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Will enters the doctors lounge and promptly hopes he might be able to sink into the floor so he can’t be found for another consultation this shift. Maybe ever. His stomach churns, pangs of hunger and anger and grief battling it out until he feels dizzy. He thinks about the stale pizza he ate at 9:30pm yesterday, and the near-stale egg and cress sandwich from the canteen festering in his bag. Ignores it all in favour of the sofa, wills himself to pass out and not think about his failures as a doctor for at least five minutes.
The chance to decompress doesn’t last long, because the door is swinging open with force, like it means something. Will cracks an eye open and really does wish the ground had swallowed him whole the second he stepped foot inside the room.
Connor stands in the doorway, one hand gripping the handle, eyes wide and white coat down by his elbows. Will hasn’t seen him all shift, ducking into empty treatment rooms at the whisper of his name, busying himself with patient notes as he strides past. His stomach lurches again.
“Sorry, I can leave-“ Will starts, pushing on ripped leather with weak arms. He’s stopped by Connor holding his arms out, palms out flat like he’s in a hostage negotiation, like one wrong move could trip a live wire and take the rest of the ER with it.
“No, please.” Connor says, feet firmly planted in the doorway. Will lets his body fall limp against the cushions, lets his eyes slide shut again. Hopes Connor gets the hint to leave him the fuck alone.
“I heard.”
He doesn’t know if it’s been thirty seconds or thirty minutes, but Connor’s hand is still gripping hard, shoulders squared in a stance he’s unsure is defensive or protective, wonders if they’re one in the same. Will stares at the floor, watches the shuffle of hospital-approved loafers transition from linoleum to carpet, winces as the door gets slammed shut.
“Wow, rumour mill runs fast here, don’t it?” Will sighs, pressing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets until he sees static, the pressure some way to cathartic.
“No, no rumours.” Will doesn’t respond. He doesn’t need this; some kind of misguided self-indulgent welfare check.
“I came down for a cardio consult on Ethan’s patient. Noticed you were missing, so I hounded Maggie until she told me.” He doesn’t need to open his eyes to know Connor is inching closer, voice growing louder in volume and softer in tone.
“Oh, I get it now. You’ve come to marvel at the great screw up Will Halstead, one more time.” He laughs, but there’s no humour behind it.
“Will,” It’s sighed like a weary warning, and it’s enough to get him to open his eyes again. Will feels so small at the base of his towering frame, where he’s so close that Will could extend an arm and just graze his fingertips across Connor’s thigh. He’s leering at him with a gaze he can’t decide is born from pity or maybe even care.
“No, of course not. I came to see if you were okay.”
Will knows he shouldn’t be so hostile out the gate. There’s a ghost of a memory reminding him of civility and professionalism and I hope we can still be friends. But that was a month ago, when he mistook his own self-preservation for optimism, when seeing Connor in the corridors and not feeling this guttural, all-consuming grief felt like a possibility.
“Yeah, I’m fine dude, don’t worry about me.” Connor flinches just as Will regrets saying it, the moniker feeling forced and foreign sliding from his tongue. Connor’s well-worn mask slips, just for a flash, exposing the flesh of desperation and anguish and hurt cowering behind. The same kind of hurt he knows is mirrored in his own furrowed brow, complementing pain and exhaustion carved into his bones. His mind fights the urge to pull out the rolodex he swore he’d banish to the untouchable dark, to cycle through babe and honey and Con until muscle memory kicks in again.
He straightens up a little, shuffling back until he can’t feel polyester and muscle against his fingertips, probably. Tries to calm his features into that of indifference, heart skittering against bone.
“Can I sit?” It sounds more like an inevitability than an option, like he doesn’t get a say this time.
Will says Sure and moves until he’s plastered against the sticky leather on the arm of the sofa. The room dims with a flick of a switch, “So we’re not disturbed,” Connor says as he stalks his way back. Glimmers of empty bays, breathy sighs and hushed whispers strike him, fight their way to be perceived like how they used to take centre stage in Will’s daydreams. The knots in his stomach cinch tighter.
Will, ever the masochist, takes his first proper look at Connor since he entered. He’s not really sure what he hopes he’ll see; if he wants him to be suffering as much as he is. But even as he passes under the weak glow over the overhead spotlights, it’s clear to see that the aftermath has affected him, too. Weary lines have now chiseled their way into his resting expression as a permanent exhibit, though Will doubts its from the smiles he used to see so frequently. His jaw is peppered with the beginnings of a beard, and not for the first time, he’s struck by the bittersweet reminder of how similar they are. Will’s hair is shorter than then, now, freshly shaven this morning after failing at growing a beard himself. A haphazard attempt to put a physical barrier in his way to feel less like his world was ending every time they crossed paths. As if a haircut can trim away the traces of hands carding through his hair, like a facial razor can slice away the ghost of lips on his cheek.
