Chapter Summary: Bertie suffers an accident and meets Cornelia Robertson. At the same time.

Chapter Warnings: Mentions, without going into major detail, some minor injury with mentions to blood.


Bertie
June 13, 1899


There are two instances in which Dr. Bertram Chicking Jr. will suffer a workplace injury. The first in 1899, the other a year and a bit later.

But this is 1899, twenty-three days into his residency, and stifling. Hot enough that Bertie, who doesn't do well in any sort of temperature regardless if hot or cold, has to be rid of both suit jacket and waistcoat to be even the slightest less irritated — and then, that is far cry from actually comfortable.

Everett, meanwhile, was somehow fine. Completely, utterly. Fine.

Fine enough to stand around smoking as if neither of them wasn't about to spontaneously combust at any moment, but then he'd told Bertie that he goes out to sail at all times of the year, even in the coldest months in the North Atlantic. Neither extremes bother him, much.

They bother Bertie.

So when Everett offered him a cigarette that morning before they head inside, as is their custom, Bertie was at odds. He knew better than to turn down an offered cigarette, but even though it was still early the humidity in this part of town was disgusting. And besides, Everett smoked some Duke brand that he didn't like.

It could be easy for him to say that. Just decline and go inside.

But, well. Bertie was at his core a man who inspired to please, so instead of moving off into the far cooler interiors of the Knick, he stood out in the dusty courtyard with Everett and smoked - his own, not Everett's, he had to draw the line somewhere - as fast as he could without hyperventilating.

It is only when Bertie was two-thirds of his way finished that he realised Everett was lagging behind. The man sat on the bench before the hedge, their customary spot, and dragged slowly, looking vaguely off at the building.

It was nearly five-to when Bertie finally crushed his out under his foot and shifted around in an attempt to display his impatience without actually appearing so. When that didn't work, he took out his watch and squinted at it.

"We better get going," he said, neutrally.

Everett snapped his head at him with such force, it was as if Bertie had just walked up to him and slapped him across the face.

The thought was amusing, but Bertie was too overheated to appreciate it. He put his watch back in its pocket and shrugged. "Six to eight."

"Oh," Dr Gallinger put his own cigarette out as he stood. Quickly, like a startled jack in the box. "Sorry, Bertie. Lost track of time."

He added a few seconds later as if bursting to give context.

"Eleanor's been sick. I'm rather tired."

Dr. Chickering did not know how to respond to that, exactly. Obviously, a sorry or that's too bad would be in order, but somehow it didn't seem appropriate. Everett's body language was all strange. Normally he was relaxed, at ease; right in the middle of their team and therefore secure as a consequence, more bemused about the day's impending chaos than concerned, and he only ever got tense on the rare occasion.

And this was nothing like his usual grievances, which could range from the bizarrely simple, like discovering that they both had the same diploma, to the more understandable, like a sudden change in technique in the theatre because Thack just wants to try something, please. The man reached a foot out, kicked a stray stone and settled for looking wistful.

"We think she's pregnant." He said then, and never before had Bertie been so happy to not say sorry or that's too bad in his life.

That being said, he also doesn't know what to say otherwise.

"Oh," he settles on. "Congratulations, then. That's wonderful news."

And he meant that, he did. Only Bertie doesn't entirely understand. He understood why Everett would be shocked, happy and concerned, but it was also something that just did not come along too often in his day to day interactions for him to be... aware.

It seemed to be the right course of action, though. Everett did indeed look pleased; pleased that Bertie approved or just pleased in general, he did not know, but pleased nonetheless.

And that was about as much as Bertie could gather. Granted, he was a physician — he understood the clinical technicalities, but he was also twenty-four and blissfully free from the trappings of so-called proper adulthood and therefore did not quite get the unbridled nature of it all. None of his friends - his outside ones, his real ones - who spent their days fleshing out their newfound careers and playing Saturday baseball or shooting pool were married or had children. Certainly, Bertie thought, none of them were strictly thinking about it either.

Bertie wasn't. Not really. Father pressed it upon him frequently, but that was normal griping, like getting a haircut or fitted for a new shirt collar or drinking too much on the weekend and therefore no real emergency. He'd only had one intimate experience with the whole affair back when Clara came along, when he was seven. When he was old enough, smart enough, and enough of his father's son to know what that meant, having grown up with relative free reign of the practice in Columbia, but also not being old enough to do anything about it either way.

Truly, he felt the same way about it now as he did back then.

Good for them.

Now it is time to go inside.

"Ginter's. You smoke Ginter's." Everett glanced at him as they passed through the front doors.

Bertie pulled an amused face, removing his hat - both of them doing so at the same time, with a sort of synchrony that felt comfortable - and blinking into the dim room before him. Dark unsure shapes quickly became people, and they soon became recognisable faces. Nurses and doctors nodded and smiled, pleasantries are exchanged and all in all, it felt good, the impending wave of unrelenting heat or not.

"What about them? I like them well enough." What Bertie meant was he liked the cards that came with them — had a full collection of the baseball ones of which he had obsessively borrowed - stolen really - from his father and friends over the years, but that seemed embarrassing to admit, so he didn't. "And Father gets them in cartons, so I'm supplied as needed."

"Economics." Everett rumbled.

