Please accept my apology for the delay in updating. Thanks to everyone who continues to read and review.
As always, please heed the warnings (see chapter one). They are there for a reason.
Synopsis: A devastating accident destroys lives and tears friendships apart.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM, I do own the ones I created.
ONLY HUMAN.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Amanda heard Jesse's soft exclamation, even as the same reaction crossed her mind. The bandages fell away to reveal a wound that didn't even remotely look like it was healing properly. Instead, it was red and raw – and white pus bubbled through a gaping split in the sutures.
No wonder the infection wasn't being suppressed. It had been running, unchecked, underneath Mark's bandages.
She shook her head, wondering how the stitches hadn't held – and why she hadn't insisted on Kirk checking the actual wound site.
Guilt flared within her – even as another part of her brain tried to shy away from blaming the doctor whose responsibility it actually was.
Kirk had been a rock for them: putting himself, albeit reluctantly, into Jesse's usual role and trying to hold them all together. He'd faced down Steve's anger and had held her in her grief.
He had gone above and beyond his simple duty. He had stepped into Jesse's shoes and filled them admirably. Until now.
Until he had made one simple mistake. How was she – or any of them – supposed to castigate him, after everything he'd done for them?
'Because the mistake he made might have been fatal.'
Amanda strove to silence the voice in her head and focus her attention on Mark – but it hurt her to harbour, even secretly, such angry thoughts against Kirk Fitzpatrick. She remembered his gentle touch and his kind words. She remembered how she had admired and respected him.
But then she turned her eyes back to Mark's wound and she deliberately tried to shut down her emotions.
'It was Kirk's fault.'
The thought crept in, uninvited and she slammed the door ruthlessly against it. Now was not the time to be apportioning blame – there had been more than enough of that done already recently.
Now was the time to focus solely on Mark and do what she could to help make him well again.
Jesse began barking out orders tersely, his face pinched in utter concentration – and she responded almost without conscious thought. Although she specialised in pathology, she was still a doctor.
Her gloved fingers kept the edges of the wound pushed together as Jesse snipped away the sutures; her eyes watched, monitoring Mark's condition to ensure there was no sudden deterioration; her voice – surprisingly calmly, given the extreme circumstances – directed Steve to call for a nurse. They needed further supplies – and another pair of hands would be useful. Steve complied with commendable speed, given how shocked and sick he looked – although that compliance comprised of him merely yanking open the door and hollering into the corridor. It still provided the desired result.
A click of heels announced the woman's entrance into the room, but Amanda didn't even spare a glance to acknowledge her – because Jesse's first words when she entered sent a shiver down her spine:
"Please prepare a local anaesthetic," he ordered, softly.
Amanda didn't want to say anything; didn't want to undermine Jesse's possibly fragile hold on his confidence – but she was scared.
Mark was so fragile and even a local anaesthetic might cause complications, but she knew Jesse had to do something. However, surely they would be safer in the totally sterile and fully equipped OR.
"Jesse..." She tried to give voice to her fears.
Then he raised his head and bright blue eyes burned into hers. 'Trust me,' they silently implored.
And this was Jesse Travis: who had come back to them, in spite of everything; who was hands-on and striving to save Mark's life, in spite of everything; who was looking confident and assured...
Except there was a hint of something else in his eyes. Maybe it the need for validation or for belief.
Maybe it was – and most importantly – the need for utter faith in him.
Amanda didn't know, but she couldn't take any of them away and so she asked: "What do you need me to do?"
Jesse's hands were surprisingly steady as they cut away the tainted sutures. In a strange way, he was relieved by what he'd found: the explanation for Mark's continued high fever was right there in front of him and the solution was a simple procedure which wouldn't even require them leaving the room.
But his relief was tempered by lingering feelings of his own inadequacy; of his fear of failure; of his still raw bitter memories. And his thought process became a litany of questions and second-guessing.
He let none of it show on the outside – and he strove to silence the negative voices by acting promptly and decisively on every decision that crossed his mind.
And it worked.
At least it did until he asked for a local anaesthetic – and then he felt Amanda's eyes burning into him; heard the concerned query she couldn't help but utter.
He'd been trying so hard not to look at her – not to seem as though he was seeking affirmation for everything he did – but now he couldn't help it. He needed to know that Amanda believed in him; that she had faith in him.
Doubts and insecurities flooded back to the surface – and he wondered if a local anaesthetic was the right way to go. But surely Mark had suffered more than enough already – and, more than anything, he didn't want to inflict any more pain on him. Even though he was unconscious – almost comatose – he couldn't be responsible for that. And cleansing the ugly infection from his wound site was guaranteed to be painful.
Then Amanda asked what she could do – but, more important than her words was the utter faith in her warm, brown eyes.
"Talk to him," he answered, not breaking eye contact. "Just... Talk to him."
He had to look away then because he had work to do – but he caught a brief glimpse of Amanda cupping Mark's cheek and then, as he worked, he heard the low murmur of her voice:
"We're all here for you, honey. You're going to be just fine. You'll make it through this. We believe in you."
It crossed his mind that the words were as relevant to him as they were to Mark – and he wondered if she had deliberately chosen them that way.
Then he phased out her words – but not her tone – and nodded at the nurse.
When the anaesthetic was administered, Jesse had a heart-stopping moment of utter terror as he waited for an adverse reaction: a sudden screeching of the heart monitor, or a dangerous spike in his already too high temperature.
Nothing happened and the only sound was his own harsh breathing – and Amanda's voice continuing to sooth both of them.
His hands remained steady as his fingers manipulated the wound, easing the worst of the poison out of his mentor's body. Then, utilising sterile wipes and infinite patience, he scrubbed every trace of infection from the wound.
