Author's Note: Hello, everybody! Here's another fic that was requested on my Tumblr. The anon wanted to see the FACE family with Alfred suffering from hydrocephalus and Arthur as a neurosurgeon. Guess who knows very little about neurology and spent hours looking at sad children undergo brain surgery? Yup, yours truly, haha. Worth it though.

I just want to give my usual disclaimer that this story is for entertainment purposes only and that none of what I write should be taken as medical facts/advice. I'm not a licensed healthcare professional. I'm just a journalism student who's good at doing research and asks her RN mom too many questions.

With that said, I hope you enjoy this fic and leave a review! Thanks in advance! :)

Eleven is a tough age. Of this, Arthur and Francis are all too aware.

They know their boys are nearing the start of adolescence, which means they are slowly but surely growing into young men. Puberty isn't pleasant. Aside from just getting taller and more irritable, the twins are also beginning to test boundaries and gain new ideas about the world at large, particularly when it comes to girls.

Oh, girls…

Alfred, in particular, has been paying less attention to his sixth-grade geography lessons now that he's begun pining over a young lady by the name of Anya. Apparently, he shows her his affections by annoying her on a daily basis and following her around at lunchtime. Even his teachers have noticed, and they've informed Arthur and Francis of the situation.

And so, they've decided to establish a rule that the boys aren't allowed to date any girls until the day they turn thirty. They'll have time for dating once they complete their educations and are emotionally mature enough for a relationship. Enforcing this rule, on the other hand, is an entirely different matter.

Admittedly, they've been lenient with Alfred until now. This is due, in part, to his poor health.

Before adopting the twins, Arthur and Francis were told that Alfred was diagnosed with hydrocephalus when he was two months old—a condition in which excess cerebrospinal fluid accumulates in the ventricles of the brain. He underwent surgery and received a shunt—essentially a tube designed to drain the excess fluid and redirect it into his abdomen.

As a neurosurgeon himself, Arthur thought they'd be more than well-equipped to take care of the boy, and so, they didn't allow this to hinder their attempts at adoption.

But hydrocephalus is incurable, and while Alfred functions as a normal, healthy boy most of the time, he does have his fair share of bad days. Shunts are finicky and have a tendency to malfunction. Thus far, Alfred hasn't had any major complications—thank goodness—but he does suffer from debilitating migraines frequently, which aren't always directly related to hydrocephalus and are caused by other things, like his shunt reacting to changes in pressure. Still, they are a nuisance at best.

As a result, Arthur and Francis have often been more easygoing on him, usually involuntarily. They don't mean to give Alfred special treatment—it just happens.

There have been instances during which they have excused Alfred from finishing his homework because of one of his headaches. They also worry about him immensely—as any parent would—and these worries can occasionally blind their good judgment when it comes to discipline. It doesn't help that Alfred has been known to exaggerate his headaches to get out of doing his assignments or studying.

When Arthur is home, he can usually tell if Alfred is faking or not, as he sees truly ill patients on a regular basis and can detect false symptoms from a mile away. In contrast, Francis is not quite as good at making such determinations, and Alfred uses this to his advantage.

On the outside, Alfred seems like any other boy. Though the outline of the shunt is somewhat visible if one looks closely at his scalp, his hair normally conceals it. His classmates don't suspect a thing, and outside of their family, Alfred doesn't like to talk about the condition. Arthur and Francis can tell he's insecure about it and doesn't want to be labeled as strange or different. Therefore, his homeroom teacher and the school nurse are the only ones who are aware of it.

Matthew, meanwhile, is still a little confused and unsure about what hydrocephalus is and why Alfred sometimes gets severely ill. He understands the general idea because Arthur has tried explaining it to him in plain terms, but he still gets frightened when Alfred experiences a migraine and often chooses to keep his distance.

Once, Matthew offered his brother a plate of cookies he'd baked with Francis to cheer him up when he had a headache, and Alfred instantly vomited from the smell and snapped at Matthew for bringing him food (strong scents often worsen his migraines). And since then, Matthew has always been wary of approaching Alfred during one of his bad days, despite the number of times Arthur has tried to reassure him that it's all right.

