Chapter 17: Interlude 1- Doctor Fitzpatrick
Chapter Text
Some days, Kirk wishes that he'd gone into journalism, as his then-girlfriend had once urged him to do a good... god, it was over thirty years ago now. At the time, journalism had just seemed boring to him. "What good could I do the world as a journalist?" he'd asked Anne once. In retrospect, probably not the wisest thing he could have said to someone studying journalism herself. He's pretty sure that was one of the biggest factors that had played into the end of their relationship.
Medicine seemed so much more glamorous back then. He'd been lured in by the promises of respect amongst his peers, the size of the paycheque it seemed everyone in medicine got, the idea of physically helping people, day in and day out. Nobody had prepared him for the reality of it all. Nobody had explained to him how to cope with failing his patients. Nobody had sat him down and explained to him that sometimes, you just can't save a patient.
Even if someone had, though, there is nothing that could have prepared him for working in Brockton Bay.
Across the table, Amy Dallon sits behind her foster mother, glaring sullenly at her mother from behind her back. There are shallow bags beneath her eyes, and her face is sallow. Sleep deprivation, if he had to guess. Mild symptoms. Two to three days of eight to nine hours of sleep and the symptoms would clear up.
He turns his attention to Carol, who is still searching through her briefcase. In front of her is stacked the pile of forms he had just handed to her. Requisition forms and receipts, mostly; the documentation regarding how he was spending New Wave's funds. He has to fight down a queasy feeling at the sight of them.
Carol makes a small noise when she finally finds the sheets she's searching for. Kirk's eyes close in resignation when she pulls out a thick sheaf of papers headed with the stylized grey-and-blue logo of the Brockton Bay Parahuman Response Team. "Here you are," Carol says smoothly. "Director Piggot asked that I pass these on to you while I'm here."
He takes them and puts them to the side without looking at them, already knowing what they are. It looks like he won't be making it back home in time for dinner tonight, either. Hopefully Renee would forgive him.
"Thanks," he replies. "Is there anything else you need from me today?"
Instead of answering, Carol turns to Amy and jerks her head towards the office door. Amy seems to stifle a sigh as she climbs to her feet and exits the room, turning back to give him a conspiratorial eye-roll before she closes the door behind her. He raises his hand to his mouth and pretends to cough to cover his smile at the girl's antics.
Carol removes her briefcase from the table and puts it down to the side, pinning him with an intense look. Her eyes bore directly into his, not flinching away from his own returned gaze. After a moment, she relaxes. Kirk has passed whatever test of character she set out for him.
"How is Amy doing?" she asks quietly.
He blinks. "Here, or in general- never mind." Stupid question. "She's not doing as well as we'd hoped. Barring her from practicing after seven has annoyed her, I think."
That doesn't seem to be what she wanted to hear, but apart from a displeased frown, she doesn't try to fight what he said. "I understand. Has she been socializing?"
He shakes his head for a moment, then pauses. "Most of the staff members feel she's unapproachable, but several of the volunteer staff have made attempts at talking to her," he recalls. "Amy has rebuffed most of them, but there are a couple who she seems not to mind too much."
Carol nods, her shoulders softening. "I'm glad to hear she's talking to someone, at least," she mutters. He almost shakes his head, but stops himself from saying anything about it. "And you? How has the hospital been treating you? Is there anything else you need?"
He shakes his head. "I don't suppose you've decided to reconsider my proposal for increased security measures around the clinics?"
She shakes her head. "I've considered it, but it's just not feasible. Between all the clinics, we'd be paying nearly a million out of hand, and two million a year beyond that to hire the additional guards. We're doing the best we can, but we don't have that kind of money to spare.
"Okay." There's no point in fighting it any further. It's never gotten him anywhere before now. "The PRT officers stationed in the lobby have done a lot to help ease patient concerns, so I'll have to thank Director Piggot for that." His hands twitch down towards the lowest drawer of his desk. "Nadia is liasing with the university, but most of their students prefer to go to the hospital directly for their work experience, but there's not much anyone can do about that."
She sighs. "Okay. I'll try to send Amy by a few more times this month. Thank you for trying to get your staff to talk to her. None of the other clinics have bothered," she adds with a sour twist to her mouth. "I'll be out of town next week, I've been hired to represent someone out of town. If you need anything, call Sarah or Neil."
He nods. "I will."
Carol doesn't get up immediately, instead resting her head on her hands. He refrains from offering her some painkillers for the headache he's fairly sure she's feeling right now. She never took well to people offering her medication. It reminds her too much of her husband, is his guess. Painkillers aren't antidepressants, but they're drugs all the same. He's seen how the side-effects have affected her family; he can't blame her for wanting to stay away from medication after that.
Eventually, she shakes her head and moves to stand. "Thank you, Kirk," she says, offering her hand out. He shakes it. Her grip is stronger than his own. He's pretty sure that that's meant to offend his masculine pride. Lucky he doesn't have much of that left.
"No, thank you, Brandish," he says seriously. He refrains from saying anything further. The more he talks, the more she will draw him into saying.
She flickers a half-smile at him, then turns. Her stern and reproving mask is already sliding back onto her face by the time she turns completely away from him.
He waits until she's gone, her dry "Come on, Amy" hanging in the air between them as Panacea stomps after her foster mother, scowling at everything and everyone, before he allows his own sigh to escape him.
What a mess.
He waits for a few minutes, just in case she forgot anything and comes back in, before he pushes his chair back and opens the bottom drawer of his desk. He ignores the bottle of whiskey sitting in there, resisting the temptation to break a five-month streak of sobriety, and pulls out the thick bundle of papers in there. Placing them on his desk, he pulls out his pager and hits a few buttons.
After shuffling papers around his desk for a few moments, Harry finally walks in, smoothing down his wig. The kid's been obsessed with it ever since the chemotherapy was successful, despite how the platinum blonde of the wig clashes with his dark skin. "Yes, Doctor Fitzpatrick?" he asks.
Kirk silently hands the stack of papers over to the boy, trusting him not to read them. Not that it mattered- the boy already knows that it's the unedited version of the papers he'd just given to Carol.
He'd once thought it'd stop stinging so much to do this, but he can still feel the shame of betraying New Wave's trust.
"Tell Lung he'll be getting his money this month, too," he says quietly.
He hates lying to them. But he's a doctor, and his job is to ensure the safety and well-being of his patients. If that means lying to a hero and making deals with a gang to keep the Empire out of his hospital, then he can live with that.
His hand twitches down to the lowest drawer of his desk again.
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