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Saturday, December 8
It should be busier than this. Four in the afternoon, a cold - by southern California standards - Saturday in December; the ER at Pendleton General Hospital should be crawling with people. He’s not going to use the Q word; Nate’s not superstitious and he knows the busyness of the ER can turn on a dime. But enough people around here hold such illogical beliefs that he will get blamed if it turns chaotic. But it’s definitely less busy than it should be.
“The calm before the storm,” Brad says, appearing beside him and leaning casually against the nurses station, ankles crossed, elbow bumping Nate’s forearm, the brief contact making him shiver.
“Let’s hope not. I want out of here at a sensible time tonight,” Nate replies, scribbling notes in the charts stacked in front of him.
“Hot date tonight, sir?” Brad asks, the beginnings of a smirk lifting the corners of his mouth. God, Nate lives for that smirk.
“I should be so lucky,” he replies with a sigh, “and how many times do I need to tell you to stop with the sir shit?” It’s just plain weird. They’ve been working together for six months now, socialised on the few occasions Nate has given in to Mike’s nagging and gone out for a few beers or to play pool with some of the others.
“Can’t help it, sir, it’s the surgeon thing. Makes me feel inferior.”
Nate tracks Brad's gaze across the ER floor to where Schwetje is looking confused as a nurse explains, not for the first time Nate is sure, exactly what she needs him to do for a patient. Brad Colbert is one of the best doctors in the hospital; in no way does he have any reason to feel inferior to Craig Schwetje, surgeon or not. He suspects Brad knows this, and gives him a look that says as much, “You’re full of shit, Colbert.”
“Seriously, what are your plans for tonight?” Brad presses. There is no sir tagged on to the end of the question; Nate takes that as a win.
“My bed,” he answers, writing medication orders and doing his best to make sure it’s legible. He really doesn’t want a nurse calling him at two in the morning because they can’t decipher his writing. Not that Nate is the worst offender, not by a mile. Ferrando might as well write in fucking Arabic, Nate has to ask the man’s secretary to decode his scrawl at least once a week.
“Someone keeping it warm for you?” Brad asks, the smirk evident in his voice, elbow deliberately nudging Nate’s arm.
Nate rolls his eyes, “You offering, Brad?” The words are out before he can think better of it. But hell, if Brad wants to play this game of chicken-flirting with him, Nate is going to flirt right back. He’s pretty sure Brad will freak out first. As Nate could have predicted, Brad looks startled, but before he can respond, a yell draws both their attentions to the main door.
“I need help, please!”
Brad takes off towards the young guy yelling. Blonde, looking shell-shocked. “Walt, what happened? Where’s Ray?” he hears Brad ask. A taller, dark haired guy struggles through the ER doors on crutches and Nate’s brain begins to fill in the blanks. The dark haired guy is Ray, he broke his leg this morning when he was out for a run. Walt, the blonde, brought him in and had hung around while Ray waited for x-rays, a plaster cast, prescriptions and a review appointment. It had been pretty obvious to Nate that the two were more than friends. Or if they weren’t, they should be. Brad begins to move toward Ray when Walt grabs his arm. Nate notices the bundle in Walt’s arms, realises it’s a baby the same moment Brad does. With little more than a look between them, they spring into action. Nate makes for an empty paediatric assessment room and has the light and infant warmer on before Brad gets into the room with the baby. “I need warm blankets and get paeds - get Doc Bryan - down here now!” Brad calls to no-one in particular.
Brad start to unwrap the tiny baby as a nurse appears with warm blankets and towels. Cool and calm, Brad works on the baby while Nate’s heart is in his mouth. “What can I do?” he asks Brad.
“Heart rate is in the eighties,” Brad says, listening to the baby’s chest with his stethoscope, tapping out the rhythm with his finger. Too slow for a baby, Nate knows. “Grab an intubation kit.”
Nate locates the paediatric intubation kit and hands Brad miniature versions of the equipment he is used to seeing and using on a daily basis.
“Where the fuck is Doc Bryan?” Brad asks, the first sign of frustration and alarm Nate has ever seen from him. They’ve tried to intubate, and failed. The tube is too big. Inexplicably, and inexcusably in Nate’s opinion, the ER doesn’t have the appropriate intubation equipment for preterm babies. Probably because they are supposed to be born upstairs in the delivery rooms and whisked straight to the NICU. But surely they are supposed to be prepared for every eventuality? This can’t be the first preterm baby who has landed in an ER.
“What have we got?” Doc Bryan appears in Nate’s field of vision and Nate feels relief wash over him.
Brad relays the baby’s heart rate, saturation levels, temperature, “We need to intubate, she’s barely breathing.”
“Okay, let’s do it.”
Nate watches, slightly in awe, as Doc Bryan unpacks the equipment he had the foresight to bring down from the NICU. Within a few minutes, the baby is intubated, her fragile lungs being filled with oxygen and Doc Bryan and his team take her upstairs to the NICU.
Nate leans against the workbench in the assessment room, head bowed, eyes closed. His heart is racing and he can feel his body trembling all over as his mind struggles to piece together what just happened. He realises he has no idea where the baby even came from. He feels Brad come to stand beside him, feels Brad gently stroke his arm with his fingers, “You okay?” Brad asks, his eyes betraying only a hint of the shock and disbelief Nate feels. Nate can only nod and let out a long, shaky breath.
They make their way over to Walt and Ray, usher them to a quiet corner of the waiting area. Walt flops down into a seat, visibly shaken. Ray struggles to sit with his cast and crutches. He’s quiet, a far cry from the guy who came into the ER this morning, regaling staff with the story of how he fell, and his antics trying to make his way back home.
