Author's Note: Happy Valentine's Day, everyone! (And more importantly, Happy Singles Awareness Day if you're like me). Here's a special little one-shot I wrote for the occasion. An anon requested a while back that I do a "Girlhood" origins story of how Francis and Arthur met while in college, but I kind of modified the idea and came up with something else. I hope you guys like it! Remember to tell a loved one how much you care about them today, even if it isn't a significant other.
Four more weeks until freedom.
In a month's time, Arthur will have completed the long, anxiety-packed, and sleep-deprived journey known as his residency program. He'll no longer have to cater to the whims of Yao, the uncompanionable, cold, standoffish—albeit brilliant—attending physician looming over him and keeping tabs on his every move.
Yet, these four weeks are likely to be hell, considering the last stretch to any finish line is often riddled with obstacles. Today is shaping up to be particularly hellish due to the ten inches of snow already piled outside with more accumulation forecasted to be on the way. Every now and then, hail the size of marbles will spontaneously fall from the gray sky, making an already miserable commute even worse. Clocking in on time this morning was a struggle in itself. After waking up an hour earlier than usual to shovel out the car, Arthur's still chilled to the bone, despite having had two cups of tea. Furthermore, his biceps, triceps, deltoids, and all of the other muscles in his upper body aren't pleased with him after such an early morning workout.
Now Arthur finds himself skulking around the ER, tending mostly to stomach flus and suspected fractures—common complaints during this time of the year. He's waiting on the lab to get back to him with the results of his flu-ridden patients' blood tests, but apparently, something is causing a hold-up downstairs because he's been waiting two hours longer than he usually does. He's already called to complain three times, but the situation doesn't seem to be improving.
As for the patients who aren't coughing, sneezing, running a fever, or losing their breakfast/lunch, most of them are in need of a CT scan or an x-ray, creating some traffic over at radiology. Arthur wouldn't mind the wait if it weren't for the fact that every fifteen minutes or so, a patient of his will wander out of bed to yell at either him or the nurse while he calmly explains there are some things in this hospital that are simply out of his control, but no one seems to be satisfied with that answer.
Four more weeks. Eventually, if all goes well, he'll be able to have a private practice somewhere in the middle of the suburbs, and he won't have to put up with the continuous insanity of the ER.
He tries to get some charting done, and as he's beginning to make a dent in his work, one of the nurses drops a new folder in his lap. This is officially his seventh assignment, and that's far too many patients for him to keep track of at one time. He would be able to discharge half of these patients if radiology would stop faffing about.
"Have fun," the nurse says dryly, and Arthur drags himself to room eight, where his new case is waiting.
He pulls back the privacy curtain with a sigh, invites himself in, and introduces himself the same way he always does.
"Good day, my name is Dr. Kirkland, and I'll be taking care of you today. What seems to be the problem?"
The patient is a man with wavy blond hair and a chin covered in grizzly stubble, yet, despite his rugged features, he still somehow manages to maintain an air of charm and put-togetherness. It's impressive, considering he's sprawled out on a stretcher.
"Don't laugh, but I slipped on some ice on my way home from buying groceries," the patient tells him, sounding a little frustrated with himself. "I'm hoping the only things I broke were the eggs."
"Don't worry, you're not the first person to have fallen today," Arthur assures. "When did this happen?"
"About two hours ago. I managed to get home, but an hour later, my shoulder started hurting, then my back, and now my foot. I came here to make sure it's nothing serious."
"You were right to come in. It's better to be safe than sorry with these matters," Arthur replies, flipping open the patient's chart to put a name to the man's face. Huh… Francis Bonnefoy—a Frenchman, no doubt. "Okay then, Francis. Let's have a look, shall we? I'm just going to do a quick physical exam."
Francis smiles cheekily back at him. "Now, now, doctor. Slow down. I didn't know we were already on a first-name basis."
"Hospital policy," Arthur quickly explains, a little flustered by the man's boldness. "We don't address patients by last names anymore. Supposedly, it's too formal and makes it difficult to establish rapport."
He lowers the right-hand rail of the stretcher with a click and pulls on a pair of gloves, regaining his professionalism. "Did the nurse give you something for the pain yet?"
Francis squirms, clearly suffering from a bit of white-coat syndrome as he says, "Yes, some Motrin."
"If the pain doesn't dissipate, I'll order something stronger. Did you hit your head when you fell?"
"Non, I don't think so."
"All right, I'm going to check you over for a concussion anyway, just to be certain."
