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Dr Bogdana Livetsky Romansky has found many unlikely companions throughout her time in the US, but it would be a lie to say she doesn't have favourites. Connie, Haleh, and Carol have been particularly accommodating. Dr Greene is soft spoken and patient.
John Carter, the sweet and clumsy medical student, though- he might be her favourite American of all.
He'd been kind to her even before the blizzard hit and her secret came out, always smiling at her in the hallways and gently correcting her mixed-up turns of phrase without a hint of mockery. Still, when that day came, she hadn't quite expected his offer to her outside in the freezing cold.
“I’ll help you with your English for the boards.”
Eyes warm and earnest. Smile slightly crooked, boyish, similar to that of her nephew back in Poland. In that moment, he'd looked far too young to be a doctor-in-training.
But he was there, and he was offering her the moon without an expectation of anything in return.
Now, two months later, she feels she is learning as much about John Carter during her lessons as she is the English language. He tells her that natural conversation is the best way to learn (his Latin teacher at school taught him this), so they spend a great deal of time just… talking to one another.
She shares anecdotes from the life she used to live, the injuries she treated, the patients she lost. She shows him photographs of the town she grew up in (Kłodzko) and takes him on a verbal tour through the streets while he listens attentively.
In return, he tells her about his equally hidden life- the wealth, the coldness of his family, a horse he spent a lot of time riding. He flits between charming stories and suddenly painful truths, never lingering too long on either so that Bogdana has to properly focus to keep up. Perhaps he's doing it on purpose. Perhaps not.
Regardless, the more time she spends with John, the fonder she grows of him. She comes to understand that the offer of support he extended to her is by no means out of character for him.
He's the sort of young man that gives endlessly, always.
This is why, when she arrives at the ER one morning to find him sitting on a bench outside, arms wrapped around himself, shivering, she's immediately concerned.
“John?” She calls.
His head bobs upwards, and she sees that his cheeks are scarlet with wind chill. “H-hi.” He greets. Quieter than usual.
Something is wrong.
“Are you… okay?”
John swallows, wincing slightly, and nods, though the shudder that immediately follows does little to support his argument. “M’okay, th-thank you. Just… not, uh, not feeling too g-great today.”
Bogdana frowns. This is a typical ‘John’ answer, and it requires picking apart- there are two statements: ‘I’m okay’ and ‘I’m not feeling too great’. They contradict one another. The first must be a lie, an attempt to lessen the impact of the second.
She knows this because she is starting to know him.
“You are sick?” She probes.
He dips his head, like a school child being scolded, and his cheeks briefly flush an even deeper shade of crimson. A laugh escapes his chapped lips.
“A- a little, I suppose.”
Hm. No. This one is a lie too.
As she opens her mouth to say something else, though, he stands, teetering for a few moments before finding his balance and shooting her a weak grin.
“Gotta, uh, get to it.”
He hurries back into the building, and there is nothing Bogdana can do to stop him.
John is conspicuously hard to find over the next few hours. She catches glimpses of him every so often, ducking behind a curtain or pausing to catch his breath at the foot of the stairs, but he's gone too quickly for her to say anything. It is clear to her that he's doing everything in his power to avoid eliciting concern, and yet he's having completely the opposite effect. She is worried. It is natural for her to be, no?
When she does find him, though, her relief at doing so is hampered by fresh concern brought on by his appearance. He's sitting on the couch in the doctor's lounge, head tipped back, eyes closed, and the tie around his neck has been loosened. The flush she attributed to windchill while he was outside still remains- he has a fever. One of his arms is thrown over his forehead, a tissue dangling in his hand.
He is sick, yes. Definitely.
She gives a warning knock, and he immediately sits up, relaxing quickly when he realises that it's her.
“Ah, s-sorry. Didn't realise it was you.”
Congestion. Thick, and oppressive, and accompanied by that same painful scratchiness that he surely feels in his throat. Bogdana cocks her head.
“You are sick- sicker than you say. Why?”
The corner of John's lip twitches despite his obvious infirmity. “I think that question is better directed to the bacteria.”
He is joking with her, and she knows this is yet another favourite tactic of his. Humour. Bogdana merely sighs, stepping further into the room and folding her arms.
“No. You know what I am meaning. Why do you not tell me the truth?”
With this, he shrinks, evidently chastised. His eyes shift their gaze to the floor.
Perhaps he thinks this is a punishment. She knows from the stories he's told her that his parents are not the kindest of people, and considering he still lives with them… perhaps he's only pretending because it's what he has to do at home.
She clears her throat and lets her arms hang down at her sides again. Steps forwards. Crouches in front of him, feels him register her, the tension in his shoulders tightening.
“John.”
He glances up.
“I… can I touch? Feel?”
A frown of confusion flickers on his face before she points to his forehead, and the sheepishness returns. Regardless, he nods, allowing her to reach the back of her hand up to the blazing skin of his brow. The heat is as fiery as it appears. Whether consciously or not, his eyes fall closed, and he butts his head gently against her knuckles, seeking out the coolness her skin offers in comparison to his own.
“John.” She says again, gently.
“Mm.”
“You like soup?”
Mark smiles when Bob enters the doctor's lounge, offering a subtle nod as if to affirm her right to be there- the news of her impressive save and concealed identity has long since spread round the hospital, and no matter what anybody else thinks about it, he is certainly Team Bob.
She smiles back at him, averting her eyes quickly and moving towards the microwave- clearly, it will take some time for her to recognise that she isn't shunned.
