Okay so this started out as a "Elle and Connie get ready for something together" sort of premise from a prompt by Roxannamacmillan on tumblr and it's now turned into an ED Consultants two-parter with a ridiculous number of side pieces. And this is just meant to be a warmup for my return to Strachamp...
A busy morning of saving patients, two cups of coffee, and a secretive dose of the medicine her oncologist recommends she continues to take for another few weeks later, Connie sits down for the first time since she arrived at work. Not exactly the work practices that she had sworn to her doctor that she would follow – though if they actually believed that she'd stick to their recommendations, the joke's on them.
A cursory glance over her office reminds her, once again, that she needs to take a few minutes to organise it again. Ethan's brief tenure has cast a shadow over her office; everything's the same – but not quite. A set of files switched around, the filing cabinet not quite square (though why Ethan would need to go behind a filing cabinet is beyond her), her fruit bowl languishing empty in the corner of the room…it's little signs which remind her that she hasn't been here for months. That her team saw her weak, defenceless. That she isn't the strong ice queen she once was (though whether she's been that for the last three years, she has to question even herself).
Her fingers run over the top of the desk, silently cursing Ethan for whatever substance he's spilled on her once-pristine desk, as she gravitates towards the second drawer down. This is where her temporary replacement unceremoniously dumped all of her personal effects, and then anything addressed to her that arrived after her departure. There's no time like the present, she supposes, to start to restore the image of Connie Beauchamp: Clinical Lead in her own mind at least.
As she places a framed photo of Grace back on the desk – and ignores the heartwrench that accompanies any mention or sign of her daughter – she notices a piece of black card in her drawer. Picking it up, she sees that it's the invitation to the 14th Annual Cardiothoracic Foundation Trust Ball, the event that she had established and coordinated for six years. She'd forgotten about it, how foolish of her to forget.
But perhaps this year…perhaps this year, she'll deign not to attend. Despite her R.S.V.P being assumed as a yes…this year, she doesn't need to go. She doesn't need to be reminded of what she once was – who she was. She needs to learn who the new, post-trauma Connie Beauchamp is, and accept that for her blessings and her sins.
With a small intake of breath, Connie drops the piece of card back into the now-empty drawer and slams it shut, making a mental note to get the drawer closers replaced. Whatever Ethan Hardy has managed to do to her office in just four months in charge, she doubts she'll ever fully understand.
…
Gritting her teeth and playing with the pen tucked into her ponytail, Elle Gardner listens to what is quite frankly the most painful drivel she has ever had the misfortune of hearing down the telephone from some member of the blood analysis team.
"Look," Elle says, her usual good nature replaced with the steely hard edge that had only occasionally emerged in Holby City Hospital. "I just need a time when my bloods are going to be ready. I don't need to know the reason why they're late."
The assistant continues to babble.
"A time," Elle repeats, channelling her inner Connie Beauchamp in her desire to just get a set of goddamn bloods. It isn't like she's asking for anything special, just FBCs. And given that her patient's been waiting an additional hour to the usual wait time, she wants her bloods.
"Um…thirty minutes?"
"Fine," Elle agrees, and feels slightly guilty. "I'll expect a phone call at…twelve forty on the dot. Thank you." And, with that, she hangs up, a strange sense of regret mixed with the relief at finally getting something done in the increasingly stretched NHS.
A slow round of applause comes from across the workstation and, without even looking, Elle knows that it's Jacob. They've been on tenterhooks around each other recently, given the whole revelation about her youngest son's parentage, but this feels…normal.
"I have to admit, I saw Elle but I heard Connie," Jacob jokes, and Elle opens her mouth to respond before she closes it again. The joke that was just ready to roll off her tongue…was not a joke at all. Especially to her.
"Yes, well, I have to admit that it works," Elle replies, a small smile slipping onto her lips. "Anyone's free to say anything, of course, but you have to admit that being overstretched is marginally easier to deal with when Connie's around."
"Marginally," Jacob replies, his eyes softening. With every second of this conversation, he seems more and more like the Jacob who had warmly welcomed her on that fateful first day of them working together. "Anyway, I'll see you later – her majesty in cubicle three thinks that I'm here at her beck and call…"
"See you," Elle agrees and, as he walks away, her phone buzzes.
