The characters in this fanfic are not my creations but belong to their original author, Jess Cantrell, author of the Gray Matter Series.
While I strive to remain true to my perception of these characters, I may occasionally write pieces that could seem out of character. Please read with grace.
Stephen stepped out of the surgery room, his body drenched in sweat, his hands still shaking from the hours spent in the grueling operation. He had taken a few hours or so to sleep and was now getting around to cleaning up. The clock was passing 6. The boy was stable, for now, with Dana attending, but the relief that should have washed over him was cut short as he spotted Dr. Martin waiting for him at the end of the hallway.
The older man's face was a storm of fury, his lips pressed into a thin, unforgiving line. Stephen barely had time to blink before Dr. Martin stormed toward him, his voice a low, venomous hiss. "What in God's name do you think you're doing, Reyburn?" Dr. Martin's voice was icy, barely controlled. "I gave you explicit orders to leave that boy and go home, and you went behind my back, conducting surgery once I had left?!"
Stephen stood his ground, though his pulse raced under the intensity of Dr. Martin's glare. "I couldn't let him die," he said, his voice rough but resolute. "He deserved a chance."
"A chance? You risked your entire career for a boy who has no future, no name, and no way to pay for what you've done! What you did was reckless, arrogant, and insubordinate!"
Stephen felt his throat tighten, but he refused to back down. "He is a human being, not some object to be discarded. You would have let him die just to avoid the paperwork. I couldn't live with myself if I did that."
"You insolent fool!" Dr. Martin's voice rose, eyes narrowing as he stepped closer. "You think this is some moral victory? This is medicine, Reyburn! Resources are limited, and you don't get to pick and choose who gets to live based on your bleeding heart! You undermined my authority, jeopardized this hospital's reputation, and for what?"
"I didn't ask for your permission, because I knew you'd say no. You would've let him die for nothing."
"You don't understand the first thing about the world you're living in, do you? There are rules for a reason, boy. Your emotions have no place in this hospital. You disobeyed me, and there will be consequences."
"I'll take whatever consequences come. But I won't apologize."
Dana had stepped out of the room, bracing herself for the verbal berating that she had anticipated all night.
"Dr. Whitechurch," Dr. Martin spat, his gaze snapping toward her like a whip. "I should've known you were involved in this—another lapse in judgment. You've dragged yourself into a situation you had no business being in!" Dr. Martin's voice was sharper than before, "I would expect this kind of reckless, impulsive behavior from Reyburn, but from you? A senior doctor— You are weak-willed. Always bending, letting your emotions control you. It's exactly why women like you don't belong in this profession."
Dana's face paled, but she stood firm taking the verbal lashing without arguing back. It would be of no use.
"Your job, Dr. Whitechurch, is to follow orders and maintain decorum in collaboration with this hospital. You think you can play doctor because you're given the title, but you lack the fortitude to make the hard decisions. That boy should have been left alone. He's a lost cause, and you let Reyburn drag you into a pointless, career-destroying stunt!"
"I took an oath to prioritize the health of my patients." Stephen lashed back.
"Your choices are undefendable, Reyburn. You're both responsible for this mess. And mark my words, this will be the last time either of you pull something like this." He turned back to Dana, his voice dripping with disdain. "You're soft, Dr. Whitechurch. Always have been. And in this profession, softness is a liability."
Dana swallowed hard, staring him in the face. "If saving a life is considered going soft, I wear your disdain as a badge of honor."
"The hospital will not pay for the care of this boy. By committing this act, you have taken the payment of his procedure on yourselves. I will have him forcefully removed from the hospital premises."
"He will be moved to my practice." Dana announced confidently. "We merely were using the hospital's surgery room. I will expedite the movement of the boy to my practice, Dr. Martin."
Dana and Stephen both sat in her office, their steaming cups of coffee sending wisps of warmth into the air. The atmosphere between them felt comfortable, a far cry from the tension that had marked their professional relationship only months earlier. Stephen broke the silence with a dry chuckle. "I feel like I'm grounded," he said, leaning back in his chair and taking a long sip of the strong brew.
