A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed! This is going to be a story of some length, covering roughly a period of a year post the events of "Don't Mess With the Surgeon".
is being problematic, so posting here first.
Case Histories
I
"That's it, I'm signing you out for the evening. No night duty for you later."
The voice cuts through Combeferre's train of thought as well as the paragraph of the clinical abstract he's making some final edits to. He sighs as he deletes a whole line of gibberish before looking up at the older surgeon leaning on the other side of the desk. "I'll finish this up first, Mabeuf. My patient needs this by tomorrow for his insurance."
Mabeuf makes a scoffing noise before wiping his own spectacles. "You said a similar thing yesterday, and stayed so late that you gave the custodian a fright. Now enough of that." His dry fingers hover over the red switch on the extension cord that Combeferre's computer is plugged into. "You'll be blind before you're thirty if you keep up like this."
"Give me five minutes," Combeferre insists as he gives the document a last glance. He can feel Mabeuf's eyes on him as he sets up the staff room's rickety but reliable printer, and then connects it to his computer. He watches the printer cautiously for a few moments to make sure that the paper does not jam and then breathes a sigh of relief when he at last sees his work on the table. "Who is going to be on night duty then later?" he asks Mabeuf.
"I've already asked Navet. He's already manning the emergency room," Mabeuf says confidently. He claps Combeferre's shoulder. "I heard that one of your classmates is throwing a party tonight. You guys ought to catch up."
'Catch up and skip the post-party revelry,' Combeferre decides silently. There is only so much he can take when it comes to sobering up his colleagues. After gathering up his things and thanking Mabeuf, he heads up to the intensive care unit, where he is sure to find at least one of his friends at work.
True to form, he finds Eponine and Joly already there and reviewing charts at the unit's nurses' station. "There is always a risk with ventilators, and doubly so for her since she was hooked up to one for weeks," Joly says to Eponine, who is looking very upset.
"I still know my microbiology, Joly. I was just hoping for the best," Eponine says tersely. She sighs when she sees Combeferre. "Elodie has pneumonia."
Combeferre grits his teeth at this bit of news. He knows all too well how difficult it is to battle an infection acquired in a hospital. "Need I ask the cause?"
"Pseudomonas, yes. It turned the entire petri dish green," Eponine says, pointing to a picture of the bacterial culture recovered from her patient's ICU cubicle. "It just had to be a resistant bug."
"The strain is resistant to the old stuff, but thankfully not to those new carbapenem antibiotics….yet," Joly points out a little more cheerily as he begins writing in Elodie's chart. "I'll get her started on another round of IV meds right away."
At that moment the ICU doors swing open, this time admitting Enjolras, who clearly has come straight from his office. "You're here early," Combeferre greets him.
"I'm actually on my way to another meeting. Something happened?" Enjolras asks as he places his briefcase on a nearby counter.
"A lot," Eponine says, reaching over to squeeze his wrist. "Elodie is quite sick, as in she came down with something sick."
One of Enjolras' eyebrows shoots up even as he rests his chin on her shoulder as he peers at the chart. "How could she get sick here?"
"It's what we call a nosocomial infection," Joly says before launching into an explanation of the situation. "For now all we can do is wait for the antibiotics to kick in," he finishes.
"I see," Enjolras mutters, looking far less puzzled than he did a few minutes ago. "Well I have good news, again about Elodie's situation." He steps away from Eponine in order to open up his briefcase, then he hands her a thick yellow folder with the initials E. C printed on it. "I got these files from the guidance counsellor at Elodie's school. She's been concerned about her situation for a while, especially after a parent-teacher conference last year."
Combeferre taps his fingers. "What happened then?"
"It's more of what didn't happen," Enjolras replies, indicating the papers he's brought.
Eponine bites her lip but manages a smile when she looks at Enjolras again. "How did you charm her into giving the files?"
"Her brother was on the payroll of a former colleague of mine in Congress," Enjolras explains. "He was the one who did the talking."
"Nice job. It should help you and Courfeyrac cement those charges," Joly says approvingly.
'Charges that those parents' aren't willing to face though,' Combeferre thinks before he excuses himself to allow his friends to finish their work while he visits Elodie. Unlike all the other occasions when he's dropped by, this time he has to don a hospital gown and a surgical mask over his clothes as part of an additional contact precaution given her condition. He finds her dozing lightly, one hand still clutching a book of fairy tales. The tome is open to a page depicting in exquisite detail a maiden traipsing through a thicket filled with vines and butterflies. Before Combeferre can make a discreet exit, Elodie stirs and opens her eyes, looking at him confusedly. "Hello Elodie. It's just me, Dr. Combeferre. How are you feeling?" he asks her in a stage whisper.
