Chapter Text
“We’re going to miss you kid.”
You could place the familiar British accent with your eyes closed, and you smile at the man in scrubs leaning against the door of the break room, arms crossed over his chest.
“I’m not dying, Doctor Price. Everyone is being so dramatic, I’m only moving four floors up. I’ll still be around.” You sling the only intact strap of your backpack over your shoulder and sigh. “Who knows. Maybe I’ll hate it and end up coming back.” It’s unlikely. You’re getting a raise with this transfer, one you desperately need, and panic bubbles up in the back of your throat when you consider what would happen without the pay bump. You’re struck with the memory of Riley’s face last week, the disappointed pout tugging at her lips when you told her she couldn’t get a new backpack this year during back to school shopping, the way she frowned and turned sullen when you refused her the fancy pencil case that all of her friends are getting. It twists your stomach until you shove it aside.
“They’re lucky to have you.” Price’s eyes soften. The unit is tight knit. It’s not a nurse-resident-attending-administrative battle down here. The ED functions like a human body. All parts and pieces moving together as one to achieve a single goal: keeping these patients alive until you can get them upstairs. These are your people, coworkers turned friends turned family. You never imagined you’d be cleaning out your locker to leave the ED, but your life has changed a lot in the last few years, and you can’t afford to be selfish. “If you need anything, you let me know.”
“Thanks.” You swallow the lump in your throat. You’ve already said your goodbyes, had your cake, wrapped your arms around everyone for a hug, all that is left is this single act. Badge out of the ED for the last time. It’s terrifying, and you know he can see it on your face, because he places a hand on your shoulder with a firm squeeze.
“You’ll be alright. This is a good thing for you, for your family. I know it'll be hard, considering, but you’re going to be amazing. We all know it.” Your hands fist at your side as you cling to your control, beat back the tears trying to force their way forward. “And don’t let Simon give you any shit.” Simon?
Oh.
Doctor Riley.
He’s respected, revered, and notoriously private. Head of the department, he’s widely known as one of the best neonatal surgeons in the field, and the NICU here has one of the highest survival rates in the country.
Of course you already know all this from personal experience, but no one knows that. At least, no one in the unit.
Especially him.
You force a smile for Price’s benefit, and he sighs. “Take care of yourself.”
“I will.”
Riley’s at that age where her mouth never stops moving.
During the car ride home, she regals you with a full recap of her day, down to what her best friends ate for lunch at camp (Lexi had peanut butter banana sandwiches, Aya had tamagoyaki, and Alice had leftover pizza that a counselor heated up for her. Lucky.) By the time dinner is over and her shower is done, she’s moved onto her big plans for weekend (riding, riding and more riding, followed by a rematch in Monopoly, and maybe some s’mores. She has your whole life planned out as well as her own.) She runs out of words by the time she’s in bed, but the last three are always the same.
Love you Daisy.
The nurse assigned to babysit you for the next month (at least) is Keona. She goes by Key, and tells you her name means god’s gift, though she insists it means satan’s spawn.
You’re thinking it’s more like god’s gift, based on the way she floats like an angel around the unit.
“You’ll be fine. Just follow me for a bit, do what I do, and then you’ll be good on your own. We’re a level four, so the ratio is usually one to one, two to one if you’ve got one that’s super stable.” You’ve never worked a floor that has a one nurse to one patient ratio, but you expected it here. She badges through a set of doors, and you follow dutifully behind her, marking room numbers and placards, trying to memorize the lay of the land. “This is the best worst job in the world, and it’s a little bit of everything… including psych,” she gives you a look, before mouthing “parents.” Your stomach twists.
“I’m sure.”
“You worked float pool for a bit, right?” Float pool is literally what it sounds like. There’s a group of nurses that cover scheduling gaps in all the departments. Some love it, some hate it. You were on the fence.
“Yeah I took some time off a bit ago for some family stuff and worked prn as a float.” If she has questions, she keeps them to herself, which is a relief.
“Cool. Like I said, I’ve heard good things so I don’t doubt you’ll be fine. If you can get to a point where you’re comfortable and happy here, you’ll never want to leave. Trust me.” The two of you round the corner to the nurse’s station, where a very tall, very broad man in scrubs is tapping away on a tablet. “Doctor Riley.” He glances up, and the world turns technicolor.