But all in all, things are okay on a day-to-day basis. In fact, Alfred almost goes three months without any significant problems, lulling them all into a false sense of security.

And then, inevitably, things become sour again.

Francis is going to kill him as soon as he finds out he's on call for the foreseeable future.

Arthur has already worked a whopping sixty hours this week, and he's likely in for at least another 20 by the time he gets a real day off. He's surprised Francis hasn't forgotten he exists yet because his presence has nearly been non-existent at home as of late. He didn't mean for things to turn out this way, of course, but explaining that to Francis won't be easy, and he knows that once he finally does come home in the middle of the night, he's going to be yelled at and they're going to get into an argument—an argument Arthur really doesn't have the strength for.

While he wants nothing more but to clock out and go home, being at the hospital means he can't be scolded by his furious husband just yet, so perhaps being trapped on this unit is the best option as of right now.

He checks in on one of his post-op patients to make sure they're not experiencing any complications, and then, he intends to take a quick break so he can grab something to eat and have a cup of tea. This might be his only opportunity to take a break within the next eight hours.

"Arthur Kirkland!"

He stops in his tracks and furrows his brows, shoulders tensing. Who's calling his name? And why are they shouting when there are patients recovering from—?

Oh, no.

His worst fear has been recognized.

Francis is here.

At first, he thinks he must have fallen asleep in the doctors' lounge and that this is all part of some nightmare because he's been dreading confronting his husband, but the longer he looks at Francis, the more he realizes he can't possibly be dreaming. He is here, in the flesh—as real as ever.

He is carrying a children's jacket in one arm and holding Matthew's hand in the other—that's Alfred's jacket…

"Francis? What's going on? What is Matthew doing here?" Arthur demands, speed walking across the nurses' station to reach them. He instantly puts his hand protectively on Matthew's back as he waits for an explanation. The poor boy looks absolutely horrified—as though he's seen a ghost.

"Don't you dare ask me that. If you would have picked up your phone after I called you for the fifteenth time, you would know what's going on!" Francis says hysterically, eyes bloodshot and hair uncharacteristically tousled. He whacks Arthur's shoulder, livid, and this seems to upset Matthew even more. "Alfred was in excruciating pain for three hours, crying endlessly and asking for you. I tried calling you to find out what to do next, until I couldn't wait any longer and brought him here myself. We've been in the ER for the past hour—the neurologist who saw him said it's likely a shunt malfunction and just had him admitted. That's what happened, imbécile!"

How's that possible? He always keeps his phone on him. He would've known if Francis had been calling.

Except, when he searches the pockets of his white coat as well as those of his scrubs, he realizes he doesn't have his phone. He must have left it in his locker when he came in this morning.

Something in his chest sinks to his feet in despair. How could he be so careless? Not only is he an absent husband, but now he's being a neglectful father as well. Alfred needed him, and he wasn't there. The realization makes him feel sick to his stomach.

"Who was the neurologist you spoke to? They didn't think to inform me that my son is in the hospital?" Arthur seethes, feeling the need to take his anger out on someone. He can't direct it at Francis because the man has every right to be irritated with him.

"It was Dr. Oxenstierna, and I don't think he knew…This is your responsibility, Arthur. Do you have any idea how confused and frightened we all were? There wasn't a peep out of you in response!"

"Yes, I know, but you can have my head later, after Alfred has been tended to. You said he was just admitted to the unit?"

"Yes, that's what I said, thank you for listening for once."

Arthur sighs and reminds himself not to fall for the bait. They will have time to argue once they take care of their son. "What bed number?"

"Three."

"Okay, I'll be there in a moment. Sit with him. I need to check the assignments and make sure he's my patient from now on."

Francis glowers at him disapprovingly. "Do you really think it's wise for you to be treating your own child?"

"Well, I don't trust anyone else here to treat him, so yes."

Francis shakes his head. "You know you shouldn't…"

"There's no law saying I can't," Arthur declares, and that's that. He's not going to allow anyone else near the boy for now because his co-workers' competency is questionable, and he doesn't want to take any chances.

"I don't think this a good idea."

"Francis, I'm not going to argue with you in the middle of the unit."

"Who are you to be making these decisions after you were missing all day?"

