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Jamie comes to in fits and starts, wincing slightly as she squints through soft white light filtering in through the gauzy paper windowshades. Somewhere off in the distance, up and to the left of her head a bit, the lilting sound of piano reaches her ears, a crooning voice almost too low to make out. Everything’s a little fuzzy still— her head, her limbs, the strange and unfamiliar sheets she’s underneath.
It’s not her bed. It shouldn’t be her bed, because she doesn’t remember going to sleep, and its clearly late afternoon by the gentle golden glow of the sunlight. If she’s not at home, she realizes, then—
“You’re awake,” says a voice, warm and full of care. Jamie blinks her eyes open fully, turning her head to the side and startling slightly at the bearded, bespectacled face she’s met with. “I wasn’t sure how long you’d be asleep, but— well. You seem to be doing just fine.”
Jamie blinks. She’d nearly forgotten.
“Dr. Goodsir,” she replies, and his face breaks into a small, timid smile. Beneath the steady grip of her ribcage, her heart kicks up a foxtrot. “Is it— am I—”
God, she can’t quite force the word over her tongue, and everything feels slow, strange and sluggish as she crawls her way into wakefulness. She doesn’t need to, though— Goodsir’s smile brightens, the flash of white teeth visible and a breathy little chuckle escaping him, and then he nods, and a heady wave of relief soaks her through to the bone.
“You did wonderfully, ” he says, still as soft and warm as ever, and everything feels like honey and sweetwine in her veins. “No complications, you were under the knife for almost a full hour less than we’d expected, even. You’ll feel a bit sore once the painkillers begin to wear off, but Alexander should be back in about four hours with another dose. Try not to move around too much, if you’d like to sit up—”
His voice fades off into a dim background noise— she should be listening, she knows, but it’s rather hard to focus when every square inch of her feels as though it’s lit up and singing.
Speaking of singing—
Jamie can still hear it, the soft music, soothing and vaguely familiar. Pulling her eyes away from Goodsir, she casts her gaze around until she finds the source— a cellphone, her cellphone, lying faceup on the bedside table with the music player visible on the lockscreen. Elton John, it reads. Your Song.
Goodsir follows her gaze, jumping to grab the phone and hand it over as soon as she moves to pick it up.
“Yes, ah—” he starts, breaking off with a small chuckle. Jamie furrows her brows in confusion, swiping across the screen to unlock the phone. “That was— A friend of yours asked me to— um. I didn’t unlock it or anything, all I did was press play. He said you’d enjoy it.”
A fond, shocked little sob bubbles up in her throat, spilling over her tongue and teeth and out into the warm afternoon air at the sight awaiting her.
There, waiting on the little screen in her hand, is a playlist.
Mxtape fr Hospital Yr Friends Luv U Jamie It’s Just 3 Days !!!
Something warm and wet traces its way down her cheek, and she realizes with a start that she’s crying. God. Mortifying. She looks down at the account name underneath the title— H.T.D. Le Vesconte— and feels another slip down past her cheekbone and over the corner of her lips.
Of course Dundy would do this. Of course they all would, really. She sees The Shins on here, that’s Jimmy’s doing beyond a doubt, and George’s handiwork further down— You’ve Got A Friend, really, the man is nothing if not predictable. The rest of it, she can mostly pick apart— but that’s not what matters, not really, not when she’s so busy fighting off the hitch in her breath and the prickle in her eyes at the unmistakable undercurrent of care underneath it all.
A tissue appears in front of her face, white and pristine, and she takes it from Goodsir’s outstretched fingers with a wet, teary thank you.
“If you’re feeling up to it, Miss Fitzjames,” he says— and oh, it never fails to send a thrill of joy through her, being called Miss Fitzjames— “you’ve got a visitor or two waiting, I believe.”
She can’t help it— she laughs. Bright and open and joyous, escaping with a note of surprise before she can bite it back. Goodsir stands, takes the tissue, deposits it neatly into the trash bin at the bedside. It’s not a surprise someone’s come for her, not really— almost certainly Dundy, unless he’s at home watching the dog. Perhaps Graham, he’s always made a point of visiting with flowers and a card whenever one of their merry little band finds themselves laid up with a broken arm or a particularly nasty case of the flu.
“Yes,” she manages to choke out after a second, face aching with the stretch of the smile she can’t seem to fight down. “God— please, yes, yeah, let them in—”
Goodsir doesn’t move. He doesn’t get the chance.
Almost as soon as the words leave her mouth, there’s a click and then a riotous crash as the door to her little recovery room swings wide and a parade of figures fall through.
It’s not just Dundy, or Graham— although they’re both there, Dundy stumbling forward with his hand on the door handle and Graham bracing himself up against the doorframe with a sheepish smile on his handsome face.
No, it’s the whole damn lot of them.
George, holding a thermos of what Jamie can only assume is tea. Chas, clutching a fistful of garish balloons, one of them reading CONGRATS ON YOUR NEW JOB! in bright silver lettering, with JOB crossed out with thick black marker and the word VAGINA scrawled in messy chicken scratch beside it. Jimmy, sprawled across the floor with an unreasonably large stuffed white bear in his hands.
And Dundy— oh, Dundy, red-faced and grinning, already halfway to her bedside before Goodsir can get a word in. He stops short just before throwing himself into a full-body hug, clearly restraining himself, hands twitching at his sides. “Can I—?”
Jamie lets out a half-laugh, half-sob and holds her arms wide, and that’s all the invitation he needs. He crashes into her, careful despite the force of it, his grip warm and solid around her shoulders. The sheer, overwhelming comfort of it nearly undoes her.