Every trace of possibly infected suture was removed and he cleansed the site with more than meticulous thoroughness. And then he cleansed it again.
His behaviour would have put an OCD sufferer to shame, but he couldn't help himself. He had to get this right.
If he left even a trace of the infection behind, then it might prove deadly.
Finally, he was satisfied he had done enough – and his fingers took over from the nurse: pinching the edges of the wound together.
"I need a suture kit," he told her.
She was gone and back with commendable speed – and, even though the kit was brand new and she had to break it out from its cellophane wrapping, he still took the time to sterilise the needle before using it to puncture Mark's skin.
The procedure took less than half an hour – and they were minutes that seemed to fly by for Steve; whilst, at the same time, somehow dragging on into eternity.
He didn't look at the clock; didn't dare tear his eyes away from his dad – or, more specifically, Jesse's back which contrived to constantly shield his dad from his direct view.
Whether the young doctor was doing it on purpose, he didn't know – but it left him feeling half frustrated and half grateful. He thought he'd picked up the gist of what was happening – an infection in the wound site – and he wasn't at all sure he was up to seeing his dad cut open and laid bare. It was killing him just to see him lying so still and vulnerable; seeming not just at death's door, but with one foot already over the threshold.
On the other side of the coin was his desperate need to know. He wanted good news, a positive prognosis – but Jesse's shoulders were hunched and he radiated tension. And it was his father whose life was on the line.
He was a cop. He'd seen the worst humanity had to offer – and then some. He wasn't squeamish; he couldn't be in his job. But, though he shifted restlessly from foot to foot, he didn't try too hard to see exactly what Jesse was doing to his dad.
Amanda's voice was a soothing undercurrent to the fraught atmosphere which pervaded the room; but her words barely reached him over the monotonous rhythm of the heart monitor.
The words weren't important, anyway, he realised. Her tone was doing more to calm him than any drug he might have been offered – a thought that only reminded him of the pain throbbing, in time with his heartbeat, through his fist.
He ignored it – just as he'd ignored it for every single minute since he'd smashed his knuckles through his dad's office window. It fleetingly crossed his mind just how Mark might react to what he'd done – and a chuckle escaped his lips; thankfully unheard by the others in the room.
Further laughter threatened, but he clamped down on it ruthlessly. There was nothing funny about anything that had happened – and he knew his mirth was a symptom of borderline hysteria.
He swallowed back another chuckle that threatened to escape and squeezed his eyes shut in an effort to get himself under control. When he opened them again, his heart almost stopped.
Jesse had stepped back from the bed and was stripping off his surgical gloves; the nurse was silently clearing away detritus from the bed; and Amanda was staring at Jesse – mostly in hope, but also with a hint of fear in her eyes.
And Steve couldn't take it anymore.
He took a swift half-dozen steps forward and grasped Jesse by the shoulder. There was only one thought in his mind: his dad.
And he forgot everything that had gone before: the anger, the accusations; the blame and the hate. He forgot that his attempted explanations had been brushed away by the sheer desperation of the situation they'd found themselves in; forgot he still hadn't found the way to simply say 'I'm sorry.'
Jesse whirled at the contact – something akin to panic dominating his expressive features. He clearly still didn't know how he'd be received by Steve – the attempted, aborted apology already lost somewhere in the heat of emotions as he'd battled to save Mark's life.
He gripped Jesse's shoulder and felt almost unbearable tension beneath his fingers. Whether it was tension from this confrontation, or from what he'd just undergone, Steve didn't know. But, however much he wanted to take the first step towards removing that tension between them, a more pressing need weighed unbearably heavily upon him.
His friendship with Jesse meant the world to him – but his dad meant a whole lot more and so the only words he had to say were:
"So what now?"
Jesse was physically exhausted and emotionally drained. Though he knew everything he'd done had been textbook correct, he still didn't know if it was enough. But Steve was looking at him with such hope, such desperation...
He hated the only answer he had to give to him, but he said it anyway – looking away as he did: "Now all we can do is wait."
He expected Steve's hand to fall away from his shoulder; expected him turning away and focussing solely on Mark – and Jesse truly couldn't blame him. Waiting was an integral part of any treatment, but it would always be the most difficult for any relative to endure.
But Steve's grasp tightened – and not in an angry, aggressive way. It was more like when Susan, his long-time girlfriend had left him; or like when his own dad had let him down yet again – and Jesse had seen pain and regret in his eyes.
And Jesse, again, could see pain and regret – so he went out on a limb and chose to elaborate: "The antibiotics should have a real chance now. We need to give them time to work. His temperature should be down in a matter of hours."
"So he's gonna be okay?"
Jesse opened his mouth to answer in the affirmative – but then abruptly closed it again. Though his hopes were high, he couldn't be certain of Mark's prognosis until they saw some definite results.
And he wasn't about to lie to Steve about it – even as it pained him to be the one to kill the light of hope currently shining in his eyes.
"He's..." He shook his head and dropped his gaze to the floor. "He..." The words wouldn't come – and he sought some way to hold onto his professionalism and do what he'd done about a million times in his life before: deliver the truth; which was often a lot less optimistic than the recipient of that truth was hoping for.
"Jesse, please..."
In spite of the softly spoken words, the grip on his shoulder tightened painfully. But it wasn't physical pain that forced tears to Jesse's eyes as, with a gargantuan effort, he looked back up at Steve.
"If there are no underlying issues..." He temporised. "If there aren't any complications..." He swallowed heavily and did what he always did: took the full weight of responsibility onto his shoulders: "Steve, I can't make any promises."
And it felt as though the very room was holding its breath, as Jesse awaited his reaction.
TBC