"Francis, please…Not in front of Matthew."

At the mention of his name, Matthew lowers his head shyly and pretends not to hear, but his shoulders are still trembling in light of everything that has happened. Seeing his brother unwell must really have disconcerted him.

He seems to be in need of a hug, and so, Arthur holds out his arms to him and pulls him close, squeezing him tightly before whispering, "Everything's going to be all right, love," into his ear.

"P-Promise?" Matthew asks, swiping at a tear in his right eye.

Arthur nods. Perhaps he can at least salvage Matthew's faith in him. "You have my word."

Francis, of course, isn't pleased that he is making such promises, but he clearly doesn't want to start anything in front of Matthew and risk upsetting him even more. So, he obligingly follows Arthur's orders and goes back to Alfred's room, Matthew trotting alongside him.

"He's an imbécile and a stubborn old goat," Francis huffs, making sure he speaks just loud enough for Arthur to hear him.

Alfred can't remember the last time his head hurt this bad. He's had pressure headaches and migraines before, but this is nothing of the sort. It's a million times worse. He can't think straight or keep his eyes open. Just being awake and suffering through the pain is exhausting, and he doesn't dare to budge an inch because his head feels like it might explode once and for all if he tries to turn on his side.

Someone has turned out the light above his hospital bed, but it still seems like everything is too bright and loud. The light behind the curtain is bugging him, and he desperately wishes he could fall asleep and stay like that until the pain goes away. Every movement, sound, scent, and touch makes him want to puke.

He lets out a low groan because it's the only way he can vent his frustration given the position he's in. Crying is too much effort, so this is the next best thing.

"Shhh, mon lapin," Papa whispers, stroking his hand. "It's going to be okay…Everything's going to be fine. Just rest."

The privacy curtain gets pulled aside with a squeak, and the noise makes Alfred furrow his brows. Even the footsteps of the doctors and nurses walking around nearby are aggravating him. More light momentarily floods into his room, and he groans once more, hoping whoever is here will put him out of his misery.

"Oh, Alfred, my boy."

Dad…

He opens his eyes wearily to look at his father and lets a whimper leave his throat. He can't talk. Talking is work and the noise makes his head pulsate with more pain, but it soothes him to know Dad is here. His navy-blue scrubs, white coat, infamous eyebrows, shaggy blond hair—they are all somewhat reassuring in a way Alfred can't quite explain.

Dad stands beside his bed and puts a hand on his forehead, checking for fever. Then, he lets his fingers roam up to his hairline—the place where Alfred's shunt is located. He feels along his scalp for several seconds, then drops his hand again and leans down to press a kiss to Alfred's temple. "I'm so sorry, love. I should have been here sooner."

Alfred shudders from the pain and whispers thinly, "It's okay…"

"MRI and morphine," Dad decides, absently murmuring orders to himself before picking up Alfred's left hand to look at his IV—probably checking to see if it was put in correctly.

When he's satisfied, he lets out a heavy sigh and ruffles Alfred's hair. There's a tiny smile on his face that's meant to be warm and reassuring, and like magic, the pain in Alfred's skull isn't as debilitating anymore.

"Hang in there, poppet. You'll feel better soon," Dad says softly, setting his stethoscope on Alfred's chest. He listens for a moment, and then pulls back, revealing nothing about whether his findings are good or bad. He glances at Papa and Matthew, then looks back at him again and says, "The nurse will bring you some medicine, okay? And then, you'll get taken for a scan."

"Okay," Alfred sleepily agrees, and another groan slips out from between his lips before he can suppress it.

Dad rubs a thumb over his cheek worriedly, and Alfred knows things mustn't be good if he's openly showing his concern. "Shhh, save your energy. You need it."

His eyelids flutter, and he's stuck somewhere between wakefulness and sleep. He notices Dad leave the room and promise to come back soon, and not too long after, a pleasant nurse comes in to give him his IV pain medication.

And at last, the pain starts to disappear. He's so relieved that he has the urge to cry tears of gratitude, but before he can do that, his muscles go limp and he drops into a deep sleep, exhausted. The last thing he remembers is Papa taking hold of his hand and telling Mattie not to be afraid—that he should come and hold Alfred's other hand.

