Author's Note: I've been in a crazy writing mood lately where I'm just dying to write something new every day, so please bear with me as I hop from story to story. Hozier's song "Like Real People Do" came up on my Pandora station and snippets of ideas for scenes just started flowing. So, I've decided I'm going to add a few more chapters to this fic.
Enjoy and please leave a review if you get the chance! Reviews give me a huge morale boost when it feels like everything I do is garbage, so they're very much appreciated, haha!
Waking up to the warmth of someone else's arms around him still feels foreign. It's been four years since Arthur met Francis, and two years since he went from being a bachelor to a married man, and yet, everything remains new and unchartered territory in many ways.
The smell of Francis's shampoo on his pillow, the clutter in the storage closet that's no longer just his clutter but their clutter, the stubbly kisses and shared morning breath, making tea for two, hearing French songs waft from the shower and out into the hallway in the croaky warble of Francis's voice when they're both groggy—these are all new parts of his once meticulously planned and organized daily routine, and though the transition hasn't always been easy, it feels right. He belongs now—matters to someone on a personal level.
Arthur rolls out from underneath the covers, careful not to disturb Francis as he turns off his alarm and rises for another twelve-hour shift. One glance toward the window reveals that it's disgusting and muggy out, and while the last thing he wants to do is drive in this weather to the hospital just so he can treat abdominal pains, lacerations, and upper respiratory infections all day, he knows he doesn't have much of a say in the matter.
He heads over to the dresser and battles to find a pair of black socks from underneath all of Francis's. Honestly, how many times does he have to tell the man to keep his things in a separate drawer rather than chucking everything away haphazardously like this? He has already had to rearrange his sock drawer twice in the last six weeks. Would it kill him to keep his belongings in his own area?
After a five-minute shower and a quick shave, he brushes his teeth, caffeinates himself with plenty of tea, and gets dressed in his black trousers, blue dress shirt, and the red silk tie Francis got him last Christmas. He also grabs his messenger bag, stethoscope, and white coat (freshly pressed by Francis himself—he can be useful sometimes, apparently).
He opts to skip breakfast today because he's running a little late, and the anxiety of being behind schedule has quashed his appetite. Besides, if he sits around any longer and listens to the rain now pounding against the roof of the house, he'll be tempted to call out and stay home, and he's saving his sick days for the inevitable moment when a patient gives him a horrible infection or when he has a full-blown mental breakdown and needs to isolate himself from civilization for a week.
He snags his keys off of the side table in the foyer and rushes out the door, not even bothering to open up an umbrella because he knows he's going to get soaked either way. Fortunately, he makes it to the car without having to endure the buckets of water falling from the sky for too long, and since very few professions in this world demand that one faces nature's elements on a weekend like this, there aren't many other drivers on the road, meaning he arrives at the hospital with fifteen minutes to spare. He's allowed a moment to gather his bearings before he takes report and starts getting assignments.
His first patient of the day is a woman complaining of chest pain and shortness of breath—two nonspecific symptoms that could either be nothing serious or turn out to be life-threatening. In this case, it's life-threatening. He barely gets the chance to walk up to the woman's bedside before she loses consciousness.
As her son shouts and tries to rouse her, Arthur checks for a pulse, and when he doesn't find one, calls a code, tells the son to leave the room, and starts chest compressions while backup arrives. After intubation and two rounds of epinephrine, they are able to stabilize her, and she gets whisked up to the ICU.
What a way to start his morning.
He thinks the worst is over—that surely nothing can compete with such a lively beginning to his shift—but he's sorely mistaken. No more than twenty minutes later, a man collapses in front of the nurses' station and begins seizing. As a nurse runs to get an anti-convulsant, Arthur kneels beside him and makes sure he doesn't injure himself. Three minutes go by, and the seizure stops momentarily before it's replaced by another one just seconds later.
"He's in status epilepticus. Hurry with that lorazepam!" he says, raising his voice to emphasize the urgency of the situation.
Fortunately, the nurse returns, and Arthur wastes no time in giving the patient the injection of medication. It takes some time to work, but finally, the seizing stops. He lets the nurses and the physician actually assigned to the man's care handle things from there.
One look at his watch lets him know he's behind schedule again, so he hurries to his next patient—a teenager with a suspected leg fracture. He inspects the leg in question and orders an x-ray, and as he's placing the order, he tackles a portion of the horrific amount of charting he has to do while he's at the computer.
Then, he's off to tend to a hundred-four-degree fever and dehydration in an immunosuppressed elderly man followed by respiratory distress in a woman with COPD. He thinks he might get the chance to take a lunch break around noon, but then, he finds himself treating some burns and giving stitches to another teenager who had an unfortunate encounter with some fireworks. After patching the young man up, Arthur does some more charting, and by then, he has totally lost track of time.
