Work Text:
It’s a few minutes past midnight and Connor still can’t sleep.
Sitting on his couch, he goes over the whole interaction again, start to finish. Not that it was fun. Reese didn’t just take him to task, she tied a rope around his ego and dragged it behind her car. She’d ripped his excuses apart and demanded why he hadn’t done the work she knew he was capable of.
The surgeon digs his thumbnail into the pad of his pointer finger.
She’s right. He should have been a better doctor. He should have found a way to keep Corcoran alive and save Will’s life. Closing him up would have been the bare minimum.
Connor heard what Reese didn’t say loud and clear: You fucked everything up. You ruin everything. You care more about your daddy issues than your patients and it’s pathetic.
He digs the thumbnail into the meat of his palm. It’s just on the edge of pain.
The way she ended it too: “There, I’m done.” Like he wasn’t even worth the effort anymore. Kicking him in the stomach would have been kinder.
A masochistic part of him wonders why Reese doesn’t just report him right away. Get it out there, force him to actually look at what the board thinks of him—not a surgeon, but a show pony to trot out for good PR. Just hand Cornelius another thing to hold over Connor’s head and wash her hands of the Richie Rich try-hard.
Maybe she wants to give him a chance. Or maybe she just gave him a length of rope and wants to watch Connor hang himself with it.
Rubbing a hand over his face, Connor goes to the kitchen and takes his phone off the charger.
“Am I a bad person?”
The words come before he has time to plan them. Connor is sitting in his living room, wearing a t-shirt and a pair of boxers as he gazes out at the view outside his balcony.
There’s a pause from the other side of the line. Connor leans against the side of his couch, pulling a throw pillow into his lap.
“No.” Claire finally answers. “Not even when you swipe the last slice of pie at Thanksgiving. What happened?”
“Why do you think something happened?” Connor avoids, even as his sister’s answer does genuinely help. A bit.
"It is…” he can practically hear her squinting at her alarm clock. “...12:37 in the morning and you don’t call asking ominous questions after a normal day at work.”
No. Nor does he usually get out of the bed he was sharing with a very warm, very affectionate girlfriend after she falls asleep just to brood. That’s reserved for occasions worth the melancholy. Birthdays. The anniversary of mom’s death.
Connor blows out a breath. “I did something…bad. With a patient. I thought it was justified under the circumstances, but now he’s dead and another doctor took me to task about it and…” Connor shakes his head. “I don’t know. Guess I just needed someone to ask. Sorry for waking you up.”
“Which doctor?” Claire asks. He’d expected her to take the out and go back to bed. “Was it that Halstead guy again? I remember you mentioning his dad died and how you two used to really go at it.”
Now it’s his opportunity to take the easy out. But lying feels like more effort than it’s worth right now. “No, it was Sarah Reese. I think I told you about her.”
Connor rests his feet up on the ottoman. Even in the low light, his eye catches on one of the little horizontal scars down by his ankle bone. He crosses one leg over the other. Flicks his eyes over to the throw blanket tossed carelessly over the side of the couch.
Claire makes an ‘I’m thinking sound’ before coming back with: “Maybe. The med student?”
“She’s graduated, dual residency in psychiatry and emergency medicine.”
“Busy lady. Wait a sec.” He hears a shuffling on the other side. “Is that the same Reese with the serial killer dad?”
“Wait, you heard about that?”
“I caught the Dateline special. Anyway, what’s going on with Reese?”
Connor toys with the tag on the pillow. “I seem to be incapable of not screwing up around her, so I probably had it coming anyway.”
“Dare I ask?”
“You can, but I can’t tell you without breaking HIPAA.” Robert Haywood was still Connor’s patient, as loath as the surgeon is to give the man much thought. “And a few other blunders.” He really has no one to blame for himself. He should have taken a second to look before letting himself get caught up with Ava. Honestly, they’re lucky Reese didn’t drag them to HR for a seminar on maintaining ‘appropriate workplace boundaries’.
“So. What did she say that was so bad you had to wake me up to ask me if you’re a bad person?”
“That I should have known better, and if I pull any crap like that again she’ll report me to the oversight committee…who’ll probably sweep it under the rug since dad is on the board now.” He tugs on the tag.