“Jesus Christ, Jamie,” he mutters into her hair. “Could’ve told us you were up. Not even a text.”
She snorts, blinking rapidly to keep from crying all over again. “I was unconscious until ten minutes ago, Dundy.”
“Yeah, well, rude of you.”
She laughs, bright and unrestrained, and when he pulls back, Graham is there, dropping a kiss to the top of her head before setting a tiny, ridiculous-looking potted plant on the bedside table.
“Figured you could use some greenery,” he says. “Something to brighten up your recovery.”
Jamie looks at it— a scrawny-looking little succulent in a pot painted with a truly heinous mess of pink and orange stripes— and swipes at her damp eyes with the back of her hand.
“This is so ugly,” she says, voice thick, the smile on her face beginning to make her cheeks ache.
Jimmy drops the bear next to it, grinning. “The flowers were all boring. This , however, was hilarious .”
Dundy sighs. “I told you it was stupid.”
“I know , that’s why we bought it.”
Jamie can’t stop smiling. Her face hurts, her body aches, her painkillers are just beginning to wear off— but God, she’s so loved.
Goodsir, bless him, finally clears his throat. “Try not to overwhelm her too much,” he says, no real scolding in it, only wry fondness.
Dundy, sprawled dramatically in the chair next to her, waves him off. “She’s fine. You’re fine, right, Jamie?”
"I’m fine," she says, and it’s the simplest truth in the world. "Just perfect."
Jamie barely has time to catch her breath before the door creaks open again, this time not with a chaotic burst of bodies and voices, but with something quieter. Gentler.
A figure lingers in the doorway, silhouetted by the golden afternoon light spilling in from the hall. For a second, he doesn’t move, just stands there, his hands curled around something carefully wrapped in brown paper. His coat hangs open, slightly rumpled, his thin hair more disheveled than normal, as though he’s been running his hands through it.
Francis. Her stomach flips.
For a half-second, he stands frozen in the doorway— watching, studying, his piercing blue eyes flicking from the IV line in her arm, to Goodsir standing just off to the side, then up to Jamie’s face.
God, she’ll never get used to the feeling of Francis’ eyes on her. Warm, soft, the creases at their corners deepening as his lips split into a small, gap-toothed smile at the confirmation that she’s okay, she’s alright, she’s better than ever.
Dundy, of course, ruins it.
“Fuck’s sake, Francis,” he laughs, and the moment snaps like thread. “Don’t just stand there, come in.”
That’s all it takes— Francis huffs a quiet laugh and steps forward, slipping through the chaos with practiced ease. He doesn’t say anything at first, just stops beside her bed and looks her over properly. She can’t help it, the way her breath hitches at the weight of it, the way his brows pinch ever so slightly, eyes glazed over just a little with tiredness, like he’s been waiting for hours just to see her awake.
“You’re here,” she says, her voice still hoarse and scratchy.
Francis tilts his head, his mouth curving up at the corners. “Of course I am.”
Jamie wants to say something back, something witty or self-deprecating or sarcastic, but she can’t. Not when he’s looking at her like that — like he’s seeing her for the first time all over again, like she’s dressed to the nines and not wearing a hospital gown without even a lick of makeup, like Dundy and Graham and Jimmy and the rest of them don’t even exist.
A hand appears in front of Jamie’s face, and she follows the line of it up to where Dundy sits, lips set in a tight, mock-unimpressed line. “Oh my God,” he huffs. “She’s not made of glass, man, just kiss her already.”
Francis, to his eternal credit, ignores him. Instead he reaches out slow and careful, brushes his knuckles against her cheek. Jamie’s breath stutters, caught in her throat.
It’s such a small thing. A barely-there touch, featherlight, but it sends something warm and honey-sweet curling through her chest all the same. His fingers are slightly rough, calloused and always a bit too dry, but his touch is so unbearably gentle that it makes her throat go tight all over again. He traces the path of a tear she hadn’t realized was still there, his hand lingering for a moment before tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
Jamie swallows hard. “You’re being disgustingly sweet.”
Francis hums, amusement flickering in his eyes. “You say that like you don’t love it.”
And God help her, she does.
She wants to say something clever back, to keep the moment light, but every word she can think of dies on her tongue before she can speak. Instead, she reaches up and catches his wrist before he can pull away. His pulse thrums steady beneath her fingers, quiet and constant and grounding.
She squeezes, just once.
Francis exhales slowly, then leans down, pressing the softest kiss to her forehead. It’s almost nothing— barely more than a brush of skin against skin, feather-soft and light as air— but Jamie feels it everywhere, warmth spreading from the point of contact and rippling out all the way to her fingertips.
Someone groans dramatically.
“That’s it?” Jimmy complains.
“Don’t encourage him,” Dundy mutters, dry amusement lacing his voice. “We’ll get a show if you’re not careful.”
They could. Jamie doesn’t care.
She’s exhausted, aching, the dull throb in her body growing more noticeable as the last of the painkillers begin to wear off. But none of that matters, not really. Not when she’s got a room full of people who love her, and Francis looking at her like she’s the most important thing in the world.
She shifts slightly, still holding onto his wrist.
“You’re staying, right?” she asks.
Someone— Graham, maybe— slips her phone out of her hand, turns up the volume until the bright, joyful music is loud enough to cut through the cacophony of voices. Francis squeezes her hand in return. “Of course we are,” he murmurs, sweet and soft. “For as long as you need.”