Finally, at four o'clock in the afternoon, he gets the chance to eat his first meal of the day, but by that point, he's fairly tired and can't get himself to have more than half of a sandwich anyway. He watches the clock, hopes beyond hope that things will slow down (they don't), and when eight o'clock comes around, it's time for the night-shift to roll in. He hands off his patients to the next physician, lets out a long sigh of relief that the day is finally over, and gets back home around a quarter to nine.
He plods through the front door, wearily takes off his shoes and coat, and goes straight into the bathroom to take another hot shower, barely even saying hello to Francis. By the time he changes into something more comfortable and eats the leftovers from the dinner that Francis made, it's nearly ten o'clock. He's ready to crawl into bed, sleep, and wake up at six o'clock in the morning so he can do the same thing all over again tomorrow.
He's already curled up on his side with one pillow under his head and another pressed up against his chest when he feels Francis's arms snake around his middle to pull him close.
"Arthur," Francis purrs, reaching up a hand to smooth back his shaggy hair. "Say something. I haven't seen you all day."
"Mmm, tired," is all Arthur can mumble in response, lips barely moving.
"The night is still young. We can make something of it…Have some time for ourselves."
"Not tonight. Not in the mood."
"And tomorrow when you return from work, I assume you won't be in the mood either?"
"Correct. Maybe you're not as daft as you seem."
He can feel Francis scowling at him without even having to open his eyes.
"What made you so sour today?" Francis asks him, pulling his arms away and crossing them over his chest instead. "Is it too much to ask that my husband communicates with me every now and then?"
Not this conversation again. He wants to groan, but that'll only make Francis more irritated, so he pretends to fall asleep instead, hoping the man will postpone his rant for another day.
"Arthur? Stop ignoring me."
"I'm not ignoring you. I'm merely exhausted. Can we please talk about this some other time?" Arthur pleads with him, trying to be civil and polite. He doesn't want to argue tonight—doesn't have the energy for it.
"And when will that other time be? You're constantly at the hospital, and I can't call you while you're at work because you can't pick up your phone in the middle of your shift, so tell me, where do I fit in your schedule? Do I have to make an appointment?"
He doesn't need this right now, and not from Francis, of all people.
"I thought you understood what you were getting into when you proposed to me. Don't act as if this is some sort of new phenomenon. It's been going on for years. Why does it suddenly bother you now?"
Francis clicks his tongue angrily and huffs, "Why does it bother me? Because it's as though you're in two marriages at once—one with me and one with that damned job of yours."
"Again, nothing new. You're beating around the bush," Arthur grumbles, reluctantly sitting up. "What's this really about?"
Francis stares up at the ceiling and mutters, "Has it ever occurred to you that maybe I'd like it if we could settle down?"
"We have a house and stable careers. I thought we were settled down."
"I meant in terms of…" Francis pauses.
"Yes?"
The man nervously licks his lips and sighs, "In terms of having a family."
"Oh."
Well, Arthur's awake now, at least. All of his drowsiness leaves him, and he furrows his brows at Francis, processing everything he's just said. "I don't…A family? As in children?"
"Oui."
"I…I'm not sure I want children, to be entirely honest."
Francis doesn't say anything to that. He keeps staring at the ceiling, face blank.
And then, before Arthur can stop himself, he laughs. Maybe it's the mixture of exhaustion and stress that sends him over the edge, but he laughs and laughs until his stomach hurts and his eyes are watering.
"What's so funny?" Francis demands, not nearly as amused.
Arthur wipes at the corners of his eyes and coughs, struggling to catch his breath. "Children. Children," he says incredulously before laughing some more. "Do you really think I could ever be a father? Don't you see the humor in that?"
"Non, I don't."
"You're serious?"
"Of course I'm serious, you insensitive idiot!" Francis shouts, smacking him with a pillow. "Forget it! Get out!"
Technically, this is his bed, so he shouldn't have to go anywhere, but he supposes he's more likely to get a better night's rest on the couch at this point anyway, so he gathers his pillow and alarm clock and leaves the room without another word, deciding to let Francis brood.
Children! Hah! Sometimes the man's ideas are wild even by his own standards. This is what happens when Francis isn't working at the restaurant and is left home alone for too long. As the old saying goes, an idle mind is the devil's playground.
No matter. He's sure Francis will get over it by tomorrow.
Children! Hahahahaha!
Unfortunately, little does Arthur know then that he won't be the one to get the last laugh.
Arthur knows he's being sent an omen when the following morning, one of the resident physicians comes up to him to make an odd request.
"Kirkland, I hate to be that guy, but would you mind helping me out with this one patient? The nurse has tried putting an IV into this kid twice now, and I've tried, too. Her veins are barely visible and tough to get at. Mind giving it a try? I don't think you've ever missed a vein since I've known you. I would really appreciate it."