“Wait did she say that last part or are you just bitching about dad?”
“She did. In the kind of tone that screams ‘you’re a horrible person and I’ve lost all respect for you as a man and a doctor’.”
He looks at his legs again. Crosses and re-crosses his ankles, uncomfortably aware of the scar tissue. And the ones on his thighs, even though they’re covered by his boxers. Connor picks at the seams with a fingernail.
“Then get it back.”
Connor stills. “What?”
“You think she’s lost any respect for you? Get it back. You’re a good doctor, even I can tell that. So be a good doctor, and show her you’re more than just a mistake. Okay?”
He nods, even though Claire can’t see it.
“Words, please.”
“Okay.” Connor complies, sounding weak to his own ears.
“Alright. I have to get up in four hours for a red-eye flight to Germany. I’m glad you called but I really need to sleep. And so should you.”
“Goodnight, Claire,” he says, just in time for the bedroom door to creak open. Connor puts his phone down. Ava yawns. Stretches. The strap of her tank top falls down her shoulder.
“Thought I’d find you brooding.” She muses, voice still with the edge of sleep.
Connor takes his legs off the ottoman. Out of sight, out of mind. “I’m just thinking.”
“Brooding. All you’re missing is the cigarette and a glass of bourbon.”
“Hm. Sorry to disappoint.” It’s weak, even to his own ears.
Ava stands in front of him, blocking his view of the cityscape. Her face is shadowed, but she looks radiant in the moonlight.
She holds out her hand. “Come back to bed.”
He obeys.
The next day is awkward, to say the least. Connor enters the Emergency Department with a cautious scan of the hallways. Glance right. Glance left. Not a brown curl or grey hoodie in sight. He lets out the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
He slaps on a smile and goes over to Maggie and April. He knows the wedding was a disaster, but getting firsthand accounts of Natalie’s slow-motion freak out is another thing entirely.
Word trickles out that Will has been placed in Witness Protection and Natalie will be taking a leave of absence. She’d already scheduled time off for what was supposed to be her honeymoon, might as well use it.
In idle curiosity, Terry McNeal asks him what Reese had wanted to talk about the other day. Connor tells him it’s private.
Lanik is more blunt. “What, you scratch her car or something?”
No, just ruined her life. “Or something.”
When he does spot that grey hoodie, Connor flinches out of his skin. But when Maggie puts them together on a trauma case—a man who fell off the roof while putting up holiday decorations—Connor’s fear slowly melts into puzzlement.
Because Reese isn’t even being mean to him.
No biting comments, no undermining his decisions, she doesn’t even give him a stink eye. No. Reese is acting normal. Well, her new version of normal which includes a flat affect, cool professionalism, and never calling him by name. (It’s a little embarrassing that it took him so long to notice because she’d taken his friendly offer of ‘you can call me Connor’ up three years ago. Now he’s just ‘Rhodes’ or ‘you’.)
But just when he was starting to think Reese could maybe, possible have forgiven him already, he sees her pulling out her pager from the corner of his eye.
He turns his head. “What are you doing?”
Reese doesn’t look at him. “Paging an ortho consult. We need someone to set that compound fracture.”
“Don’t bother.” Connor inspects the jagged edge of bone poking up through the skin. Monique, staying at the patient’s side, glances between them. “I know how to—“
Reese locks eyes with him. Her face is as icy as the room suddenly feels. All she says is: “I’m paging ortho.”
Connor shuts his mouth.
He thinks about that at lunch time. Nibbling away at a mostly decent turkey and swiss sandwich, and trying to figure out his next move. Connor knows what to do with nitpicking and arguments and someone telling him to go fuck himself. He has no idea what to do with someone who simply doesn’t trust him. Who more than that, doesn't trust him to do his job as a trauma surgeon. He throws the sandwich wrapper into the garbage, unable to come up with an answer.
When Natalie comes back, the rest of the month is spent in a bit of a holding pattern. Mundane, insofar as anything at Gaffney can be. Stab wounds, GSWs, psych holds, broken toes and heart attacks.
