Author's Note: Hey, guys, so I know I update this fic pretty sporadically, and that's because I come back to it when I'm stressed and need to write extreme levels of fluff to cope. If you're sick of it, please let me know (I won't be offended, haha). But hopefully, you can enjoy something in here. What do you think is going to happen next?
~3 years later~
62-year-old female with a history of respiratory distress. Smoker. Last PFT suggests early signs of COPD. Prescribed Flovent, 88 micrograms, 2 puffs, twice daily.
"It's worst in the morning and in the middle of the night," the woman explains, fiddling with the large purse in her lap. "You know, I took my grandson to the park the other day and couldn't stop coughing. I think it's something in the air."
Arthur puts down the chart in his hands and frowns. "Mrs. Brown, have you stopped smoking?"
"Well…No, but I really don't think it's the cigarettes that are the problem. I read online that there are plenty of environmental factors that can cause breathing troubles."
"We've discussed this previously, but I'm afraid your condition is only going to worsen if—"
"Doctor, there are people who live to be over a hundred and have smoked a pack of cigarettes a day since they were eighteen."
Arthur sighs. He can see his patient still hasn't come to terms with the reality of her situation just yet. Trying to reason with her is bound to be futile. "Have you been taking the medication I prescribed you?"
"I tried it for a week, and I didn't think it was doing me any good, so I stopped taking it."
"Sometimes, it can take a while for the medication to start working, which is why it needs to be taken consistently and over a longer period of time," Arthur explains, taking great care not to sound patronizing or condescending. "Would you be willing to give it another try? Or, I can prescribe something else if you'd prefer."
"I don't want to take anything. I really don't think it's necessary."
"But you said yourself that you're having trouble breathing and that it's impeding your daily life. Quitting or—at the very least—cutting down on your smoking in combination with medication are the only effective and sustainable treatments."
Mrs. Brown glowers from behind her thick reading glasses and says, "I don't like putting chemicals in my body."
Arthur hunches his shoulders and manages a weary smile. This isn't the first patient he's had who has been adamantly against taking medication for treatment. He can't understand why on Earth someone would refuse the one thing capable of helping them. It'd be different if he were asking her to take something that might have serious, life-threatening side effects—but all this fuss over an inhaler?
"One could say that water is a chemical as well," he mutters quietly before he can stop himself, but fortunately, it doesn't seem like Mrs. Brown heard him—she's too busy checking the time on her watch and looking as though she'd prefer to be anywhere else but here.
He places his stethoscope on her chest, and, sure enough, he can hear the restricted air flow in her lungs. When he finishes examining her, he writes a new prescription for a different corticosteroid, hands it to her, and says, "Should you change your mind, you can try this."
"I heard Himalayan salt lamps are good for one's breathing," Mrs. Brown notes, scowling down at the prescription. "It's more natural."
Pseudoscience—all of it. She's hoping for a quick fix or a magical cure, and that's not going to happen, but he can't tell her that, can he? He has to remain professional. If Mrs. Brown wants to believe she knows better than him, so be it.
"I'd like to see you again in six weeks, and I hope you'll give the medication a chance," he says in a last-ditch effort. Maybe she'll be persuaded eventually.
But Mrs. Brown almost seems offended by his advice. She slings her purse over her shoulder, stuffs the prescription in her pocket, and walks out of the exam room without saying goodbye or thank-you.
He knows not to take any of this personally. He has done his job, and if a patient doesn't wish to follow his recommendations, that's fine. He can't force anyone to treat themselves. It's the patient's right to do as they please or to get a second opinion.
However, that doesn't mean the way she brushed him off doesn't sting. He only wished to help, but now he's left feeling like he's somehow done something wrong.
Sometimes, he wonders why he bothers caring in the first place.
Today was not his day.
And apparently, it's not his night either because when he steps through the front door, he's greeted by the sound of crying—hysterical crying for that matter.