Arthur pulls a trusty penlight out of the front pocket of his white-coat, switches it on, and instructs, "Look straight at the light, Francis… Good. Now follow my finger. Do you feel dizzy or lightheaded at all?"
Now Francis is the flustered one, bothered by the closing distance between them. "Non."
"Can you tell me who the president is?"
"I could, but I'd rather not," Francis chuckles, and Arthur cracks a smile as well.
"Okay, I won't insist on a response, then. No need to get political. Can you give me today's date?"
"The fourteenth of February, Valentine's Day."
Valentine's Day? Is it really that time again? Arthur consults the calendar on his phone and nods. How could he forget? Not that it matters—it's a meaningless holiday created by large corporations to suck money out of customers' wallets.
"All right, you don't have a concussion," Arthur confirms. "Let's have a look at that shoulder now. Right or left?"
"Right."
"I'm going to pull your shirt aside for a moment," Arthur warns before exposing the area, and Francis flinches just the slightest bit. "There's definitely some swelling here. Can you try rotating your shoulder for me? Don't force it."
"Of course, anything for you, doctor," Francis says coyly before lifting his shoulder and letting out a horrible groan. "Agh, merde."
"It's all right," Arthur eases him before squeezing the shoulder, feeling along the joint. "It looks like a partial dislocation, so you'll need an x-ray."
"I dislocated my shoulder from slipping on ice?"
"Don't be alarmed. It's not as terrible as it sounds. I just want to make sure none of the bones are broken before I set it back into place. It shouldn't take longer than five minutes to fix once I make sure everything is as it should be on the x-ray," Arthur reassures, grabbing a disposable cold pack from a nearby cabinet on the wall and squeezing it until it makes a little popping noise, activating the cooling gel within the plastic. He places it against Francis's shoulder and tells him to hold it there.
"Turn onto your side, Francis. I need to see your back."
Complying, Francis rolls over with a little noise of complaint and tugs up his shirt, revealing the newly-formed bruises that are just now cropping up on his skin.
"I'm going to feel along the length of your spine. Tell me if you feel any pain."
Arthur starts right under Francis's neck and works his way down, silently counting each level of the vertebral column. The cervical segment is fine, and so is the thoracic, but then he hits a tender spot.
Francis yelps, and they both jump. "Ack, right there."
"That's your lumbar spine. I don't think you've broken or displaced anything here. It's probably just bruised and sore, but we'll get an x-ray of your lower back, too, just as a precaution. Any pain in your hips?"
"No."
"Good," Arthur says before walking down to the end of the stretcher. "Lie flat on your back and try to lift your right leg for me."
Obediently, Francis rolls to the original position he was in when Arthur first found him and raises his leg up.
Arthur grasps the limb in midair and runs his hand over it. "Can you push your leg down so that it's pressing against my hand…? Now bend your leg and pull it up to your chest… Good. You're doing well. Now we're just going to do the same thing with the other leg."
They repeat the motions with Francis's left leg, and Arthur's sufficiently satisfied with his findings. "All right, all that's left are your feet. Which foot was causing you trouble?"
"The left one."
"I'm going to take your shoe off to have a better look."
"Okay, mon ami."
Arthur thinks nothing of Francis's response and checks over his ankle, noting any inflammation or redness. "Can you move your toes? Hmm… Now bend your foot forward… Again, I don't think there's a fracture here, but even if there is, it's small. We'll add this to your list of x-rays."
"Am I going to make it out of here in one piece, doctor?" Francis jokes, and Arthur shrugs his shoulders and smirks.
"You just might. Stay here and rest. Someone will be in to take you for your x-rays, but be prepared for a bit of a wait. I'll have the nurse bring some more cold packs for your back and ankle," Arthur finishes up, throwing out his gloves in the nearby bin.
"Will you be back?" Francis asks, sounding worried.
"Yes, once the results of the x-rays come in."
And is it just his imagination, or is Francis actually relieved to know he'll be returning?
What a strange man. It probably has something to do with him being French.
"Kirkland, your patient in bed two vomited again," Yao says just as Arthur attempts to sit down for a second.
Of course. Why should he have expected anything different? He's not going to get a break today, not with the way things are going.
"All right, I'll order eight milligrams of Zofran."
"And bed five needs to be admitted and transferred to telemetry."