The child blinks a little less groggily before reaching for a keypad; she cannot speak with an oxygen mask on her face. Her fingers move deliberately and laboriously as she types out the word "Ouch."
"Where?" Combeferre asks, and he sighs when Elodie's fingers flutter as if to signify 'all over'. "Youve got a bit of a bad bug, kiddo, but Dr. Joly will give you something to fight it," he tells her.
Elodie nods trustingly before typing, "Mommy and Daddy?"
"Not here yet," Combeferre replies even as he begins to look around for any sign of a recent visit from this girl's parents. It takes him a while to locate on the bedside a small card with the words "Get well soon!" emblazoned on a festive backdrop, followed by hastily scrawled signatures. He sighs, recognizing the card as having been bought from the gift shop downstairs. As he looks around he realizes that nearly all the other niceties here are of his friends' doing: aside from the ribbon roses that Feuilly brought a few days ago, there are now pictures and posters and even a little red flag on the wall next to Elodie's bed. Cosette has painted Elodie's toenails with neon pink sunbursts and flowers, while Grantaire has drawn all over her plaster casts. 'If it weren't for the ICU rules, they'd fill this place with stuffed toys and all the movies she could ask for,' he muses.
Elodie suddenly smiles behind her mask and it's enough for Combeferre to know that Eponine and Enjolras have just entered the cubicle. He has to keep a straight face when he sees his friends, for while he is all too used to the sight of Eponine in a hospital gown and a mask, he cannot say the same for seeing Enjolras in similar attire. In fact his best friend looks downright ridiculous. "You wouldn't make a good doctor on TV," he remarks.
"Hence my chosen line of work," Enjolras quips back before waving awkwardly to Elodie. "How are you doing today?"
Elodie beckons for him and Eponine to come closer to read what she's typing out. Eponine laughs and shakes her head. "I'm sorry baby, but you can't have chocolate for a while. Maybe you can have chocolate ice cream once we can get those tubes off," she says as she adjusts Elodie's socks.
Elodie frowns and taps out. "Strawberry better."
"You've got good taste," Enjolras says approvingly. He crouches to look her in the face. "I talked to your teacher, Sister Simplice. She misses you."
At the mention of school, Elodie's eyes seem to mist over. "I miss her too," she types back.
Combeferre swallows hard as he looks away from the screen and meets his friends' eyes. Over the past few days, Elodie has never mentioned missing home.
II
Musichetta has never been fond of class reunions, both official and unofficial, but the need to keep up a network of colleagues often overrules her reluctance to socialize in such gatherings. On this evening the deciding factor happens to be her friends; someone has to make sure that Combeferre, Joly, and Eponine do not spend the night with their backs to the wall. "You guys owe me pizza and an indie film marathon," she jokes with them as they are in an elevator bound for the top floor of a swanky mall complex. "I'm going to be in need of serious detox after this trip."
Joly laughs ruefully as he slips an arm around her shoulder. "What about Thursday night?"
Musichetta hums for a moment. "Make it Friday. We'll get to sleep in a little longer since the clinics open later on Saturdays." Of course this is only tentative; in her line of work she has to be ready to drop everything and run to a delivery room at a moment's notice.
In the meantime Eponine bites her lip as the elevator door opens to reveal a sleek metal and glass lobby leading to a brightly lit and noisy bistro. The woodwork gleams in that expensive way that makes them all hesitant to approach the place. "We're underdressed," Eponine whispers, indicating her green blouse and black slacks.
"It's only Barley's. It's a smart casual place," Combeferre reminds them. Yet now the relaxed dress code takes on an uppity air because of the bistro's patrons. It's not often that so many doctors, some of them coming from formidable backgrounds, gather here to celebrate a successful round of certifications and specialization exams. Tonight, Musichetta silently thanks whatever higher powers inspired her to wear a dress to work. At the very least no one can accuse her of having her standards slip entirely.
Any hope of remaining relatively inconspicuous in this fathering disappears the moment that Musichetta catches someone waving all the way from the bar. "Oh my gosh, I cannot believe it! Is it really you, Chetta?" this old friend squeals.
"There's only one of me Irma," Musichetta replies candidly. "You're looking good Irma."
"Not as good as you. What's your secret?" Irma Boissy croons as she joins them. "You're one lucky guy Joly. It's been a long time you two," she adds by way of greeting Musichetta's companions.