Connor follows his cue and sits at the opposite end of the sofa, a mirror image. Briefly, he contemplates if Connor is also wondering how the fuck they ended up here, but he can’t entertain that thought. Because once he does, it’s an tempting slide into contemplating exactly where it all went so wrong so fast, and he doesn’t need that right now.
Eventually, Connor starts talking. First about the weather, then about the slow cooker recipe he tried yesterday and then about how he finally found time to fix the squeaky door leading to the master bathroom. Anything to distract Will from one of the worst shifts to date, and he’s not sure if this is making it better or worse. Either way, it’s weird, to say the least. The last time they spoke in full sentences went much differently to the hushed babbling happening next to him. Spat out in words too cruel and unfair to ever retract, their duelling passion and matching pigheaded demeanors meaning their relationship was always destined to end burning in hellfire.
Still, he can’t deny that it’s nice to hear his voice again past the pleasantries they’ve graduated to in the corridor when they can’t avoid each other. One of his favourite things was Connor’s sharp tongue and quick wit, his readiness to challenge Will and match him as good as he gives in an argument. The nights most painful to recollect are ones spent talking until the early hours, the promise of forever in each pregnant pause. He’s missed it more than he realised.
But that was then, and this is now; a decimated relationship making way to a decaying friendship, a perfect stranger next to him whose just run out of water cooler topics to cover. He briefly ventures into topics closer to home; how Jay is doing, the trip to New York he decided to take on solo, his review of the Deli place they said they’d go to. But it’s too familiar, too fast.
Silence blankets the room again, but it isn’t as stifling as before.
“I do still worry about you, by the way. I know how these kind of things can affect you.” It’s a tattered truth that Connor understands what Will needs, sometimes better than Will himself. That same self-preservation he clung onto months ago is pleading and screaming at him to say that Connor doesn’t have the privilege to keep those parts of him tucked away anymore. But it must be hard to forget the instances where Connor had to personally drive him to work to make sure he attended, even though they were on conflicting schedules. The amount of arguments he took on the chin after a rough shift made Will particularly volatile. How shit like today brings up thoughts of his Mom, has him begging for someone to be there to hold him together and as he pushes away every attempt to do so.
He aches to reach out and take Connor’s hand in his, to trace patterns and words across veins and moles, reciprocal comfort in the aftermath. Hopes it might erase the feeling of Connor’s fingers taking Will’s keys from his palm, pulling the door shut to their apartment for the last time. One touch and he’d get his fix, even if only temporary.
Will swallows around the lump in his throat. He’s pretty sure that Connor already knows what went down, juicy cases spreading like wildfire these days, but he wants to tell him anyway.
“It’ was supposed to be straight forward. Kind of case we could do blindfolded by now. Find the source of the bleeding for the first patient, stem it enough to send them up to an OR. Let surgery fix it, send to recovery, discharge. Figure out why the second patient is unresponsive, send them for a CT or an MRI to confirm, send them to neurology where Sam will work his magic, recovery, discharge. It’s our basic stuff, you know?”
He sees Connor nod in his periphery.
“I’ve gone over it countless times now, and i still don’t know what went wrong. The Dad probably didn’t have much chance anyway, but the Mom. I should’ve found that stomach bleed quicker. She could’ve been here.” Will takes a steadying breath, stretches his legs out in front of him.
“And then, God. Having to ring DCFS for that poor kid, knowing her entire life was about to change, whole thing felt like a nightmare.” Will keeps his eyes shut, head tilted back against the sofa. He can see it play out, taunting him in technicolour against his eyelids. Staring into the untainted soul of a six year old balancing a blood-stained plush dragon within the sling strapped to her shoulder, asking where her Mom and Dad are.
No passage of time could change how Connor knows him so entirely and wholly. No amount of distance between them could make Connor forget that he needs to initiate first contact, a tentative but steady hand on his shoulder which sends Will’s nervous system into overdrive, every nerve ending alight. Their bodies gravitate to one another as instinctual as breathing, and when Will turns, Connor’s arm is already outstretched so he can curl up into his side, knowing the routine down to an art. When Connor’s hand finds its home on Will’s bicep, a calloused thumb leaving an itch in its path against his starchy scrub top, it’s finally enough to crack Will open.