“What happened?” Brad asked, looking between the pair of them.
“She was tucked behind the wheel of my truck. Thank God I saw her, I could have...” Walt ducks his head, unable to finish the sentence.
Brad reaches a hand to the nape of Walt’s neck and squeezes, “It’s okay, you saw her, you brought her here and we’ll help her.”
“Will she be okay?” Walt asks, eyes pleading with Brad to say yes.
With a quick glance at Ray, Nate sees a fierce protectiveness in his expression. Don’t you dare, he seems to say. But Brad isn’t a liar. “I don’t know,” he answers honestly.
Walt closes his eyes and ducks his head, Brad’s hand still on his neck, his thumb rubbing back and forth. Nate feels himself shiver, as though Brad’s hand is resting on his own neck.
“What happens now?” Ray asks.
“We’ll call the police to report an abandoned infant. They’ll want to talk to you so it’s probably best if you hang about here for a while.” Brad falls silent a moment before continuing, “a lot of the times, in cases like this, the person who does the abandoning is the same person who presents the baby.” At their blank expressions he clarifies, “a parent.”
Walt looks up at him, confusion clearly written on his boyish features, “You think I’m the baby's dad?”
Ray looks like this is the funniest thing he has ever heard, “yeah, Walt wouldn’t have the first idea about getting a girl pregnant.”
Brad ignores him. “They’ll probably look to do a DNA test to exclude you both first of all. I can do blood draws now to get the process started.”
“Yeah, sure,” Walt says quietly.
Brad does the blood draws and they both keep a watchful eye as two police officers talk to the pair. Nate doesn’t doubt their story, something about how shaken and torn up Walt is about finding the newborn; and how concerned Ray is, despite his efforts to appear unfazed, makes Nate certain the pair have nothing to do with the infant.
***
Nate’s shift finished over four hours ago and despite his best intentions to be at home catching up on some much needed sleep by now, he finds himself climbing the six flights of stairs to the NICU. He’s not surprised to see Brad there; standing over the incubator, watching the baby, studying the monitors. “Sir,” he says simply, by way of a greeting.
Nate gives him a small smile in return, deciding that this isn’t the time to hassle him about his insistence on addressing Nate with a deferential sir. “How’s she doing?” he asks, even as he reads the monitors and the various infusions of medications and fluids that are running and pieces together the answer for himself. Not good.
“Doc Bryan reckons she’s about 31 weeks if he’s being generous. He says she was probably only outside for an hour or two given her temperature when she got in.”
Still far too long for a preterm infant to be outside, Nate thinks to himself.
“Jesus Christ, Nate, look at her, she’s tiny,” Brad whispers, his disbelief and anger at someone abandoning her is palpable. The baby is tiny. Not since his rotation through obstetrics has Nate seen a baby so small. He can’t think of anything to say, he’s as shocked and disbelieving as Brad is. Instead he mirrors Brad’s gesture from earlier, gently stroking his fingers across Brad’s inner wrist, feeling Brad’s steady pulse beneath his fingertips, feeling a tremor run down those strong and muscular arms as Brad breathes out a long breath.
Nate shifts away from Brad when Doc Bryan appears beside them to check over the baby. Nate watches while Doc Bryan checks the baby’s temperature, pulse and oxygen saturation levels, his careful handling of the tiny infant at odds with the man’s usual brusque manner.
“She’s not doing terrible, but she’s not doing great either,” Doc Bryan tells Nate. Nate barely hears him, having been distracted by Brad who is making his way across the bay to where a woman stands staring into an incubator, tears rolling down her cheeks. Brad grabs a handful of tissues and pushes them into her hand and quietly stands beside her. After a few moments, Nate hears him asking the woman about her baby. She answers his questions and seems to appreciate him taking the time. And that’s the thing about Brad, he always takes time for people.
Docs gaze follows Nate’s to Brad. Nate can hear him now explaining the purpose of the various wires, tubes and monitors surrounding her baby, explaining what the numbers mean and pointing out that despite a tough start to life, her baby’s heart is strong, and all things considered, is doing well.
“Christ, you’ve got it bad,” Doc Bryan says softly.
Nate starts, “What? No! I’m just... I just... I’m wondering why the hell he isn’t in paeds. He’d be good.” It’s not a lie, not exactly. He just isn’t thinking it right at this second. But he thinks it almost every time a child comes into the ER. Or every time a nurse comes in to show off her new baby and the baby is thrust into Brad’s arms. He protests, hey, don’t give that thing to me before accepting the bundle and settling the tiny baby on his shoulder. And every time, Nate watches nurses (and doctors) swoon and tries to ignore the feeling of warm affection swelling in his chest.
“Yeah, tell me about it,” Doc Bryan replies, seemingly distracted from his earlier theory. Nate begins to wonder if there is a story there, if there is a reason Brad works in the ER instead of up here on the paediatric floor.
Sunday, December 9
At midnight, a mere four hours after his shift was supposed to end, Nate is finally walking out of the hospital. Brad suddenly appears at his side, “Well, sir, finally getting home to your bed?”
“Yes, thank fuck. When are you back in?”
“Not until Thursday,” Brad replies with a smug grin.
“I hate you.”
“You love me, sir,” Brad counters. And that just might be the truth, Nate thinks, watching the pull of Brad’s jeans across his ass as he veers left to his bike.
“Enjoy your couple of days off,” Nate calls after him. He hopes he sounds sincere, Brad works harder than anyone in the ER, except maybe Mike. He deserves a few days off to chill out, surf, do whatever it is Brad Colbert does when he’s not manning the ER floor of Pendleton General Hospital.