Arthur takes off his coat and shoes, abandons his bag in the foyer, and advances upstairs to find out what's wrong now. Francis had the beginning of a head cold this morning, but that can't be the source of the trouble, unless he's bawling over some sniffles, which sounds too melodramatic even by Francis's standards. Besides, the crying sounds like it's coming from one of the girls and not his husband. Still, the thought is amusing.
He follows the noise, and it leads him to Amelia's room.
"It's okay."
"Shh, shh, ma chérie."
Francis and Madeline are both huddled around a rattled Amelia, taking turns at trying to soothe her to no avail while she weeps into her papa's shirt. It seems they've been at this for quite some time now.
Arthur takes a step closer and puts a hand on Francis's shoulder to alert him of his presence before asking, "What happened?"
Before Francis can turn around to face him, Amelia picks up a purple cage from off of her desk—the cage in which she keeps her pet hamster—and holds it out for Arthur to see, practically shoving it into his chest.
"Help," she begs, tears running down her cheeks and snot dripping from her nose. "Dorothy's sick. S-She won't eat her carrots or drink water, or r-run around in her wheel."
Arthur peers down at the furry beige-and-white Roborovski hamster lying on its side in the corner of the cage, and yes—it doesn't look well at all. Its breathing is labored, and it appears thinner than when he last saw it a few days ago.
"Do something!" Amelia shouts at him, gasping between heavy sobs. "Y-You can fix her, right?"
Oh, dear...The poor thing doesn't look like it's going to make it through the night...
"Love, I'm sorry, but I don't know anything about hamsters and—"
Amelia begins to cry even harder, which shouldn't be possible, and Arthur is fairly sure his heart breaks into two pieces. She's only six—she doesn't understand…
Madeline pulls her into a tight hug and tries to tell her not to be so upset, but no matter how snugly her sister holds her or how gently she pets her head, it doesn't help.
Francis turns to him with a deep frown and a pink-tinged nose from the cold he's been fighting. He stares at him as if to ask, "What now?" but Arthur doesn't know what to do either. All he knows is that he's now irreparably damaged by the pitiful look on Amelia's face.
"Perhaps we could take it to a vet?" Arthur suggests.
"At this time?" Francis asks.
"The animal hospital uptown should be open."
Francis shoots him a dubious look and turns his gaze back to their two six-year-olds. "Give your father and me a moment, mes lapins."
His husband drags him—hamster cage and all—across the hallway and into their bedroom, looking irritated and quite tired (Arthur is willing to bet he has a sinus headache).
"What do you think you're doing? You would really take a hamster to an animal hospital? Have you lost your mind? We should just keep it in our room for the night and hope it survives, and if it doesn't, we'll tell Amelia the truth—that it passed away."
Arthur sets the hamster's cage down on their dresser and snarls, "If we tell her it's going to die, she'll be devastated."
"It's only a hamster," Francis says with a congested sniffle, "and are we really going to spend upwards of hundreds of dollars to save a rodent's life? If it were a cat or a dog, I'd reconsider, but what can be done for such a little thing?"
"A vet would be able to treat it. It doesn't matter how small it is. Francis, I don't think you understand just how much Amelia adores this animal. I think it'd be a good idea to at least find out what's wrong with it. Perhaps it's nothing serious, and it just needs some antibiotics."
"Amelia's old enough to understand that animals can die of old age."
"It's not dying of old age. It's ill."
Francis huffs and lets out a scratchy sneeze. "I'm not taking it to a vet. That's ridiculous."
"Fine, then tell her that."
"We'll both tell her."
"No, I'm not doing that to her. I'm volunteering to take it to the vet."
Francis rubs a hand over his eyes and groans. "You're impossible."
Arthur touches his husband's forehead and is relieved to find he's only slightly warm—a low- grade fever at most. "Did you take a decongestant?"
"It's spring allergies."
"Spring allergies, my arse."
"Language," Francis hisses, grabbing some tissues off of the nightstand in order to blow his nose. It doesn't seem to alleviate his misery because he still sounds nasally and unhappy afterward.