“They-they weren’t supposed to die. I should’ve… I could’ve done more. So many patients I should’ve done more for, Con.” The pressure of Connor’s cheek atop his head is grounding only for a second, stems some of the tears spilling onto his cheeks.
The physical touch should give him some kind of reprieve, but it’s like a chasm opens.
He’d quietly hoped that if they ever had another moment like this, it would feel like no time had passed. But everything feels so different, now. Connor’s hand feels rougher, calloused in a way he doesn’t remember, and he’s still acting like one wrong move could end everything, and it’s all wrong. Connor’s body is at right angles with his, contorted and rigid. His blood-stained scrub cap discarded on the table serves as a sick reminder that Will manages to fuck everything up, both in work and in life. There’s still eight hours of his shift left, but right now he could never see another patient again, probably never see Connor again, and be happy about it.
He’s so angry at Connor. How his mere presence has made him feel more human than he has in weeks, safe to open up under the most hideous of circumstances. He’s angry at himself. At how he can feel the progress he made - from every night spent avoiding his phone number, talking it through with Maggie, ordering another beer - dissipate with every quiet breath. He’s frustrated with God or fate or whatever fucked up thing has a hold of his life nowadays, that didn’t let him save his patients, the most basic task on his job description. And he’s so tired of feeling this way.
“I’ll always be here for you. Regardless of…” Connor trails off, head turned as if moving his mouth away means he hasn’t said it, like distance will mask the quiver of his voice. Will can feel the shards of his heart splintering into his ribs, the work he’s done to try and repair his fractured heart torn to shreds as he sits and hones in on the press of Connor’s side into his. And really, what’s one more blow?
“I know, Con. Same for you, always.”
He gives in entirely and lays his head on Connor’s pec, just as he’s wanted to since he entered the room. Maybe he can convince himself that everything feels okay again, maybe that he’s rewound the clock by six weeks, just for a moment.
Sometime later, Will opens gritty eyes to Maggie looming over the sofa arm, fingernails curled into his knee.
“Will? …Will? Sorry, babe. I tried to leave you as long as possible, but we’re getting swamped out there. I also tried calling for cover but…” She trails off.
Right. Said cover is underneath him, a solid warmth twisting Will’s body out of shape adding another sore back muscle to his aching body. Will’s fist is still tight around Connor’s scrub top, material taut around his neck, and he’s pretty sure there’s a drool patch drying down just underneath that. Will jerks away like he’s been burnt, but it’s quickly stifled by strong arms securing him down impossibly tighter. It feels like any other lazy morning, Connor begging for five more minutes in bed after an hour of ‘five more minutes’. The same hands cupping his shoulder, the familiar snuffles and soft snores into his hair that have his heart swooping and crash landing.
“It’s okay, Mags, I got it. Just, uh, give me two to get out there, okay?”
“Sure.” she sighs, giving his knee a last squeeze. It’s accompanied with the same withering look Connor gave him earlier, like he’s an abandoned puppy at a rescue centre. Like his laments late into the night have just shattered in one fell swoop. He decidedly does not think about the incoming interrogation on exactly how he ended up in Connor Rhodes’ arms, pockets it for his post-Molly’s binge drink. He tries to be thankful he has someone like Maggie looking out for him, redirects the anger at himself for his resolve shattering so easily the second they’re alone again.
Will gives himself ten seconds to commemorate this moment. To codify their pressure points into his core, to remember how it felt when he had nothing to lose, to warn himself how much it’s going to hurt to leave all over again.
Will manages to slowly unlock the vice grip of Connor’s fingers, peeling his arms away to either side of his body. He takes care in contorting himself around Connor to push himself off the sofa, careful to not disturb him. Will still knows Connor so intimately, too, and knows that sleeping alone often brings restless nights, finding temporary sanity in tactical naps. For a nauseating second, he wonders if he has been sleeping alone. If there’s been other people since him, getting the privilege to watch Connor come undone under deft touches, how many got to see the side of Connor he so desperately misses. He looks so peaceful now, reminiscent of leaving him in bed before a shift with a promise of a kiss the next time they see each other. Is he sharing that with anyone now?
The rose-tinted memory has him considering leaving Connor a note. But to say what? Thanks for accompanying the meltdown? Sorry? Catch you later? It’s just another reminder that it was a mistake to fall together again, that he’ll never get back what he so craves. He holds onto that pain with aching palms as he heads across the dim room.
With one final look at Connor’s sleeping form, Will turns and leaves.