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Musichetta was going to complain when Joly called her at noon on a Friday to pick him up from class early, because she hated driving with a passion and hated it at least sixty-seven-point-three times more when she had to push the seat back as far as it could go to fit her belly behind the wheel. But it took less than a sentence out of Joly in that shaking voice he sometimes had that she wished she didn’t know quite so well, and all her arguments were put aside.
“S-sorry, ‘Chetta, I tried calling Bossuet but his phone must be broken again,” he said, almost too quiet to be intelligible over the phone, and he had to take several breaths before he could continue. “I just need to... could you come pick me up...?” He sounded stuffy, like he had a cold, or like he had been crying.
Musichetta was already in the car and she flicked the volume on her phone up so Joly would hear her turn the ignition.
“You’re at the hospital today, right?” she asked, but she already knew his schedule and so didn’t need an answer. “Bossuet’s at Jehan’s place. They’re making vegan cupcakes for some reason... I don’t know, I think Jehan is on a vegan kick, Combeferre keeps making Courfeyrac bring pepperoni to meetings because I guess Jehan overhauled the pantry. I’m expecting frantic texts any minute about how Bossuet’s managed to light the frosting on fire or something, I really don’t know why Jehan wanted him in particular to help, maybe he thinks it’ll be more fun with a little danger. Eponine’s running the counter in the cafe for me again, she’s ridiculously good at it, if I don’t watch out she’ll steal the place right from under me while I’m carrying these kids around. Although she keeps trying to serve sweet iced tea and I keep telling her that this is Montreal, not Kentucky.” Musichetta continued chattering this way, head tilted to hold the phone between shoulder and ear so she could drive with both hands, all the way to the hospital.
“Joly, sweetheart, I’m out front,” she said finally, pulling up in a mildly illegal space by the front doors, having spotted Joly pacing nervously in front of them. He practically fled to the car, still in his white student’s scrubs. His eyes were touched with red but his breathing was steady. Musichetta held out her hand, palm up, on the console between them, asking silently if he was okay to be touched, and Joly gripped her hand tightly. They sat in silence for a moment, Musichetta’s bright green eyes watching Joly’s bowed head calmly. After a while, Joly leaned over to rest against Musichetta’s shoulder.
“Thanks for coming to pick me up,” he murmured.
“Of course. Will you be okay?”
“Yes,” he sighed, then turned his head up to meet Musichetta’s eyes. “‘Chetta. Remind me why I’m doing this.”
Musichetta closed her hand lightly around his and with her free hand pulled up her shirt. She splayed Joly’s fingers across the stretch-marked skin and smiled gently at him.
“Two more years and you get to specialize,” she said. “You can do it, babe. You know you can, and I know you can.”
Joly turned his face into her shoulder and nodded silently. Over his head, Musichetta spotted a security guard on his way over, presumably to tell her off for her less-than-legal parking space, and she finally pulled away before he could make it to them. Instead of talking, she reached around Joly to turn on the CD player-- it was one of the mix CDs Bossuet had gotten from Eponine, twangy American folk artists with mildly subversive undertones-- and sang along in her rich alto as she drove them home.