One day, she rolls up her sleeves, and a lion tattoo sits proudly on the inside of her left wrist. “What do you think of Reese’s new tattoo?”
“I think it’s some kind of belated teenage rebellion thing. But she’s earned it, given everything.” Maggie looks at him curiously. “She’s had that for weeks. You didn’t notice?”
Through all of it, Reese doesn't talk to him. Not unless it’s shared information about a patient, or volunteering to take over chest compressions. He tries to do what Claire says, to just let his actions speak for himself, to earn her trust back. But no matter what he does, she never smiles at him or looks at him with anything close to the respect she once held.
The next thing Connor knows, it’s January. Will’s still in WitSec, Natalie looks something close to fine, and the city is honoring his hybrid OR with a cocktail mixer. The closest he and Reese come to talking is her asking him to pass the sugar.
Well. At least he and Ava will have an excuse to get dressed up. That’s almost a date night, right?
“Congratulations,” Lanik appears with his usual sardonic tone of voice. “Front page of the Metro. Wow. Well, I’m sorry we don’t have any cases worthy of your talents, but since you’re still a trauma surgeon on my service…” he hands him a tablet. “Kid in 5. Goofing around with a nail gun, put one in his chest.” Connor wasn’t aware you could tap a newspaper to someone’s shoulder in a sarcastic way, but Lanik manages.
Connor rolls his eyes and takes the chart. The boy is eight years old, and already Connor can see they’ve been in the ER a few times in the last few months. Not the kind of injuries that would be a flag to social services—the last time was a few weeks ago with something stuck up his nose.
He comes in to find a man—likely the child’s father—seated at the boy’s bedside and holding his one hand in two of his own. Davey Bennett is dressed in a medical gown, the nail secured in place with gauze and medical tape.
He knocks against the doorframe.
“Hello, Mr. Bennett. Hey, Davey, I’m Dr. Rhodes.” The pair look at him warily, which is always just a great look to get from a patient.
“You’re not Dr. Reese.” Davey responds, his brow furrowed. Which. Huh.
“No, she’s busy right now.” Connor pulls up a seat, bringing himself closer to the boy’s level to at least try to make him feel better. “And you are in need of a surgeon.”
“Am I gonna die?” The kid blurts out.
“No!” The dad jumps in. “No, you’re not.”
“Your dad is right. We’re gonna fix you up as good as new.”
“I thought the nail gun was out of reach.” He says, as if in confession. “I should have been more careful.”
“Really, he’s gonna be fine.” He moves past the father to sit by the kid. “So, I see that Dr. Lanik gave you some morphine. How are you feeling, Davey?”
“It hurts when I breathe.” The boy mumbles.
“My poor boy.” The father murmurs, holding his son’s hand.
Connor keeps on. “Well, that makes sense. According to your X-ray, the nail hit a rib.”
“A rib?”
“His vitals are fine. There’s no obvious blood in his chest.” Connor looks back at Davey. “If you were an adult, I would take the nail out right here and now. But given your age, I would rather do it up in the OR.”
“So it is serious.”
Davey looks to his father again. “Dad, I don’t want surgery.”
Keep calm. Connor reminds himself. They’re not undermining you. They’re just scared.
“No, no no. It’s to do with the fact that it involves blood and stitches, which can be really scary.” He turns back to the dad, feeling like he’s caught in a tennis game. “And I just think Davey would be more comfortable if he were under general anesthetic. So as soon as an OR is open and it’s ready, I’m gonna take you up upstairs. How does that sound?”
Davey looks to his father, his face pinched up. “I want Reese to do it.”
Connor does not grit his teeth or roll his eyes. This is a frightened kid, and sometimes brains just latch onto the strangest things. Lord knows his could. “I’m sorry, but Dr. Reese isn’t a surgeon.”
“But I want her! She knows everything!”
He could invite Reese into the surgical suite to observe—no. No. She’s busy. (And she’d probably laugh in his face.)
Connor looks to the father for assistance—and receives none. “With all due respect, why can’t Dr. Reese do this? She stitched my son’s leg up when he fell.”
“Dr. Reese is a very talented doctor, I agree. But she doesn’t have the skillset to remove the nail safely.” Especially if there are any complications. “It would be like asking a plumber to re-wire your house.”