Arthur nods and drags himself over to the nurses' station, chanting over and over to himself that things will be better soon. He won't have to work such atrociously long shifts, and he'll be able to pride himself on being a real doctor that doesn't have to answer to a superior senior. He won't have to be flooded in all of the assignments Yao dishes out on him. He swears the man is giving him the tedious patients on purpose rather than dividing them up equally amongst the rest of the staff. He doesn't know what he did to upset Yao, but he must have some kind of personal vendetta against him.
By the time he's arranged for the anti-nausea medication and made sure his other patient is going to be transferred (thankfully, that means he'll have one less patient to manage), Yao has another request of him.
"Kirkland, bed eight's x-rays came back. Come here and tell me what you see."
It's Francis's spine. Radiology must be getting their affairs in order because the wait for the results actually wasn't grueling this time around.
Arthur lets his eyes rove down the length of the image and says, "Mild levocurvature of L-2 and L-3. That's all."
Yao nods in agreement and moves over to the next x-ray, Francis's shoulder. "And here?"
"Acute anterior dislocation—subcoracoid."
Again, Yao approves and moves on to the last x-ray, the ankle. "Last but not least?"
Arthur thinks for a moment, gives himself extra time to look closely to make sure he isn't missing anything, and decides, "Nothing. Everything looks normal."
"Good. You're going to have to set his shoulder. Have you ever done this before?"
"Yes, a few times," Arthur says, but he's not all that confident.
"I want to see you do it."
Again, Arthur isn't surprised by this. Generally, only residents who're just starting out are given this kind of intense supervision, but Yao always insists on scrutinizing every little thing he does, looking for mistakes even though Arthur's about to be granted his independence. He can't mess up now. One error and Yao will find an excuse to penalize him severely for it.
He heads back into Francis's room with Yao in tow and does his best to pretend the elder doctor isn't there. He can handle this. No need to be nervous. He's done this before. Everything will be fine.
"Francis, this is Dr. Yao, the attending physician here. He's going to observe while I treat your shoulder. The x-rays showed that it's dislocated. However, the good news is that your ankle is fine, and so is your back, aside from some levocurvature—which simply means your lumbar spine is aligned slightly to the left," Arthur explains, trying to be succinct yet clear.
Francis seems a little overwhelmed by this information, but he does an admirable job of trying to keep up. "Isn't it bad that my spine is misaligned?"
"No, it's normal. Your spine has likely always been slightly off center. It's nothing to worry about," Arthur clarifies before pulling on a fresh pair of gloves and blocking out Yao's stare. "It's very important that you stay relaxed and very still as I do this, all right? I'm going to need you to take off your shirt and lie on your stomach."
Francis smiles a sly smile, and Arthur inwardly growls back at him, hoping beyond all hope that Francis won't take this opportunity to embarrass him or make his job more difficult.
"Well, Dr. Kirkland, I thought you might treat me to dinner first, but if you're so eager—"
Oh, God. What's he supposed to say to that? It's not as though he hasn't had patients flirt with him before—a dose of Percocet or morphine is usually enough to impair any patient's judgment enough to make them say things they wouldn't normally say, but Francis isn't even medicated, so what's his excuse?
He tries to play it off with dark humor—his specialty. "Yes, well, the ER is notorious for being fast-paced. We don't like formalities here. Come on, then, shirt off. Do you need help?"
Francis nods with another smile, sitting upright as Arthur begrudgingly eases the man's shirt over the aching shoulder. "Thank you, mon ami."
Arthur feels his face grow hot as he says, "Y-Yes, of course. Lie down on your stomach. I'll give you an injection of numbing medication in your shoulder to help with the pain, okay?"
"Okay."
He takes in a deep breath and prepares the syringe, carefully measuring out a generous dosage of a local anesthetic. The last thing he wants is to have to put up with the Frenchman's gripes as he's trying to focus and has Yao's searing gaze on his back.
"Ready?" Arthur asks, pressing down on Francis's healthy shoulder to keep him still.
"As ready as I'll ever be."
And with that, Arthur sterilizes the injection site and cautiously pushes the needle in. Francis tenses up slightly from the pain, but he, fortunately, doesn't complain.
"Well done," Arthur commends him, patting his back appraisingly.
"Are you going to snap my shoulder into place now?" Francis asks, and his cheeky lilt has been replaced with one of apprehension.
"Snap is not the word I would use in this context. I won't be snapping anything," Arthur says with what he hopes is a soothing smile. "Just hold still and you'll be fine. I'm going to gently ease your shoulder back to where it should be. You don't have to worry about a thing. Furthermore, our attending physician is right here, and I can assure you he won't stand for the slightest hint of incompetence. You're in good hands. I'm going to start now, okay?"
