I know this is slightly early but I couldn't resist. I hope it's ok because I wrote it over about three days based on an idea that randomly came to me while out shopping :D (so I've been trying to remember the original idea).
She was sitting on the ward, the casual observer would assumed that she was intently viewing results on the computer screen in front of her, indeed the page was even opening but she wasn't actually reading it. It had been her intention to do so; to update herself on the status of her patients before the ward starting to come to life around her, but as she had waited for the system to load she had felt herself starting to doze. In the past she was so rarely affected by the early starts and yet now she was finding herself struggling to rouse herself. Though, as much as she was pained to admit, it was not just earlies which saw her struggling – even on her days off she found her energy by even the most minimal of activities. She hoped it was something that would improve soon as her body adjusted to having the embryo growing within her. She wasn't sure how much longer she could cope with feeling constantly exhausted.
"Do you know what day it is?" she was drawn out of her reverie by the Scot who had somehow managed to sneak up next to her, without her noticing. He was getting quite good at that, and she wondered with a tiniest hint of a smile – that she hoped he didn't see – if he was secretly taking lessons in ninja skills. She turns her head towards him and raises an eyebrow as she considers the sheer idiocy of the question.
"Sunday" she answers him finally, realising that he is not going to speak until she does. She wonders why she has even bothered to dignify the question with an answer but she hopes that her tone enough of a sign about her opinion of him in that moment. She watches as a flicker of emotion – one she cannot identify – flickers over his face.
"And?" he adds, and she thinks she sees something vaguely like hope in his eyes though she isn't sure. She rolls her own eyes, at him. Feeling like this is nothing more than a waste of her time, and that if anything this conversation is going to do nothing to make her already sluggish mind alert.
"The 16th June" she gives him the date as well and he sighs a little in response to this. For a moment she doubts herself, that perhaps somehow she has missed a day but she knows that is ridiculous. The little date in the corner of the computer screen had said the sixteenth; she was certain of it.
"and that doesn't mean anything to you?" he questions her further, and she narrows her eyes as she considers the question but her mind draws a blank. She cannot think of anything of importance about the date; it's a Sunday – there are no interdepartmental meetings or things that she has to attend, there are no looming deadlines for the paperwork pile on her desk. It is just another Sunday to her.
"It means I'm working a twelve hour shift with a nurse who is asking me ridiculous questions at" she glances at the computer screen to view the time, "8 o'clock in the morning which means another 11 and a half hours together when he's already getting on my last nerve" she finishes as she turns back to look at his face. She is sure that in the moment before she came to a halt she had seen a look of hurt in his face that he had tried to cover quickly.
"Sorry" he mutters, before he murmurs something under his breath about having to go and see if there are an obs that need doing, though she is near certain that he actually just trying to escape her. She watches him as he walks away from her, her brain still trying to puzzle over the conversation which has just taken place.
He completes his obs round in what seems to him to be record time or perhaps it was simply that the night staff had managed to get in most of the patients before they had disappeared off to their homes, to sleep. He thinks about the ward, and the patients currently on it. It seems to him that it's destined to be a quiet shift. The obs all appear to be relatively stable, no patients seem to be brewing obscure complications that will see them running for the crash trolley or the nearest available theatre. In fact it seems to him, this could be quite a civilised shift – only civility, given that the consultant on duty is Jac, doesn't seem to be the order of the day.
He should have known that she wouldn't realise but there was a part of him that had hoped for something, even just a little comment. He knew this was Jac, he was thinking off but even so. He braved leaving the safety of the ward, preparing himself to see her once again.
He pauses for a moment in the entryway to the bay, watching her. It surprises him how his heart quickens at the very sight of her, how his body choses to react to her presence. He tries to pretend it doesn't; pretends to himself just as much as he pretends to the rest of the world but he knows he is slowly failing in his quest. Despite everything he cannot seem to give up on her.
She looks vulnerable sitting at the desk. Her skin is pale, or paler than normal and he can see in just the way she sits that she is exhausted. He wishes he could look after her, because to him it appears she isn't managing to look after herself despite her protestations.