Dana smirked, her eyes twinkling with a mix of sympathy and humor. "I mean… you are, sort of. You're just lucky Dr. Martin hasn't thrown you out yet."
Stephen raised an eyebrow. "Lucky, huh? Is that what we're calling my relegation to menial tasks?"
Dana shrugged, still smiling. "Come on," she said, setting her cup down and standing up. "Do you want to see Samuel?"
Samuel. The mention of the boy brought a softening to Stephen's expression. The child had been in Dana's care for close to seven months now, an unclaimed orphan with a serious skull injury. The surgery Stephen had performed had saved the boy's life, but the road to recovery had been long and difficult. There had been complications and moments of uncertainty, but under Dana's constant attention, Samuel had begun to show real signs of improvement.
"He's made it this far," Stephen mused as they walked down the hallway toward the boy's room. "I'd like to think we've done something right."
Dana nodded. "We did," she replied, her voice soft but resolute. Samuel's recovery had been a personal victory for her. Though she didn't often speak about it, the boy had become more than just a patient. He had become a part of her life, and though she would never admit it outright, the bond she had formed with the child was deeply maternal. Despite reaching out to orphanages and potential families, no one had come forward to claim him.
Dana had quietly taken on the role of his caretaker, not only because it was the right thing to do but because she couldn't bear the thought of him being sent away. His dark hair was kept short to make it easier to monitor his surgical site, and though he remained non-verbal, his bright eyes and expressive face conveyed more emotion than words ever could.
When they entered the room, they found Samuel playing on the floor with a set of wooden blocks, his latest creation a towering, if slightly wobbly, structure. Beside him lay a crude wooden toy steam engine, a gift from one of Dana's neighbors who had taken pity on the boy during one of his more restless spells. Samuel grinned widely as he smashed the engine through the blocks, sending them tumbling in all directions. He giggled, his delight filling the small room.
Stephen crouched down to the boy's level, his eyes scanning the scars and healing wounds as if out of habit. Yet there was something more to it now—his movements were as much an act of play as they were a medical check-up. Samuel squealed with excitement when he saw Stephen and immediately held his arms out, an unmistakable request to be picked up.
"He's so much stronger than I thought he'd be at this point," Stephen said as he lifted the boy into his arms and spun him around, eliciting another round of giggles.
Dana leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching them both with a soft smile. "It's been a battle, but he's a fighter," she said. "You know, there were days when I didn't think he'd ever get out of that bed. I had to sedate him for weeks just to keep him calm. But look at him now." Her voice carried a mix of pride and relief.
Stephen set Samuel back down, but the boy was not content to simply let him go. Instead, he tugged on Stephen's sleeve, wanting to continue the game, and Stephen, grinning, obliged. All the while, his trained eyes were still at work, subtly checking the boy's cognitive abilities, reflexes, and coordination without making it feel clinical.
"He's come a long way," Stephen murmured, though his gaze had shifted, landing on Dana rather than the child. "You've done an incredible job with his recovery process."
Dana brushed off the compliment with a wave of her hand, though a faint blush crept into her cheeks. "We both have. He's stronger because of you, too. Don't forget that."
The bond between the two doctors had deepened in the months since Samuel's surgery. What had begun as a tense, often adversarial professional relationship had evolved into something more trusting.
Yet, outside the walls of Dana's practice, the town remained sharply divided about their actions. The upper tiers of society criticized them for breaking hospital protocol, calling them reckless and untrustworthy. Rumors circulated that Dr. Martin was pushing for disciplinary measures to be taken, perhaps even to have them stripped of their positions entirely.
But in the poorer parts of town, the story was different. There, Stephen and Dana were regarded as heroes—doctors who had chosen compassion over rigid protocol, who had saved a boy's life when everyone else would have let him die. The whispers in the streets told of their bravery, of the risks they had taken not for money or recognition, but simply because it was the right thing to do.