***
They’d kissed once before. Or rather, Nate had kissed Brad and Brad hadn’t appeared to know what to do about it. So they’d both ignored it. Neither saying a word or making any acknowledgement of the night a drunken Nate had kissed Brad firmly on the lips as he was saying goodbye. The only person who’d seen was Mike, who had looked at Nate with eyebrows raised and then shepherded an unsteady and giggling Nate across the parking lot to Mike’s truck.
Friday, December 13
With ten minutes to go until handover, Nate finds himself frantically scribbling in patient charts. He is determined to get finished and be back home before nine, that will allow him plenty of time to unwind and get enough sleep before he arrives at Mike's house for dinner tonight. Mike has; once again; decided that Nate is working too hard, not getting enough sleep and not eating properly. When Mike realises his own particular brand of nagging isn't working, he sets his wife loose on Nate. As a result, Grace Wynn has been nagging him for three weeks now to come over for dinner one night. He doesn't mind, he likes the Wynns. He'd actually be looking forward to it if he wasn't so damn tired. Just as he finishes with one chart and lifts the final chart from the pile, Brad come strolling into the ER, blue scrubs, coffee cup clutched in one large hand. Brad slides up beside him, pushing the cup towards him.
“What’s this?” Nate asks.
“Decaf, figured you’d be heading home bed,” Brad replies, "or at least, you should be."
“You saying I look like shit, Colbert?” he asks as he accepts the coffee and takes a sip, wincing as the hot liquid burns his tongue.
Brad smirks, “careful, it’s hot.”
“Asshole,” Nate replies, digging Brad in the ribs with his elbow.
Brad smiles a soft smile, his eyes drifting down to Nate’s mouth and Nate feels himself blush as he imagines how he must look in his rumpled scrubs, eyes red and tired at the end of another 48 hour shift with barely more than a few hours sleep. Christ, he needs a shower.
Brad clears his throat, suddenly all business, eyes focused on the ER board over Nate’s shoulder. “How have things been here?” he asks.
Nate shrugs, “Alright. MVC came in about one thirty but nothing major. Shock mostly. They’ve all been discharged apart from a kid Patterson wanted to keep in for observation. Other than that, the usual drunks, broken bones and flu sufferers.”
Brad nods, “easy night for you, sir?” that wicked grin creeping back and fuck, Nate wants to kiss that grin right off his face. “What about the baby? Doc Bryan wont reply to my texts,” Brad continues, seemingly oblivious to the effect he’s having on Nate.
“No change since the last time I checked. I’m heading up there now, I can text you with an update.”
“Shouldn’t you be heading home, sir? I hear your bed is waiting for you.”
Nate shakes his head at that, trying not to smile as he scribbles his name at the bottom of the last patient chart. He tosses the completed chart into the pile and returns the pen he’s been using to the pot by the computer. "Oh, Schwetje is on today if you need a surgical consult.” He lifts the coffee cup, tips it in Brad’s direction in a mock salute and turns to walk out of the ER, feeling Brad’s eyes on him the entire way.
Friday, December 20
A week goes by and he doesn’t see Brad at all. Nate would be lying if he said he hadn’t been looking for any excuse to be in the ER at shift handover in the hope of a conversation with Brad, but there’s always something going on that prevents him from getting there in time. And any time he has a reason to be in the ER, Brad isn't there. There are traces of Brad in the NICU. A small cuddly elephant appears on the baby’s incubator. Fucking Brad is the only explanation he gets from Rudy when he asks where it came from. He hears Christeson on the phone when he visits the NICU on a rare ten minute break and realises he is talking to Brad. He recognises the faded blue hoodie draped over a chair by the baby's incubator as belonging to Brad. It's there one afternoon and gone that evening. Evidence Brad is a regular visitor. The NICU nurses refer to the baby as Brad’s baby and it seems he visits every shift and calls when he’s not working. After Doc Bryan’s initial refusal to give Brad any information about the baby when Brad wasn’t physically standing over the incubator, reading the baby’s charts for himself, it would now appear that Brad has half the NICU staff texting and calling him with regular updates.
There is no word on the baby’s mother. Despite regular appeals from the police and a statement from the hospital, no-one has come forward with any information about the baby - Mathilda, the NICU nurses have named her. Nate hadn’t liked the name at first, and he liked Tilly even less. He thought it was too long and too cumbersome a name to lump a newborn with. The irony that his own name was longer wasn’t lost on him, and he vowed there and then, that if he ever had kids, he’d give them short, simple names. Then Pappy, in his usual wise but unassuming manner, explained that Mathilda means mighty in battle and the name was a nod to the strength the baby had shown so far in her fight to survive and recover, and the hope that she would continue to fight. Nate found he liked the name a little better after that.
He makes his way up to the NICU at the end of most shifts, and tonight, he is surprised to find Brad there, leaning over the incubator with Doc Bryan and Patterson. “What’s going on?” he asks, taking in the numbers on the monitors, assessing how the baby has changed since his visit yesterday. Taking in Brad, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt instead of blue scrubs. Brad, who should no doubt be at home sleeping off his latest string of shifts in the ER, but who has come into the hospital on his day off to watch over a tiny baby in an incubator.
“Sepsis,” Doc Bryan says in answer to Nate's question, his lips pressed together in a thin line, “and NEC.”
“Fuck,” is all Nate can think to say.
Saturday, December 21
The next morning, Nate finds himself in the OR with the tiniest patient he has ever had on his operating table. Patterson stands to his left, and Schwetje stands across from them. He had stayed late last night with Patterson, together they had spent hours poring over the baby’s charts and latest scans and making a plan. Schwetje made it clear he thought they were wasting their time. Nate doesn’t think he has ever hated anyone more.
