Author's Note: I know I still need to finish "I Spy a Family Reunion," but after two weeks of madness at work, I needed to write some pure fluff, and you guys are always requesting more medical AUs from me, so here you go! It'll be therapeutic for both of us, haha. This is technically a sequel to "Rockin' Around the ICU," but you don't need to read that story to understand this one, so feel free to just dive into it. Also, please leave a review if you can because they make it easier to find the motivation to keep typing! Enjoy!
P.S. Happy Father's Day!
It's the first day of summer.
They've all been waiting for this—the blue skies, balmy sunshine, carnivals, the beach, and warm nights chatting on the porch until they lose track of time. It's been almost an entire year since they've had a real break, and tomorrow, Arthur will finally be able to make use of the vacation days that he's been stacking up for a while. For three whole weeks, he won't have to be bothered with the madness of the hospital. He can just live out his regular life with the boys and Francis, and not think about anything medical related in the near future.
The thought of having time to do whatever he pleases seems like a farfetched fantasy. He can read all of the books he's been meaning to read. He can sit down and watch a movie or just waste away the day by sitting on a lawn chair in the sunshine. It's all too good to be true. In a few hours, he'll be a free man, and someone else will have the responsibility of dealing with his patients.
It's a slow workday, and when sitting at the computer to finish his charting becomes too dull to bear, he decides to take an early lunch break. He could use some iced tea and a salad.
He checks his watch, realizes he has quite a bit of time before he has to do his next rounds, and heads for the elevators, feeling lighter on his feet than he has in a while. Lately, he's felt horribly guilty for not being home enough. Is he risking becoming an absent parent? Has he put his career before his family? Will he wake up one day to find his children have rebelled and are hanging out with the wrong crowd at school? No, he won't allow that. The twins are only nine years old. He has time to change his ways, surely.
He steps out into the lobby of the hospital, and just as he's pulling the door open to leave, someone slams into him from behind and practically sends him hurtling toward the concrete. He jumps, startled, and spins around to see who the culprit is, and to his chagrin, it's the infamous pediatrician from the ICU, Dr. Gilbert Beilschmidt.
Beilschmidt was voted "most charismatic physician" by the hospital earlier this year—a title he flaunts proudly, and while the man is unhinged, if Arthur were to collapse right here and now, there's no other doctor in this entire hospital that he'd trust more with his life than with him.
"Whoa! Sorry, Kirkland. I'm just in a rush to get out of here before some kind of calamity breaks out, and I'm forced to go back onto the unit," Gilbert explains, motioning for Arthur to hurry up and keep walking. "I actually got a lunch break today. Can you believe it? I can't remember when I took my last lunch break."
Arthur straightens out his white coat and frowns as he finally makes it outside in one, whole piece. "Congratulations."
Gilbert grins obnoxiously, and as they begin to stroll up the block together, he suddenly stops in the center of the sidewalk, cups his hands around the corners of his mouth, and declares loudly, "HEY, EVERYONE! GUESS WHAT? I'M GETTING LUNCH! I HAVE A LUNCH BREAK! AN ACTUAL BREAK DURING WHICH I GET TO GO OUT AND EAT."
"Would you please stop screaming like a banshee? I'd like to enjoy my lunch break as well, if you don't mind."
Gilbert chuckles and lets out a long sigh. "Sorry, I had to get that out of my system. It's not good to bottle things up, you know? So, where are you off to?"
"Away from you," Arthur huffs.
"Aww, but I haven't seen you in over a week! You've been holed up in med-surg for a while now. How're the kiddos doing?"
"I haven't been there of my own volition… The boys are fine. They just finished the school term, and Francis has been supervising them for the past few days. We're still trying to decide where to go for the summer."
Gilbert nods enthusiastically and pulls a lollipop out of his white coat to snack on—candy that should be reserved for the children he treats. "That's good. You're starting your vacation this week, too? I just convinced my brother, Ludwig, to go fishing with me this weekend. Neither of us knows how to fish, but we'll figure it out as we go along... Oooh, let's stop at this cafe—they've got the best iced coffee."
Begrudgingly, Arthur goes along with him. As irritating as Gilbert can be, he has proven to be a good friend time and time again. Thus, they get out of the searing heat and into the cold air-conditioned cafe. The place is fairly busy, but the line to the register moves quickly, and so Arthur doesn't mind the short wait. He lets Gilbert go first to have more time to peruse the menu, and soon enough, they're able to take up an empty table and eat, which is remarkably pleasant compared to how they usually have their meals in the hospital's lounge or in between rounds.
Suddenly, he gets a call from Francis, and he briefly excuses himself before picking up. His husband usually calls him around this time of day, so there's nothing inherently surprising about the event, but what is surprising is how anxious Francis sounds when he greets him.