Perplexed at the noise due to the fact that her phone is perpetually on do not disturb, Elle digs it out of her pocket to see an alert appear.
One week until the fancy ball!
With a sudden jolt of remembrance, Elle recalls a very brief long-ago conversation with Connie approximately this time last year. It was after the trial – well after, by her recollection – and they were in the awkward limbo whilst working out exactly what Elle's role in the department would be. Plus, Elle remembers with a smile, there was all the flirting with Sam Strachan, poorly disguised as Sam's vendetta against the Emergency Department's Consultants.
In this context, Connie had received her annual two invitations for the following year's ball, just when Elle happened to be in her office. She had cast a furtive glance at Sam at the workstation – followed swiftly by a glare which could have killed a sinner – before looking purposefully at Elle.
"As second in department," Connie had begun, without preamble, "I think it's only fair that you have this second ticket."
"What's it for?" Elle had asked.
A small smile slipped onto Connie's lips, clearly despite herself. "An invitation for a celebration I invoked whilst on Darwin," she explained, keeping her eyes firmly trained on Sam Strachan outside of her office. Elle couldn't tell at this point whether she was hearing things, but she was fairly certain that Connie's voice had increased in volume. "It's a very prestigious event, and is by invitation only."
Sam had turned around then and, at that point, Elle became aware that she had become entangled in the complex Beauchamp-Strachan politics purely because of where she was standing.
"Look, I really don't need to go," Elle had insisted, lifting her hands and taking a step back as Sam had approached the open office door.
"Ah, the ball tickets," Sam had commented. "Fairly certain that they're for the two most senior members of staff in the department, Connie."
And at that point, Connie had fixed him with a stare that had scared even Elle. "Which is exactly what I'm doing," had been her acerbic response, holding out a posh black invitation – it was on thicker card than Elle had ever seen before.
In a strange moment of solidarity with her Clinical Lead – or perhaps it was the combined girl power – Elle had accepted it. "Thanks, Connie."
That day hasn't been spoken of since, with the exception of one very short conversation with Sam Strachan the following day about whether she really wanted to go. At which point, she had gotten her phone out, inserted the event into her calendar and, for good measure, had created a reminder alert one week before.
With a deep breath, Elle takes a peek towards Connie's office. She looks distracted, which isn't necessarily the best thing. Or, perhaps, it's exactly the way that she should be.
But Elle decides that today isn't the ideal day to broach the ball. Best to wait until a couple of days before, so that it's too uncomfortable for Connie to try and renege on her invitation.
(As she walks away towards her next patient, Elle wonders whether Connie's secretly regretting not letting Sam have the ticket…as he wouldn't have been here to go, anyway…)
…
"Connie, have you got a minute?"
Standing at the workstation just outside of her office, signing off on what is hopefully the last of the day's patients, Connie looks up at Dylan Keogh's words.
"I suppose," she replies, a dark, acerbic joke flashing through her mind, barely leaving a trace.
"In private?" Dylan pushes, and Connie has to resist rolling her eyes. Of all of her consultants, Dylan Keogh is potentially the most dramatic of them all.
"Very well – my office is open, I'll be through in a moment," Connie assures him, and turns her attention back to the paperwork. She needs to make sure that everything – absolutely everything – is perfect. Because…what if something happens to her again? She can't leave this place a mess, can she?
Within five minutes, she's back in her office, closing the door behind her. Dylan's pensive expression is broken when he belatedly realises that the Clinical Lead has returned to her office.
"Yes?" Connie begins the conversation, her tone acerbic. Part of her is under the strangest impression that Dylan Keogh might be about to ask if she's okay – the most unlikely of candidates to show concern for her well-being. And, in response to this fear, she decides that, once more, she cannot show weakness. Even to Dylan.
"Are you okay?" Dylan begins the conversation, and Connie snorts. If she was a gambling woman, she would have placed a bet.
"I do hope that you've not called a private meeting in my office just to ask if I'm okay, Dylan," Connie replies, her tone stern.
Dylan blinks, but looks unfazed by her response; clearly, she's become predictable.
"Connie, it isn't any small feat, what you've gone through," he begins, trailing off as Connie holds a hand up.