The Bennetts remain unconvinced. Davey’s hand twists and squeezes the sheets on the exam table.
“Well, okay let me talk to your father for a second here, and then I’ll go and grab something that’ll make you feel a bit better, okay?” Connor steps outside with Mr. Bennett, and closes the treatment room curtain.
“What is it?” The father fidgets with his hand. “What did you not want to say in front of him?”
“Nothing bad, I promise.” Connor lowers his voice. “Look, this has got to be stressful, I understand. But seeing you worried is only making your son more stressed out. So for his sake, I would recommend just…taking a breath, okay?”
Bennett nods, but doesn’t look any less stressed.
From across the hall, Connor can see Dennis Mitchell handcuffed to his bed. The man who shot at April and the nurses. He’s red in the face and screaming at a decidedly unimpressed-looking Dr. Reese. Connor hears a few snippets of “feminoid” and “kill all of you”, and suddenly her poker face takes on a whole new meaning.
Sarah’s workday started with an attempted femicide on her co-workers, and it hasn’t exactly improved. Screamy McIncel being assigned to her and Choi, Dr. Charles trying to take Elsa Curry under his wing despite the woman’s negligible interest in psychiatry, and now April Sexton is starting to second guess Sarah’s decisions.
“April,” Sarah moves them to where they can speak privately. Actually privately. “You know that I’ve always respected your point of view, but I’m not understanding the problem. Have I done something wrong?”
“The problem is, why is he still here? Why haven’t you and Choi discharged him yet, because it seems like things have been drawn out, and we can use that room for someone else.” The nurse insists, crossing her arms.
Sarah does not roll her eyes. That would be unhelpful. “Would all our lives be easier if this guy broke his neck when he flipped his car? Yes. But he was alive when he was wheeled in, so it’s my job to keep him that way.”
“You’ve kept him here for hours.”
“April.” Sarah forces herself not to snap. “We have a legal duty of care here. You know this.”
The nurse nods, but her frown doesn’t instill Sarah with a lot of confidence. Whatever. April leaves the doctor’s lounge, just as a mousy looking Dr. Rhodes enters. Sarah goes for the coffee pot. Caffeine and sugar can’t fix her life, but neither will abstaining from it.
“You doing okay, Reese?” Rhodes asks, actually making eye contact. “I don’t even have to talk to that guy and I feel like I need to take a hand sanitizer shower.”
He sounds genuine enough. But if he’s looking for some kind of stamp of approval for not being like the shooter, Rhodes needs to look elsewhere.
“If I flinched every time someone calls me a bitch, I never would have made it out of undergrad.” Questions cross his face, she answers them with: “Boys really don’t like it when you’re smarter than them.” She moves over to sit on the couch.
Rhodes nods, and reaches over to grab a mug from the cabinet. “You know, everytime I start to feel old, I just feel grateful I didn't grow up with easy access to that whole…” he makes a vague gesture. “Redpill stuff on the internet. Probably would have messed me up too.”
“Personality usually predates ideology. Even before falling down a rabbit hole, Mitchell likely already viewed women as lesser and sex as something he was entitled to.” She checks her messages on Hinge. Sees the picture that’s been posted on one of the chats and raises an eyebrow. “Just like every guy who keeps sending me dick pics unprompted.”
“What?” Rhodes turns around, his brow furrows.
“Right, you’re too pretty for dating apps.”
“No, I just can’t believe guys would do that.” His eyes widen. “I mean—I believe you, to be clear. Just…wow.”
“Yeah, it’s not fun.” Sarah puts her phone back in her pocket. “Anyway, how’s your day going? I hear they’re throwing a party for you tonight.” Black tie, full press, and Sarah was most definitely not invited. Not that she’s complaining—genuinely. Rubbing elbows with members of the board while wearing high heels and poking at finger food sounds like a headache. No, Sarah’s evening plans consist of Final Fantasy VIII. She’s found a nice little corner of the map; if she grinds the random encounters long enough and keeps the party below level 20, the RNG on loot drops means she’ll be able to forge Lionheart by the end of disc one.