The plan is to resect the baby’s bowel, keeping as much of it as possible, and hope they have caught the cruel disease in time. Patterson had called it a Hail Mary pass, and as Nate looks at the length of tiny bowel in his hands, he knows it’s unlikely they can do anything to make a difference. He looks up at Patterson, who shakes his head, “we should close her up, take her back upstairs and make sure she’s comfortable,” he says quietly.
“Can we...”
“There’s nothing to do here, Nate,” Schwetje interrupts as he steps away from the table, “we’re wasting our time, like I said last night.”
Nate glances up to the gallery where, of course, Brad is watching, and he knows he'll never be able to look Brad in the eye again unless he does everything in his power to save the baby. “Can’t we at least try?” he starts to argue.
Patterson shakes his head again, “we’re at the point where we're becoming cruel, Nate.” And that’s when Nate knows there’s nothing else they can do for the baby. When Schwetje said it, Nate couldn’t help but think it was incompetence preventing him from helping, or maybe just being plain unwilling to put the effort in to trying. But Patterson is different. He’s a brilliant surgeon, knowledgeable, caring and always willing to bend the rules, push a little further for the good of his patients. When Patterson says it’s futile, Nate believes him.
“Come on, Nate, we have other patients.” Schwetje calls from the door of the OR.
“I’m going to stay,” Nate says, without even glancing in Schwetje's direction, “I’ll close and bring her back upstairs.”
He takes his time. The baby’s bowel has swollen during the procedure and packing it back inside her abdomen is no easy task. Nate remembers being utterly fascinated to learn that, in utero, babies abdominal organs start to develop outside their abdomen before moving inside once they are big enough. He sutures the incisions closed. Neatly. Carefully. Meticulously. It’s the very least he can do for her. Then he arranges to transfer the baby back upstairs to the NICU.
Patterson is there, talking with Doc Bryan in hushed tones. “The police will do another appeal and the hospital will make another statement to the press. Legal have already filed a motion to the county court to allow us to withdraw treatment. Hopefully that’ll come through later today or tomorrow. Any longer than forty-eight hours is cruel,” Doc Bryan says.
Nate says nothing, he helps the nurses settle the baby, attaches various wires and tubes to the baby and writes up his operating notes. He can’t comprehend how quickly things had moved in the time it took take him to close up the baby’s abdomen and bring her back up to NICU. He knows Doc Bryan is right; Doc Bryan is always right when it comes to his patients. NEC is bad enough, but the baby is also septic, and even if she wasn’t, even if she was one of the rare ones who recovered, she’d live with the consequences of NEC for the rest if her life. And that’s before taking into account the damage done by hypothermia and lack of oxygen she faced before Walt and Ray found her.
“This isn’t fair, little one,” Nate finds himself murmuring to her, stroking her gently with a finger. She grasps his finger in her tiny little fist and blinks up at him. For a small moment, it makes him feel hopeful, that maybe they’ve got this all wrong.
***
The appeal from the police goes out almost immediately. Treatment will be withdrawn at midnight on Monday. If anyone knows anything about Mathilda, they need to come forward now so they can be with her.
***
Nate’s day goes from bad to worse. He leaves the NICU to a smug Griego informing him that Schwetje is looking for him. Schwetje, furious that Nate chose to stay in the OR with the baby instead of following him like an obedient subordinate, hands Nate a pile of charts for what must be some of the sickest patients in the hospital.
After not being able to do a damn thing to help Mathilda, one of Nate’s patients arrests in the ICU. They manage to resuscitate him. It takes forty-eight minutes. Nate calls the man’s family, explains that while he has been successfully resuscitated, he won’t survive for much longer and trying to resuscitate again would be a cruel, pointless exercise. He hangs around the ICU as the man’s family gather, pronounces time of death a few hours later and holds the man’s wife as she sobs and thanks him for all he did.
Then he gets to tell a thirty-two year old mother of two small children that her cancer is so advanced, surgery isn’t an option. He listens as the oncologist explains that whilst chemotherapy will buy her time, it won’t cure her. At best she has three months to live.
At the end of his shift, desperate to get out of the hospital, he collides with Brad in the doorway of the locker room.
“Wow,” Brad says with a slight smile, placing his hands on Nate’s upper arms to steady him, “where’s the fire?” His smile turns to a concerned frown; “you okay?” he asks, voice low and rough, his hands remaining firmly on Nate’s arms.
“I’m sorry,” Nate says, hearing his voice crack and feeling hot tears prick his eyes.
Brad pulls him back into the empty locker room, “what’s going on, sir?”
Nate opens his mouth to speak, to apologise for not being able to help the baby, not being able to help his ICU patient or the mum with cancer. No words come. Maybe because there are no words. Somehow, Brad seems to get it.
“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for. You did your best for them, you did everything you could for them. Same as you always do. Same as the rest of us.” He moves his hand to rest on the back of Nate’s neck, rubbing his thumb back and forth. Nate shivers at the contact and finds himself leaning into Brad’s warm and firm touch. “What do you need?” Brad asks, voice low, that soft look in his eyes and Nate has to look away before he does something stupid.
“I need to get really, really drunk,” Nate tells him. He’s half joking, alcohol probably isn’t the best idea right now. And while Mike would tell him as much, suggest a home cooked meal and some sleep, Brad simply nods.
Nate waits while Brad changes out of his scrubs and then finds himself being shepherded out of the hospital and across the parking lot to his own truck, Brad's hand on the small of his back the entire way. Brad heads to the driver’s side, holds his hand out for the keys, which Nate hands over to him without question or argument. Brad drives to a liquor store where they stock up on beer and an obscenely expensive bottle of whiskey. They head to Brad’s place, ordering pizza when they arrive and starting in on the beer.