"If I want to talk to you about my health or feelings – which I'm sure you're not particularly comfortable with – I'll be sure to seek you out," Connie says, only a hint of sarcasm in her tone. "Now…is there anything else?"
For the first time in the conversation, Dylan looks torn. Torn between what, Connie is suddenly desperate to find out, because it isn't like her most trusted Consultant to act like this.
"Er...yes," he begins, much more hesitantly than when he had been asking her about her health. "It's about the new F1. Well, not really new, she arrived a few weeks after you…went away."
"Dr Kinsella?"
"Yes, her. I…I question the idea that Ethan should be her mentor…"
Connie's curiosity is truly piqued now. "And why is that, Dylan?"
"He's the primary reason she left," he replies bluntly. As usual, Dylan isn't one for gossip, and Connie appreciates his candour. "He chose pining over some woman rather than helping an F1 with a difficult resus case; her lack of experience led to her making a mistake, taking something at face value…she needed to be challenged to make sure that she was doing everything, and he wasn't there to do that."
"Well, a mentor who pushes you too hard is usually a good mentor," Connie begins. "And I'm sure that Ethan will rectify his mistake."
Dylan snorts. "He wasn't pushing her too hard, Connie, that's the point!"
"And what would you suggest instead?" Connie retorts. "Your questioning of my health suggests that you think I'm not up to the job – let alone taking on an F1. Doctor Gardner's hardly likely to want a mentee, either. So that leaves you. And are you going to be caring when necessary, supportive, and generally the best sort of mentor?"
There's a moment of silence, where she can almost see Dylan visibly weighing up the options; he chose to raise this concern therefore, really, he should be the one to offer a solution. Can he have a mentee, here? There's the question that Connie doesn't know quite enough about to guess at an answer regarding his ex-wife, Sam Nicholls, and her role in Dylan's sorry mess of a life.
"I suppose…yes," Dylan finally answers. "I'll mentor her – provided you are happy with the arrangement."
Shrugging slightly, Connie sits back in her chair and feels some of the tension relax from her. Whether that's tension, though, or a sign of illness, she doesn't know – and she desperately needs to check.
"Very well," Connie agrees, picking up her pen. "Ask Doctor Hardy to come in here, I'll let him know the situation."
…
In September 2017, in a last-ditched, perhaps poorly thought out plan to try and distract Connie from the loss of her daughter, Elle Gardner established a 'Holby City ED Consultants Chat' on Whatsapp, for reasons twofold. Firstly, she wanted a place for them to actually pass on confidential information or have frank work discussions – in the form of one word answers, largely – without any of the junior doctors involved. And, secondly, she wanted there to be a chance of the three of them bonding over life outside of just happening to work in a hospital together.
Despite a brief interlude in Connie's absence of conversation regarding work – instead, Elle just continued to give an account of her daily life, albeit more potted in the hope that this would stop Connie from removing herself from the group – the group has survived until the present. Largely – well, almost entirely – because of Elle's intervention and participation, of course.
Connie generally replies to the work questions with a concise answer, unless she perceives the question only being asked in order to bring life to the group, in which case she doesn't. A grand total of two times has she replied to Elle's personal life ramblings, which Elle counts as a major personal achievement.
Dylan, on the other hand, almost completely ignores the group except for the occasional pithy response to an almost pointless question. Usually after his participation, he and Elle are like ships in the night at work, so she can't build on the momentum of his message: something, Elle recognises, is probably deliberate.
And so, on this ridiculously rainy Tuesday night in May, Elle grabs her phone and thinks of the best way to frame the question she wants to ask Connie. It needs to be obvious enough that it isn't lost in the sometimes overkill amount of detail Elle provides about her daily life, yet obscured enough so that Connie doesn't feel attacked or any other emotion which may prompt her to not respond.
Therefore, buried somewhere beneath the discussion about the benefits versus the issues with putting dried fruit in porridge (a conversation held entirely by Elle) and before a request for some time off towards the end of August, Elle slips in the question: Connie, are we still attending the Cardiothoracic Ball thing next week?
It's almost agonising, waiting for the response, and so Elle sets the phone down on the side and limits herself to checking it once a minute. She tries to distract herself by watching a hilariously funny yet strange sitcom on the television, munching on crisps to try and keep her hands away from her phone, until she hears the ping she's been waiting for. To make sure that she never misses an extremely rare response, she's established a ring tone specifically for this group – even if the fact that the buzzing usually scares her senseless, due to the normally silent nature of her phone communications.