This is not a man, this is a mountain. An impenetrable force of granite and slate towering over you with crystalline blue eyes that narrow in on your face with a question roiling inside them. He has a strong jaw, a strong stance, and hands the size of your head, so big you cannot fathom how he performs surgery on such small organs. You never, ever seen OR scrubs look right on someone either. They’re usually big and baggy, gaping somewhere or another, but on him… they’re perfect.
Just looking at him makes you dizzy.
You shouldn’t be so affected. You didn’t think you would be so affected, but your pulse is pounding in your ears so loud you’re sure someone can hear it, and your blood pressure is sinking like a stone to the bottom of the ocean, trying to take you with it.
His brow furrows. He frowns.
“This is Daisy. She’s new. Transferred up from the ED.”
“Daisy.” The hair on the back of your neck rises at the sound of your name on his lips. He’s got a British accent like Price, except it’s strange, different, and in the depths of your memory you recall something being said about how they go way back. You extend your hand in a polite greeting. He scowls, and ignores the gesture altogether. “You can’t wear perfume in here.” What? It’s standard that body spray or perfume is not allowed around more vulnerable patient populations… and you’re not wearing any. You blink and drop your hand as your cheeks burn.
“I’m not wearing perfume?” His expression darkens with disapproval, and you feel like a bug on the floor, waiting to be squished.
“Then you’ll need more mild or unscented soap.” He glances over your shoulder, already moving on. “Excuse me.” Key cringes and shoots you a sympathetic look.
“Okay so… he’s a bit abrasive. He’s not super friendly but we give him a pass because he’s the actual best. In the world.” You shrug, and hope you sell the indifference.
“I think all surgeons are more akin to cactus than they are to teddy bears, aren’t they?” She laughs.
“He’s a bit of both. Wait until you see him holding a baby, you’ll forget all about the cactus part.” Your breath hitches.
“Right.”
That night, it storms.
Lightning strikes in the distance again and again, throwing up a chorus of thunder that rattles the house, playing out behind the echo of pouring rain.
A tiny voice warbles from your door.
“Daisy?” You should have gone and got her when it started up, but sometimes she sleeps through them. Sometimes.
“Come here ladybug.” You haul her into your side, tucking your body pillow behind her so she’s surrounded. She feels too small in the span of the king bed, like she could lost in the sea of blankets and pillows. She never caught up to her classmates, and even though she’s smart as a whip, a strong wind could knock her over, and she still needs a booster seat.
“I hate the storms.” Her whisper brushes against your collarbone, and you rub her back.
“I know, it’s okay. This one is moving pretty quick.” The psychologist says she doesn’t remember, that she was too young, but you know she’s wrong. Riley’s instinctual fear of thunderstorms is more than a child’s nervous disposition. It’s ingrained trauma rearing its head, trying to drag her back to the worst night of her life, and no matter how hard you try, you can’t fix it. You can’t turn back time.
"Are the horses in? Mabel doesn't like the storms." The lump in your throat tries to stick before you force it down.
"They're in. Don't worry." She yawns and snuggles closer.
"'kay." You hold her as tight as she will allow as the storm rolls away, your own grip slackening with sleep, dreams and nightmares merging into one and playing out behind your eyes.
Riley half dead in a hospital bed-
and Doctor Riley holding his tiny namesake’s hand.
“Did he answer you?”
“No.” You glance at the open chat window again, just to be sure. “It’s only been five minutes though?”
“This can’t wait, these little suckers can turn on a dime so fast.” She sighs, and then motions down the hall. “You’ll have to wake him up. He’s in call room two.” It’s eight am, but according to everyone on the floor, he’s been here since twenty hundred yesterday, and had a midnight case that had him in the OR until six.
Meaning he just went to bed.
Fuck.
“Maybe you should go… he doesn’t really like me much.” An understatement.
“Uh uh. This is your patient, you face the wrath.” Another nurse peeks around her monitor at the station.
“You’re cruel Key.” She shrugs.
“She’ll have to do it eventually.” She looks at the chart again, and chews on her lip. “He’ll want to look at her before he puts anything in, and once he realizes what’s going on he won’t be mad. Hurry up.” Your shoulders slump in defeat.
“Fine.”
You’ve been on the unit for two weeks.