Later, sitting on the couch, they pass the bottle of whiskey back and forth. Nate has no idea how this happened, he and Brad don’t exactly hang out. He’s not sure he could even describe them as being friends. Yet here he is, pouring out his feelings of frustration and uselessness when hospital rules and bureaucracy prevent him from helping his patients; from making a difference. Which is why he got into medicine in the first place. He tells Brad about his irritations and disappointments with Schwetje and Griego; his admiration and respect for Patterson.
Through it all, Brad listens. Mmms and gives breathy laughs of understanding in the right places, strokes Nate’s arm with his fingers, making him shiver. And when Nate finally gives in to his frustrations and the effects of alcohol and allows himself to cry, Brad closes the distance between them, places his hand, firm and comforting, on the nape of Nate’s neck.
Sunday, December 22
Nate wakes the next morning, wedged between the back of the couch and Brad’s body, his head resting on Brad’s shoulder, an arm loosely draped across Brad’s waist, their legs tangled. He immediately feels the regret that comes after a night of heavy drinking, and the relief at finding he, and Brad, are both fully clothed and that he didn't do something that stupid. His mouth is dry, like he’s swallowed wire wool and his throat hurts when he swallows. His head is already protesting every slight movement he makes, his brain feeing like it is banging off the inside of his skull. He soon gives up trying to untangle himself from Brad. Fuck it, at this point he has no dignity left anyway, he thinks, as he gingerly lays his head back down on Brad’s shoulder.
Brad huffs a laugh, “morning, sir.”
Nate groans in response and when Brad gets up from the couch, he flops down on the newly vacated space. He feels so miserable that he can’t even appreciate the strip of tanned skin and the defined muscle that is exposed when Brad stretches. But god, he wants to appreciate that sight.
“Breakfast,” it’s a statement rather than a question, and Brad makes his way towards the kitchen.
A few minutes later, Nate smells coffee and drags himself off the couch to use the bathroom. He splashes cool water around his face in the hopes of feeling more alive. It doesn’t work.
“How are you so fucking cheerful after all we drank last night?” he complains to Brad, as he sits on a stool at the counter, head propped up with his hand.
Brad gives him an amused look as he sets a steaming mug of coffee down in front of him, “I hate to tell you this, sir, but you did most of the drinking. I had three beers and one, maybe two shots of whiskey. You, on the other hand,” he gestures towards the empty bottles neatly lined up by the sink, smirking into his own mug of coffee.
“Fuck,” Nate says, planting his head down on the counter, “I’m never drinking again.”
A few hours later, after Brad has fed him pancakes and Tylenol, insisted he drink at least a litre of water and allowed Nate a few hours sleep in his bed; Nate feels human enough to drive Brad back to the hospital to retrieve his bike.
“Thank you, sir,” Brad says, as he moves to get out of Nate’s truck.
“Brad, I -” Nate trails off, unable to finish speaking when Brad is looking at him like that, with those fantastically blue eyes. “Last night – I’m sorry for - I appreciate -” Christ, when had he become someone who can’t string a coherent sentence together? “Thank you,” he finishes lamely. It doesn’t even come close to covering half of what he wants to say.
Brad continues to watch him for a moment, “Our job... it’s the best job in the world, it’s also the worst job in the world.” He hesitates, gazing over Nate’s shoulder, “the depths of the lows is the price we pay for the heights of the highs. Sometimes we need to allow ourselves to feel how deep the lows really are.”
Struck by the unexpected insight of Brad’s statement, Nate nods as a sense of relief that someone gets it, that Brad gets it, floods him.
“Any time, Nate. Seriously.” The use of his first name feels strangely intimate and sends a shiver down Nate’s spine. “Go home and get some rest,” Brad continues, reaching to stroke Nate’s wrist, “I’ll see you in -” he glances at his watch, “- seventeen hours.”
Nate groans and gives Brad a friendly shove, then he puts the truck in gear and goes home.
Monday December 23
There is a Christmas tree in the main lobby. It’s huge, decorated with gold and red baubles and what Nate estimates to be close to a thousand fairy lights. There are names written on the baubles. Mike explained to him that the tree was organised by the hospital chaplains, people donated a dollar for a bauble - gold for remembrance, red for healing - and wrote someone’s name on it. The chaplains committed to praying for the people whose names were written on the baubles and the funds raised were directed to whereever they were needed in the hospital. Last year, the money helped towards the purchase of a new MRI machine. This year, the funds were earmarked for redecorating and refurbishing the relatives rooms in the ICU.
As Nate makes his way through the lobby, he glances towards the tree and is surprised to find Brad standing there, looking up at it. He finds himself gravitating towards Brad, joining him in staring up at the tree.
“Do you think it’ll make a difference?” Brad asks, uncharacteristically vague.
Nate presumes he is talking about the baby; there has been little else on Brad’s mind for three weeks now. The appeal for anyone who knows anything about the baby - Mathilda, Nate reminds himself - to come forward has been made, and repeated, numerous times over the last two days. So far, no-one has come forward. At midnight, less than thirteen hours away, life support will be withdrawn. The hope is the baby will die in her mother’s arms.