"It's no trouble at all," Arthur assures, but if the nurse couldn't get a good vein, he's not confident he'll do that much better. There's a reason most IV insertions are left up to the nurses and not to doctors—they're more experienced with doing them every day. In fact, he's sure most of the physicians on the unit wouldn't be able to put in an IV on their first try if asked to do it.
"Thanks, I owe you."
He hopes by "kid," his colleague means the patient is an adolescent, but, lo and behold, when he walks into the room, he's greeted by the sight of a four-year-old girl and her mother. The girl's face is tearstained and her eyes are bloodshot—evidence of the poking and prodding she's already had to endure three times up until this point. He feels a pang of sympathy for the child. By the looks of it, she's battling some kind of cancer, and the last thing he wants to do is put her through additional pain. He knows now that he has to get this right.
"Hello, I'm Dr. Kirkland," he announces, shaking the mother's hand. "I hear there's been some trouble trying to insert your daughter's IV?"
"Nice to meet you, and yes, they've had to try a few times already. I know you guys are trying your best, but it's been frustrating."
"I understand. I'll do what I can," Arthur says with conviction because he knows no patient or family member wants to hear words along the lines of hopefully or maybe we'll get it right this time. As important as it is to be competent, it's also important to exude competence as well.
The moment he reaches the side of the bed, the girl shrieks and cries loudly, shaking with fear. Those damn fools left a traumatized child on his hands, and well, he's awkward at best when it comes to working with children. He much rather prefers adults or the elderly.
"Shh, honey, the nice doctor here is going to try to help," the mother tries to console her, and fortunately, it works to a certain extent, because the girl stops screaming and takes a good look at Arthur's eyes, and just like that, she quiets.
Then, she giggles quietly and says, "Funny eyebrows!"
What was that about his eyebrows? What's wrong with them? What an odd thing to say!
It doesn't matter. Now that the girl has settled down, he can get straight to work. He puts on a pair of gloves and gets an alcohol swab ready.
He recalls some of the developmental psychology literature he's read in his lifetime and remembers that it's important to have a young child of this age feel incorporated in what he's about to do and to make it seem like it's a game. The only problem is he knows absolutely nothing about the types of games children like, and he's not a very creative person in that regard.
"Can you hold out your arms for me?" he asks the child, hoping she'll listen because if she doesn't, then he's not sure what to do next.
"Like you're reaching out to someone to give them a hug," the mother explains, and the girl holds out her arms obediently a moment later.
Thank goodness for that.
He looks at the veins on the insides of her elbows first—not a chance he's getting an IV into any of those, but as evidenced by the pinprick red marks left behind by a needle, it's clear that this is where his colleagues tried and failed.
He looks at her hands instead and finds a usable vein on the back of her left hand, right beneath the knuckle of her middle finger. He presses down on it a couple of times to get it to expand and decides it'll have to do. He ties a tourniquet around the child's arm, disinfects the area he'll be working with using an alcohol swab, and makes sure he's got a properly sized gauge for the IV catheter—one of the thinnest ones he could find since the girl's only four.
The mother distracts her and gets her to turn her head in the opposite direction, and Arthur takes the opportunity to insert the needle, slowly and carefully. When he sees the hub of the IV catheter fill with a small amount of blood, that's how he knows he's succeeded. Then, it's just a matter of removing the needle so only the catheter remains and securing everything with a generous amount of medical tape.
"You got it?" the mother asks, sounding immensely grateful.
Arthur nods his head, discards everything he no longer needs, including his gloves, and says, "She should be able to start getting her medication now. I'll inform her nurse."
"Thank you so much."
"You're welcome."
The little girl seems relieved, too, because she shouts "Doctor Eyebrows!" at him and grins. "Thank you!"
He manages a smile back at the girl and says, "My pleasure. Get well soon, yes?"
"Wait!"
"Hmm?"
The girl brings her thumb up to her mouth and asks sheepishly, "Can I give you a hug?"
To say he's startled by the blatant request is an understatement. He's horrified. Never, ever has a patient asked to hug him before, and furthermore, he's fairly certain he severely lacks what should be considered paternal instinct. Other individuals his age seem to have a magnetic pull toward children, as though it comes naturally to them. Francis can see a crying child in the park and feel a desire to help them—to protect them. He, on the other hand, sees a crying child and immediately gets a migraine and wishes he could vacate the premises as soon as possible.
So when he approaches the girl and she tosses her small arms around his waist, he flinches, unsure of what to do. Bumbling and graceless, he extends one hand to pat her back and is happy to be released from the embrace several seconds later.
Then, he flees the room and tries to block out the memory, panic-stricken.
Once he makes it safely back to the nurses' station, he's left with an airy feeling in his heart—like when a gust of wind cuts through one's hair and leaves one feeling free and alive.
He must be coming down with something quite dreadful.
"So, you're going to hold a grudge against me from now on, is that it?"
