Work Text:
The office phone began to ring. This was a normal occurrence.
Zayne set down his pen and brought the receiver to his ear. He expected a call about one of his patients - Mr. Jefferson refusing to take his medicine, one of the kids asking for permission to go outside and play. Something equally as normal that isn’t a full blown emergency.
This is an emergency.
“Dr. Zayne, you’re listed as the emergency contact for a patient that was just admitted.
His heart froze in his chest. His eyes immediately went to the snowman plushie on his windowsill. Who else would have him listed as an emergency contact?
“What were they admitted for?”
“They came to the ER with a 102 fever.”
“What room are they in?”
-
Everything was so, so cold.
Your teeth chatter uncontrollably. Your entire body convulses with shivers. Despite the sweater, hoodie, and three blankets keeping you warm, nothing brings warmth back into you.
They are trying to place a cannula in your arm. All you see is the needle they want to stick in you. You can’t think at all. Can’t calm yourself down enough to let them do their jobs. In your lucid, fever-driven haze, all you know is you’re terrified of needles. And you need to get away.
The nurse is about to try again, two other nurses holding you down to avoid hurting yourself or them, when a cool voice stops her. You recognize it, but you can’t quite place it. It’s like hearing three notes of a song.
Someone in a white coat takes over. He takes the needle, but keeps it out of your direct line of sight. Your hand is hot, clammy, and weak as he holds it. The other nurses let go. The sharp visage of Zayne hovering over you projects into your mind like a reflection on rippling water.
He says your name. Soft, but firm. Caring, but with an all-too-familiar edge of concern. “I need to put the cannula in your arm so we can start you on an intravenous drip,” he explains. “We’ll be able to draw blood and give you medicine this way. You won’t have to see another needle again after this.”
Your jaw hurts. Your teeth hurt. You grind them together to keep them from chattering, but they won’t stop. Tears prick your eyes. “‘M c-cold,” you whimper.
“I know. I promise to warm you up, but I need to do this first. Will you let me?”
You nod pathetically. He quietly thanks you, fighting the urge to breathe a sigh of relief. The cold of the cleaning wipe makes you hiss. Your exposed arm is covered in goosebumps. You don’t fight him anymore. As much as you can help it, anyway. You flinch and clench your hand, but you turn your head away as he inserts the cannula into your vein and tapes it in place. They draw a couple vials of blood, and hook you up to an IV that drips its solution down into your bloodstream.
Zayne carefully covers your arm again so the tube runs under your sleeve, and tucks it under your blankets. “Try not to move this arm too much,” he warns tenderly. “If it comes out, we have to do this again.”
You nod again, but you’re barely listening. You curl up onto your side facing the IV, trying to conserve any amount of heat.
For as much as he wishes he could comfort you in your suffering, he needs to figure out what the problem is. He needs to find a way to treat you. Surely, that would help more than watching you cry.
He tells a nurse to monitor your condition. If your fever rises any higher, they’ll have to take drastic measures to cool you back down before it causes irreparable damage.
He doesn’t let himself think about that.
Before he leaves, he holds your hand again. His thumb brushes your knuckles. You cling to him, shaking uncontrollably. A permanent ache latches onto his heart as he pulls away. Back to work. Back to saving your life. Like always.
-
The next time his phone goes off, it’s a notice from the nurse that your fever broke. It’s nearly 10pm, far past his work hours.
He leans away from the microscope and removes his glasses to rub at his tired eyes. If you could see him now, he’s sure you would be getting onto him for not getting enough rest.
He sighs heavily. The lab is dark. It’s just him and a desk light, and the light of the microscope on the slides of your blood. A machine in the corner whirs in a quiet hum, working to break down the components of your blood into numbers he can reference against his knowledge of medical ailments and the textbooks the hospital keeps on hand. It won’t be done for a while. He’s testing for everything he can think of, and more.
Resigned to taking a break, Zayne stands, cleans up the workspace, and turns the light off as he leaves.
His first stop is to his office. He calls a nearby restaurant on his way up, placing a familiar order for takeout. There were times when you’d stubbornly stay in his office until he finished a long surgery or paperwork. You were so excited when you discovered the little mom-and-pop place, and even happier when the food was good. He got all your favorites.
His office felt colder, somehow. Lingering there made his skin crawl with discomfort. He hung his coat up in its designated place. The plush snowman smiled at him from the window sill. He only hesitates for a second before grabbing it and heading straight for your room.
The hospital’s lights were dimmed. If it weren’t for the few nurses walking around, he could have tricked himself into thinking he was in his nightmares. Maybe this was a nightmare. A new one. But he remembers the way you held him. How real that felt. There was no way this was just a dream.
He cracks open the door slowly. The large window displays the beautiful sight of Linkon City lit up at night. The stars are vivid, blurring into the cacophony of neon lights and the bustle of humanity.