Rhodes ducks his head, avoiding Sarah’s gaze. “The hospital wants to show off the hybrid OR. Make a big to-do for the donors. I’m just the face of it.” He takes a drink of coffee.
“The face, the chief, the kick in the behind that got them to build it in the first place.”
"...yeah." The surgeon fiddles with his hand, tapping the fingers against the side of his leg. “So, I’ve got a pair of your patients. They’re asking for you.”
“Oh?”
“Davey Bennett. He’s here with his father.”
“Ah.” She takes a long drink of coffee. Watching Rhodes squirm is fun, so she lets him dangle for a few seconds before asking: “How bad is it?”
“What makes you think it’s bad?” Sarah raises an eyebrow. Rhodes tilts his head in a ‘fair enough’ gesture. “Okay, they both seem really anxious. Any idea what that’s about?”
She considers this. “Dylan’s wife died of complications with an appendectomy.” Sarah clicks her tongue. “Should have been a routine procedure, but she never made it off the table. Davey was five, and now they both get pretty stressed out around hospitals.”
“Good to know.” Rhodes says. He keeps his tone casual when he asks: “Maybe you could swing by? Help ease their nerves?”
“Sounds like a good change of pace.” Sarah takes a long drink of her coffee. Puts her mug down.
Just as Connor hoped, both Bennetts start to relax the moment Reese steps in. In thirty seconds of small talk, the dual resident displays more happiness than Connor’s seen from her in the last three months. There’s even a smile. Revolutionary.
“Are you sure you can’t take it out?” Davey asks as Reese inspects the nail. Mr. Bennett—Dylan—is holding his son’s hand, but clearly trusts the dual resident. (And Connor is doing his best not to feel anything about that. They know her. This doesn’t have anything to do with his skill or his talent or his name, they just know her.)
“I would if I could, Davey, but I can’t. I can do stitches, and I can give people medicine, but I’m not the kind of doctor who does surgery. However, I want to give you every promise that if you do this, Dr. Rhodes won’t let anything happen to you.” Reese turns to him, with a smile as sweet as poisoned wine. “Right?”
“You have my word, I won’t let anything happen.” Connor promises, standing up that little bit straighter. As if on cue, his pager goes off. “All right. An OR opened up, what do you say we get that nail out of your chest, huh?”
The boy looks over to Reese. “I don’t want an operation. Can’t you just give me some medicine?”
“He’s really scared.” Dylan adds, as if Connor wasn’t deeply aware of that by now. He glances over at Reese, who sticks her hands in the pocket of her grey sweatshirt.
“Of course, a nail in your chest is scary. I’d be terrified.” Reese replies, full of empathy. The little boy nods, his eyes trained square on her. “But, Davey, could you try to tell me what is scaring you, specifically?”
He mumbles something. The psychiatrist tilts her head, the picture of quiet patience. “It’ll hurt?” Davey says, a little louder.
Reese nods. “That’s fair. But, thanks to the anesthesia, you’re going to be in a state where you can’t even feel it. Like the deepest sleep you’ve ever had, where you can’t hear anything, see anything, or even feel it.”
“I tell you what. How ‘bout if I’m right there with you?” Davey nods.
“Mr. Bennett, I’m sorry, but that’s not…”
“I want my daddy!”
“I’ve heard of parents in the operating room with their kids.” Dylan looks towards Reese. She tilts her head, and glances over at Connor. Looking for an answer.
Time to be the bad guy. “It’s not a common practice, and really it’s only while the child’s being put under.”
“Okay, that’s fine. Please.” Dylan leans in closer. “I am all he has. It’s just the two of us since his mom died.” Connor studies the father, and looks back at the boy.
Clearly, there was a lot of trust and love there. And heaven knows when Connor was that age he stuck to his mom like a burr. His eyes even glance over to Reese, but she’s about as readable as a brick wall is huggable.
“Yeah. Okay. But just until he’s asleep.” He reaches up to raise the rail on the bed. “Okey-dokey, let’s go.”
Reese is called back to her car crash patient. But as she turns away, Connor could swear she gives him a flash of a smile.
