supposed to put the sauce on the bun first, Mindy, first, then add the meatballs. Then more sauce. Then a sprinkle of provolone cheese, not a pinch, not a scattering, a sprinkle. Then back under the heat for another sixty seconds. I mean, how hard is that?"

Incredibly so, if the last-but-one sandwich shop is anything to go by. The 'sandwich technician' - don't even get him started - had burst into floods of tears the fourth or fifth time Danny had been kind enough to offer some words of constructive criticism regarding her sauce-slathering skills. If you could even call it sauce. Both he and Mindy had been escorted (slash manhandled) off the premises when Danny had started complaining rather vocally about how dry his balls were.

"I feel like a jackass for paying ten bucks for that sandwich. But this? This one looks like the real deal," he says with a passion, unwrapping another meatball sub as they leave the latest shop, this time of their own accord. It had taken fifteen minutes from ordering to receiving but Danny doesn't mind waiting for the genuine article.

He's barely out on the sidewalk when he practically stuffs half the sub in his mouth. "This could be it, Min." The words are muffled from the food rolling around. It's only taken six stops to get here. "This could--nope." 

Half-chewed sandwich is propelled into his hand and he moves immediately to the nearest trash can, relieving Mindy of her sub on the way.

Yelp has nothing on Danny.