“I hope so,” Nate says, “she needs to say goodbye. I can’t imagine... she must have heard the appeals.” How could she not have heard, he thinks to himself. His parents and sisters on the east coast have heard about the baby. Hospital CCTV footage from the day Walt and Ray found Mathilda shows a lone figure - a woman, according to police experts - walking across the parking lot with something in her arms. She is out of range of the CCTV cameras for a few moments; when she returns she is no longer carrying anything. The footage is poor quality and grainy, making it impossible to identify the figure. Nate has often wondered about Mathilda's mother; what lead her to abandon her baby outside a hospital? Was anyone with her when the baby was born? It seemed unlikely that she had received any medical care following the birth since a postpartum woman with no baby would raise alarm bells. “The poor woman,” Nate murmurs softly.
“Poor woman?” Brad almost sneers, “fuck that. We have Safe Surrender laws in this state. We were one of the first fucking states to have them. All she had to do was walk into any fire station, police station or hospital. Hell, all she had to do was walk another hundred metres to our front door instead of abandoning her daughter behind the wheel of a truck in the parking lot.”
Taken aback by Brad’s sudden tirade, Nate can’t think what to say. He eventually settles for, “yeah, fuck that,” because Brad is right.
“That’s not actually what I was talking about,” Brad says after a few moments of silence, softer now.
“What were you talking about?”
“This,” he says, gesturing to the tree. “Prayers. So far I’ve counted twenty-four baubles with Mathilda’s name on them. Do you think they’ll make a difference?”
Not in a million years where Nate thought this conversation was headed. “Honestly, no,” he answers. “At best I’m agnostic, but sometimes I wish I could believe, you know?” Right now, Nate wishes he could believe in a lot of things.
Brad doesn’t answer, but he shifts on his feet and Nate feels the heat from where Brad’s arm presses against his own arm, feels Brad's fingers curl around his own fingers.
***
A few minutes before midnight, Nate makes his way to the NICU to find it filled with doctors, nurses and other hospital staff. “What’s going on?” he asks Pappy.
“Seems no-one wants her to be alone.”
Fuck, that means no-one came for her. Nate makes his way to the small side room where the baby is. He hovers by the door, watching Doc Bryan and Brad stand at opposite sides of the incubator. In his calm, steady, unshakable way, Doc Bryan is explaining to Brad what will happen as he withdraws life support, what order the equipment will be removed and the machines turned off, what might happen to the baby - tremors, seizures, how long she might live for.
“Doc, I know the drill,” Brad says, not unkindly, “this isn’t my first rodeo.” He says it with a sad sort of smile and Nate's stomach turns to lead.
“I know,” Doc Bryan sighs, his hand touching Brad’s arm for a fleeting second, making Nate feel irrationally jealous. He watches as Doc Bryan removes the last of the wires and tubes, with the same care Nate has seen him show to all his tiny patients. He expertly wraps the baby in a blanket and gestures for Brad to sit. He places the bundle in Brad’s arms and tells him he’s going to extubate. Brad nods, focusing only on the baby’s tiny face and Nate feels like he is witnessing something profoundly intimate.
“I’ll be outside, the alarms are all silenced,” Doc Bryan says, giving the baby’s cheek a final stroke with his finger before he leaves the room.
Nate goes to follow him out when Brad calls him back, “You should stay. You’ve been here since the beginning.”
Nate pulls a chair over and joins Brad watching the baby.
It’s peaceful, mercifully. No seizures, no tremors, no gasping for breath. Mathilda doesn’t fight, just succumbs to the inevitable safe in Brad’s arms. Nate watches as Brad places the baby gently in the cot and Doc Bryan reappears to confirm time of death. He walks out of the room, trying to hide the tears blurring his vision. The crowd gathered around the nurses station seems to have grown. Patterson is there, along with Schwetje and Griego. Assholes that they are, Nate is heartened to think that maybe they aren’t in entirely the wrong profession.
He finds Mike and makes his way over to him. Ever loyal, and always seeming to know exactly what Nate needs, Mike angles his body to shield Nate from everyone around them, allowing him a much needed moment to gather himself together. When Nate is certain he has got himself under control, he looks at Mike and gives him a wry smile of thanks. Mike nods in return, then murmurs softly, “What the fuck are you doing?”
Nate looks at him blankly.
“Brad.”
Nate opens his mouth to protest or deny or something but no words come out.
Mike just shakes his head, “For a smart man you can be exceptionally dumb, Nate.” Mike grips his shoulder before turning to leave. Home, Nate supposes, to his wife and kids, who he will hold a little tighter tonight.
His shift is ended but he’s still on call. He leaves the NICU to check on things in the ER, passing Brad on the way who is sitting with Walt and Ray. They came to the hospital tonight, along with dozens of other people. Pappy had be right earlier, no-one wanted the baby to die alone.
At around four, he finally makes his way to an on-call room and practically falls into one of the beds. He lies on his back, staring up at the ceiling, willing sleep to take him. He just starts to feel like he might be able to drift off when he hears movement outside and the door creaks open. He internally curses whoever it is only to look over to find Brad standing in the doorway looking defeated and vulnerable and sad. Without thinking, he stretches an arm out towards him. Brad hesitates for a moment and Nate feels his stomach drop. This is weird. He's read this all wrong. Then Brad moves towards him, almost collapsing on top of him. The bed creaks beneath their combined weight and Nate wonders briefly if it will hold them both. It’s no easy task, arranging themselves on the small bed that is barely big enough for one of them, but they make do. Nate, mostly on his back, tight against the wall, Brad curled on his side with his head tucked beneath Nate’s chin, Nate’s arm loosely around his shoulder to keep him secure, gently tracing patterns on the sleeve of Brad’s scrub top, occasionally touching bare skin.
Brad eventually breaks the silence, “I’ve never really given my biological mother much thought. As far as I’ve been concerned, she didn’t do anything for me. My mum and dad - they brought me up, dealt with illnesses and injuries and the teenage rebellion that landed me in military school, made sacrifices to put me through med school. But my mother - she did do something for me. She didn’t abandon me in a hospital parking lot. She did it right.”