He'd thought he was getting somewhere with her; that day when he'd seen the tears well in her eyes, as for a moment she'd considered that she couldn't cope alone. He'd hoped that their talk, the seeing of their baby would bring about a change in their relationship. That things would somehow improve once more but it wasn't to be. It saddened him, that she had closed off from him once again. That she seemed determined that she could cope with this alone, when it was painfully obvious to him that she was struggling, that it was wearing her down.
He walks over to the desk and leans against it. She doesn't even seem to notice his presence. Looking at her more closely, he's aware of the fact that she's looking at a point on the desk though she isn't seeing what's there, instead she is concentrating on something else. He studies her for a second before he sees the way she breathes deeply and slowly; a controlled breathing exercise.
He watches as her face changes, a grimace passing over it before she pushes away from the desk and dashes in the direction of the ladies. It is the quickest he has seen her move in weeks, since the day she walked away from him to stop him seeing her breakdown in fact. He looks about the ward, it is still for the most part empty. No visitors having arrived yet, a skeleton weekend staff who are trying to find something to do and resorting to tasks such as replacing sharps bins and refilling bed-end hand gels. He is certain that before the shift is over, they will be hiding out in quiet places sending text messages and playing games on their phones because there are few jobs left to be done and their patients don't need much.
When she fails to emerge within a few minutes, he traces the path she took. He is a little hesitant, not wanting to be put through the rejection that he'll feel when she inevitably pushes him away once again but he cannot stop himself from going. This is his Jac and he is worried about her.
He steps in to the ladies, and for a moment he feels a sense of danger. But then his mind reminds him of why he is even here. He steps further in to the forbidden territory and notes that only one of the cubicles appears to be in use.
"Jac" he says her name tentatively and he wonders whether she would kill him for pushing on the cubicle door in the hopes of her failing to lock it – though if he were to find it was a patient and not a consultant he is not sure how he would get out of that situation. He hears a groan from behind the door, followed second later by the sound of retching.
He doesn't wait for a response from her now, and braces himself for her pushing him away. He pushes against the cubicle door, and he isn't surprised when it opens. She obviously didn't have time to lock it. He finds her huddled over the toilet bowl and he kneels down next to her, allowing the door the close behind him though it is something of a squeeze.
Finally she rocks back against the wall of the cubicle pulling a square of toilet paper free as she does so to wipe her mouth. He doesn't think he has ever seen her look so ill. She wraps one arm around her body as if she is trying to protect, or comfort, herself. He isn't quite sure of her intention but in a small way it touches him.
"You feeling any better?" he asks softly when her breathing seems to return to normal. She turns to look at him, her eyes shining slightly though he sees colour rising slightly in her cheeks making a stark contrast with the deathly pallor of her skin. He hates that she appears embarrassed that he has seen her like this. She nods a little, though it is a shaky unconfident movement. "How long have you been like this?" he adds, and he watches as she closes her eyes and wraps her arms more tightly around herself. It's like she is physically blocking him though he cannot understand why.
"A couple of days" she whispers finally, knowing there is no real point lying to him and there is a part of her that knows, he deserves to know what is going on with the child – their child. But it's hard to be around him. He lets out his breath, though he didn't realise he had been holding it.
"You should have told me" he tells her, and she opens her eyes to look at him. He looks genuinely concerned, though she is certain that the concern is not for her; it is only for the being in her uterus. The blob on the scan photo that she is certain he has probably propped up somewhere in his shoebox.
"I didn't want to bother you" she answers, though she knows that is far from the truth. There is so much conflict in her mind that she struggles to sift through it enough to order her thoughts. She wants him – needs him even – and yet she is still hurting and she fears further hurt if she lets him in. If she lets him get close and allows herself to think that the stupid dream of marriage and life together with their baby and a dog only to find that really it is only the baby he wants and not her. She cannot let that happen to herself.
"It's not bothering me" he informs him, and he wishes that she would see that. In some ways he worries that his previous words and actions are colouring how she is acting towards him now but he wishes she could see things from his perspective as well as her own. That he has retaliated only when he has felt he had no other choice, when she had crushed his dignity and tried to belittle him. But he had come to see that while her actions had hurt him, they had hurt her equally badly perhaps even more than the words he had used.