But Alfred's not sure if Mattie ever does because he's already too dazed.

"You've drugged our son."

"He's no longer in any pain."

"No, but look at him! He's practically comatose!"

Arthur can't help but roll his eyes at how dramatic Francis is being. Then again, he supposes his husband has never seen anyone on morphine before—adult or child—and so, this must all be daunting for him. It's just standard protocol given the amount of agony Alfred was in. "He's getting some much-needed rest. I'm afraid a tablet of ibuprofen wasn't going to suffice, Francis."

"Don't use that patronizing tone with me."

"I wouldn't have to use it if you would just trust me."

"Trust you? After what you pulled today?" Francis scoffs, crossing his arms indignantly over his chest. It's clear he's not going to forgive Arthur anytime soon. Instead, he keeps his attention focused entirely on Alfred, petting his head and cooing tender words at him even though the boy is too lethargic and drowsy to hear them.

In the midst of all of this, Matthew sits at the foot of Alfred's bed and nibbles on his bottom lip. He looks at his brother and then lifts his starry-eyed gaze toward Arthur to ask, "When is he going to wake up?"

"Hopefully not for a while, love. The longer he's asleep, the better. He should be taken for his MRI any minute now, and the results should let us know what to do next and whether or not there's a problem with his shunt," Arthur explains as Francis shoots him a disdainful glower. To be honest, he doesn't enjoy seeing Alfred like this either, but he'd rather see him drowsy from medication than moaning and groaning in pain.

Matthew frowns and almost lets his hand touch Alfred's knee in a comforting gesture, but then he pulls away, afraid that making physical contact with his twin will somehow hurt him. "What's gonna happen if his shunt isn't working?"

"Well, it's likely he'd have to undergo surgery to have it fixed or replaced."

"Will you fix it?"

At that, Francis jumps into the conversation again, beside himself with anxiety and fury. "No. Absolutely not. You are not operating on our son. I won't let you. You wouldn't be in your right mind—and imagine if something goes wrong! Think of what that would do to Alfred. Think of what it would do to you to know you were at fault."

Francis is right. Regardless of his experience and how many times he has replaced shunts for other patients, he shouldn't go near Alfred. He doesn't trust himself with that kind of duty. The result could be disastrous should there be any complications. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if he were responsible for causing the boy harm.

He has to draw the line somewhere, and this is it. While he'd rather not put his child's health and wellbeing in anyone else's hands, he knows it's necessary in this case.

"I won't do it," he assures, but it feels like there's a boulder in his throat now. If not him, then who? Oxenstierna? He's all right, Arthur supposes, but is "all right" good enough to let him make an incision in Alfred's head?

A radiographer finally comes in to take Alfred for his MRI, and they all step back, watching the man unlock the wheels of Alfred's bed and transport him down the hall.

Alfred looks so small in that bed…Small and frail.

It hits Arthur like a truck. He's not sure what it is about this simple observation that makes him lose all of his composure, but it's enough to make him snap. Maybe it's because he has worked over 60 hours this week, or maybe it's the stress of knowing Alfred is likely going to need surgery. Normally, he is able to stay professional and clinical in these situations. He is supposed to be the voice of reason and security when it comes to any and all medical issues. He should be in control. He should be able to protect Alfred.

He shouldn't be feeling the need to cry like a ninny in the empty space where Alfred's bed was just seconds ago.

His face contorts with sadness and he quickly turns away from Francis and Matthew, not wanting them to see how pathetic he's being. The boulder in his throat doubles in size, and he knows he has to leave the room before he has a full breakdown in front of them. He can't let them see him lose his resolve.

Francis's melodrama must be contagious. Alfred will be fine, surely. He'll get a new shunt and be back to his usual self in no time.

So why does Arthur feel like his heart is being torn down the middle?

"…Spoke with Oxenstierna. He'll be replacing the shunt, but I'll be in the room as well should anything come up…"

"Good…Are you okay?"

"Fine, why?"

"You seem upset."

"I'm not upset."

"Arthur, we've been married for thirteen years. I can tell when you're lying to me."

