Chapter Summary: Dr. Chickering joins the Knick and faces the immidate consequences.

Chapter Warnings: No specific warnings this time!


Bertie
May 20, 1899


See, back in his day, Father was a fistfighter.

Colligate pugilism mostly — followed by one incident involving another doctor, who was apparently, and he quotes, asking for it. Bertie did not know most of the details as was fitting, but the evidence was there, all the same.

It's in the older man's body language. When threatened, he starts to load up on his left hand; he shuffled his feet and set his stance when moving against another person when he got tense. He was ready to fight even before he thought about it, regardless or not wherever he'd even consider it in the first place. Wherever or not it was proper.

Bertie tried to emulate his father's mettle most days, but given the very real undercurrent of anxiety running hot and frantic through his bloodstream right at this moment, he was certain he was not pulling it off.

For some reason, they insisted on having him meet them in the operating room.

Outwardly, John Thackery is not much. Tall, but he's also rumpled and underweight. Handsome, sure, in that crazy unrefined sort of way, but twitchy. Fueled with boundless energy and a desire to progress and work and move and talk, a sense of fervour that Bertie is unused to. He's fanatical. Utterly manic.

He was a raging storm of action from the moment Bertie stepped into the threshold. He walked too quickly, shouted too loud, spoke too fast, waved his arms around too much — and atters are not helped in the slightest when Bertie realised, with immense displeasure, that he's exactly face height of most of the man's more outlandish hand gestures.

After nearly getting socked in the face one too many times for comfort, Bertie desperately sought out some semblance of safety by rounding the operating table, attempting to keep it between them as tactfully as possible.

He stood there, holding onto all of his necessary - and currently neglected - paperwork and wondered if this was normal.

Bertie was out of his depth when the man cornered him a day ago. Now, in his element, Dr. Thackery is a whole different beast to have to face head-on, yet nobody appeared to think it odd.

Dr. Jules Christensen himself was a bit more sedate, but only in the physical sense. He had that lounging, pronounced power of a resting predator. At ease and amused, he stared at Bertie with casual curiosity, as if he wasn't a professional new physician intending to join his surgical team but rather a new junior member of his Saturday rowing club. Interested, but unconcerned.

This was his territory, after all.

Christensen, as the Chief of Surgery, was supposed to be the one to interview Bertie, test him and generally gauge his chances, but throughout the entire extent of this so-called application process, Dr. Chickering had become aware that it wasn't really Christensen at all. The man's general lack of concern and the way he barely glanced at Bertie's paperwork spoke volumes.

No, it was all Thackery. Christiensen was there to observe and ask random questions ranging from the upsettingly vague how is your pharmacology? to the sly, how long can you crank a suction machine for? to the hyper-specific what are the phylogenic processes or functions that impart to the living human body and it's resistance? or, perhaps most concerningly, tell me, boy, how many patients have you seen die under the knife?

Everything else was down to the Deputy Chief. Which was to say, also very little.

All Thackey had done was drag Bertie around the hospital on an impromptu tour, casually throw his name at a multitude of uniformed strangers, who neither knew Bertie nor what his supposed purpose was. He asked very little about what Bertie had done at Columbia, proclaimed to be uninterested in paper tests. He asserted - twice - that it wouldn't matter much in the long run.

And from there it was back to the operating room.

It's nothing like Father had prepared him for, but then again, all that quizzing and instruction and advice was for Presbyterian and Bellevue. You know, normal hospitals.

Not... Whatever unholy lunacy this was.

Christensen glanced at Bertie after he finally took the sheath of papers, folding them thrice and stuffing them into his trouser pocket. Bertie, to stop himself from saying anything, clenched his jaw and looked away.

The man saw it regardless and smiled. Christensen had taken great amusement in Bertie's predicament so far, to the point of inflicting distress himself, perhaps just for the fun of it. If he wasn't such a resounding genius in the theatre - if both of them weren't - Bertie had reasoned he'd have hightailed it by now, put as much distance between these insane tormentors and himself as humanly possible and never look back.

But they are geniuses, and despite all of Christensen's sharp-edged curiosity, he wasn't pushing Bertie away, either. This sort of teasing was inclusionary.

"You came third in your year?" He asked, leaning against the partition between the observational area and the operating floor. He looked at Bertie over the tops of his spectacles, eyes glistening, and the younger doctor felt that giving him a truthful answer was the wrong choice to make.

That speaking at all was the wrong choice to make.

Thackery was content to speak for both of them. He waved his hands at the bald, squinting one and made a displeased noise. "Those tests don't matter."