"I need to get back to the ward" she pushes herself up hesitantly, her body shaking slightly as she reaches to flush the toilet. He has to move quickly to prevent her stumbling blindly over his body and she wishes she wouldn't rush to get away from him. He watches as she washes her hands and studies her complexion before she slips out of the door. He wonders if she has something in her office to remove the offending smell from her breath because this pregnancy is still being kept hidden.
He slips out of the ladies and heads back on to the ward, glancing at his fob watch. His obs are nearly due and that, he thinks, will give him a temporary distraction from the thoughts chasing around his head about the mess that is their current relationship.
She stashes the bag back in her office draw, relieved that she had slipped a toothbrush and toothpaste in to her bag, fearing that the sickness would strike her during the work day. She is relieved that it is a weekend and there's fewer staff around the notice, she still fears the pregnancy becoming common knowledge. She isn't ready for that yet. She knows there are suspicions, curious looks arising from the fact she has eaten more in the last few weeks while on duty than she has been known to in all her years working here. She has eaten foods that normally she wouldn't have been seen dead with.
She slips back out on to the ward, and finds it just as she had left it, only now relatives have filed in and are making small talk with patients. There's a buzz of conversation around her, though little of it really filters through to her. She blocks it out and makes her way to the desk.
She glances around trying to search him out and fails to do so. She isn't sure if this disappoints or relieves her. She cannot face sympathy, his desire to care and look after her and yet she misses him. She misses the fact that he cares for her, that he obviously feels enough for her to show concern.
She sits at the desk and shuffles some papers for no apparent reason other than it is something to occupy her hands. She can just make out two nurses hovering in a corridor, one she recognises as a girl working on this ward; the other she thinks is from somewhere else though she isn't sure. Nurses tend to blend in to one for her, but there are some that stand out.
She hears the low buzz of a phone and she looks about her, trying to search out the offending item. She sees it nestled behind the computer and she pulls it towards her, it's a phone that is familiar to her. His phone. She looks at the screen, even though it is locked she can see the message is from Mo; informing him that she's with her parents, her dad is cooking a Sunday roast though she jokes that it should be her cooking. That makes little sense to Jac. She can understand the teasing text, tormenting him that he is stuck on the ward probably would a lunch he has hastily packed whereas she is destined for a home cooked meal.
Jac feels her stomach churn at the very thought of it and she pushes the phone away from her, as if that will stop the feeling of nausea. Unfortunately for her, it isn't enough and she finds herself dashing passed the two gossiping people in blue, who she knows will be turning in her direction and speculating on what has caused her to run to the ladies, a hand pressed to her mouth. She knows there is one option that will cause more amusement than the others, the one that will draw jokes from her colleagues, the one that is the truth.
He watches as she emerges sheepishly from the ladies, her face pale. She doesn't look at anyone; instead she heads straight for her office. He grabs his phone from beneath the computer and smiles as he reads the text message from Mo. He quickly fires one back, one that he hopes neither of her parents sees although she is a grown up and it shouldn't draw comments. He watches her slip in to her office and emerge with a bag before he hears a call bell buzz in one of his bays. Sighing he gets up to answer it.
Having sorted herself again, she starts on her ward round. Checking the patients and trying to ignore the way he watches her, she can feel his eyes on her and she knows he is quietly making judgements on her condition. On the fact that she wavers occasionally, swallowing hard as she tries to control the waves of nausea that roll over her.
Finally she comes to her final patient, and frowns at the sight of the small child who is sitting on the bed, legs crossed and a wide smile aimed at the father who is sitting up in the bed, desperately trying to look better than he obviously feels. She does her normal checks, all the while feeling the child watching her, that is almost harder than feeling of Jonny's eyes on her.
"I made a card for daddy" the child tells her, turning her attention to the doctor. Jac tries to force herself to smile in response to this, the child is so obviously proud and based on the expression on the father's face he too is impressed by the gift.
"Well isn't that nice" she says as she walks away. It seems strange to her. The father has been here for a week and he had shown her a get well card weeks made by the child days before so she doesn't quite understand why he needs another. Why you would chose to clutter the already lacking space in the bedspace with cards made by the child. She is certain that her home will not become overrun by the 'masterpieces' that her child will one day create.