"All right, mon ami. I am putting my full trust in you," Francis says into his pillow, voice muffled.
"I'm just going to massage your shoulder first to loosen the muscles. Let me know if you feel any pain," Arthur warns before getting straight to work. He takes a deep breath and kneads the muscles in Francis's shoulder, making slow, circular motions. "How're you feeling?"
"Fine. It's been a while since I've had a massage," Francis jokes, letting his eyes slip shut with a sigh.
"Good, stay nice and relaxed, Francis."
"As always, anything for you, mon ami."
"You're going to feel a pull now. Don't move."
"I won't."
Arthur urges the joint to fall back into place, tugging carefully on it. He stops when Francis lets out a small hiss. "Did that hurt?"
"Oui, a little."
This isn't going to work if he doesn't manage to find a way to distract Francis. He needs him to stay as relaxed as possible. "So, what do you do for a living, Francis?"
"I'm a chef at a restaurant uptown."
"You don't say? What's your favorite thing to make?"
"Pastries—probably macarons or cheesecakes," Francis murmurs, patiently holding still. Arthur's fingers are still digging into his muscles, but it's not hurting anymore. "I could treat you to some dessert sometime."
"That sounds lovely."
"Why do you get to ask all of the questions? That's the problem with doctors—they're so stoic."
Arthur huffs. "What do you want to know?"
"What are your plans for Valentine's Day? You seem like the romantic type."
At that, Arthur can't help but laugh darkly. "I'll be going home to a nice cup of tea and a good book."
"Really? An accomplished young doctor like yourself doesn't have a partner? That's a crime."
"I simply don't have the time," Arthur counters lamely, removing his hands from Francis's shoulder. "All done."
Francis blinks, sits up, and rolls his shoulder, testing it. "Already? How did you do that?"
Arthur tilts his head to the side, furrows his brows at the shoulder from a distance, and says, "Magic. Don't move it around so much. You need to rest it. How does it feel?"
"Much better, merci."
"Excellent. I'll get the paperwork to have you discharged. From now on, watch your step when the road is icy and rest for another day or two before resuming your normal activities. Don't do anything strenuous with your shoulder. It'll have to be immobilized in a sling for the next five to seven days."
"You're getting rid of me so soon? We were just getting to know each other," Francis frowns, genuinely disappointed.
"You're well enough to go home," Arthur retorts as he cleans up. "The nurse will be in with some forms for you to sign along with a detailed description of what precautions you ought to take for the next few days. You should schedule an appointment with your GP next week to make sure everything is healing properly."
He steps out of the room with Yao on his coattails, and once they're far enough from Francis's room, Yao grabs his arm and pulls him to a stop, brown eyes twinkling.
"Well done, Kirkland," the man says, and it's the first time Arthur has received a compliment from him. The profoundness of the moment isn't lost on him.
"Thank you, sir."
"Do you know why I always yell at you, Kirkland?"
"Because it builds character?" Arthur nervously guesses with a bit of sarcasm. Frankly, he's quite drained and can't wait to go home, but he still has five hours to kill. "I-I don't know, sir."
"It's because you're an idiot," Yao says firmly, and Arthur feels his heart drop and smash against his gut. "You're an idiot because you don't see what a fine doctor you are. You're more capable than most of the people in this entire hospital, and yet, you're still afraid of me and don't have enough courage to assert yourself. How are you going to be a doctor if you don't have the confidence for it? If you're always worried about what I will say or think about your decisions?"
Well… He certainly hadn't expected this. Suddenly, his hands are shaking, and he has to stuff them in his pockets to hide them. In a convoluted way, Yao's right. He's still too jittery and jumpy—too focused on the opinions of his superiors when he should trust in himself to make the right decisions.
Yao puts a strong hand on his shoulder and adds, "You just managed to almost painlessly fix a dislocated shoulder, something which most orthopedic surgeons can't even do without putting the patient through stress, and how many shoulders have you fixed in your time here, Kirkland?"
"Three or four."
Yao scoffs. "See? I can only dream the other residents on this unit will someday be capable of what you can do. It might take them a hundred times to get it right. I'm giving you a hard time because I know you're the only one who can handle it… Now, hurry up and deal with bed two again—make sure the Zofran is working and the woman isn't dehydrated."