Carol, Doug, and Susan are all discussing something, and they suddenly call his name, asking for input. He turns to find three expectant pairs of eyes on him.
“Hm?”
Doug sighs exasperatedly. “We were asking if you felt like going to Doc Magoo’s after work for a bite to eat?”
Mark, quite frankly, doesn't care. He'll go if everyone else is going, but…
His eyes flit to the woman by the microwave.
“Hey… Bob?”
She turns. “Yes, Dr Greene?”
God. So formal.
“Mark is fine.” He assures her. “A few of us are probably going to head to Doc Magoo’s after shift- want to come?”
Doug doesn't say anything, and Mark isn't even looking in his direction, but he can almost hear the frustrated ‘really, Mark?’ and the pediatrician’s eyes on him. Nobody dislikes Bob, of course, but inviting her to one of their work outings probably still feels like a step too far.
Luckily for them, therefore, Bob shakes her head.
“Ah… I am sorry, but I cannot.”
Mark nods understandingly, giving her another smile as the microwave dings and she retrieves a steaming bowl.
“Hey, no worries. I bet your meal will be a whole lot nicer than the artery cloggers at Doc Magoo’s anyway.”
She frowns, and when he gestures at the bowl, she follows his gaze.
“Ah,” She begins again, shaking her head in the same manner as before, too. “No, this- uh, this is not for me. It's for John.”
John.
…John?
“Oh, Carter?”
She nods.
“Well- that's very kind of you. Is it homemade?”
“Yes. I go home for lunch break and I make some, because it's good for sick person.”
Mark frowns at this, but evidently Bob doesn't catch it, because, cradling the bowl of soup in her hands (spoon tucked right beside it), she heads quickly out of the lounge without another word. He turns to Doug, Carol, and Susan, and finds a similar expression on their faces to the one surely written on his.
“Carter's sick?”
“It is good for you, John. Will make you feel even just a little better, I promise.”
Mark inches closer to the doorway, the others trailing behind him. Bob’s voice is soft within the darkened exam room, fonder than any of them have ever heard it, so gentle it takes on an almost motherly quality.
“After, I get you a cold- a… how do you say it?”
A faint murmur.
“Yes, yes, a cold compress. I get for you. Okay? Just try. Here, I will hold spoon.”
When he finally manages to poke his head around the corner, the scene blinks slowly into view. Carter is laying on the bed, propped up with a few pillows, while Bob holds the bowl of soup in one hand and a spoon in the other, the latter swooping slowly towards Carter's lips. He obediently parts them. Swallows a small amount of the broth on the spoon.
“Good. See? It's not bad, hm, Misiek?”
He smiles, a faint but genuine thing, and Mark realises for the first time all day that he really doesn't look well. It's hard to see details in the room because of the low light, but the feverish flush on Carter’s cheeks nevertheless stands out, as does the thin sheen of sweat across his forehead and nose.
Bob places a hand against this forehead now, soothing him with her touch, and whispers a few words Mark can't make out. Then, drawing back reluctantly, she dips the spoon back into the bowl again. Gathers up some more broth and guides it to Carter's lips again.
He is even quicker to acquiesce this time.
“Mark.” Doug whispers insistently, from somewhere to the chief resident’s right. “What are you- oh.”
Clearly, he's now seeing it too.
The way, after each accepted spoonful, Bob murmurs words of praise or smooths back the hair from his forehead. How Carter weathers it all with a willingness that only comes from incredible trust and incredible, organ-boiling fever.
At last, his ever-lingering blinks extend into infinity, and Bob sets the spoon back in the bowl carefully, so as not to risk waking him. It looks as though she's about to leave, when she instead sets the bowl aside and turns her attention to making her charge more comfortable.
She slowly pulls the woollen blanket out from underneath his legs, shaking it out and over him. His right hand, dangling over the side of the bed, she lifts and places in a more comfortable position next to him. She shifts the pillow beneath his head so he doesn't get a crick in his neck. She tugs the shoes from his feet to give the heat of the fever an escape route.
She mothers him.
And, when all else is said and done, she kisses him on the forehead.
“Dobranoc, John. I'll be back soon, okay?”
She turns to the door, and Mark, Carol, Doug, and Susan slip back, hoping not to be seen. Their attempt fails spectacularly. Just as it looks like she's going to walk down the corridor in the other direction and leave them be, Bob swivels round to look at them, gaze soft but stern.
“Do not wake him. Please.”
Mark nods. “Alright. Okay.”
Judging from the way Bob nods back, her gaze flitting to the unseen figures behind him, the others have satisfied her with their response too. She fixes her gaze on Mark again; looks more like a seasoned surgeon than ever.
“You will keep eyes on him, I hope, while I go to get some things?”
The chief resident’s lips curve upwards.
“Of course. Thank you for taking care of him today.”
She shrugs. “Of course. He is a good boy.”
As she strides away down the hall, Mark’s eyes drift to the student in the bed, red-cheeked and dozing. Despite this illness he's clearly been fighting to stay on top of all day, Carter has been attentive and kind to every patient under his care. He hasn't snapped, like Mark probably would have. He hasn't groaned about his infirmity relentlessly, like Doug probably would have.
The four of them- Mark, Susan, Doug and Carol- gather in the hallway and watch him, the slow rise and fall of his chest, until at last-
“Think we should probably skip Doc Magoo's tonight.” Doug murmurs.
Mark couldn't agree more.