Nate can’t think of anything to say to that, he curls his arm around Brad’s head and plants a kiss somewhere in his hair. He feels Brad tense. Fuck.
Brad props himself up on his elbow, looking down at Nate. A thousand excuses run through Nate’s mind but none make it to his lips before he finds Brad’s mouth pressed to his. Tentative, gentle, chaste and nothing like how Nate had ever imagined this would go.
“I’ve always wondered if you were too drunk to remember that time you kissed me.”
“I remember,” Nate says.
“Any regrets?” Brad asks, smirking like he doesn’t know the answer.
“Only that I didn’t unfuck this situation sooner,” Nate says, and draws Brad down for another kiss.
It’s only that they are in an on-call room where anyone could walk in that prevents them for doing much more than kissing. And Nate thinks it might kill him as he tries to resist grinding against Brad’s thigh. His hands stray to the waistband of Brad’s scrub pants, fingers curling down beneath the elastic of his underwear, feeling Brad’s coarse hair and his hard cock pressing through the fabric. Nate is desperate to touch him. Nate is desperate to do a lot more than touch Brad.
“Jesus Christ, you’re killing me” Brad murmurs into Nate’s neck, ”what time does your shift end?”
“I’m pretty much on call until Wednesday morning,” Nate says with a frustrated groan.
“Fuck, that’s Christmas Day,” Brad complains.
“So?”
“So, don’t you have plans for Christmas?”
“No actually, I was supposed to be working, last minute swap with McGraw. What about you? Any plans?”
“No, Hebrew remember? My only plans are Netflix and take-out.”
Nates hmms in approval of Brad’s plan and thinks how his mother would be disgusted.
“Care to join me?” Brad asks, that filthy smirk appearing as he presses his palm against Nate’s hard cock.
“Fuck, yes.”
Tuesday, December 24
Thirteen hours to go and then he is off for four glorious days where he doesn’t have to even think about Pedleton General Hospital. He’s not ashamed to admit that he has checked the ER rota and knows that three of his days off coincide with Brad’s days off. And while he suspects, for all his protesting about the holidays, Brad will want to spend at least some time with his family, they will have plenty of time to... do other things.
At around six, Mike sends him to get some shut-eye before the day staff finish and the night shift begins. He makes his way to the tiny staff room where he plans to make coffee and relax for an hour since he's probably too wired to sleep anyway. Instead, he crashes out on the couch and wakes at eight thirty to find his coffee is cold and someone has thrown a blanket over him. Brad is crouched beside him, gently stroking his arm. He denies all knowledge of the blanket but he does hand Nate a large coffee. It’s not the nasty paint stripper coffee from the cafeteria, it’s the good stuff from the place across the road. Nate pulls himself up to something resembling a sitting position, the blanket tangled around his legs and accepts the coffee gratefully.
“To get you through the final stretch, sir,” Brad says softly.
“You're finished now?” Nate asks, glancing at the clock.
Brad only nods in response, but looks like he wants to say more.
Nate frowns, for a moment concerned that Brad is about to break the news that the ER has turned to absolute carnage while Nate has been sleeping.
“Will I see you tomorrow?” Brad asks, an uncharacteristic hesitancy and uncertainty in his voice.
“Of course,” Nate replies, before thinking better of his obvious enthusiasm, “unless you have other plans?” Now it’s his turn to sound unsure.
“No, just wanted to be sure you haven’t changed your mind, sir.”
“I haven’t changed my mind.”
“Good.” Brad says, flashing Nate one of those rare smiles, “see you tomorrow. I hope the remainder of your shift is kind to you, sir.”
Nate smiles and shakes his head, “Brad?” Brad turns from where he is half-way through the door, “you really need to stop with the ‘sir’ bullshit.”
Brad smirks at him, “yes, sir,” he says, with a cocky raise of his eyebrows.
Wednesday, December 25
"It’s open," Brad calls, when Nate knocks on the door of Brad's small bungalow. He finds Brad in the bright and airy kitchen, wearing faded blue jeans and a white shirt. He's barefoot, and something about the sight of Brad relaxed and comfortable in his own surroundings makes Nate's chest tighten with affection. He's seasoning two steaks and Nate can see chopped vegetables in various dishes on the sideboard.
"What happened to take-out and Netflix?" he asks with a grin.
"What happened to your never drinking again?" Brad asks, nodding to the bottle of wine in Nate's hand.
Nate shrugs, conceding the point and watches the corners of Brad’s mouth turn up into the beginnings of a smile. He covers the steaks and turns to the sink to wash his hands, "I thought you were worth a bit more of an effort than a take-out and Netflix," he says softly, drying his hands and moving towards Nate, "I also thought maybe we could wait to eat." He's right there, standing in front of Nate. All Nate would have to do is take half a step forward and they'd be kissing. Before he has time to decide what to do about Brad's close proximity, Brad slides his hands into the front pockets of Nate's jeans and pulls him in. Just like in the on call room a few nights ago, Brad's kiss starts gentle and chaste. It's almost tentative, the way he licks at Nate's lower lip, like he's asking permission.
Nate's hands find their way to Brad's back, feeling the thick, dense muscle of strong shoulders beneath the thin fabric of Brad's shirt. Brad holds him close, kissing him more firmly now, licking into Nate's mouth. Nate would be a little ashamed of how a few moments of kissing Brad is enough to get him half-hard, but he can’t bring himself to care right now. And when Brad pushes a thigh in between his legs, he can’t help the shocked gasp that escapes his mouth. Brad laughs, low and evil, and turns Nate around to push him towards the bedroom; his arms wrapped around Nate's chest, his mouth pressing kisses to Nate's neck.