Arthur nods and hastily rushes off, heart still pounding beneath his ribcage. He just got complimented by Yao. It's so surreal he feels dizzy. All this time, he thought the physician didn't take him seriously and thought of him as a complete failure—a mousy new grad with zero credentials—but that clearly isn't the case any longer. He must be dreaming. He's so sleep-deprived he might as well have fallen asleep in the conference room at some point and has yet to wake up.
He pinches himself to be sure… He's awake.
A triumphant smile crosses his face, but he quickly bites it down. Better not to get too cocky, or he'll leave himself vulnerable to making mistakes.
At a quarter to six o'clock, a bedraggled but stable-looking Francis comes trudging down the hall in his winter coat. There's a small limp in his step as he walks, and his shoulder is now secured in a sling, but otherwise, he looks fine and far less pained than when he first came in. Arthur catches sight of him from the corner of his eye, and he works up the bravado to wave goodbye to him.
Francis turns to him with an irritatingly lopsided grin and comes limping on over, taking it as an invitation to talk, but honestly, Arthur was just trying to be polite.
"Dr. Kirkland?" he asks, leaning on the desk of the nurses' station.
"Yes? Is something wrong?"
"No, I just wanted to properly thank you for putting me back together again," Francis says with a charismatic chuckle.
No, not charismatic. What the hell is wrong with him today? The man's a patient. Well, former patient, but still.
"Would you object to joining me for dinner some time? I'll cook."
Arthur chokes on his own saliva and has to excuse himself, blushing furiously because at least three nurses and another physician are witnessing this exchange. "Ahem… That's very kind of you, however—"
"My treat. I insist."
"You won't be doing any cooking with that shoulder of yours," Arthur reminds, pointing out the hitch in Francis's plan.
"Then, let me buy you dinner. Consider it a Valentine's Day gift. I know your cup of tea and your novel are very important and are waiting for you, but do you think they could wait an extra hour or two?"
"A-As in a date?"
"Yes, I believe that's what it is called."
In his short twenty-five years of life on this planet, Arthur has never once gone on a date with anyone. In fact, it's a personal policy of his to avoid even the tiniest inkling of a romantic interest or endeavor. He's not dateable. He'd make a horrible partner. He's aloof, disagreeable at best—he has never even kissed anyone. He's always planned to be on his own because relationships lead to drama, which he's never been good at confronting. Then, there's always the possibility of commitment, and after commitment comes a family, and dear God, he'd never be able to be a father, that's for certain. Children are completely out of the question.
"So? What do you say?" Francis prompts him, expectant eyes glimmering back at him.
"I-I don't think that would be a good idea."
"Oh, come on, Arthur. Have a little fun. I don't bite! I don't know what English propaganda has permeated your skull, but I promise all of your conceptions of the French are likely inaccurate or exaggerated at best. We're friendly company."
Yes, Francis was right, the whole first-name-basis thing is too quick and forward. Something in his chest contracts when he hears his name being uttered by the man. It's… It's nice.
"It's just dinner."
Right, just dinner. Nothing to panic over. They'll have a good meal, unwind, and call it a day. That'll be the end of that. Why not allow himself to be treated to some free food? What harm could it cause?
"All right," Arthur finally agrees, thoughts zipping through his mind with immeasurable speed. "Dinner, it is."
And somehow, for reasons he may never understand, one date turns into two. Then, three. Then, four. Then, suddenly, they're together for six months. One year. Two years. They move in together. Francis proposes during a trip to Cancun. And then, the most shocking thing of all happens—they have a family. Two twin girls, and Arthur isn't sure how his life took such a sharp turn. It's all because of a fall and a dislocated shoulder on Valentine's Day.
Ten years later.
"Ugh, I don't want to hear this story again. It's so boring!" Amelia grumbles as she and Madeline listen to Francis reminisce on the couch.
"I knew from the moment I saw him that he was the one for me. Don't let anyone tell you love at first sight doesn't exist," Francis continues, unfazed by Amelia's complete lack of interest. "Your father was the best thing that ever happened to me—aside from adopting you girls, of course."
And even though Arthur knows the story like the back of his hand, and the girls are more than tired of hearing it, he still gets a little giddy every time Francis recounts the tale. That's how he knows he's truly in love—every year is better than the last. He knows it's cheesy, but it's the truth.
"Happy Valentine's Day, mon amour," Francis says, drawing him into a kiss.
Arthur returns the affectionate gesture and laughs when he hears the girls groan and shout "ewww" in unison.
"Happy Valentine's Day, my frog."