In that time, you’ve verbally interacted with Doctor Riley a whole three times.
Once, in the OR.
“Have you ever circulated before?”
“Daisy is shadowing me.” Key assures him, omitting the part where you indeed, have never circulated. There aren’t many things you haven’t done at this point in your career, but circulating is one of them. It’s a mix of counting things a million times and directing all the traffic in the OR. You’re not inept. You don’t doubt your ability to learn new things, but you’d be lying if you said it’s not intimidating.
Especially when he looks at you over his mask, gaze cold and laser focused.
“Have you ever circulated before Daisy?” He repeats himself. Key sighs like she’s ready for the day to be over already, and you shake your head.
“No.” Anger flashes in his eyes, and he glares at her.
“Fucking hell. My OR is not the place to learn how to circulate, Keona.”
“Well, you do the most cases, Doctor Riley. She has to learn sometime.” There’s a razor in her voice, softened by a syrupy lilt, and he gives her another withering look before directing his attention back to you.
“Don’t touch anything.”
Once, in the hallway.
“Daisy!” He barks at your back and you instinctively freeze, shoulders shooting up beneath your ears before you manage to turn and face him.
“Y-yes?”
“You have Maverick? Crib B?” Your palms instinctively start sweating. Nothing is wrong. You were literally just in there and he was stable. Cute. Sleeping. He’s stable. Nothing is wrong. Right?
“Yeah- yes. He’s mine.” He scrutinizes you like he’s searching for something, ever present frown affixed to his lips.
“Why is his bili light still on?” Oh no. Did you leave it on?
“What?” He stares at you like you’re the dumbest person he’s ever met. And who knows, maybe you are.
“Do I need to repeat myself?”
“Sorry ah, no. It shouldn’t be on. I thought…”
“You thought?” You’re used to getting kicked around. Surgeons have god complexes, residents think they’re so far ahead of where they truly are, attendings love to pick you apart if they’re having a bad day. Not all of them, but enough that there is a reputation, and when you’re new, you get run over. When you’re seasoned, you learn to navigate it.
But Doctor Riley coming down on you is completely different, and shame curdles in your stomach at the idea of making a mistake.
“You’re telling me you don’t know if that light is on or off?”
“I-”
“I know you’re used to a floor where you can do the bare minimum to keep your patients alive until they get transferred, but the NICU requires a bit more attention to detail. Do you think you can do that?” Your throat goes dry, and you stare at him, words evaporating as he repeats himself, slowly. “Do… you… think… you… can…. do... that?” Jesus Christ.
“I thought I turned it off.” He steps closer. Close enough you can smell his dial soap and the barely there whiff of aftershave. Close enough he blots out the light on the ceiling. He tsks.
“Do you think you can do that Daisy?”
“Yes.” You whisper, closing your eyes. He hates you. He hates you and it’s so much worse than just some run of the mill asshole provider who’s got it out for you. So much more. “Yes I can do that. I- I’ll go check on him right now.” He nods, and then doesn’t even spare you a glance as he strides down the hall, swearing under his breath.
And then once in the parking garage.
“Wait!” You sprint to the elevator, breathless as you jump through the quickly closing door-
and right into the chest of Doctor Riley.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch, only grabs you by the upper arms to keep you from toppling over.
“Oh my god. I’m so sorry.” He drops his hands as soon as you’re steady, but doesn’t step away.
“It’s alright.” He’s studying you. Again. Always. You noticed him doing it the other day on the floor, watching you over the head of his resident, a bug under a microscope that he’s going crush. “You have straw on your sweatshirt.”
“What?”
“Straw.” He says it slowly, like you’re hard of hearing. “On your clothes.” His gaze flicks to the collar of your sweater, where indeed, a souvenir from the barn is clinging to the fabric. Jesus.
“Ah, oops. Thanks.” The elevator lurches to a stop on the next floor of the garage, and when it opens, Doctor Price is standing on the other side. He immediately smiles, corners of his eyes crinkling.
“Daisy.” He doesn’t even say hi to Doctor Riley, just slips inside and leans against the wall. “How is it in baby-land?” Doctor Riley glares at him, one of his ‘I am thinking about ending your life’ glares that you’ve been on the receiving end too many times, and Price chuckles.
“Uh, it’s good Doctor Price.”
“Daze, please. I’ve asked you a million times to call me John.”