'And still some things don't change,' Musichetta notes silently as she studies her former classmate. She realizes after a moment that Irma's giddy manner and neon colored clothes are not youthfulness but only a fading shadow of it. The glamour vanishes when the light plays upon the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, bringing forward that inexorable age of thirty.
Irma seems heedless of this as she takes Musichetta's arm to lead her to a side table. "We must catch up! When did you arrive in town?" she gushes after ordering a drink.
"I never left," Musichetta replies. "i work at Saint-Michel."
Irma's jaw drops. "You're kidding."
"Am not. Joly works there too, and so do Combeferre and Eponine,"" Musichetta says.
"No wonder that place is in the news! You guys really are the Toxic Quartet," Irma laughs.
Musichetta rolls her eyes at this old medical school moniker. In hindsight she is not at all sorry that she and her friends earned a reputation for having the most ER admissions while on duty, or for being assigned to the most draining and complex cases. 'How else could we learn to be ready for anything?' she realizes. She orders a glass of iced tea before catching Irma in the middle of sending a text message. "So what are you doing nowadays?"
"Traveling while waiting for results on my interventional cardiology fellowship applications. I'm headed next to Istanbul," Irma replies with a dismissive wave of her hand. She glances from Musichetta to Joly, who is now chatting with a former teacher of theirs. "So when is the wedding?"
"No plans yet," Musichetta answers with a bright smile. The truth is that Joly's increasingly rigorous research on infectious diseases and her own unpredictable schedule do not make a fortuitous combination for family life. As it is, choosing a wedding date would be the least of their problems.
"You shouldn't forget about your ovaries," Irma chides. She sighs and shakes her head. "You're still lucky to have him. Most other guys our age would consider us Christmas cakes no matter how accomplished we are."
Musichetta scowls at this derogatory idea. "Why wait for those?'
"Honey, it's evolution. Why would a man go for someone less fertile when he has more viable options like a nubile twenty-something nurse?" Irma mutters. She pauses to take a sip of her margarita. "What are you specializing in?"
"Obstetrics."
"Ugh. No wonder you don't have time for a wedding. I don't know how you can put up with such a messy thing day in, day out."
"I can't imagine doing anything else," Musichetta declares proudly. To this day she cannot quite put into words what happened at her defining moment nearly six years ago, during her first rotation as an intern in obstetrics. How can she sum up all the anticipation and determination channelled in that instant of catching a child as he or she enters the outside world? It is an intoxication that is worth all the hours she spends on her feet.
Irma merely takes another sip of her drink as she regards Musichetta. "Don't we wish we could all say that at this point in life?"
Musichetta nods sympathetically. "How is cardiology working out for you, really?"
Irma heaves a sigh. "It pays the bills, and I'm never out of patients. You know what they say about that specialty; you get one patient, you have them for life." She stirs her drink for a few more moments. "So what does Joly do at Saint-Michel?"
"He's with the hospital's infectious diseases team. It's a bit of lab work and a lot of surveillance," Musichetta explains.
"Resistant bugs and mutants all over?"
"Yeah. Just another day on the job for him."
Irma chuckles bemusedly. "At least he was never a germophobe. So how is it like having your boyfriend on the job?"
"Nothing unusual, to be honest," Musichetta says. She sighs when she sees Irma's disappointed face. It is not as if she and Joly have any steamy call room escapades or duty hour shenanigans to discuss, simply because they no longer have a need for those sorts of thrills. She looks around and sees Joly laughing a little uneasily with some of the boys, so she holds his gaze long enough to shoot him a smile. He laughs again, but this time it reaches his eyes, and that is just enough for her.
III
It is only nine o'clock by the time Joly wishes he could call it a night. He's not sure if the slight ache in his temples arises from his trying day at work or from the increasingly loud hubbub of gossip and tale-telling at the party. 'At least we can still hear each other over the music,' he tells himself by way of consolation as he sets down a glass of red wine. Gone are the days when he and his friends spent nights under the sway of strobe nights and pulsing trance music.
Before he can get up and search for Musichetta and their friends, he feels a hand tap his shoulder. "Long time no see, Joly!" bellows a man with a receding hairline and the beginnings of a paunch.
"Same to you, Benoit," Joly replies, hoisting his mostly empty glass. "How's the wife and your kids?"
"Good, good," Benoit says, all the while signalling to the bartender to bring over another round of drinks. "So when are wedding bells ringing for you and Dr. Laurain there?"