"What color?"
"Excuse me?"
Arthur rolls his eyes. "You know what I'm referring to—your mucus."
"Sometimes I don't think you realize that it's not normal to ask somebody what color their mucus is in everyday conversation," Francis says with a brief cough. "In fact, it's disgusting."
"Francis, we've been married for nearly ten years now. I think we're past the point of worrying about proper etiquette around one another," he scoffs as he takes a penlight out of his pocket, tilts Francis's head back, and examines the state of his nose. "As I already determined, it's not allergies. You, sir, have a sinus infection."
"I can't have a sinus infection. I'm going to the girls' school tomorrow for Career Day, and I already baked cookies for the class. I promised them I would go," Francis mutters, pulling away.
Arthur shakes his head. "You're not going anywhere. You're going to stay home and rest."
"Well, someone has to go to Career Day…"
He doesn't like that mischievous glint in Francis's eyes. "Stop that. I hope you're not thinking about coercing me into going in your place."
"That's exactly what I'm thinking about. Plus, you're not working tomorrow."
"I'm busy. I'm taking Amelia's hamster to a vet, and who knows when I'll be back?"
"Would you stop with that? Let it be."
Arthur ignores him and pokes a finger between the bars of the purple cage to gently pet the hamster's back. "Listen here, Dorothy. You are not allowed to die, do you understand me? It would break my daughter's heart. You can die when we send her off to university and not a moment sooner.
The hamster scrunches up its little nose, and Francis laughs exasperatedly from behind Arthur.
"Now I remember why I fell in love with you…" Francis chuckles. "Fine, do what you want, crazy man."
Arthur picks up the cage, pats Francis's pale cheek affectionately, and orders, "Take a decongestant, please, and make yourself some tea. Tell Amelia I'm leaving and not to wait for my return. I'll likely be back long past her bedtime."
"Okay, mon amour. I will let her know her hamster is in capable hands. I'm sure she will be grateful."
"Don't give me so much credit. I may come back empty-handed."
He doesn't know why he does this to himself.
Here he is, sitting in an emergency animal clinic at ten o'clock at night with a neon purple hamster cage perched in his lap. He must be quite a peculiar sight, but if this is what it's going to take to make Amelia happy again, then he's willing to put up with any strange glances directed at him.
To make matters worse, every time someone walks in with a dog or cat, he must protect Dorothy by holding her cage up and out of harm's way. He didn't come all this way just to let her get eaten by a Dobermann!
As in any hospital, he gets a bunch of forms to fill out, and, admittedly, it's a little awkward when he has to write "Dorothy Bonnefoy-Kirkland" under "patient's name." He doesn't remember exactly how old she is, so he has to guess 14 months, and he has to hand over his credit card information upfront so they can charge him Lord only knows how much for a visit.
And he's only in this position because he couldn't explain to Amelia that her hamster's time on Earth might be coming to an end. The simpler (and cheaper) option would have been to have simply purchased her a new hamster.
But the longer he sits in this waiting room with Dorothy, the more horrible the thought of replacing her becomes. Truth be told, she's a cute little thing, and knowing Amelia, she'd be able to tell the difference if he brought home a new hamster. She's too clever. And well, he doesn't want to be that father—the one who lies to his child and just makes things worse in the long run.
He spends an hour in the waiting room until he's finally called inside, and it dawns upon him that if he thought his job was hard, being a veterinarian is a whole other type of hell. He can't imagine having to put an IV in a cat or intubating somebody's lizard. What about putting an IV in Dorothy? Is that even possible?
He'll stick to treating humans, thank you very much.
The vet is a cordial young woman who's clad in green scrubs and has a stethoscope around her neck, just like any other doctor. She shakes his hand, takes one look inside the cage, and says, "Aww, I love Roborovskis. Aren't they just the best?"
