Hi there, I hope you like my new story :) It'll be mostly from Ethan's perspective, seeing as the story's pretty much solely about him (I really like writing him, I think he's a really interesting character) but there will also be parts from both Zoe and Lily.
I sort of told myself when I started writing fic that I wouldn't start one without finishing another, but I've broken my own rule, seeing as Demons isn't quite finished yet! This just seems very relevant to me at the moment, so I had to start writing it.
This is just the prologue, so it's not as long as I'd usually like a chapter to be, but please leave me a review and let me know what you think!
Zoe knew there was something different about Ethan, the moment he stepped back into the ED after having taken two weeks off work to try and come to terms with the loss of his mother. He looked drained, like he'd been worrying permanently for days. He was wearing a cardigan, but the cuffs of the sleeves were wrinkled as though they'd been pulled down over his hands for most of the journey to work. His cheeks turned pink when she said "Good morning" although she'd said it to him every day before he'd gone away on compassionate leave. He dropped his gaze to avoid making eye contact with everyone, instead heading straight to the locker room to change into his scrubs, and collecting the patient notes he needed, without making conversation with anyone.
In truth, the only thing keeping Ethan going at the moment was medicine. Not the kind you take when you're ill. The kind that meant being a doctor, the kind you feel as a calling at the age of eleven, and the kind that you refuse to give up on even though it keeps you awake at night, writing lengthy essays and taking endless notes. He had an undying gratitude for the doctors who had done everything they could, and for the nurses who had stayed by his mother's side in her last moments, and now that he was trying to put all that behind him, medicine was getting him up in the morning, giving him a reason for being.
But neither medicine that meant being a doctor, nor medicine that doctors prescribed, was enough to push away the feeling of panic that could erupt for no reason, at any time. It couldn't stop him being terrified of being back in the hospital where he'd once felt so at home. There was nothing to be done about the pure dread that coursed through his veins when a decision rested solely on his shoulders. The fear of losing control in the middle of treating a critically ill patient was too real for Ethan to relax. He felt sick remembering that for the rest of his career people's lives would literally depend on him getting everything right. It had been enough to keep him awake far too late the night before his return to Holby City Hospital, re-reading old notes in case there was something there that could prepare him to save a life the next day. He had scanned the page carefully, raking every line, but the words seemed to jumble together in a tangle of black ink and words that were too long for him to properly understand. What if there was something within this mess of letters and symbols that would make the difference between life and death? What if the answer to a critical diagnosis lay between these lines and he couldn't fathom them into coherent thoughts? Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, he'd tried to remind himself that no, he was a good doctor, there's no way he would have been hired otherwise. Certainly Connie Beauchamp would never allow him to stay in her Emergency Department if he was not up to scratch.
Zoe watched the young registrar's retreating figure and saw a marked difference from the enthusiastic young doctor she'd hired. Right down to the way he walked, he looked as though the fate of the entire world was resting on his shoulders, which were rounded and slightly hunched, only drawing attention to the fact that he was looking at the ground instead of where he was going. His hands, hanging by his sides, were clenching and unclenching, tight fists into stiff starfishes, his fingers spread out but tensely straight. She couldn't help herself worrying about him. This wasn't right. Maybe he was still grieving. She'd give him a couple of days to find his feet, then she'd intervene if things didn't look any better.