It takes about ten minutes to get Davey prepped and ready for sedation. Connor spends the entire time with his stomach clenched, and a deep awareness of everything that could go wrong. An extra pass in the scrub room, double checking all tools were sterilized, and making sure he’d understood the x-ray. Everything is smooth. Steady.
One of the SATS monitors catches Connor’s eye, and he dons his stethoscope with a furrowed brow before the beeping goes rapid.
Marty speaks up. “Airway pressures are up.” A weighty pause. “Having trouble ventilating.”
Finally, some part of his fucked-up brain sighs in relief. No need to worry about something going wrong if something is actually wrong. Connor’s brain is quiet and calm, taking a scalpel to the side of the boy’s chest and prepping the chest tube.
The problem is Davey starts bleeding before his father can leave the room. “No. No, no no.” It’s all the warning Connor gets before Dylan Bennett rushes over.
Beth is trying to do something, but Dylan refuses. “Sir, get out—”
“No, take that out!” He grabs Connor’s hand, jostling the chest tube. “No, you’re hurting him!” The father insists, and suddenly Connor’s in a tug of war with medical equipment already inside Davey’s chest.
Oh. That’s not good.
“Stop! Let go!” He grunts out, trying to nudge the other man with his shoulder. But he may as well be trying to move a brick wall.
“You’re killing him!”
“Marty, help me!” Connor holds steady, trying (and failing) to minimize the damage as Dylan Bennett may as well be sticking a knife between his son’s ribs in the frantic effort to save him. Blood comes gushing out of the incision, the warmth of it running against his gloved hand.
“You are killing my son!”
“Come on,” Connor fights to keep a hold on the chest tube. A fight he’s losing. He can feel himself losing, and Dylan is going to kill his son if he keeps this up. “Marty—”
Earns his title as Connor’s favorite anesthesiologist by sticking a needle in Dylan Bennett’s arm. The other man makes a noise before slumping over. Beth catches him from falling onto the floor.
He takes a breath. “Call security and get him out of here. He pushed the tube in too far, it caused a laceration in the chest. We need to open Davey up. Hang a unit, and call the blood bank.” He looks to Beth. The scrub nurse is paying attention, but some part of her is (understandably) frazzled by what just happened. “Beth, please page Dr. Bekker, I need her now.”
Sarah rubs at her eyes with the back of her hand. The incel is finally. Blessedly out of her hair, and off to lockup. April apologized for the cold shoulder.
She checks her watch. Removing the nail from Davey’s chest is a short procedure so Rhodes should be done by now. And he’ll have been careful and thorough if he knows what’s good for him.
What she finds is Dylan Bennett seated in the waiting area, two security guards keeping an eye on him.
Jesus Christ, what now?
Now fully gowned up, Connor studies the mess Dylan Bennett made. That Connor let him make of his son’s incision site. And for what? Trying to prove something? Reese already hates him, why the hell was he doing making operating room decisions based off trying to earn her approval?
He tries to find the source of the bleeding, but there’s too much blood and not enough visibility. Damnit, he’s gonna have to widen the incision, isn’t he?
Count backwards from ten. A voice like Dr. Charles encourages. Connor tries to comply, but he makes it to five before something demands his attention.
“Watch his stats, Marty. Pressure’s good, he’s stable for now.”
The door opens.
“You allowed a parent in the OR for a trauma case?” Connor loves his girlfriend’s accent—always did, even when he spent most of his time bickering with the woman who had it—but right now he can’t help but feel a bit of annoyance. Or maybe shame.
“You can give me the lecture later.”
Ava doesn’t deny it. Merely asks: “What have we got?”
“Chest tube lacerated the left ventricle. I’ve got my finger in the dike, I need you to sew.”
Gowned and gloved up, Connor can see her scrub cap in his peripheral vision as Ava takes a moment to assess the damage. “Well, daddy sure cocked this up, didn’t he?”
Yes, yes he did. And if he’d done a better job of reassuring Dylan. If he’d suggested Reese stay with them in the operating room, or something, it probably could have been avoided.
Connor lets the comment pass. “Load up a 4-0 Prolene with pledgets for Dr. Bekker.” The nurse acknowledges.