"Then what does?" The comment was sarcastic. Christensen looked at Thackery, pointedly, with his eyebrows raised and the sly grin exploded into full force. It left Bertie with the impression that he was sort of... intruding.

"Surgical aptitude, Jules. Drive. Desire. It's one thing for us to fight on the path of progress, but as we know that progress will inevitably end if we don't have others ready to take it on in the future. It's long time that we extend that knowledge to our younger generation. Those who in, what? Ten, twenty years time, will be the ones at the forefront of medical evolution. You know, when we're all old and senile and can't be taken seriously anymore."

"So you're going to make a worthy heir out of Chickering," the man sighed at Dr. Thackery, still amused, but knowing. Knowing something — something Bertie didn't, who just stood there, the subject of the conversation but also simultaneously barred from participating in it. "Well. God help me if I deny you anything, Thack. I'll be sure to flutter my eyelashes at the Captain - though what about Gallinger?"

"What about him?" Thackery asked back, sliding his hands over his waistcoat as if looking for something, once, twice, until he realised that whatever he was looking for was not on his person.

He immediately began looking for his jacket. Bertie thought he might have seen it hung over one of the chairs, but he didn't want to interrupt and therefore said nothing.

"Last I checked, er-" It wasn't under the papers, or the table itself. Thackery spun around on his feet, eyes tracking. "-the board demanded you take him. Ergo, he is your protégé."

"That was before you charmed him and stole him from right under my nose." Christensen deadpanned.

At Bertie's look of confusion, Thackery winked at him. "Well, you can have him back, now that I've got one of my own."

"Judging by the clandestine nature of today's appointment," Dr. Christensen replied. "I think you've got a penchant for thieving junior colleagues from other institutions. Should I start warning people?"

"Oh come now Jules, don't oversell my roguery. I'll be too busy passing on every single one of my bad habits to Dr. Chickering Sr's sainted son here to steal anyone else."

Both men laughed and Bertie - wisely, he felt - did not say anything in regard to that little sentiment. It was something he'd have to get used to, he feared. It wasn't the first time he'd seen or heard about Father and Thackery's... well. A rivalry would suggest mutual one-upmanship.

Dislike. That was a safe word to use.

Christensen smacked Bertie on the shoulder as he walked on by, starting for the doorway and beyond, the corridor. The younger doctor watched his retreating back until it disappeared behind the flapping doors, internally despairing.

That was another thing to get used to. What was it with these people and the constant touching? It was like they couldn't help themselves; they had to go put their hands on the short, cute one.

Dr. Thackery was the worst offender of the lot. Having found his jacket, the man shrugged it on in one smooth motion and clapped his hands together loudly. He then gestured to the operating room.

"So, Dr. Chickering, what do you think of our circus ring?"

There were many ways that Bertie could reply to that, but there was only really one pressing thing on his mind. He turned around to regard Thackery and opted for truthfulness.

"It's unorthodox."

That made Thackery laugh. "Well, God forbid if we were ever orthodox around here. Though it says a lot less about us and a little something about you."

"Me?"

"Well, you're still here." Thackery pressed both of his hands into his trouser pockets and rocked back and forth on his heels distractedly. "And I'm sure I don't have to tell you that working here will be no small trial. As Christensen was so inclined to inform me, all those years ago; the days are long and our progress, monumental as it may be, is slow. You'll be worked to the bone, I assure you."

"I figured as much." Bertie shrugged. He wasn't sure what else to say. "My father... Well. He mentioned it."

Thackery smirked. "Mentioned it, did he?"

Bertie by no means made protecting his father's honour one of his main responsibilities; the man was more than capable of doing that himself, but something about this specific instance prompted him to do just that.

"I grew up in a practice, Doctor." Bertie clarified. "And while I wasn't subject to the worst of it, even at Columbia... He, uh. He made it quite clear what a hospital like the Knick would be like. Didn't feel the need to forgo any details."

"Of course he didn't." The man sighed, with - and this surprised Bertie - a real undertone of actual recollection. "Well, only time will tell then."

"Wasn't I supposed to..." Bertie shrugged, helplessly. "Be interviewed?"

Normally, he does not say.

Presbyterian had been so standard Bertie had come out of it underwhelmed after everything was said and done. At the Knick, he was expecting something a little rigorous — Thackery did not know him as well as the people in Presbyterian or Columbia did, after all. All they had to go off was his test scores and word of mouth from people like Dr. Koff, who was an uncommonly gracious man as it was. Dr. Thackery couldn't be that desperate for a surgical intern that he'd just strongarm Bertie onto their team without... knowing.