As Stephen continued to play with Samuel, subtly checking the boy's responses, Dana watched from the doorway, lost in thought. The weight of what they had done—and the consequences it could bring—hung over them like a shadow, but for now, in this small room, surrounded by the innocent laughter of a child, it all seemed worth it.
Stephen glanced up from the floor, catching Dana's gaze. Neither of them spoke, but the look they shared carried with it an understanding that went beyond words.
Grey looked up from his dinner of overcooked egg and less-than-usually-burned toast when the door to the shop creaked open, announcing Stephen's arrival. "The prodigal son has returned," Grey quipped, his voice laced with dry humor as he leaned back in his chair.
"Father, forgive me," Stephen muttered, setting a basket down on the counter before collapsing into the nearest chair. He kicked off his shoes, their thud against the floor the sound of exhaustion.
Grey arched an eyebrow. "Hmmm?"
"Dana sent food." Stephen sighed, leaning his head back and rubbing his eyes. "It's on the counter."
The mere mention of food made Grey's mood instantly brighter. "Ohhh, the Lord is good! You are forgiven," he said with mock reverence as he eagerly went to the basket and began unpacking its contents. "Let's see what the good doctor has provided us."
Stephen slouched deeper into his chair, staring blankly at the ceiling. "Glad you forgive me. No one at the hospital will," he grumbled, the weight of the day still heavy on his shoulders. "I don't even know why I'm complaining. I knew exactly what would happen when I did it."
Grey, now pulling out a jar of homemade applesauce, glanced up. "You and Dana seem to be getting along fine, though," he said casually, his focus more on the food than the conversation.
"I respect her a lot," Stephen shifted in his chair, his mind clearly elsewhere. "But I'm just going over to check on Samuel," he replied dismissively, rubbing the back of his neck.
Grey gave a knowing smirk. "Riiiight. Three to four times a week?"
Stephen's eyes narrowed, but he kept silent, watching as Grey dipped a finger into the applesauce jar, tasting it thoughtfully.
"Ah, applesauce," Grey declared, content with his discovery. "You know, I don't mind this arrangement, seeing as I'm getting free food out of it."
Stephen rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, still unwilling to engage fully in Grey's teasing. "It's not about that. I'm making sure Samuel recovers at the highest quality possible. If I'm going down for this surgery, I'm making sure I did it right."
Grey paused mid-bite and glanced at Stephen with amusement. "Alright, alright, no need to get defensive. I'm only ribbing you," he said, waving off the tension in the room. "You do realize it's okay to like her, right?"
Stephen shot him a look, the intensity in his eyes sharper than intended. "She's a professional. This is a work relationship—strictly professional."
Grey didn't even try to suppress his chuckle as he pulled out a sandwich from the basket. "Of course, 'strictly professional,'" he repeated with a smirk, before shaking his head and focusing on the sandwich.
"What's this? Ah, a nice little op-ed here about 'duty and responsibility'—and by Grey Halevy, no less." Stephen's voice was dry as he unfolded the newspaper and read the headline. "I wonder what you could possibly be trying to influence the people toward," he said, casting a sideways glance at Grey.
Unfazed, Grey munched contentedly on the sandwich, refusing to be drawn into the bait. "Stephen," he said after a moment, his tone shifting to something more serious. "You've always been so focused on your professional life. You worry about your career, your reputation, your patients—and that's all well and good. But don't let all that blind you to what you actually want, long-term."
Stephen blinked, caught off guard by Grey's refusal to leave the conversation alone. His first instinct was to brush it off, to throw out some sarcastic remark about how his life was fine as it was. But something in Grey's tone stopped him, made him pause for just a second too long. It was the kind of truth that cuts deeper because it's spoken by someone who knows you better than you'd like to admit.
Before Stephen could muster a reply, Grey broke the tension with a grin and a lazy wave of his hand toward the food. "And for the record," he added, popping another bite of sandwich into his mouth, "I don't mind this arrangement."