At least this, he knows he can’t fuck up. Not with Ava here.
Once Sarah gets the full story out of Dylan, her next step is to keep anyone from calling CPS. Everyone is already hesitant to call the cops, and a few choice words convinces Peter Kalmick of the PR nightmare of the hospital pressing charges against a loving single father. She’s reasonably sure Rhodes won’t press charges as an individual. But she’s certain she can leverage him if he needs convincing. (You could smell the daddy issues coming off him the way you could smell his sandalwood body wash.)
By the time that’s done, Sarah’s shift is over, and she can wait with Dylan in the surgical waiting room.
Rhodes and Bekker emerge from the doors. Sarah watches as he dismisses the other CT surgeon with a hand on her arm. Bekker steps away, and Rhodes walks over towards them.
“Mr. Bennett.” The man clammers to his feet. “Davey is out of surgery, and he’s going to be fine.”
“Thank God.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I am so sorry.”
“I’ve already spoken to the hospital attorney. They’ve agreed not to press charges.” A look passes over Rhodes' face. A small nod.
They discuss post operative care, how Davey was going to need to spend at least a week out of school for recovery, and how Dylan can keep the bandages clean. When it's over, a nurse takes Dylan to where is son is recovering in post-op.
“So.” Rhodes clears his throat, and ducks his head for a moment. “Go ahead.”
Sarah furrows her brow, slinging her messenger bag over her shoulder. “Go ahead and what?”
“The lecture I’m due for messing up like that. Letting Dylan into the OR, letting things escalate.” He sticks his hands in his pockets, waiting.
“No, Dylan was pretty clear that you tried to stop him.”
Sarah’s not sure how to read the expression on Rhodes’ face. Surprise, maybe? Probably. Her ability to discern expression falls the longer she's been awake.
“You didn’t do anything wrong. This time.” Sarah checks her watch and turns away. She had a date with her Playstation.
Connor flexes his jaw. He’s fine. He’s fine. He smiles at Ava and flexes his hand and definitely doesn’t have ‘this time’ echoing in his head.
Okay so. Maybe Connor isn’t fine.
Unfortunately, that thought doesn’t occur to him until he’s staring down at a split knuckle. Hand throbbing, suit jacket unbuttoned and sitting alone in the ED doctor’s lounge. Ava is grabbing him some ice for his hand before they drive back to his place. She’d also leaned in close and whispered how she was going to thank him for defending her honor. Connor should be looking forward to that. Instead, he feels…how does he feel? His brain is buzzing like a swarm of bees, making it hard for him to parse the emotions out.
“Hey there.” Connor looks up. Dr. Daniel Charles is standing in the doorway. He’s out of his usual white lab coat and is instead wrapped in a black pea coat, the lapels preemptively raised against the cold of a Chicago winter. His messenger bag is slung over his shoulder, and has a pair of gloves stuffed into the side pocket. “Gonna give my car a few minutes to warm up. Mind if I sit down?”
Connor shrugs. Charles sits down anyway. Adjusts his glasses. Robin used to call it ‘switching into shrink mode’.
Connor flexes his hand. It’s a dull ache, not the sharp pain that can usually get his brain under control. Not that he’s going to cut. He decided a long time ago he wouldn’t give his father the satisfaction of it. (Not that Cornelius ever found out. No, if Connor’s father knew he cut he’d be using it against him at the slightest opportunity.)
“Did Goodwin send you?” He finally rips off the bandaid.
“Why do you think that?”
“Because I punched my father. In the face. In front of at least a dozen reporters, a few dozen guests, and most of the hospital board.” Connor can practically feel his etiquette coach rolling over in his grave.
Dr. Charles raises his eyebrows. “Well. That explains a few text messages. But still, no one sent me to talk to you."
The psychiatrist studies him. Connor knows what he’s supposed to do here, he’s supposed to look recalcitrant and promise to never ever do it again. He knows what shrinks want to hear. He rubs a hand over his face, suddenly feeling like he’s been awake for forty hours instead of eighteen.
“So, Connor, here’s what I’m seeing. A man I know to be level headed and compassionate just socked his father in the face. You know what that says to me?”