Brad pulls his own shirt off, then strips Nate of his before pushing him down onto the bed. Brad crouches over him, knees either side of Nate’s hips, elbows bracketing Nate’s head and leans down to kiss him again.
Nate's reaches up to run his hands along Brad's shoulders and arms as they kiss, enjoying the feeling of all that dense muscle and gorgeous, tanned skin he's wanted to get his hands on for months. He desperately wants to feel that skin against his own skin. He tries to coax Brad down onto the bed, not caring if Brad lands on top of him or beside him. When Brad doesn't budge, Nate lets out a frustrated whine and wraps his arms around Brad's shoulders and uses a leg around his waist as extra leverage to tug Brad down. Nate is so fucking hard he has to squeeze his eyes shut and concentrate on not coming like a teenager when Brad lands on top of him, his thigh pressing against Nate's dick, straining uncomfortably against the denim of his jeans.
Brad sits back between Nate's legs and Nate whines, low in his throat, at the loss of contact. Then Brad reaches for the fly of his jeans, "Can I?" he asks.
"Yeah," Nate manages to groan out. He's not entirely sure what he is saying yes to, but he knows there is probably nothing Brad could ask of him right now that he would say no to.
Nate lifts his hips up, allowing Brad to pull his jeans and underwear off and toss them over the side of the bed. Brad gets his hand on Nate's dick, strokes him once, twice; swipes his thumb across the head and then strokes up his shaft again. Little movements, almost nothing, but just enough to drive Nate crazy. He closes his eyes, surrendering to whatever it is Brad is planning to do to him. When he feels Brad press a lube slicked finger to his hole, his eyes fly open in surprise and he finds Brad looking down at him, “is this okay?”
“Yeah, fuck, yeah.”
He’s not even sure when Brad reached for the lube, or when, or how, he managed to pull his own jeans off. But he finds he doesn’t have the mental capacity for problem solving when Brad is pushing a finger inside him, slowly and methodically stretching Nate like they have all the time in the world. Nate can’t do much more than moan and whine as Brad presses a second finger in, brushing against that spot inside him that sends electricity down his spine, straight to his hard and leaking cock.
It hits him suddenly that this isn’t enough. He wants more. He needs more.
“Brad, Brad –” he tries, losing the thought to a moan as Brad scissors his fingers inside him. “Jesus fuck, Brad, fuck -"
“What do you want, Nate?” Brad whispers against his ear, his warm breath sending a jolt a pleasure through Nate’s body.
“I - fuck -" he tries again as he reaches between their bodies for Brad's hard and heavy cock. He wraps a hand around Brad's girth, thinking to himself that of course Brad Colbert would be fucking hung.
“Tell me what you want," Brad says, nipping at Nate's ear, fingers still rhythmically pushing into Nate's body.
Nate wants Brad inside him. He wants to feel Brad’s cock stretch him and he wants Brad to come inside him. He wants to watch Brad come. Somehow, his brain won't convert these thoughts into coherent words, no matter how hard he tries. And Brad is naked, pressed against the entire length of Nate’s body, his dick in Nate's hand, leaking precome over Nate's fingers as Brad's fingers push into Nate, stroking against his prostate and doing nothing to help Nate’s coherence.
“Tell me what you want, Nate.” Brad murmurs again.
Nate wonders if maybe Brad is enjoying this; teasing Nate and watching him come apart beneath his sure and steady hands. But in a moment of clarity, it hits him as he pieces together everything he knows about Brad; and he realises Brad wont do anything unless he is certain it's what Nate wants. Brad needs Nate to tell him, he needs to hear Nate say the words. Nate takes a breath and swallows hard, “I want - I want you to fuck me.”
"Jesus, Nate."
He feels the burn and stretch as Brad pushes into him, his breath stutters as his body protests at the intrusion. Brad stills above him, giving him a moment to adjust, "you okay?" he asks, gently nipping Nate’s ear.
"Yeah, yeah I'm good," he says, pushing up into Brad with his hips, “Come on.”
"Fuck, you have no idea how long I've wanted you like this,"
***
They eat outside. It’s quiet enough that Nate can hear the roar of the ocean waves in the distance.
Afterwards, they sit together on a porch swing Brad says was here when he bought the house, it’s probably older than they are. Brad stretches his long legs out and rocks them gently back and forth, bottle of beer held loosely in one hand, his other hand resting close enough to Nate's hand that their fingers touch.
Nate's mind is racing with a hundred questions he wants to ask Brad. Why the hell didn't Brad specialise in paediatric medicine? What, or who, was the 'first rodeo' he mentioned to Doc Bryan the other night? Had Brad watched a baby die before? Is that why Brad didn't go into paediatric medicine? He also wants to ask about Brad's rebellious teenage years and how exactly he ended up in military school. And he wants to ask what they are doing, what's going on between them.
When Brad moves his hand closer and begins tracing patterns on Nate's palm with his fingers, Nate sighs contentedly and leans his head back. His eyes slip closed as he enjoys the soothing motion Brad is creating with the swing, the smell of Brad beside him, the touch of Brad's fingers on his palm, the sounds of the ocean.
He thinks back to Brad's words to him a few days ago, he doesn’t doubt that the baby - Mathilda - will always be one of the lowest moments of his career. But there has been good intermingled with the spectacularly shitty moments of the last few weeks. Brad's friendship and support was unexpected, and appreciated. And this... whatever this is between them... Nate can’t help but smile to himself as he wonders if he'll be lucky enough to count this as one of the highs Brad mentioned.