"To be entirely honest, I don't know all that much about them. This is my daughter's hamster," Arthur sheepishly says as he opens the cage and tries to figure out a way to make himself useful. Should he pick Dorothy up? Will she bite him? That would be quite a rude way of repaying him for trying to save her life.
"I see! How old's your daughter, if you don't mind me asking?"
"Six."
"Aww, how sweet. I bet this little one means a lot to her. Okay, let's have a look," the vet says cheerfully, reaching a hand into the cage and taking out the critter. She nestles Dorothy in her palm and turns her over on her back to look at her belly. "You know, I'm pretty surprised—most parents don't bother taking their kid's hamster to the vet. They'd just get a new one."
Arthur laughs nervously, pretending not to have had that same thought run through his mind no less than an hour ago. "Well, that seems rather unfair."
"Yeah, but you know, hamsters of this breed usually only live for about two years max, so I guess it's understandable…No signs of any tumors, so that's good. Notice any bleeding recently?"
"Umm, no, not that I know of."
"I'm willing to bet it's just an infection because I don't have reason to believe it's anything more serious. She's pretty dehydrated though. I'm gonna prescribe her some antibiotics. I'll give her the first dose now so you can see how to do it," the vet decides. "Here, hold her for a second while I go and get some supplies."
Arthur takes the hamster and frowns down at her. Maybe she'll pull through after all.
Meanwhile, the vet returns with a vial of medicine, a syringe, and a needle.
Fantastic. What has he gotten himself into?
"All right, so this is some gentamicin. You're gonna have to give her two milligrams twice a day, and it's a subcutaneous injection. I know some people can get freaked out by it. Have you ever done anything like this before?"
He hands the hamster back to the vet and just barely holds back a groan. He's going to have to stick a needle in Amelia's hamster twice a day? Great.
Francis was right. They should have let it go peacefully.
"I'm a medical doctor, but I've never given an injection to a hamster before."
The vet laughs, very amused, and says, "Well, it's just like giving it to a human, but you just have to be much gentler…Don't look at me like that—you'll do fine. I bet you're a natural at this. So, you wanna do it in a fatty area, obviously. Keep in mind that Roborovskis can bite, so you'll want to be careful. Here, just watch…"
The vet pushes the tiny needle into Dorothy's left thigh, and although she flinches in surprise, she, fortunately, doesn't bite.
"And that's it! You can offer her a yogurt drop or some kind of snack afterward to make it up to her," the vet adds with another bright smile. "Give it to her until she starts to show some signs of improvement—around the time she starts getting her appetite back. I'll give you a medicine dropper, too, because you're going to have to make her drink some water regularly until she gets her strength back. Just pull her chin down and slowly feed it to her—you don't want her to choke."
She makes it sound so easy when it clearly isn't, but he's in too deep to refuse to treat Dorothy now.
"And if you do all of that, I have a feeling she'll be fine! Good luck, okay? The staff at the front desk will give you a bill for everything. Goodnight!"
"Thank you. Goodnight," Arthur weakly replies, placing Dorothy back in her cage. She had better appreciate his efforts.
There's a first time for everything, isn't there?
At least he managed to save one life today, no matter how small.
"Mrrghh?"
"Shh, go back to sleep."
"Mmmph," Francis mumbles, eyelids fluttering in the darkness as the bed dips under Arthur's weight. "How did it go?"
Arthur laughs softly and sneaks a hand onto Francis's forehead, checking his temperature—he's mildly warm like before. Then, he gets comfortable on his side of the bed, pulls the covers up to his waist, and says, "You don't want to know. Long story short, Dorothy should make it through this. Now, sleep and get some rest."
"Where is it?"
"The hamster? On the dresser. You might hear her shuffling about in her cage. She already seems to be doing somewhat better," Arthur explains in between a yawn. He turns around so that he's facing Francis and can peer at him critically to make sure he's not too ill. Then, he deems that it's okay for him to go to sleep as well.
The remainder of the night passes by fairly peacefully, and when their alarm rings at six in the morning so they can get the girls dressed and ready for school, Arthur is surprised that he managed to sleep through Francis's congested breathing and occasional coughing. He must have been more tired than he thought.