The response is curt and to the point – and the opposite of what Elle wanted to see. I'm not going. Feel free to attend.
Almost annoyed, Elle has to force herself to set her phone down. She can completely understand the reasons why Connie doesn't want to attend the ball – they're probably in double figures, despite it being a celebration of her creation. The fact that she's appeared weak to everyone in the department is probably number one – or it could be the fact that she chose Elle of all people to accompany her. But Elle's clear on one thing: her understanding of cancer and its lasting effects make her convinced that Connie needs to find a way to get back to her former, ball-busting self.
With a decisive nod to nobody in particular, Elle vows to herself to make sure that Connie Beauchamp attends the ball – no matter what obstacles she may throw in her way.
…
With the greatest of efforts, Elle manages to make herself not send a single message to the group after Connie's response – though those 17 hours are some of the hardest of her life. It's all part of her plan to get Connie to the ball; a potentially extremely flawed plan, but a plan nonetheless.
And the first obstacle to overcome is Dylan Keogh.
Entering the staffroom for the first time more than halfway through her shift, Elle notices that the only other occupant is Dylan.
"Ah, Dylan!" Elle exclaims with a smile, closing the door behind her. "Just the man I wanted to see. How are you?"
He turns to look at her with his usual expression: disdain, with a hint of amusement…or at least that's what she thinks it is. She's not quite managed to crack Dylan.
"I'm fine," he replies shortly, the lack of reciprocation not unusual. Though he does then pause and add, "what time are you on shift until?"
"Seven," she replies. "You?"
He snorts. "Me too. I assume that that means our former Clinical Lead is on the twilight shift." For a split second, Elle thinks that he's talking about his arch-nemesis, Sam Strachan, until she realises that he's talking about Ethan. Bless the lad – but that isn't the conversation that she wants to have now.
"So…Dylan, you may have noticed that I haven't messaged our group for a few hours now," Elle begins confidently, resisting the urge to wave her phone in his face.
"Really? I hadn't noticed," Dylan replies, and she can't tell if the sarcasm is genuine or not. "It's been strange to not have my phone buzzing so consistently it's like a hoard of flies are perpetually in my pocket."
"A swarm," Elle corrects swiftly. "And anyway, good. That's good. That's actually what I wanted."
Dylan sighs. "Elle, tell me that you're not playing some form of game. Or, actually, tell me you are. Either way, I don't care."
Approaching him at the breakfast bar, Elle leans across the table so that she can look directly at Dylan – even if he isn't looking directly at her.
"Dylan. You saw that she isn't going to the ball – her ball! I just have a small plan. It would involve one conversation on your part. One. I'm doing the leg work."
His lack of response suggests to her that, for the first time, he might be willing to get involved in one of her schemes.
"So, I'm thinking…I won't message the group for two days, maybe three. Then, you go to Connie and express concern at my lack of messaging…this gets her thinking and…gets her to somehow go to the ball." She takes a breath before adding, "I know, I know, I need to think of a way to end the plan," in response to a sceptical look from Dylan.
"Very well," Dylan replies, sounding as though he already regrets his decision. "As long as you manage to go three days without messaging the group, I'll go along with your hairbrained scheme. But I'm not doing anything beyond raising a yellow flag for Connie – she has to do the rest."
"You are an angel," Elle responds, reaching out across the breakfast bar to grasp Dylan's shoulders in what turns out to be the closest thing to a hug that they've ever experienced. "Thanks, Dylan. I'll let you know when it's been three days."
…
Three silent days pass far too quickly for Dylan's liking, and a private message from Elle – something he wasn't aware was possible on this group messaging app – informs him that it's time for his part in this ridiculous, hair-brained scheme. Why does he care if Connie goes to a ball?
Though, deep down, he does. He recognises the strain his colleague has put herself under in an attempt to appear almost super-human with her return to work, as well as creating yet more walls and yet greater distance between herself and the rest of the team, as though this will mask the fact that they've seen her vulnerable. They're more alike than he would normally admit, and for that reason he can guess that she hasn't deigned to inform her remaining family of her illness, choosing instead to simply try and get by as well as she can on her own. After all, when there's one girl in the world that believes Connie is almost invincible, why would Connie want to shatter that illusion?