"Perhaps there is a career in it somewhere," Bertie noted, absently. Like a lot of people in his social strata, he'd grown up with very narrowed career prospects. Doctor or lawyer and God help him if he dared choose the latter, for anything and everything else was unthinkable.

Bertie smiled at the absurdity of it, and looked up at Everett as they made for the double doors on the left. "But then I guess-"

And then it hit him.

This was not some figure of speech, an archaic cliched line of which Bertie had memorized with the accuracy of an elephant - there's one - but instead something quite genuine. It hit him. Hard.

The door, that is.

The first time Bertie sees Cornelia Robertson working at the Knick, she pushes the door open as he is leaning forward to grab it from the other side, summarily clipping him square in the face and borderline knocking him unconscious. Not quite. But close enough.

Enough for him to get smacked back onto the floor and to phase out for a moment or two. He hadn't felt like he'd properly blacked out, but he must've, because the last thing he remembered before it... happening... was him standing upright and seeing something moving in his peripheral.

Then came the pain.

And now, there was more pain, but this was duller, lingering, and he was somehow on the floor. Not for long. Everett was at his aid immediately, looming above him, ever-present.

"Oh dear." It sounded ordinary and acceptable. Like something he'd hear at home. Oh dear. Uh oh. Easy there. Good gracious. "You okay? Here, come on. Get up."

Everett pulled him up onto his feet with one single tug by the forearm and as Bertie stood there, stunned and staggering slightly, a little confused and punchdrunk with sudden vertigo, the older doctor handed him something light and smooth. Dr. Chickering knew what to do with it instinctively.

He did not carry handkerchiefs himself - there was no surer way to make Father cringe - but Bertie held it to his face anyway, pressing his nose between his thumb and index finger. It hurt.

Nothing crunching or cracking, no crepitation, thank God, so he was sure it wasn't broken. Bertie gasped though the pain as Everett, casual-like, firmly pat his arms and back down as if dusting him off, and tried to go through the usual motions.

Basic aid, he thought; simple medical solutions to simple problems. Lean forward, breathe through the mouth — drain the blood down the nose instead of the back of the throat. Stay up, for laying down causes blood pressure in the nasal canal. Discourage further bleeding, Chickering. There we go. Good man.

It's better than Oh Dear at any rate.

Someone set their fingers on his forearm and Bertie automatically brought the unoccupied hand up and away, chest-height as he does in the theatre. Then he blinked, and followed the delicate gloved fingers up to that of their owner and despaired. Cornelia Robertson was wearing a finely made forest-green dress and looking greatly concerned. At him. Him and his bleeding face.

It's all rather embarrassing.

Bertie knew Cornelia indirectly. As in, Father's oldest brother's wife, the aunt Bertie has perhaps seen three or four times in his entire life, is sister to Cornelia's mother's youngest sister's husband — whoever the heck he happens to be, and it's that kind of indirectly.

They don't know each other, not really. They're familiar in the sense that they've seen each other's face, once or twice, in certain circles. Circles that Bertie only walked in when he was tagging along with his parents, certain society dinners. The kind of circles that Father, a former cavalry surgeon, would rather - and Bertie can quote him on this - walk out into the wilds and kick a sleeping bear than deign to suffer, and therefore avoided like the plague.

Hey, look. There's another one.

"Oh, it's okay. It's okay, no harm done." Bertie said to her unheard question, then immediately shut his mouth upon feeling it filling with the sharp metallic pang of his own blood. He needed the washroom. One shouldn't swallow their own blood if they could help it.

"Well, I'm not entirely certain about that," Cornelia said, gently, but her eyes were alive with that classic disbelief of those unaccustomed to downplaying injury.

It would be amusing if not also mortifying. She apologised again, and Bertie found himself trapped in a furious non-debate of amends and recurrences.

"You couldn't have known-"

"- I know but I-"

"-Really it's okay-"

"-Yes, but I should have checked before-"

"I think we should get you looked at." Everett cut in curly after a good ten seconds of them getting nowhere and regarded Cornelia, all easy smiles and grace. "Don't you worry Miss Robertson. Dr. Chickering is a tough customer."

I wouldn't say that. Bertie thought, but by this point, opening his mouth would be a mistake.

Cornelia looked at him a little more strongly, finally managing to put a name to a face. Bertie, at least, never had that problem. Never really had. He tried to smile despite not being able to remove the handkerchief away from his face and looked around for the hat he'd dropped.

Everett had it. The older doctor made no move to hand it over, which was probably for the best.

"Well, I better let you get cleaned up." Cornelia sighed, gave him a pat on the forearm again, and looked at Everett. "I'll see you two around, I'm sure. And I'm sorry, Dr. Chickering. Really."

Bertie made a semblance of a noise that was supposed to be one of acceptance.

"Of course," Everett translated, utterly unfazed.

And he tells Bertie as much, once the latter is cleaned up, properly examined - it's really nothing, and it's not like Bertie was much of a bleeder anyway - and they're finally ready to start the workday, twenty minutes late.

Apparently, this wasn't at all shocking. It was a regular occurrence.

"The nosebleeds?"

"Oh God no, Chickering. The Inelegance. Welcome to the Circus."

And suffice to say, when Thackery finally graced them with his presence and saw the damage, it was pretty much exactly the same response.

"Oh dear." He remarked, eyes smiling. "Just another Tuesday at the Knick, I see."