"The only interview I need with you Dr. Chickering is to see you in action in the operating theatre," Thackery replied as he checked his watch. "Which, if you're willing to stay until half three, we can manage. We have a scheduled cholecystectomy over on the men's ward."

Bertie, who was not expecting to have to assist in an operating room until at least several weeks down the line, was left feeling pensive at that development.

Dr. Thackery raised both of his eyebrows at the pause. "Never had to handle a gallbladder removal?"

That was not the issue Bertie was thinking about. He recoiled, confused. "N-no. I mean- I've seen it be done before."

"All the better." The man declared, and all of a sudden, Bertie's concerns were no longer relevant. "Dr. Chickering, I'm about to amaze you - we've been experimenting with an anterograde method recently, a little more advanced but-"

When Bertie did not immediately follow Thackery's lead out the door, the man doubled back and wrapped his arm around the younger doctor's shoulder. It was a more forceful gesture than Bertie was expecting, and if not for the significant difference in their respective heights, he would have easily stumbled. In this instance, all he could do is helplessly scramble along.

"Well, why not dive in at the deep end? I'm sure you can handle it."

Bertie was hardly certain about that, but unable to nod with his head wrenched against the crook of Thackery's arm, he made a grunting noise of vague agreement anyway.

Thackeray did not miss it. He laughed.

"Glad to hear it, Dr. Chickering. Glad to hear it."


And he can handle it. Well enough, anyway.

When all is said and done, when Bertie accepted his new job at the Knick with a stunned handshake and a healthy dose of apprehension, he learned two things:

One, Dr. John Thackery is a madman, yes — but an ingenious one.

Two, causing one's father to borderline pulmonary aspirate during dinner is a bad idea.

It was not how Bertie intended to break the news. If he'd had his way, he wouldn't have told Father for at least a day or so, but he knew, the longer he put it off the more Father would get suspicious and the likelihood of him hearing something from Presbyterian increased.

If nothing else, he thought, he'd rather Father heard it from him than them. That wouldn't be cowardly. It was what a real man would do. Problem was, Bertie knew how important this, all of this, was to Father; and while he knows objectively that this is something he wants, he also cannot help but feel... wrong.

He's a grown man yes, but...

The Knick goes against the plan, as it were.

Bertie did not say anything for a long time. Not when he came home and not when they finally sat down for dinner. He pushed his vegetables around his plate with little enthusiasm, which of course Mother noticed and resulted in many a what's wrong now look over her glass, which Bertie did not have the bravery to face, let alone deflect.

Clara is in good spirits, mostly because Father was in a good mood himself and too absorbed with his eldest child to properly concentrate on his youngest. It's not until her third jibe in as many minutes that Father even speaks up to give reprimand, and then, it was barely a warning at that.

Not that he ever did. His sister, Bertie is sure, could insult the president to his face and Father probably wouldn't even raise his voice. Figures.

It's not fair, Bertie wanted to complain, and he strongly considered putting it off until the man is in a more tepid mood, just so he didn't have to be the one responsible for ruining the atmosphere and putting Father into a mood.

But he couldn't. It had to be done today, or very early tomorrow. Even with time to prepare, Bertie wasn't very good at lying.

Instead, he just sat there, miserable, and opted for the one technique he knows would work.

Blurt it out and hope for the best.

"Dr. Thackery over a the Knick offered me a position as a surgical apprentice." Bertie declared abruptly. "I accepted."

It's a mistake. Bertie, who was not looking up and ergo did not see Father picking up his glass of port, very nearly jumped out of his chair when the man practically inhaled said beverage and immediately choked on it. Clara threw her head up to gape in horror and Mother, at first alarmed but then surprisingly unperturbed, merely turned to her coughing husband with a frown.

"Really, dear-" she sighed. "The tablecloth."

The tablecloth! Bertie clamped down any emerging hysterical laughter, but otherwise he was too tense and unsure to so much as move, let alone speak. Instead, he sat there, staring into the vague region of the table, watching Father shift in his peripheral and wondering if an intern's wage would allow him to survive alone in New York these days. Some hospitals pay for room and board, right?

Father wrestled some control and, leaning heavily against his armrest, wiped his mouth with his napkin. He's staring at him, Bertie knew, but for all of his desperation to put on a brave face, actually looking his father in the eye was proving to be utterly impossible.

"You did what ?" Father challenged, tone thick with the pre-warning growl that spoke of an imminent shouting at.

Clara meanwhile, smirking and never one to be outdone, stabbed a parsnip with her knife somewhat harder than necessary.