“Sorry, old habits die hard.” You manage a nervous laugh.
“You takin’ care of my girl Simon?” Awkward silence descends over the three of you, and your heart thumps around in your chest like a drum. Doctor Price- John, raises an eyebrow.
“Seems like you’ve coddled her enough already.” Doctor Riley grunts. Your face burns, and you stare straight ahead, begging the doors to open and release you. From your peripheral, you can see John’s facial expression change, but you stay facing forward, drowning in your embarrassment, your shame.
“Arsehole.” John growls. The doors pick a miraculous moment to slide wide and you dart through them, Doctor’s Riley response lost as you disappear around a corner.
“Doctor Riley?” You knock a little louder, mentally crossing your fingers he’ll answer and you won’t actually have to open the door. “Um… Doctor Riley? Are you in there?”
Nothing.
Shit.
Cool metal gives under the pressure of your fingers on the handle, and you call for him through the crack of the door. “Doctor Riley?”
Silence.
Double shit.
You cross the threshold, two steps inside. “Doctor Riley?”
There’s a sharp, startled inhale, and then the grit of his voice is drifting through the darkness. “What?”
“Uh, it’s… I tried messaging you but you didn’t answer. It’s the Anderson baby, she’s bradycardic and I don’t know, her muscle tone is off, I think -”
“What?” He’s alert, immediately. The mattress creaks and then he’s flicking the light on, appearing in front of you like a ghost-
without a shirt on.
You try to look away. You do. But his chest is right in front of you, his chest with golden brown hair, hair that travels down his sternum to his belly and continues to disappear into his pants. There's muscle beneath the weight on him, and it all sits well. Perfectly. And the tattoo, the 360 sleeve stretching from should to wrist is the icing on the cake of this paradox of a giant.
Brilliant man who loves little babies, who’s skill for saving their lives is known far and wide, who looks like he could fell a tree with one swing of an axe, who saved your Riley’s life-
and who without a doubt, hates you.
You can’t look away, so you do the next best thing. You slam your eyes shut. “Um I’ll just… I’ll wait outside.” You turn, eyes still closed, and smack your face into the metal door frame so hard your orbital bone sings. You bite your lip to swallow the cursed yell that tries to burst free.
“You alright?”
“Yep.” Your lie is high pitched, and you duck around the door to wait out of sight.
When it clicks shut behind him, he turns to face you. Studying again. Scrutinizing, this time with a hand clenched at his side. “Sure you’re alright?”
“Yes.” You’re not going to let him catch you being weak. Not for a single second. His lips down into a frown, and he shakes his head.
“Let’s go.”
Baby Anderson is tough. Probably tougher than you’ll ever be. She goes to surgery not ten minutes after Doctor Riley is at her crib, and then comes out like a champ, stable after a valve repair.
The relief makes your knees weak. It’s what carries you to the end of the day, all the way through your shift up until you’re walking across the parking garage, broken backpack hanging off your shoulder, oblivious to everything around you.
Then you hear him.
“Daisy.” You whirl. He’s standing there, a step behind you, arms crossed. “I’ve been calling your name.”
“Oh I… I was distracted.” You look away because it sounds so pathetic and you’re sure he’s sneering at you. “Sorry.” He’s quiet for a beat, and you study your shoes. They’re old and worn down. You really need new ones. Everyone on the unit has those new sneakers, the popular ones they all swear by, the ones that look like a dream. Lots of cushioning. You fantasize for a second about somehow making it work out to where you could afford a pair, but the fantasy fades away in the face of reality. You can’t even afford feed for the horses this week.
“Good catch today.” You blink. Who’s he talking to?
“What?” There’s a very long, very deep inhale, and then the rumble of his voice.
“I said, good catch today, with the Anderson baby. She would have tanked without you.”
“Oh, I didn’t do much.” You laugh it off. Because why is this man who despises you all of the sudden saying you did something right?
“You correlated the bradycardia with the muscle tone. That’s enough.”
“Right.” He’s not wrong, but you’re surprised all the same. “Um, thanks.” You finally glance up at him, and to no one’s surprise, he’s studying you again.
“Have a good night.” You momentarily forget yourself. Who? You have a good night? Your manners come back after a beat, and you manage a strained, polite smile.
“You too Doctor Riley.”