"We're waiting for the ten year mark," Joly jokes. Sometimes he cannot believe that he and Musichetta have been a couple, albeit on an on-and-off basis, since they were nineteen years old. He considers it as one of life's daily miracles that she does not seem to have any plans of walking out on him even after all they've been through.
Benoit slaps Joly's back again. "Enjoy the bachelor life. I wouldn't rush it if I were you." He jerks his thumb towards where Combeferre and Eponine are listening to another friend's hoary anecdote. "Are those two ever going to shack up again?"
Joly shakes his head. "Haven't you forgotten how that ended?" To this day he is convinced that dating each other was one of the less intelligent decisions that Combeferre and Eponine have ever done. 'They'll never be a romantic pair for as long as they have even the remotest chance of becoming rivals,' he reflects ruefully, remembering too many nights bickering about their med school thesis, ward assignments, reports, and even guidelines on patient care. He's only thankful that his friends have learned to work together instead of tearing each other apart.
Benoit clucks his tongue before picking up the bottle of lager that a server has brought over. "He doesn't know what he's missing; she's still quite the firecracker. Unless it's true that she's screwing a politician?"
Joly grits his teeth at this crass turn of phrase. "She's with my friend Enjolras."
"College friend of yours, am I right?" Benoit asks.
Joly nods. "Former roommate, leader of the political party….you name it."
Benoit raises an eyebrow sceptically. "I'm surprised he and Eponine didn't meet earlier then, given that you, Combeferre, Musichetta and so many of your other friends are mutual connections."
"Enjolras was already at law school all the way across the country by the time any of us met Eponine," Joly points out. It is just as well that things worked out that way, for he cannot imagine a worse combination than Eponine's despondent twenty-two year old self meeting with Enjolras' arrogance at that age. "Besides, law and medicine are realms apart," he adds.
"Before the case of the Chenier girl," Benoit scoffs. "Nasty business, going up against the famous Attorney Chenier himself."
"Someone has to do it."
"Glad it's not me. I heard she's going to pull through?"
'If she can get through the pneumonia first,' Joly almost says, but he bites his tongue. He doesn't need Benoit's pumping him for information on Elodie's condition. "She has a chance," he says at length.
Benoit whistles, perhaps understanding more in Joly's guarded words. "How far are they going to take this case then?"
"As far as necessary," Joly replies quickly. Yet even so he already knows that this will be a long fight, and a story that Benoit is best staying away from.
IV
"I hear you're interested in doing some child protection work, Dr. Thenardier."
Eponine looks up from picking at a bowl of spiced peanuts. "Hello Touissant," she greets. For a moment she wonders what Mr. Fauchelevent's secretary is doing in this gathering, till she recalls that the philanthropist has assisted various medical missions and projects over the past few years. "What do you mean by interested?" she asks after a moment.
"I heard you've been taking care of more than one case involving children in perilous home situations," Touissant clarifies.
"I only do referrals. A kid is brought to me, I pick up on the danger signs, and then I alert the unit," Eponine explains with a shrug. "All the doctors are required to do it."
"Most don't go as far as you do, and not just in the case of Elodie Chenier," Touissant points out, her stammer now greatly diminished. She reaches into her purse and brings out a thick brochure. "Mr. Fauchelevent hopes you'll be interested. It's a certificate course, and there are several schedules for you to pick from. You can always approach Mr. Fauchelevent for any help with funding."
"A course on handling children in crisis situations," Eponine reads aloud. The scenarios these words conjure are very compelling, and she cannot help but flip through this brochure despite that nagging feeling in the back of her mind, dissuading her from this new diversion. She pauses when she comes upon the requirements for applying for the course. "I don't have a degree in social work though."
"It's not an absolute prerequisite," Touissant says.
"And I have duty hours to keep up."
"As I said, you can pick your schedules."
"Are you sure that Mr. Fauchelevent wouldn't rather offer this to someone else?"
"There was only one brochure in his office, and he marked it out for you."
"Why?" Eponine blurts out. "I'm not exactly therapist or social worker material. Does he remember that I've got a ton of issues that I could possibly project on people?" It's part of why she prefers being a surgeon; there is no need to go into the labyrinths of people's minds and possibly get lost in that dangerous exchange between patient and practitioner.
"You care," Touissant says. She pauses as if to collect her words. "Even if Mr. Fauchelevent had someone else in mind, I would encourage you to give it a try."
'And not Cosette?' Eponine wants to say, but she knows better than to argue with Touissant about this matter right now. Nevertheless she decides she'll have a good talk with her friend at the soonest possible time, maybe the next day if possible. "When does Mr. Fauchelevent want me to meet him about this?"
