#chronic!au

“Daddy, hurts.”

Crockett nods and kisses Harper’s feverish forehead. She’s so little, and in so much pain as the cells accumulate in her body. When she couldn’t eat, couldn’t walk, for how bad she hurts, he knew he had to bring her in.

“I know, honey. But it’s gonna be okay.”

She clings tighter to her stuffed bear and sniffles. Crockett knows there’s likely not much the ED can do, but they may be able to ease her pain and get her seen by an oncologist on site to help her. The pain hasn’t been this bad in a long time, so he’s extremely worried.

The worry turns to panic when Harper’s hands go limp around her stuffed animal and it falls to the ground. Crockett’s throat closes in panic and he scoops up the bear and harper to go up to the desk.

“Sir, the ED is very busy-” the nurse begins, clearly used to impatient family members, before he interrupts.

“My daughter just passed out.”

Falling in love again is hard, but going through it all alone is harder. Neither Noah nor Crockett were really looking for love at their lowest points, and yet somehow, it happened anyways.

Window

“Will you open the window?”

The nurse hesitates. She knows the rules in the ICU, and how important it is to keep him safe, but it’s warm spring afternoon and after a winter on the ward, Noah would do anything to breathe fresh, non-recycled air. He makes puppy dog eyes, begs and pleads- but it’s when he threatens to have Crockett come open it that she acquiesces and cracks his window enough to let in a soft, honeysuckle breeze from the gardens outside the hospital. 

“Five minutes,” she warns. 

“Five minutes.”

Noah has to enjoy the fresh air while he can, and shuts his eyes to imagine walking around on the grounds instead of sitting in his bed and taking short walks up the hall every couple days to keep his muscles from atrophying too badly. He imagines his bare feet on the warm sidewalk, and the sun beating down on his shoulders. The wind is cool and light, a perfect counterpoint to the heat. He bends down and smells the flowers, and picks a couple to bring back up to his room to liven it up like the bouquets Crockett replaces every week at his bedside after they enjoy a 24 hour quarantine at the nurse’s station. 

The window clicks shut again, and his fantasy draws to a close. He knows Crockett will come to visit soon, with fresh flowers and probably another stuffed animal. Maybe even Harper will be on his hip when he comes in. But for now, he’s been ripped back to the reality of his stuffy hospital room and the cannula fit to his face like it was made just for him.

It’s been a good day. The three of them are out in the park, taking in the fresh air and sunny day. Noah loves being outside, Crockett knows, because he spends so much time trapped away from it. His eyes light up like nothing else whenever they go to the park or walk for coffee, even on days he has to lean on his cane to walk, or even use the walker. Today is a good pain day, a good lung day, and so Noah is only on his own two feet while Crockett spreads a blanket on the ground for them to sit on while they have lunch. 

“Sweetheart,” he calls to Harper, who’s already managed to climb the jungle gym, “it’s time for lunch.”

She comes running over in the way excitable little children do, happier and stronger since finishing chemo. She’s never been healthier. With both her and Noah in remission, Crockett finally feels like he can breathe. He unpacks sandwiches and chips and fruit, spreading everything out on little paper plates while Noah wipes down Harper’s hands with a wet one so she doesn’t get germs from the playground on her food. It’s a domestic, beautiful sight. 

“It’s a nice day out,” Noah says. He’s rubbing his chest, a telltale sign that he’s not feeling well. Crockett’s smile fades slightly. “Thanks for packing lunch babe.”

“Of course. You feeling alright?”

Noah shrugs. “Hurts a little, but nothing serious.”

It takes everything Crockett has not to immediately go overboard. “It shouldn’t hurt to breathe, Noah.”

He digs into his backpack to produce Noah’s inhaler, which he takes two puffs of before handing it back. 

His knees give out under him. 

That’s the only thing he registers between Natalie shaking her head and his body hitting the floor, cushioned only by the warmth of Ethan’s arms around him, without which he very likely would have wound up hitting his head on the linoleum.

“People die every day,” Ethan says against his temple, trying to calm him. “It’s okay, Crockett. It happens.”

“She’s a baby.”

The patient reminded him of Harper when he performed the surgery on her, resetting her open fracture, the only thing he could do when her ribs were broken too. Her mother says she fell down the stairs, but her father has this look on his face that Crockett recognizes far too well. She’s too little. 

“I know. I know. Come on, Crockett, you need to pull it together.”

Trees

Harper and Noah are both bundled up- Noah because he can’t keep his body temperature up very well, and Harper because she’s small- in contrast to Crockett’s blue coat with his hands in his pockets. It’s getting chilly in Chicago, the first snow of the season threatening at the sky any day now, and of course they have to pick out a tree for their first Christmas as a family. 

Noah is having a good day, one of the reasons they were able to come out. He has his cane with him, just for extra stability, but his other arm is around Harper’s small body. She prefers it when Noah carries her. 

(“Papa,” she has begun to call him in earnest, making grabby hands for Noah to hold her while he smiles and says “Just a minute, let me move my tank, baby.” Harper is his baby as much as she’s Crockett’s little girl. It feels like they were meant to be a family.)

“Big,” Harper suggests, pointing at a nine foot noble fir that’s both too large for their low ceilings and too expensive coming off of a hospital visit for Noah. “Daddy, big!”

“Too big,” he says gently, and places a hand on the small of Noah’s back while they walk toward an area with trees a little closer to their preferred size. There’s a slight strain appearing in Noah’s muscles from trying to walk and carry Harper when he’s still weak, so Crockett wordlessly pulls their toddler onto his hip instead. Harper pouts, but she’s long since realized that sometimes Noah can’t hold her but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t love her. “How about some of these, Princess? They up to muster for you?”

She points at a tree and Crockett comes closer, inspecting the branches for any bugs or signs of rot. It seems to pass his standards, and Noah is smiling at him with this indecipherable softness, so really it just matters if Harper thinks this is the one. Her speech is still short, clipped words that don’t really string together. She’s still so young. But she seems older every day. 

It hits Crockett, out of the blue, that he never thought she’d be well enough to come pick out a tree and make a face at being told no. He spent a long time grieving for his living daughter in anticipation of the unimaginable. Despite it all, however, she’s alive and in remission, grabbing onto the tree’s needles and turning puppy dog eyes on Crockett and Noah. He sets Harper down- mindful of her slight unsteadiness on her feet, and waits for Noah to take her little hand before he picks up their chosen tree to bring to the front. 

“I know,” he hears Noah stage-whisper to Harper, “he’s like the strongest man in the universe.”

Harper giggles. 

Crockett’s heart is full. 

Ever since Noah was attacked and nearly died, his immune system hasn't been the best. He's handling the chronic pneumonia just fine, even though he's often tired and out of breath. After an incident he finds himself admitted to the ICU, and maybe it's for the best.

Crockett didn't want to uproot his daughter's entire life; Harper has had it hard enough already. But there are better doctors in Chicago, and he'll get better insurance working at Med too. She's been battling Leukemia her whole life. He won't give up on her now.