“How we doin’ in here?” Abbot asked softly, arms crossed over his chest, studying the monitors that chronicled the last 24 hours. You didn’t look at him. You knew if you did, the tears that had threatened you for the past 36 hours would finally spill. “Can I get you some tea? A sandwich?” He stepped closer, careful not to impose on you as he read your little guy’s notes.
Things had calmed down. The mild fever that had spiked days earlier now only simmered, causing the occasional groan of discomfort from your little guy. Yet, as Abbot listened to his heart on initial overview, he detected a murmur that surprised everyone.
You felt out of your body. Your clothes were two days old, your hair grimy with yesterday’s sweat. You hadn’t managed to stomach food, let alone water, and your tongue felt like leather, occasionally sticking to the roof of your mouth. “No, thanks,” you whispered, shifting your gaze from your son to Jack.
“Everything’s looking good,” he said quietly. “I think he can go home tomorrow. His fever’s broken, though he’s still a bit warm from the virus, and we’ll keep a close eye on him until you see the specialist for the echo, ECG, and bloodwork.”
“You probably think I’m stupid for panicking like this,” you admitted.
With a mild shake of his head, he replied, “Not at all. You did the right thing. That’s why we’re here.”
You exhaled slowly. “I’ll just be glad when we can go.”
“I understand.” He tapped on the screen, adding a few observations, and absently toyed with the stethoscope draped over the thick knots of muscle along his shoulders and traps. “We want to monitor his hydration and continue the meds through the evening,” he reminded gently. “Just to be safe.” He closed his eyes and pursed his lips as he unravelled the stethoscope and pressed it to your little guy’s chest. He listened quietly, counting the rhythm and looking for the faint murmurs that had drawn his attention earlier.
You liked Dr. Jack Abbot. He had a rugged resilience that spoke of years of experience, the kind that left quiet traces in the corners of his eyes. Earlier, you’d seen him tug at his dog tags as you wandered toward the bathroom. He didn’t wear mystery like armor; he offered clarity, steady and unpretentious. You had expected aggression and gruffness, but over the last few days, he had been so softly spoken at times that you even questioned your own hearing.
“Just to be safe,” you mumbled in agreement.
“You sure I can’t get you anything?” he asked, moving toward the door again. He was smooth on his feet, but maybe you were distracted enough that everything seemed to move in perfect rhythm, except for your little one’s heart at that moment. When you didn’t reply, he left the room and continued his rounds.
AN: I've not written in a while, but when you are inspired... thanks for reading. not sure if this will go anywhere, but it was nice to write for a little while x
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