Are they fighting? Alfred hopes not. He's not too sure what's going on, but his head feels a lot better, and when he dares to open his eyes at half-mast, the light from the other side of the curtain doesn't bother him quite as much anymore.

He sees Matthew reading a book in a chair on the other side of the room while Dad and Papa are standing at the foot of his bed, whispering to one another. Both Dad and Papa have wrinkles on their foreheads, and it occurs to Alfred that they're probably bickering because of him.

"Look who's awake," Dad suddenly says, breaking off his conversation with Papa to smile at him. "How are you feeling, love?"

"Mmm," Alfred hums because his tongue feels kinda heavy in his mouth. He feels a little detached from his body—like if he tried to lift his arm, it wouldn't obey. It's not a bad feeling—it's just strange.

"Mon chou…?"

"He's still sluggish from the medication. Don't expect a response," Dad murmurs, combing a hand through Alfred's hair. "You're going to be all better soon, my boy. You're getting a new shunt."

A new shunt means surgery—Alfred knows that much. He lets out a little noise of complaint and wants to protest, but he's still sleepy and can't find the strength to argue. He doesn't want to have an operation. What if he dies?

His body shakes with a sob, and Dad and Papa quickly go about trying to console him, assuring him that he's going to be okay and that the surgery will be over before he knows it. He only listens to half of what they say. The other half of the time, he's looking over at Matthew, who is staring back at him with bewildered eyes.

Matthew looks like he wants to say something, but then he bites down hard on his lip and turns back to the book he's reading.

Alfred thinks his brother is choosing to ignore him until he hears Matthew's lofty voice cut in between Dad and Papa's fussing, "It was a dark and stormy night. In her attic bedroom, Margaret Murry, wrapped in an old patchwork quilt, sat on the foot of her bed and watched the trees tossing in the frenzied lashing of the wind."

Mattie is reading to him from A Wrinkle in Time. Alfred is certain of the title of the book because they're supposed to be reading it for their English class. In fact, their book report is due next week, but Alfred hasn't even gotten to the third chapter yet.

Dad and Papa grow silent and turn their heads toward Matthew, equally blown away. They listen intently as Matthew reads on, but they stay huddled by Alfred's bedside the whole time, as though they're afraid moving will disturb the serenity.

Matthew's mellow and pleasant lilt is like listening to the radio when cooped at home on a rainy day. It is a soothing buzz, rising and falling with every syllable and shifting emotion. If his brother had done this for him sooner, Alfred would've already been done with his book report. Although he's not much of an avid reader, hearing Matthew read it to him is a lot more entertaining.

He hears Dad sigh softly, and when Alfred looks to his parents, he sees that they're now holding hands, fingers linked together. They're both wearing their silver wedding bands, and they must be holding hands tightly because their knuckles are white.

It makes Alfred happy to know they're not angry anymore. He's able to contentedly focus on the story, chest feeling lighter, and he listens for what seems like a long time until an anesthesiologist comes in along with his nurse.

He's prepped for surgery, but it doesn't seem so scary anymore because Dad tells him he's going to be with him the whole time in the operating room, and Papa promises to take him out for McDonald's once he's all better again.

"I'll read to you again when you wake up," Matthew also promises before giving him a brief hug.

He's awake long enough to know he is taken to another room, and he hears Dad exchange a few words with Dr. Oxenstierna and the anesthesiologist. Then, a mask is put over his nose and mouth. When he looks up at Dad, he sees that he's now wearing a blue-green medical mask.

Dad notices his gaze and looks back at him with smiling eyes. "It's going to be all right, poppet."

"S-Stay?" Alfred asks, beyond exhausted and only staying awake by a thread.

"I'll be right here. I'm not going anywhere."

"Okay…Love you."

Dad's green eyes light up with affection. "I love you, too."

And then, he slips into a medically-induced sleep once more.

The surgery goes well and according to plan. Admittedly, Oxenstierna does a decent job, even though Arthur was practically breathing down his neck the entire time, watching carefully for any errors. Now, they just have to keep Alfred under observation for a while and be wary of any potential signs of infection.