"Arthur?"
"Yes? Is everything all right?"
"It's Mathieu—he has a sore throat, is running a hundred-degree fever, and has been crying for the past hour."
Arthur sighs, looks down sadly at his half-eaten lunch and realizes what this new development means—they won't be going on vacation anytime soon. While he'll be able to stop playing doctor at the hospital, he won't be able to have the same luxury when he gets home tonight. "It started this morning?"
"Oui."
"Put a cold compress on his forehead and move Alfred into the guestroom. Take Matthew's temperature again in exactly an hour. If it's a hundred and one or higher, get a medicine cup from the kitchen drawer and give him ten milliliters of the children's ibuprofen that's in the bathroom."
"Okay. Anything else?"
"Call me if he starts showing any new symptoms."
"Understood. Merci, mon amour. I'll give Matthew a kiss on your behalf."
"And that's precisely why you always catch his illnesses as well," Arthur huffs.
"How else am I supposed to comfort him in his time of need? He needs love," Francis argues, defensive.
"I won't be nursing you back to health if you're reckless. You can comfort him without putting yourself at risk of contagion. Wash your hands frequently and keep the boys apart for now."
"Okay. I'll talk to you soon, mon cher. Don't overwork yourself too much today."
"I won't make any promises."
He ends the call, puts his cellphone down on the table, and makes a feeble attempt at getting through the rest of his salad, even though his appetite has now been lost due to worry.
"Matthew's sick?" Gilbert asks, also betraying some concern.
"It seems so."
"Aww, poor guy. Tell him I hope he feels better soon. What's he sick with?"
"That's yet to be determined. According to Francis, he has a sore throat and a fever," Arthur explains, pursing his lips.
"Strep?"
"Perhaps. It seems to have come on suddenly. I'll get a throat culture from him when I get home."
Gilbert pouts in sympathy and says, "Summer sicknesses are the worst. At least in the winter, it's expected, and having to stay inside isn't as miserable. If it turns out to be strep, prepare for the rest of the family to get it, too."
"Yes, I have a feeling this isn't going to be a simple cold."
"I don't envy you," Gilbert murmurs, chugging down the rest of his iced coffee and letting his gaze fall to his watch. "I've gotta start heading back. Text me later and let me know if your kiddo is doing any better, and I probably don't have to tell you this, but you'd better get on your hands and knees and start praying Alfred doesn't get sick. With his diabetes, you know what a pain in the ass that would be."
Arthur groans at the idea. "I was hoping you wouldn't state the worst case scenario aloud. I'm going to try my best to prevent it, but there's very little I can do when they share a room. It may already be too late."
"Have fun with that, then."
Arthur chuckles darkly and rubs his temples. "Enjoy your fishing trip."
"Thanks! Will do! Good luck!"
Luck? He's never had much of that, which means he's likely going to find himself in a bit of trouble.
It's obvious there's something amiss because when Arthur walks through the front door around eight o'clock in the evening, it's completely silent in the house. The boys aren't playing, Francis isn't singing to himself in the kitchen, and the TV in the living room isn't on—all signs that this isn't a normal night.
Arthur takes off his shoes, puts his white coat in the hamper, and brings his bag filled with medical supplies upstairs with him. The door to the boys' bedroom is closed, and before he can extend a hand to push it open, Alfred comes running over to him from the other end of the hall (Francis seems to have followed his instructions about keeping him in a separate room).
"Dad! I missed you!"
He manages a smile for Alfred and gives him a small squeeze. "I've missed you, too. I hear your brother isn't feeling well."
"Yeah, Mattie's been crying all day, and I wanted to play a game with him, but Papa said I'm not allowed to go into our room for now until he's all better," Alfred says with a deep frown. "Is he gonna be okay? He looked really bad earlier. Can you fix him?"
Arthur ruffles Alfred's hair and nods. "I'm sure he'll be all right soon enough. Try to give him some space for now."
"Okay," Alfred replies, even though he looks quite disappointed that he won't have a playmate for a little while. "I'm gonna go brush my teeth."
"All right, I'll be over in a bit to check your blood sugar."
"Ughh... Do you have to?"
"You know I do."
And with that, Alfred shuffles into the bathroom and leaves Arthur to go back to the task at hand. Quietly, Arthur pushes open the door to the boys' bedroom and finds Francis dabbing a cool washcloth against a distraught Matthew's cheeks and forehead, trying to bring his temperature down while the boy sniffles and sobs.
"How is my favorite patient doing?" Arthur asks softly as he approaches the bed and frowns at how under the weather Matthew appears to be. His face is cherry red both from the fever and from crying, he's wracked with chills, and his nose is running profusely. "Not too well, I see."