No answer. Infuriating man.
"Frankly, I think you're being selfish," Arthur goads him during dinner—the first dinner they've been able to eat together all week. "Just because you have certain expectations for this relationship, doesn't mean I should have to share those expectations."
Francis leaves his food untouched, letting it go cold as he hisses, "You're never interested in what I want."
"That's not true."
"Besides," Francis continues, "the only reason you're opposed to the idea is because you're afraid. Strangers put their lives in your hands every day, and now you want me to somehow believe you don't have the capability to be responsible for the life of a child."
"There's a difference between caring for others and caring for your own family members. I don't know the first thing about being a father."
"No new parent does! You think we're born knowing how to raise children? It comes with time and experience, as with everything else."
"But I don't want children. I thought I had already made that clear."
Francis frowns. "And why not? I won't bring this conversation up again if you give me a justifiable response."
Arthur sighs, and the image of the little girl he treated the other day pops into his mind. "It's too much of a responsibility…I didn't even have a proper father figure in my own life…Why not leave parenting to individuals who won't irreparably damage their children like I undoubtedly will?"
Francis chuckles and shakes his head at him. "You wouldn't damage them. Arthur, if I didn't think you would make a good father, I wouldn't have made this an issue. However scary it may seem to you now, I think that if you spend the rest of your life merely living inside of that hospital, you're going to end up miserable in the long run. Don't you think there should be something more to your life? I know I don't want my life to come to a stagnant halt here. Aside from my job, I want a life that's full of love for those I care about, which is why I'm sitting at this table right now with you. I love you, Arthur, and I want you to stop being terrified of accepting that love—of thinking you aren't worthy of it or that you can't return it. I'm not asking you to say you want a child—that's not a decision you can make right away. I'm asking you to consider it seriously before you cast the idea aside."
"That's a lot to ask of me," Arthur mutters.
"I know."
Francis leans across the table, puts a gentle hand on his right cheek, and kisses him.
Arthur takes in the lush scent of his cologne, presses their foreheads together, and despairingly kisses him back because Francis is right and he's in denial. He does want something more out of his life as well, otherwise, he wouldn't have married the frog. He's just not sure how feasible that dream is, considering his career. He might actually like having a child if he could trust himself with one.
When they both part, Arthur sinks back into his chair and mumbles, "Since we're on the topic of the future…I know I've mentioned this before, but I'd like to open my own private practice. That way, I could dictate my own hours, and I'd only be at the hospital occasionally. It would give me more time, and hopefully, it'd be less demanding."
"I think that's a great idea," Francis says, immediately on board.
"Okay."
"Okay," Francis agrees, smiling.
"Boy or girl?"
"Huh?"
"If we were to have a child, and that's still an if, would you want a boy or a girl?" Arthur asks, genuinely curious.
Francis shrugs his shoulders. "It doesn't matter to me."
"But let's say you had to choose."
"Okay, I'll tell you my preference if you tell me yours. Let's say it at the same time on the count of three," Francis decides, smile growing. "One, two, three."
"Boy," they both say in unison.
And so, a year later, when they go through the adoption process and have to decide on which child to take home, they fully expect to be the proud parents of a baby boy. All of those plans, however, go flying out the window when they are introduced to two twin girls, both four months old and the most beautiful things Francis and Arthur have ever seen.
"Meet Amelia and Madeline," the social worker says, handing Madeline to Francis and Amelia to Arthur.
Francis picks the child up with ease, cuddling her immediately and taking to her like a fish does to water. He's absolutely enamored by the bright blue saucers blinking back at him, and he brushes a loving hand over her small tufts of blonde hair, immediately going into father-mode.
Arthur has held a few babies in his lifetime, mostly for work-related purposes. He spent a few weeks on a maternity/mother-baby unit back in the day as part of some clinical rotations, but that's about as far as his experience with infants goes. He thought they would be adopting a child that would at least be old enough to be considered a toddler. Apparently, not. He has spent the last year reading about two-year-olds for no reason, it would seem. Honestly, can't they at least get a toilet-trained child?
Amelia has already reached the developmental milestone of being able to babble, and when Arthur inexpertly balances her in his arms, she chatters nonsense at him and splits her mouth open into a toothless grin. She grabs at his shirt, undoubtedly famished and looking for breastmilk, except Arthur, unfortunately, isn't going to be of any use in that department.
"You're going to be a handful, aren't you?" Arthur asks the baby, already sensing that she's an energetic, adventurous child.
He takes one look at Francis and knows there's no turning back now.
Twins!
Dear God! And here he was worried about having to raise a single child. Now, he has two to look after—and girls, nonetheless!
Amelia makes a giggling noise, wriggles in his arms, and exclaims, "Gaaaaah!"
Well, that settles it, then.
He's going to be a father.
Oh, Lord.