KnightLawn: thank you!
pxnic-at-mxdnight: so grateful for your unrelenting support and writing boosts! hope you like the update
20BlueRoses: yes that's definitely the general route it's going down, the whole 'will they won't they' and not necessarily a happy ending! appreciate your comments lovely
IseultLaBelle: oh you made my day, thanks for letting me know what you think and glad you're enjoying it so far! will be updating whenever I can
AN/ deliberately writing the baby with no name or gender even for two chapters has been insanely difficult, but in doing so I aim to portray how unfamiliar it all is to Ethan and how much the baby isn't yet established to the department or the world as they were such a surprise. let me know whether you'd like this to be continued a while or alternatively, if not, do you think boy or girl?
By some means of miracle, Ethan has managed to escape into the fresh air with baby. The department desperately needed an Asda trip, and in light of all the chaos, senior staff had no choice but to dismiss him with a raised eyebrow. At 36 weeks gestation, he knows the infant should probably have stayed well within the hospital. But he's a doctor after all and they won't be out long. Besides, if germs is the concern, there's likely a higher chance of them contracting something in the hospital itself this morning. It is pandemonium.
Luckily the supermarket is barely a five minute walk away and August brings comfortable outside temperatures. He carries the baby in his arms — little one is still without a car seat and much more than a dusty old cream onesie he dragged out from a cleaning cupboard, soaked in the sink and dried under the rusty hand dryers in the men's toilets.
'Congratulations,' a passer-by smiles warmly and nudges his wife. 'Only a tiny one, just look Margaret!'
'Ah,' the lady aside him coos.
'Thanks,' replies Ethan, giving a maudlin smile in acceptance of congratulations that aren't really his to take.
They are making the only reasonable assumption, since he's changed out of his scrubs and into joggers and a hoody. Dark shadows adorning his heavy eyes definitely contribute to the false image of doting father. Navigating a trolley with arms full makes him look even more inexperienced and new to the role. Which professional consultant of emergency medicine — not even paediatrics — carries a random baby into a supermarket?
An announcement over the tannoy startles them both, causing the baby's tiny starfish hands to spring up in front of their face. A rude awakening from their daze. Manager needs an employee at the customer services desk. Ethan is taken aback momentarily at how life goes on; work for some entails stacking shelves and catering to the masses. Not treating your colleagues and best friend who is bleeding profusely and finding yourself 12 hours later with her child.
'Can I help you?'
He glances up and sees a concerned looking employee, pausing from adjusting the sale items on the clothing rail.
'Uh, yeah,' he nods. 'I'm looking for some tiny baby clothes. I don't know if- no, actually, sorry—'
The young woman smiles widely. 'How old?'
'Thirty,' he answers without thought.
She splutters and with embarrassment, he too realises the ridiculous blunder.
'Hours, not even a day.'
'As luck would have it, we had a delivery yesterday of our tiniest sizes. We have early baby scratch mitts and hats too. Good on you for giving your other half some rest. My ex was terrible when I had our youngest, Megan. Swanned off to have a cooked breakfast with the rugby lads. It was all downhill from there, couldn't get a word out of him edgeways and he had this weird way of going mute whenever I brought up date night. Thank God he left when she was three.'
'Megan is a lovely name,' he says, wishing her painstaking chattiness was cheering him rather than contributing to the migraine.
He is glad when she gives him a grin and jogs back off to what she was doing, even though the rails and rails of items seem a bit overwhelming. He doesn't know where to start. Onesies, vests, little tops, blankets, muslin squares, boots — more choice than there is in most adult department stores. Grimly, he glances from the bombardment of colour to the sleeping dot of a human in his arms and decides plain clothing would be more suitable. He wrestles a couple of packets of tiny vests off the shelf and plonks them in the trolley. 5 cream and lemon suits follow, some socks, two woven blankets and a little knitted jacket follow. Just in case it drops a degree or so outside.
And baby is being positively an angel now they are having a change of scenery. Beats the persistent wails he was treated to in the night. If only he weren't so clueless. Of course, all newborns scream, but something about their little cries was distinctly atypical. Though he's no expert, Ethan knew full well their meaning: craving safety, missing their mummy, wondering who put them in a world of such grief.
He saunters around, collecting essentials as he goes. Teabags and more milk for the staffroom. Pretty much everything from the baby aisle has piled up on top of the clothes mountain he's pushing. Whilst they're in hospital, the departments will rally and provide resources, but you never do know what you could run out of.
Instead of feeling like he's sold his soul when the cashier announces the price goggle-eyed, he is indifferent. He has been numbed in that respect too. And the earth could cave in before he'd worry about credit card expenditure. Money is a commodity, he thinks. There would be no price higher than he'd be willing to pay to restore life as it was, to cling to some normality and never ever let it escape him again.
His phone buzzes in his pocket and he struggles with the bags and the baby, almost collapsing against the bench outside. Ignoring the stares from loitering shoppers, he rummages in his pocket, unlocks it and presses it to his ear.
'Ethan, where are you?' Charlie demands down the line.
'I- I nipped out. What's happened? Is it Alicia?'
'Did you take the baby with you?'
'Yeah,' he exhales noisily. 'Yeah, I did. Mrs Beauchamp should have said.'
'Well, she's in the room right now shaking her head. It was assumed you'd left them behind. We've been going spare, you know, reception were just about to call the police—'
'Police?' Ethan repeats, shaking his head wildly. 'N-no, I've only been gone half an hour, why the fuss?'
'Why the fuss? A premature baby vanished from our care. I know you are tired but it is the height of irresponsibility to go outside with an infant so small, no vaccinations or anything!'
'I'm hardly a meat-axe murderer, Charlie, I'm a doctor—'
'But you are not the parent! Just because you're Alicia's friend, you cannot just assume you know what she'd want you to do. Nothing has been finalised yet. There is every likelihood we'll find a foster placement anyway. You need to make sure that this is for you and that you're not just clinging onto a dependent infant who is your last link to her!'
At first, Ethan is unsure of the bigger blow: the gust of wind that scatters his shopping and sends the bunch of flowers flying, or the words of someone he never thought was capable of hurting him. The baby nuzzles into his shoulder with a squeak and he rises, taking a sort of stagger towards the tulips and scoops them up. His heart breaks at the irony and ignorance of every single statement Charlie made. Nobody gets it. Like he wanted this responsibility, this stress.
There is a murmur and a scuffle at the end of the phone before he hears a long sigh down the speaker, more drawn out and feminine this time.
'Tempers are frayed, Ethan,' explains Connie lightly. 'Try not to take anything to heart. Make your way back and we will all work our way around this mess somehow. As a team.'
'See you in twenty then,' he says tersely, and cuts the call.
He doesn't care. A large part of him feels betrayed, as if it's her fault for the words Charlie said. It was clear he was going on an outing with the baby, he even gestured towards them and pointed to the door. Still, he knows it was only fair to give her an estimation of time, since he did take off with a patient and strictly speaking it contravenes lots of the not-so-small print in his contract.
A taxi pulls into the rank. Plastic bags heave with contents, digging purple grooves into his left hand. Walking home isn't really an option.
He clambers in the back, as he was always taught to, despite being a grown man fully capable of fighting off any untoward advances. With a glance at the doddery taxi driver, he concludes that somehow he would have been perfectly
safe right in the front. The baby revs up in sync with the car engine on his lap, tiny mewls that he knows — from only hours of getting to know them — will certainly erupt into screams.
'Holby City Hospital, please,' croaks Ethan over the noise.
'Sounds like little one's hungry for some milk,' suggests the driver unhelpfully. 'I'll get you both back to Mummy in a jiffy.'