"I gave him the medicine you told me to give him," Francis anxiously informs him, wiping away the tears on Matthew's face with the washcloth.
Arthur takes a seat on the edge of the bed, rubs one of Matthew's legs soothingly through the covers, and says, "All right, let's have a look... Don't cry, poppet, you're just going to give yourself a headache. Everything will be okay."
He unzips his bag and takes out his stethoscope and otoscope. Generally, Matthew has always been rather cooperative when it comes to being examined, but it seems the fever has made him particularly fussy today because when Arthur tries to put his stethoscope on the boy's chest, he kicks out his legs in protest and whimpers, not wanting to be touched.
"No!" Matthew shouts despite having a sore throat, and Arthur discovers this is going to be more difficult than he expected.
"Mathieu, let your father help," Francis lightly chides him.
It's at moments like these that Arthur wishes he had more experience in pediatrics than he does. Someone like Gilbert can get a child to do just about anything for him, no matter how sick they are, and Arthur has always been in awe of him in that regard. Since he doesn't have that natural knack for winning over the hearts and minds of even his own children, it often takes him a bit more trial and error to get the same results.
He pets Matthew's arm fondly, tells him he has nothing to be afraid of, and pulls back the covers and the blanket the boy has been swaddled in—he's warm enough as is. One thing he does know about nervous patients of all ages is to start the examination from the extremities and work his way up. He needs to win Matthew's trust first.
With that in mind, he takes hold of Matthew's wrist and checks his pulse—it's a little elevated, which is to be expected. He makes a note of the boy's clammy hands, checks his arms for any signs of a rash, and then brings his hands up to his neck to feel his throat and his lymph nodes. He can feel quite a bit of swelling, and he massages the area for a moment, causing Matthew to sink against his touch and sigh with relief. While he's at it, he brings his hand up to feel the boy's forehead and massages his temples as well, and that seems to be the last bit of convincing Matthew needs to cooperate fully with whatever Arthur wants to do.
Taking advantage of the opening before Matthew can change his mind, Arthur puts a thermometer under his tongue and places his stethoscope on his chest successfully this time and without protest. His lungs sound clear, so that's good.
He sets the stethoscope aside and picks up his otoscope again. While Matthew is resignedly leaning back against his pillows, Arthur checks each of his ears in turn—no signs of infection.
The thermometer beeps in quick succession rather than just once, signaling a high reading. He pulls it out of Matthew's mouth and glowers at the number he sees—100.8. It explains the grouchiness, but it's not high enough to cause real alarm. "All right, love. Almost done. Just open your mouth and say 'ahh' for me."
Matthew sniffles and squeaks out a hoarse sounding 'ahh' in between his sobbing as Arthur shines the light from his otoscope on his tonsils.
It's not strep—doesn't look like it, anyway—but he wants to get a throat culture to rule it out for sure because of the fever. He lets Matthew close his mouth as he searches for a tongue depressor, a cotton swab, and a disposable strep test kit.
"Hurts…" Matthew whispers.
"What hurts, poppet?"
"E-Everything."
Arthur clicks his tongue. "I'm sorry, love. We'll get to the bottom of this."
He's going to lose Matthew's trust as soon as he swabs his throat, but there isn't another alternative. He tells him to open his mouth again, and Francis helps hold him still while he gets the culture. It takes no more than three seconds, but Matthew gags as soon as the cotton swab is taken out of his mouth and coughs before bursting into a fresh waterfall of tears.
"All done, love. Shhh, shhh," Arthur says desperately as he sticks the swab into the test kit that he sets up on the nightstand. "It's okay now."
Francis cleans up Matthew's tearstained cheeks and dribbling nose with some tissues, and Arthur scowls at the test strip on the nightstand, hoping against all odds that this is something as common and easily treatable as strep.
No such luck. No matter how long he glares at the strip, it stays negative.
"So?" Francis asks, one arm wrapped around Matthew's shoulders as he coddles him. "Do you know what he has?"
"No, I don't," Arthur sighs, exasperated, "but I have a feeling it's an enterovirus—they're common during this time of year."
"And how do you cure that?"
"You don't. You just provide symptomatic relief and let it run its course."
Francis doesn't seem happy with that answer, and Arthur doesn't blame him. "How long is it going to last?"
"Anywhere from three to ten days. It's essentially similar to the flu."
"Is it contagious?"
"Yes. It's normally worse in children, but adults can get it as well."
Francis coos sympathetically at Matthew and kisses his forehead, something Arthur doesn't approve of in the least. "My poor chou. Papa will be here to take care of you, don't you worry."
"He needs his rest. I'll bring up a spray for his throat, some juice, and more tissues."
