Author's Notes:
Although I wish Doc Martin and all that it comprises belonged to me – for so many reasons – it is the property of Buffalo Pictures. I've borrowed DM, LG and the others for this fanfic but promise to put them back in one piece when I'm finished. This work of fanfic is for amusement only and no infringement of any legal rights is intended.
This story is rated a strong PG-13 for language and adult themes.
I've done my best to incorporate British conventions – if not English spelling. If errors remain, it's an American thing.
Finally, a sincere and HUGE thanks – once again – to robspace54 for his beta. His suggestions only made my story better and his encouragement is much appreciated.
"So, Martin, what are you going to do?" Joan asked, taking a long sip of coffee before setting the cup and saucer on the chairside table of her living room.
Sitting across from her, Martin leaned against the armrest of the sofa, legs straight in front of him and nursing a glass of mineral water. He'd spent the past several days in London. Until the birth of his son less than a week ago, it was where he'd expected to spend the next few years, if not the rest of his life. How things had changed. Now, given his travels, today was the first time he and his aunt had been able to talk for more than a few minutes.
"What am I going to do about what?" he asked.
"About," Joan flung her arm out, "everything. Where you're going to live, where you're going to work, what you're going to do about Louisa and the baby."
"I already told you that I decided not take the job in London." He'd gone to London as planned, right after Louisa gave birth, but to decline rather than start the job as Chief of Vascular Surgery at Imperial College.
"What reason did you give for your change of heart, if you don't mind my asking?"
He did mind and almost said as much. But this was his Aunty Joan, the closest person he had to a confidante. If anyone deserved an explanation, it was she.
"I told them some personal issues had come up that prevented me from accepting the position."
"Louisa and the baby."
"Among others, yes."
What he couldn't tell Aunty Joan was that, despite all of Edith's efforts – and his own – to conquer his hemophobia, he still found himself nauseated at the sight and smell of blood. For god's sake, he'd vomited at the sight of his own newborn son. If he couldn't look at a baby covered in a bit of bloody mucous without throwing up, he was certainly not going to be able to perform vascular surgery.
It was a realization that dawned on him the moment Louisa and the baby were safely loaded into the ambulance, when he knew he should be on his way to London to begin his new job. And knew equally certainly that he couldn't do it. He could no more perform surgery today than he could on that elderly patient years ago. So, he'd continued on to London, with a different purpose in mind.
The process of backing out of the Chief of Surgery position had been humiliating. Walking into Milligan's office amid a torrent of welcomes and congratulations and leaving . . . well, as Elaine had once said, with his tail between his legs. One didn't simply turn down such a prestigious position, not after having campaigned for weeks to obtain it. Milligan had said all of the right things at their meeting but Martin wondered if his colleague suspected that his blood thing was one of the "personal issues" he'd cited as explanation for his decision. Regardless, Martin knew it would have been more humiliating to have taken the job and then been unable to complete a scheduled surgery or, even worse, to have vomited in the middle of one.
Of course, the hemophobia wasn't the only thing keeping him from a future in London. As Joan had said, there was Louisa and the baby . . . his baby . . . their baby. Standing outside that stupid pub while Louisa was inside in labor, struggling to deliver their child had triggered feelings that he wasn't quite sure he even understood. He only knew that, suddenly, his move to London seemed althogether wrong.
Now, however, sitting in his aunt's living room, he realized he had no earthly idea what he was going to do next. He couldn't sit around here day after day, cooking dinner and tending to chickens. Joan was right; he needed a place to live and a job, if for no other reason than he had a child to support.
"So, if you're not going to London, where do you plan to go?" Joan asked, interrupting his thoughts.
Left unsaid was that he couldn't very well work here. The new GP was due in town this week and a village the size of Portwenn could support only one doctor. There were, of course, plenty of openings for GPs all over the country. If he wanted to stay anywhere near Louisa and the baby, however, his options were much more limited.
"I've made a few inquiries. There may be an opening for a GP in Truro in six months time. Dr. Emerson is said to be retiring."
Joan's eyebrows went up. "In Truro?"
"Where do you expect me to go?" he asked, his voice rising slightly.
"I don't know, Martin. You're the one who made a mess of things here."
"I made a mess of things?" He was almost yelling. "I wasn't the one who disappeared for six months, showed up pregnant and then wanted nothing to do with the child's father."
"No, but you were the one who showed no interest in your own child, who took up with his old girlfriend, and who decided to go back to London without telling anyone until the last possible moment."
Martin was now on his feet. "That's not fair!"
Joan remained seated. "But it is true. Why did you do it, Martin? Was it out of spite? Fear? Something else?"
"What was I supposed to do?"
"Other than take off like a scared rabbit, you mean?" she said dismissively. "Let me see . . . you might have sat down with Louisa, discussed how you could be part of your son's future—"
"I've provided for him financially," he replied indignantly. "Quite well, in fact."
"I'm sure you have, Martin. You'll send her nice little checks so you don't have to dirty your hands a tiny bit."
"I'm taking care of my responsibilities."
"You're taking care of the easy part. There's more to being a father than writing checks. Like being part of your son's life."
"I'm here now."
"Yes, you are." Joan stood up from the chair and walked into the kitchen to refill her coffee. Martin wondered if she'd intentionally tried to ease some of the tension in the room.
"Have you even spoken to Louisa since the baby was born?" she asked when she returned to the room a minute later.
"She only got out of hospital a few days ago and I've been in London most of that time. We've spoken a bit by phone," he added, somewhat defensively.
Martin knew that Joan had been spending a lot of time with Louisa since she'd come home from the hospital, helping her get settled. For all of the friends that Louisa had in Portwenn, there weren't many women she could call on to help with a situation like this. He should be there, of course, to help out. Not that he would be much help given that, other than medical issues, he didn't know the first thing about dealing with babies.
"Have you told her of your decision not to move to London?"
"Not yet. I'm going to see her tomorrow. I'll tell her then."
"Good." Joan eased herself back into the chair took another sip of her coffee. "Did you say that you're looking to be a GP? Have you given up on surgery?"
He couldn't meet her eyes. "For now, yes."
"And you're satisfied with that? Not being a surgeon, that is?"
"Does it matter if I'm satisfied, as you put it?"
Of course, he wasn't happy that he could no longer be a surgeon. As he'd once told Louisa, it was the only thing he was really good at. Nonetheless, he still wanted, needed, to be a doctor and, for now, at least, working as a GP was the best – or maybe only – option. Did that make him "satisfied" with the result?
"Of course it matters."
"To whom?"
"Martin, no one wants to go around being miserable in their job."
"Who said I was miserable?"
"Well, you obviously weren't completely happy or you wouldn't have looked to go back to Edith and to surgery."
He looked away. "Edith is out of the picture."
"And thank goodness for that. So, is she the only reason you wanted to go back to surgery? And to leave Portwenn?"
He stood up quickly and walked to the window, looking out at her farm. "No! Of course not."
"Then I don't understand."
"Oh for god's sake, Aunty Joan, give it a rest. What I do with my life is not your problem."
"You mean it's none of my business."
"That too."
He'd found it relatively easy to dismiss Joan's concerns. However, he still needed to confront Louisa.