Alfred is likely going to be confused and upset once he wakes up, and Arthur suspects he isn't going to take the news that they had to shave a patch of hair on the right side of his head very well. There's a dressing covering the tiny bald spot, and underneath that are the boy's stitches.

He arranges for Alfred to have a private room to recover in, and just as he's about to fetch Francis and Matthew to let them know they can come and see him, the boy starts to rouse, mumbling to himself fitfully and wiggling around underneath his blanket.

Arthur waits to determine how alert he is. Judging by his groggy blinking and languid movements, he's still quite sedated.

"W-What happened to my room?" is the first thing the boy thinks to ask, voice slurred.

"You just came out of surgery, Alfred. You're in the hospital. Remember?" Arthur carefully says, trying to jog his memory. "Your shunt was leaking."

Alfred reaches up a hand to touch his scalp, and Arthur debates whether or not he should push his hand back down to keep him from disrupting the gauze on his head. In the end, he allows the boy to explore what's been done to him because he reckons that if he tries to hold Alfred still, that might upset him.

"D-Did you take my brain?"

Arthur chuckles and rubs Alfred's arm soothingly. "No, poppet. Your brain is exactly where it should be."

"Am I bald?"

"No, you just had a bit of hair removed where the incision was. It will grow back, I assure you."

Alfred giggles, clearly loopy, and says, "I wanna be a bald old man with a shiny head."

"Your papa would have a heart attack," Arthur jokes as he perches himself on the edge of Alfred's bed. He thought the anesthesia would have made the boy emotional, but it has obviously had more of a euphoric effect on him, at least for now. "How does your head feel?"

Alfred doesn't seem to register his question because, instead, he asks, "Dad, what if aliens are real?"

"Hmm, I don't know, my boy."

Arthur supposes he should sit with him for a while before inviting Francis and Matthew to join them. If Francis sees their son in this state, he'll become hysterical again, and Matthew would probably be frightened as a result. He'll wait for the anesthesia to wear off a little more.

Getting asked bizarre questions by his medicated patients is nothing new to Arthur, and he knows the best response is to be gentle and reassuring.

"Do you think aliens would ever come to Earth?" Alfred continues.

"Perhaps."

"Maybe they'd be nice to people."

The boy momentarily loses his train of thought before reeling it in again a few seconds later. "If I had an alien friend, I'd call him Tony."

Arthur smirks dryly. "Why Tony?"

"Tony's a good alien name," Alfred mumbles, briefly shutting his eyes and then opening them again. "Do you think Anya likes bald heads?"

Arthur just barely contains a laugh and shrugs his shoulders. "It's possible."

"Dad?"

"Yes?"

"My stomach is crawling out."

Arthur furrows his brows, puzzled because he has no idea what Alfred is trying to get at. "Does your stomach hurt?"

The boy doesn't give him a proper answer, but that's all right because Arthur can see from the expression on his face that he's going to be sick. In one swift movement, Arthur grabs a blue emesis bag from the dispenser on the wall and holds it up to Alfred's chin.

Since Alfred didn't have much in his stomach to begin with, he mostly dry heaves and spits up mucus. When he's done, Arthur disposes of the bag and pats Alfred's back to calm him, as now he seems more sullen and depressed than he was several minutes ago.

"That's normal after anesthesia," Arthur soothes. "You may feel nauseous for a while longer."

"I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to apologize for. It's all right…Are you feeling better now? Do you want to see your papa and Matthew?

Alfred scrunches his face, coming back to his senses somewhat, and mumbles, "Yeah."

"Okay, sit tight, and I'll return with them in a moment."

"No! Don't go," Alfred pleads, holding a hand against his stomach, and Arthur feels his heart constrict again.

"How about I step out for just a second to tell one of the nurses to bring them? I'll only be a moment."

"O-Okay."

And so, that's exactly what he does. He disappears for less than a minute and then comes back in to reclaim his place by Alfred's side once he has informed one of the RNs at the nurses' situation of his predicament.

And when he's back, he deposits a kiss on Alfred's head for the umpteenth time that day and cautiously tells him, "Just do me a favor and don't mention anything about aliens around your papa, all right? He's not fond of extraterrestrials."

Now begins the arduous journey of earning Francis' forgiveness. Getting Alfred cured and brought back in one piece was just the first step.