She seats herself back at the desk, and prepares to make some notes on the patients she has checked. There is little change in any of them, but at least the documentation will give her something to occupy her mind. To distract her from his presence on the ward.
He feels his phone buzz in his pocket and he smiles as he pulls it free. It's yet another text from Mo but this one isn't teasing in nature and he smiles. She, at the very least, has thought to acknowledge this and he cannot quite hide how happy it makes him. How much realer it makes it feel.
She watches as his face changes in response to a message on his mind. He like everyone else is getting bored, and the shift is barely half way over. She has seen them, the nurses slipping away with phones or one of the ward ipads in hand. She knows they have managed to download apps on to them despite the fact they are meant to be locked to prevent this. She knows there is a challenge going around the ward, the first one to reach a certain level of a game, who will get the best score. She hasn't seen him engage in it, instead he appears to be involved in a text conversation with his friend or he distracts himself by talking to the patients; something he is so good at. He is a people person.
She watches as he approaches her, as he leans against the desk in such a relaxed, casual manner that it's a wonder it doesn't draw strange looks from the patients and relatives, instead it seems to make him more loved, more human.
"How're you feeling?" he asks gently, his voice quiet though there is no one around who could overhear. Still she is grateful for that, she knows that he would like to shout it from the rooftops that he is going to be a father.
"Little better" she answers, just as softly. He smiles in response to this, he glances down at his phone and his smile widens again at the message from Mo, another one having appeared seconds before. He is almost certain she has been drinking but still it is the thought that counts. Jac reaches out and grabs it from his hand, curious by what could be causing him such amusement. He tries to stop her. "so what's Maureen saying that's so entertaining?" it's a rhetorical question and she glances down to look at the screen, part of her expecting the message to be about her. She reads it and furrows her brow, not quite making sense of it.
"That's private" he scolds her slightly, but in a way he is glad that she has read it, that now she might understand his questioning earlier in the day. That maybe she might see from the message, how much this means to him. She looks up at him, with confused eyes.
"This is why you asked me" she states it, rather than questioning him and he nods. She twists her lips, as she considers it. "and you expected a card from an embryo?" she adds as a question, her voice low but there is a slight bud of pride in his chest at the fact she has acknowledge it in a public area.
"Well no, but" he starts and pauses, he isn't sure what he expected really. Just a few words from her, a little gesture. He would have done it for her, on her day. Indeed next year he would need to do something special when the baby was here, there was already a part of him considering options – a little plan building in his mind though he feared it would never come to pass.
"It's just another day" she whispers, "same as mother's day" she adds. Her voice is barely a whisper and she feels the welling of tears in her eyes. She curses her emotions, like the sickness and the food cravings so much of her seems destined to want to reveal her situation before she is ready. She stands and walks away from him, heading towards the office. She doesn't want the tears to fall where people could see, where he could see. Only he follows behind her, walking in to the office and pulled Elliot's chair over to her desk.
"Aren't I allowed to be excited by this?" he asks softly, thinking of the text message and how it had made him feel; the idea that this was a day to celebrate his status as a dad, that he would have a child to love and nurture, to watch grow up.
"It's just a day – a day where you get given a crappy card with an empty sentiment" she tells him, her voice bitter and hard. She thinks back to school days when they had been forced to make these cards, how she had felt sitting there amongst her class who spoke of parents who loved them. A tear slips from her eyes as she thinks of her younger self and hastily she tries to wipe it away, "It's not important"
"Maybe not to you" he answers her, swallowing hard as he thinks of the excitement he had felt. She twists the phone around in her hands, needing something to keep them busy as she thinks, "maybe you can avoid the cards in the shops, the date in the calendar like it's nothing but to me it meant something" she swallows hard.
"It's just a day" she whispers once again, and he shakes his head a little.