His words seem to go in one ear and out the other because Francis doesn't even acknowledge the statement—he's too busy fluffing Matthew's pillows and acting as though the boy is on his deathbed.
Arthur leaves the bedroom and shakes his head with a little laugh at his husband's dramatic fretting. Matthew will be back to normal in a few days as long as they keep him comfortable and well-hydrated, but Francis has a habit of being a mother hen in regard to anything involving Matthew. He supposes the extra smothering won't do the child any harm, so he may as well let it be.
His phone buzzes in his pocket a moment later—a text message from Gilbert.
"What's up with the kiddo?"
Arthur types back, "Negative for strep. Reckon it's enterovirus."
"Blegh. Watch for dehydration and respiratory distress."
"I know."
"Figured you did. Stay strong."
"Easier said than done."
White sand, a sea green ocean, sunglasses perched on his nose—that's what Arthur dreams about that night when he goes to bed with Francis after making sure Matthew is sound asleep. What he wouldn't give for a nice cruise to the Caribbean right about now. It'd be absolutely lovely, and as his mind continues to imagine all of the wonderful possibilities, he suddenly gets wrenched out of his doze when he feels the bed dip and sway over and over again.
He peels his eyes open and finds Francis fitfully tossing and turning underneath the tangle of sheets while the air conditioning hums in the background. Groggily, he reaches out a hand to touch his husband's back, only to realize the back of the man's t-shirt is covered in sweat.
"Francis," he calls to him, trying to rouse him. "Francis, wake up."
But Francis still doesn't stop thrashing. Carefully, Arthur lets his hand drift to his forehead, and he isn't surprised to discover he's warm—not hot, just a little fevered. This is what he gets for cozying up to Matthew.
Now he has two patients to monitor, and Arthur hopes the steel-strong immune system he has developed from years of working in healthcare will prevent him from catching this virus as well.
He decides to let Francis sleep because there's nothing else he can do at the moment to help. He is, however, going to be in for an unpleasant surprise in the morning when he wakes up to an aching throat and clogged nose.
"Foolish frog…" Arthur mumbles to himself as he gets himself settled to go back to sleep. He lets his eyes slip closed, takes a deep breath, and waits for his mind to go back to his delightful dream.
"Dad!" a voice echoes from the hallway a second later.
That's Alfred—he's certain. What would the boy want at three o'clock in the morning when—?
His eyes snap open and he groans to himself. Please, oh, please, let it not be what he thinks it is.
He drags himself out of bed, fumbles around for his slippers, and quietly shuffles into the hallway, gently shutting the bedroom door behind him so as not to wake Francis. When he turns around, he comes face-to-face with two wide, blue eyes that are pooling with tears.
"What's wrong, my boy?"
Alfred hiccups and coughs before saying, "My throat feels scratchy and my head hurts real bad."
Damn, Arthur thinks to himself. He's beyond frustrated, although he should've known he wouldn't be able to contain this illness. "Let's get you back to bed and take your temperature."
There's no point in keeping Alfred in the guest bedroom now that he's ill as well, and so he brings him back into his regular bed across from Matthew and tries to be as silent as possible. He lets Alfred get under his blanket but urges him not to cover himself up with anything else lest he worsens his fever. He sterilizes the thermometer he's been using on Matthew by washing it with soap and water and then rubs it down with an alcohol wipe before slipping it under Alfred's tongue.
The thermometer beeps and screeches just as it did earlier with Matthew, indicating an above normal temperature.
"Is it bad?" Alfred asks with sparkling eyes.
"99.8," Arthur reads before offering Alfred a consoling smile. "That's only a small fever. It's okay for now. Open your mouth for a moment."
"Why?"
"Just trust me," Arthur says cryptically. He discreetly reaches out to take the throat spray off of the nightstand—the same one he used on Matthew earlier—unscrews the cap, and pumps it twice into Alfred's mouth.
Alfred makes a sour face, quickly closes his mouth, and swallows hard. "Gross!"
"It'll help. It's strawberry flavored."
"Didn't taste like strawberries," Alfred complains quietly, mindful of his sleeping twin.
"It should get rid of the pain, so you'll have an easier time falling asleep. Try to rest, and if you feel worse or need anything else during the night, come and wake me, okay?"
"Okay. Goodnight, Dad..."
"Goodnight, love." Arthur whispers back, squeezing the boy's shoulder affectionately before rising and leaving the room.
Well, it looks like he has an entire family to look after now. In the morning, he's going to have three crabby patients on his hands, and that'll mean he'll have to check their temperatures every hour, on the hour, get everyone fed, make sure they're all supplied with water, juice, tissues, pillows, and blankets, keep them entertained, and somehow manage to prevent himself from becoming rundown or contracting the virus as well.
So much for that cruise to the Caribbean.