But most importantly, Dorothy is still alive.
Francis sleeps through the alarm, and Arthur lets him stay in bed. He can get the girls ready on his own, and his husband could use the extra rest. He makes sure the covers are tucked snugly around him and feels his forehead once more before going about the morning (still a low-grade fever).
Before anything else though, he has to give Dorothy her antibiotic, and he should do it before the girls get up and see what he's doing. He's pretty sure Amelia will be traumatized if she sees him sticking a needle into her pet, so it's best if he gets it over with now.
He preps the syringe, carefully takes Dorothy out of her cage, and whispers to her, "Sorry about this, but it's for your own good."
Why is he consoling a hamster? Parenthood has made him soft.
With as much vigilance as he is capable of, he gives her the medicine in her right thigh—opposite to where she received it yesterday, and, unsurprisingly, Dorothy bites him even though she didn't bite the vet who was a complete and utter stranger!
Thankfully, her teeth don't break into his skin or draw any blood. She simply gnaws on his thumb. Still, it twinges, and once he puts her back in her cage, he rubs his thumb vigorously to ease the pain.
"If you don't behave yourself, you won't get a treat," Arthur warns the hamster, but he gives her one of the yogurt drops Amelia often feeds her anyway and watches her happily munch on it. When she's done, he picks her up again and tries to force-feed her some water through the medicine dropper the vet gave him. She doesn't seem to enjoy it because she wriggles and squeaks and tries to jump out of his grasp.
He relents after getting at least some water into her and lets her go back to her daily hamster activities. Her food bowl is full and so is her water dispenser, so she should be fine until the evening.
He then goes to wake up the girls, but he's too late because they beat him to it. By the time he steps out into the hall, they're already up and coming out of their respective bedrooms. Both children are droopy-eyed and in their pajamas, and when Amelia sees him, her eyes shimmer with tears as she asks, "Is Dorothy okay?"
He nods at her reassuringly and rubs her shoulder. "Yes, my dear. Dorothy is just fine. Your papa and I are keeping an eye on her in our room until she recovers."
Amelia hugs his legs and murmurs an adorable "thank you" that makes Arthur feel like the best dad ever.
"Where's Papa?" Madeline asks, cutting his moment of triumph short.
"He's sleeping in. He's not feeling well," he explains as he leans down to peck each of the girl's cheeks.
"But he's supposed to come to class for Career Day," Amelia pouts. "He baked cookies and everything!"
"I'm sorry, girls, but Papa needs to stay home today."
Amelia suddenly snaps her fingers and smiles. "I know! Why don't you come to Career Day, Dad?"
No, no, no. The last thing he wants to do today is stand in front of a classroom full of hyperactive and bacteria-breeding children. He should stay here and watch over Francis and Dorothy. Besides, this is supposed to be his day to relax. He wants to have a cup of tea, read the paper, and do nothing.
"Please, please, please?" Amelia begs, folding her hands together.
"No, I'm afraid not. I'm needed here."
"Pretty, pretty, pretty, please?" Madeline joins in, standing by her sister's side as backup.
"I said no. Now, both of you get dressed and come downstairs for breakfast. I won't say it again."
"But Daaaaad—everyone's parents are coming. You havta come."
"Amelia, stop whining and—"
He cuts himself off when he hears Madeline sniffle. She seems disappointed, to say the least, and Arthur feels his chest contract.
"W-What if everyone thinks we don't have parents?" she says woefully, and that's when Arthur knows he has to drop everything and go to the damned school.
"Oh, all right," he sighs, letting out a weary breath. "I'll go."
"Yay!" both girls cheer in unison, and Madeline's sniffling suddenly stops—that child can certainly be manipulative when she wants to be, sometimes even more so than her sister.
When did he become such a pushover?
He cares too much, and if he keeps this up, he's going to wind up in trouble, of that, he's sure.