"Didn't you enjoy giving your daddy a card calling him the world's best daddy and watching him smile and act like it is the best thing in the world even though really it is only a card?" he thinks back to the days when his own childhood had been good. His early years when he and his sisters had pooled pocket money to buy a card in the years when they could or made them when they couldn't. How their daddy had wrapped his arms around them in a bear hug, and told them it was the best card yet and how much he loved it. How after that he would spend the day with them, playing games and enjoying their company. That was their day.
"I" she pauses thinking, she swallows hard and closes her eyes trying to squeeze away the tears that threaten to spill over her eyes. She thinks of little Jac, who had been forced to make cards and listen to bright happy conversations. She thinks of her own child, "I didn't have a father to give a card too" she adds finally. A confession to him, there had been the men her mother had dated. She had been forced to give them cards if they had been around long enough, forced to give them a kiss as well knowing that they would hold her to them a little bit too tightly.
"Jac" his voice is soft and sad as he thinks of it, it is one of the few things he knows about her past. This very small confession and he knows how hard it would have been for her to make. He moves closer to her and tries to pull her in to his arms but she resists him, pulling back.
"I can't do this" she recoils from him and tenses. There is a startled look in her eyes, the reality of having opened up to him briefly. She hadn't meant to, wasn't ready to. He didn't need to be let in.
"Jac" she shakes her head, closing up. She needs quiet. If he sticks around, she isn't certain of what she'll do. She fears everything will come tumbling out and she cannot afford that. She cannot let him in anymore. She needs to protect herself. And yet everything is so close. The words edging on to her tongue, ready to be spoken aloud, but she tries to swallow them away.
"Please" she pleads, she needs time alone. She closes her eyes, trying to block him out. Trying to block everything out, only she doesn't see the blackness of her eyelids, she sees the face of her childhood-self staring back at her. The little girl, clutching a scribbled on bit of paper of the family she dreams of. It was what the other child drew on their cards – happy mummy, happy daddy, themselves, siblings and if they had them a pet. Only for those children it was their reality. Her picture was the family she dreamt of, the one she pretended she had.
She hears the door close and she gives in to the tears, allowing them to fall freely over her cheeks.
She slips out of her office, sometime later, having attempted to sort herself out. She tries to steel herself for what she is about to do, an idea that came to her as she sat in the quiet. It scares her, and yet she is certain it is the right thing to do. She sees him, at the desk. He is laughing with another nurse, talking about something she cannot hear. He looks happy. She finds the thing she wants and slips in to an empty bay.
He is relieved when the end of his shift comes. It has been a day that has been so very quiet and yet he feels exhausted. It is not helped by the fact that she has been avoiding him, since the encounter in her office. He goes to his locker and opens it, confused for a moment by the fact something appears to have been slipped inside. He pulls his jacket free and wraps it about himself before he grabs hold of the white envelope. He feels his heart rate quicken at the sight of it, the fact his name is written on the front in her handwriting. He has the sinking sensation that whatever this is, it isn't good. He fears that she's run away, disappeared; that this note is the goodbye. He turns it over in his hands afraid to open it, yet he knows he has to.
He works up the courage and pulls free the contents. It confuses him, the square of paper. He turns it over and sees that it is a photo, of all things it is a scan photo. It is slightly clearer than the last, the one he performed and he sees that there is writing on the image, not overly clear but recognisably hers. He squints as he tries to read it, finally the words clear in front of his eyes and he notes they are surrounded by what he presumes is a speech bubble. The image blurs in front of him, as he takes it in.
"Our baby's going to be a clever one" he hadn't noticed her, the fact she was hidden away watching him. He turns towards her, eyes shining with tears though his face bursting with the wide smile stretched across it. It's quite a sight and she wishes she had a camera to take a photo to show Mo, a photo she can use as leverage, "already able to write, and work a portable ultrasound" she too is smiling, or at least he thinks she is through the sheen of tears blurring his vision.
"Thank you" he whispers, and he steps towards her.
"Why are you thanking me? I didn't do anything" He is sure she is smiling now, he can hear it in the way she talk. He steps closer to her and wraps his arms around her, to his surprise she doesn't pull away from him but instead allows herself to be held.
"Happy father's day" she whispers, resting her head against his chest. Her places a kiss on the top of her forehead.
"Happy June 16th" he whispers.