Your body is turned to face it, away from the door. All but one blanket has been shucked off, kicked to the foot of the bed or dropped carelessly onto the floor. Your sweatshirt and sweater are mostly off, save for the arm your IV fed into. At least you remembered to be careful.
He steps inside quietly, closing the door behind him with a soft click. You curl up into yourself with a sigh.
“I don’t need anything right now. You can go.”
He chuckles. You turn your head quickly at the sound, wincing when the world misaligns. “I just got here, and you’re already trying to get rid of me,” he teases. Your world slowly coalesces onto his face, leaning over you once more. He presses the back of his hand to your forehead.
“I didn’t know it was you.” His hand is blessedly cool against your flushed skin. You’re still warm, but the chills have subsided for the time being. “You can stay.”
He settles the snowman into the crook of your arm. You’re holding onto it before you even know what it is. He’s glad to see your smile at a time like this. “How are you feeling?” He moves around to the other side of the bed.
“Like I have no control over my body. Or my mind,” you admit. “It’s… hard to think straight. It’s all slow and muddled. And when I couldn’t stop shivering? Ugh, I hate it.”
Nimble fingers detach the IV from the cannula temporarily. Long enough to gently remove your layers. You sigh in relief at having your arm back. You were so cold earlier, but now you feel like the bed is on fire. Like every inch of your body is burning in an inferno.
“Your body was trying very hard to kill off whatever’s making you sick. By shivering, your body contracts and relaxes your muscles to generate heat and raise your core temperature. So while you feel cold,” he replaces the IV tube, “your actual temperature is extremely warm.” He rounds the bed again and sits down on the edge, busying himself with your chart. “On top of that, your high fevers are going to make staying lucid difficult.” He flips it over to the next page.
Guilt tugs at you as you watch him. He doesn’t have his lab coat, but he’s still got his doctor face on. Even now, so late at night, when he should be allowed to leave work behind, you’ve invaded his workplace, bringing his personal life with you. “I’m sorry.”
He looks at you. “What are you apologizing for?”
“Making you work even more, just to take care of me.”
“You don’t have control over being sick,” he says. He sets the chart aside.
“No, but…” You let go of the snowman to grab his hand. You frown. “I don’t know how to word it right now.”
He smiles imploringly, stroking your hand with his thumb. “Just do your best. I’ll work it out from there.”
You mull over how to phrase what you want to say, brain sluggish and twisting up thoughts until you could pull together the words enough. “I feel bad about it because I know you won’t go home now.” You watch your fingers pull from his hold enough to trace over the faint scars that litter his hand. He lets you, resting his hand against the bed. “Because… even though I want you to go home and sleep… I also don’t want to be alone here.”
“I think you worded that pretty well.” You meet his eyes, but you continue to feel along his hand. He catches your hand, trapping it against the bed and squeezing affectionately. “How about we come up with a compromise? I’ll stay with you at night and on my breaks, but I’ll go home in the morning to clean up, and come in at my regular hours. How does that sound?”
You nod slightly. “Deal, as long as I won’t get you sick.”
He shakes his head. “It doesn’t seem to be contagious. You don’t have to be worried about getting anybody else sick.”
“Good. I don’t want anybody else to feel like this.”
A light knock on the door disturbs the conversation. Zayne gets up and answers it, speaking softly with someone outside. You wonder if it’s a nurse, wanting to take your vitals again or looking for Dr. Zayne. But then there’s a crinkling sound and he’s coming back over to the bed with a large bag of takeout. You can’t help laughing a little.
“What’s so funny?” he asks as he begins pulling containers from the bag. He separates them into yours and his.
“I just wasn’t expecting it.” You slowly sit up, trying hard not to jostle the IV. It doesn’t escape your notice how Zayne watches from the corner of his eye. “Thank you.”
He smiles. “Of course.” He gestures for you to scoot over, so you do. Once there’s enough space, he sits down beside you, handing you utensils and your food. You’ve still got enough fine motor control to feed yourself. Though, even if you didn’t, he would have been more than happy to feed you.
After you’ve finished eating, Zayne clears the bed, tucking everything back into the bag. He takes his shoes off and sets them to the side before laying down next to you. Your head rests on his arm, hands holding the snowman plushie to your chest, with his other arm wrapped around you. His hand rubs comforting shapes into your lower back.
“Goodnight, Zaynie,” you whisper.
He presses a kiss to your forehead. “Goodnight, my love.”
Through everything you face next, you aren’t alone. When you wake up at 3am to chills wracking your body, he’s helping you put your sweatshirt back on and layer you in blankets. When the fever recedes and you’re desperately trying to get all the layers off, he’s speaking to you softly, pressing chilled hands to your neck and forehead to calm you down while he helps you. Even when he goes home in the morning, and when he has to leave to take care of his other patients, he’s only a call away, directing your care behind the scenes. Three weeks later, he’s the one filling out your discharge forms. He never figures out what caused it.