"Before the first day of the application period," Touissant says, indicating the dates on the brochure. "That's about two weeks. Try to think about it, won't you?"
"I will," Eponine promises, but even then she's not sure how much thought she can put into this possible venture, not with so many things on her mind. Aside from Elodie's case, she has other patients to care for, a conference she'll be presenting a paper in, and most importantly, a series of major exams for her own specialization. 'But it's a need too,' something still nags at her throughout the rest of the party.
Thankfully by eleven o'clock she and her friends are able to take their leave of the party and head back to their respective homes. Eponine quietly lets herself into the tiny apartment she shares with Azelma and Gavroche, even if she is half-sure that at least one of her siblings is still awake. The place is admittedly too tiny for all three of them: aside from the main room that serves as living room, kitchen, library and work room, there are two tiny bedrooms and a single bathroom. Yet it's an island of sanity in this city, not just for her and her siblings, but apparently even for their friends if the weekly ramen gatherings here are any indicator. She rolls her eyes on finding on the rickety card table some of Courfeyrac's books parked near Feuilly's spare sketchpad, as well as Bahorel's boxing gloves. 'What is it that they say, me casa es tu casa?' she wonders silently as she locks the apartment's front door before going to knock on what Gavroche calls his 'cave'. "Gav? You still up?"
In a moment Gavroche opens the bedroom door. "Yeah, but Zelma isn't. She's got an early day," he says with a yawn as he scratches his leg through his pajama pants. "Where have you been?"
"Reunion," Eponine says with some distaste. "Courf isn't sleeping in the other room, is he?"
Gavroche shakes his head. "Enjolras told him to actually do his overtime in the office for once."
"I wonder how he did that," Eponine laughs, indicating the books that their friend has left behind.
"Poor, poor Courf," Gavroche says in a mock theatrical voice. "By the way Mr. Fauchelevent called."
"Yeah. I met up with Touissant. Long story," Eponine says. She's not sure she wants to explain the situation when she hasn't made up her mind yet about it. 'Gav and Zelma could have sometimes used a doctor with that sort of training,' the thought occurs to her, but she pinches herself to clear it away. If she's going to take this chance, she has to find something more than guilt to propel her. She mulls about this a little longer after bidding Gavroche good night and going into the room she shares with Azelma. She readies for bed quietly so as not to wake her sister, and then sends a 'good night' text to Enjolras. Inasmuch as she wants to hear his voice, now isn't the hour for a probably impolite phone call.
However not even a minute after she puts her phone on the bedside table, she hears it begin to ring. "Hey Auguste. Aren't you busy or asleep yet?" she asks.
"I was just calling it a night," Enjolras says, not sounding the least bit tired. "How was the party?"
"It was okay, for as long as people weren't talking about people," Eponine replies, burrowing under the blankets of her bed. "How's the overtime going?"
"I can't get Courfeyrac to stay still. Maybe I should have left him in your apartment," Enjolras confesses.
"If you did that, I'd have to go over to your place," Eponine says. She feels her face grow hot as her mind lingers on the idea of meeting up with him at this late hour, perhaps sitting on his sofa and talking over coffee, and then some. She can't deny that this is one of her favourite daydreams.
"You'd leave Gavroche alone with them?" Enjolras asks amusedly. "That's torture."
"For them, not him," Eponine quips. She sighs as she catches a glimpse of the brochure she's tossed on her bedside table. As it is, she hardly has time for things outside of work, how much more this? "So will you be coming by again tomorrow?"
"Yes, that's why I'm calling," Enjolras replies. "Have you got a lunch break tomorrow, Eponine?"
"Late lunch. I'm scrubbing in at ten, so the earliest I can safely promise you a meet-up is two."
"Wow. I don't know how you do it, Eponine."
"Same with you," Eponine whispers. How can someone live with so much drive every day? Sometimes she fears he'll inadvertently burn out or overstretch himself, and heaven help them all if that ever happens. "I'll let you know once things become definitive."
"Alright then." He pauses over the sound of rustling paper. "It's about a case I need some expert opinion on. I hope you don't mind?"
"Not at all." It's just medical advice, so this shouldn't be a problem. She tries to hold back a yawn as she lies down. "I'm really beat though, so inasmuch as your voice keeps me awake, I'm going to just have to settle for dreaming about it now."
"Of course," he laughs. "Good night Eponine."
"Good night Auguste." She's still smiling even when she hangs up, because somehow there's always something more in those simple words.