That he’s snapped. That he’s a loser. That he lost his temper at a black tie event like a freaking toddler. Connor braces himself. “What?”
“It tells me something’s gotta be wrong."
Connor’s brain is still buzzing, just like his hand is throbbing. He looks at Dr. Charles, trying to discern whatever hidden meaning. It’s a trap, right? It has to be a trap. He fucked up at a black tie function no way he’s not in some kind of trouble.
Charles folds his hands in his lap. “I know that you’re not the type of person to lash out for nothing. Did your father do something recently? Or say something to you at the party?”
“He said—” Connor swallows, glancing away. “He said something disgusting. Spread rumors about Ava just to get back at me."
He knows why his father did it too. He sees Connor is in a relationship with an amazing, intelligent, beautiful woman while he’s just getting older and greyer. Cornelius sees that he’s happy and can’t stand it. So he tries to sabotage. Blacken Ava’s reputation so she’ll leave Gaffney. Leave Connor. It’s why he doesn’t regret it. Can’t regret it. He only regrets doing it in public.
“Really? I’m very sorry to hear that.” Charles looks at him, assessing. Connor tries not to freak out at what he could be seeing, the buzzing still echoing in his head. “Did Robin ever tell you about her grandmother? My mother.”
Now it’s Connor’s turn to look confused. He sends his brain back. “Only that…she never met her? Something about her not approving of you getting married.”
The psychiatrist nods. "She never approved of me and Cece. And yes, part of it was for the more...obvious reasons. But something that took me a long time to figure out is...my mother’s behavior? Her constant nitpicking and undermining? It wasn’t really about me. That at some point in her life, something or someone made her feel so small that she can only feel good about herself by making other people miserable.”
Connor scoffs. “Yeah, I doubt my dad’s ever had that problem.”
“No, he’s just a narcissist.”
Connor snort-laughs. He doesn’t mean to, but the absolute matter of fact tone just seems funny right now. Even with his brain buzzing.
“Cold comfort, I know but…” Dr. Charles shrugs. “At least you know it’s not about you.”
“I do.” Connor blows out a long breath, continuing a slow rub of his knuckle. “Just like I know how that punch is definitely going to make the news tomorrow. I’m probably in it with Gwen Garrett, and how it’s ‘bad PR’.”
“Well, they have met the man, so maybe they’ll cut you some slack?”
“Reese hasn’t, and she already hates me.” It slips out before he can think better of it.
Charles frowns. “What makes you say that?”
Connor rubs a hand over his face. God, where was Ava with the ice? The rest of him goes ‘fuck it, might as well’.
“She doesn’t call me by my name anymore. It’s just ‘Rhodes’ or ‘you’. Whenever we work together she asks for a second opinion or pages other departments for a consult.” Connor glances off to the side, rubbing his knuckle. “And she’s always looking at me like—Ignore me.”
Dr. Charles folds his hands on the table in front of him. “Well, it’s cold comfort, but I doubt it’s actually about you.”
Connor frowns. “What do you mean?”
“Her mother left for a business trip to Europe, prosecution and defense teams keep wanting her to testify, and I’m sorry to say that a lot of media coverage has unfairly focused on her. Sarah’s under a lot of pressure right now, so the attitude, the new tattoos…it’s just her way of coping. Trying to feel in control while the rest of her life is spiraling.”
A sudden and not-entirely-welcome bit of empathy cuts into Connor. “...she told you this?”
“I pay attention.”
“Well, she yelled at me about a mistake I made with a patient, so I’m pretty sure it was, in fact, about me.”
“Ah.” The older man gives a solemn nod, his lips pressing into a thin line. “To err is to be human, and she isn’t afraid to remind us how human we really are.”
“So how do you make it right?”
Charles gave a sad sort of smile. “I’ll let you know when I find out.”
The soft click-click of heels and the door presses open. Ava arrives with the ice, which Connor gratefully takes from her. She’s gotten one of those gel ice packs, wrapped in some gauze so it won’t hurt the skin. “You ready to head out?”
“Yeah.” Connor rises from the lounge chair. The cold against his knuckles—a relief and a sweet kind of pain all mixed together—and he realizes the buzzing is gone.