He knows he owes his husband an apology for the stress he put him through earlier today. Admitting to his mistakes is going to be agonizing, but it has to be done if he doesn't want to end up sleeping on the couch once he finally gets home.

He watches Francis embrace Alfred and check him over for any new signs of injury or illness. He gently touches the dressing on his scalp and asks him how he's feeling three whole times—but are you sure, mon lapin? Then, he relents at long last, satisfied with their son's condition. Ultimately, he leaves Alfred in Matthew's care, letting him continue reading chapter three of A Wrinkle in Time to him.

"We need to talk," Arthur mutters, tapping Francis's shoulder to get his attention. "Could I have a word with you out in the hall?"

Francis narrows his icy blue eyes at him in displeasure but still says, "You may."

Arthur leads the way, guiding them down the unit and out of earshot of the nurses' station. Then, he slumps his shoulders, runs a hand over his aching eyes, and says, "I'm sorry…I know I haven't always been around when I've been needed, and I apologize for that. I didn't intend to miss your calls today…I know you were left in a difficult position because of my absence."

He waits for Francis to reply, but all his husband does is stare at a bulletin board on the wall—there's apparently going to be a fundraising festival for the physical therapy center next week.

Bastard. Does he know how tiresome it was for Arthur to have to say what he just did? And he's not even going to acknowledge him?

But finally, just as Arthur is considering storming away—Francis begins to cry.

Not the waterworks…Anything but that. Tears are one of Arthur's biggest weaknesses.

"Come here," Arthur tuts, pulling the overwrought frog into his arms. Honestly, his husband has a habit of crying over spilled milk. "Stop it. Everything's fine."

"I'm sorry as well," Francis says, hands clutching at his white coat. "I know the work you do is demanding and stressful. I would never be able to do what you do. You put your heart and soul into this…But you're always thinking of others instead of considering your own family."

"That's not true. I think of you and the boys every day."

"It doesn't feel that way."

"What do you want me to do, Francis?" Arthur sighs, at the end of his rope with the amount of drama they've had to endure today.

Francis lets out a quivering breath against his neck. "The boys don't need me. They need you. I couldn't do anything for Alfred today. He was suffering, and I didn't know how to react. You're the one they can count on."

Arthur can't believe what he's hearing. Is Francis actually suggesting that he doesn't feel adequate as a parent? Since when has he been so insecure about something like this?

"Francis…The boys need you just as much as they need me. You did everything exactly right today—you saw Alfred was ill and you sought help."

"But if something were to have happened to him before I managed to get him here, I wouldn't have been able to help him."

"No one would have expected you to do anything, seeing as—"

"Seeing as I'm useless," Francis finishes for him with a scoff.

"Why would you think that, you numpty?"

"I can't do what you can."

Arthur rolls his eyes. Is it finally happening? Is Francis admitting that he's actually inferior to him in some aspect, or god forbid, that he admires him? While Arthur would love to see this conversation go further so he could discover what else Francis thinks he does better as a parent, he also must admit that it's depressing to see the man go on like this.

"Think about it like this—I can't mentor Alfred on how to woo his crush, Anya, like you can. We also know I'm a dreadful cook. I hate shopping for the boys' clothes, I can't cut their hair—by all of these measures, I'm useless as well. And yet, somehow, we manage," Arthur reasons, breaking their hug.

"Are you saying we complete each other?" Francis asks cheekily.

"…That's one interpretation, I suppose."

For the first time all day, Francis grins—and though Arthur will never admit it, he has missed that coy smile of his. It causes his heart to skip a beat.

Then, before Arthur can draw away or turn his head aside, Francis pecks him on the nose. And Arthur cannot possibly enjoy this moment with him because what if someone sees? His reputation at this hospital would be ruined.

"So, am I forgiven?" he asks.

Francis nods his head and murmurs, "As long as you forgive me."

"Well, I haven't decided on that just yet."

Francis glares.

"Oh, relax," Arthur chuckles, poking him in the ribs. "I'm only joking. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go and check in on my patient and make sure he hasn't started talking about his alien friends again."

"His what?"

"Don't worry about it."