Taking a deep breath, Dylan approaches the closed door of the Clinical Lead's office, noticing with a frown that Connie's not facing her desk. Instead, her chair is rotated away from the door, and he can't see her head – which suggests that she's hunched over.
He waits a moment, then two, to see if she moves, but she doesn't. Unwilling to invade her personal space without warning, he knocks three times in quick succession, noting with almost alarm how quickly she jumps up in her chair, before hesitantly spinning back to face the front.
"Enter," Connie calls, somewhat distractedly, though whether that's because she fears Dylan is here to stage a second intervention is unclear.
"Morning Connie," Dylan begins, keeping his tone even so as to attempt to avoid suspicion.
It doesn't work, however, as Connie's eyes immediately narrow. "What is it?" A more irritated expression appears on her face as she continues, "I hope you're not here to ask if I'm well again."
"No, no, not at all," he replies hastily, taking a seat in the chair opposite her desk. A cursory glance around reveals the fact that she has already re-established her control over the office: gone are Ethan's attempts at renovating the office. The fruit bowl is back in pride of place, along with a solitary framed photograph of Grace, and a strangely endearing covering across the filing cabinet at the back of the room. There is no doubt that this office is once again the lair of one Connie Beauchamp.
"Then what is it?" Connie retorts, her expression clearing. "Paperwork doesn't just do itself, you know." Her tone is lighter and more breezy than normal, and Dylan has a sneaking suspicion that she's trying to assess whether he noticed anything amiss before knocking. Or perhaps he's overestimating her attempts to psychoanalyse members of her department.
"It's about Elle," he replies, as offhand as he dares. "I'm sure you've noticed the surprising lack of notifications from that god-awful group that she established for us."
One corner of Connie's lips quirks slightly. "Well, I think that is perhaps a slight exaggeration."
He fixes her with a deadpan stare. "So you mean to say you enjoy hearing every single fact about Elle Gardner's life?"
"That is quite clearly not what I meant," Connie begins to answer back, before cutting herself off. "Anyway, continue."
Sighing inwardly, Dylan continues. He was hoping that she would take the bait and roll with it – but apparently Connie Beauchamp is harder to play than he had anticipated.
"Well, my phone hasn't tried to buzz itself off a table recently, which is strange as that's all it's tried to do for almost a year," Dylan comments. "And, as we both know, Elle is the primary contributor to this group – it will fall apart without her."
"So?" Connie retorts, shrugging slightly. "You're clearly not a fan of the group, Dylan. Why do you care?"
"Because it's clear that something is wrong with Elle," he replies immediately, cursing his former self for participating in this stupid quest. "And you need to talk to her to work out what it is."
A solitary eyebrow lift is followed by a snort from Connie.
"Me?" Connie clarifies. "Dylan, I'm hardly number one on her Christmas card list. You're concerned, you do it!"
"With great power comes great responsibility," Dylan quotes, standing up; his role is done. He has no desire to hang around and have to thrash out an arrangement with Connie regarding Elle when it's clearly a scam. Or maybe Elle really is broken by her lack of commenting in the group. "And when you chose to be Clinical Lead, you chose the responsibility of looking after your staff. So find out what's wrong, Connie."
With that, he sweeps out of her office, only to be accosted immediately by Bea Kinsella. Only three days later, he's beginning to regret the role of mentor he ascribed himself.
"Doctor Keogh!" Bea exclaims, proffering an iPad with an extremely unhealthy looking liver on it. "Er, the patient in Bay 6's results are in. I think we need to admit him straight away and send him up to Kellar."
"You do that then," Dylan replies, barely keeping the edge from his tone. It's best to wait at least a week before introducing his actual personality; that's something he figured out back at King's, a long time ago. "And if you find her, tell Doctor Gardner that I'm looking for her."
Not quite begrudgingly and yet not quite of his own accord, Dylan pauses and turns back to face the already retreating Bea Kinsella.
"Oh, and Doctor Kinsella?" Dylan calls, noticing how quickly his mentee turns around. "Good work on Bay 6. Carry on, and I think we'll make a great doctor out of you."
Please let me know what you think!
