Archive of Our Own

July: I Hate Everything About You

The normal morning chaos on a hospital floor: transport technicians rolling patients in wheelchairs through the crowded hallways, heading down to radiology or an echocardiogram or some other exciting off-floor expedition, weaving through incoming nurses and aides, respiratory therapists making their rounds on the trach patients, kitchen ambassadors balancing trays, occupational and physical therapy beginning to schedule their mornings, phlebotomists darting in and out of rooms in a frantic haste to get blood samples down to the lab, and housekeepers mopping and dusting and emptying laundry bags and otherwise taking up the remaining available space in the wide-but-not-nearly-wide-enough hallways.

Every single one of them seemed to be drinking coffee.

Dr. Marcus Aquila—BA, U Chicago; MD, Warren Alpert Medical School, Brown University; son of the owner of Lucky Luigi's Polish Hotdog Hut, and newest resident on Providence Chicago's cardiac floor—did not have a coffee to fiddle with, regrettably. Instead, he spun his congratulations-you've-graduated pen (“To: Il Bambino Marcus; From: all of us at Luigi's”) back and forth through his fingers, concentrating on not dropping it on the floor.

He was not nervous.

Not in the slightest.

Had he slept well last night? Nah. Had he been up since 3 am, truth be told? Yeah. Had he gone for a 5K jog like he had every other time he felt the need to blow off a little extra steam? Yeah. Had it worked? Nah.

Had he, in direct defiance of everything his advisor had—well—advised, tossed and turned in bed the previous night, staring at the ceiling, sweating and praying to the God he had never believed in that nothing would go wrong today, Please God don't let me fuck up, don't let me kill someone, don't let me look like a dick in front of the other residents, only to finally give up in disgust, run until his heart felt like it might burst (it wouldn't, he knew—he'd worried about palpitations in the past, but the EKGs and Holter monitors always assured him it was just nerves), then showered and scrubbed and changed his clothes 4 times like he was on a date or something, downed a quadruple grande skinny vanilla mocha, and now paced back and forth in the physician's office, trying to be calm, trying to be confident, trying to remember everything he'd learned about the clotting cascade and cephalosporins and the Whipple Procedure?

Maybe.

He wandered out of the physician's office, hoping that if he just walked around the generic hallways one more time they would start to differentiate themselves, at least to the point where he could find his way back to his starting point without having to ask a nurse for help.

They'd gotten an orientation, of course, back before the start of residency, but there had been so much to remember that the layout of the floor was the last thing on his mind. One the list of things that would potentially cause him to humiliate himself before his peers or superiors, getting lost ranked lower than virtually anything else.

He glanced at the clock again. 15 more minutes before the start of shift. The attending wasn't here; neither were the other residents. He wasn't the only new one, but for some reason the other new starts seemed weirdly confident, in a way that Marcus could only hope and pray he was managing to fake. First times were always his biggest weakness; after this day, everything would be smoother.

Fuck this. I have been in school for 8 years, leading up to this day. I have taken the MCATs, thousands of exams, and studied pharmacy until my eyes bled. I have done nothing for the past 11 years except make Polish-Italian hotdogs and study. If I was a moron, they would never have let me get so far.

He turned and walked back in what he hoped was the right direction, and was rewarded with his intended destination: the nurse's station. Whatever else happened today, Marcus figured, he could at least get a feel for how this was laid out, where the charts lived, where the charge sat, how the telemetry station was set up, and what sad fish eeked out an existence in the obligatory fish tank. Every floor of every hospital he had ever been in had a fish tank by the front desk, full of limp, colorless, “tropical” fish drifting through an algae-infested tank. They were thought to be good for morale.

A harassed-looking unit secretary (dressed like Billy Idol, complete with green bihawks) glanced up at Marcus as he wandered over to the fish, then back down to his keyboard. A phone, ignored, kept ringing and ringing directly next to him. Marcus fought down the urge to pick up the headset, a remnant of long nights making hotdogs with one hand, answering the phone with the other, perched precariously on one leg while the other started the dishwasher, all while trying to listen to whatever convoluted order the drunk socialite at the counter was trying to giggle her way through. He hated those nights more than anything. In retrospect, he tried to look back at that time as “those shitty years of working nights to pay for living expenses while Sallie Mae put him through college,” but even that only marginally romanticized them. His goal in life, besides making it through his first day of residency without killing anyone, was to never, ever, EVER eat another hotdog.

Marcus found himself scanning a handful of scratch paper sitting on the counter next to the secretary. It was covered in confidential patient information. Information for, as it turned out, his patients. Names, birthdates, medications, diagnoses, potentially-embarrassing social history …

Hmm! I didn't know Ms. Polanski had HIV, that didn't show up on her health history. Is that a new finding? Maybe that explains her recent bout of malaise and chills … oh shit. That info should not be out here like this.

“Are these yours?” he asked the secretary, who had finally answered the phone. The secretary, busy nodding and rolling his eyes at someone whose angry shouting could be heard even over the noisy background, shook his head and mouthed, Not mine. No clue.

Marcus scooped up all the papers, glancing around as he did. Nobody was near, nobody had set their papers down for a moment and was now hurrying back to rectify the potentially-massive HIPAA violation they were currently committing. He carried them over to the locked Shred-It bin and shoved them in.

If Ms. Polanski did indeed have a new diagnosis of HIV, then Marcus might have to do the unpleasant deed and inform her. Which was much better than having some family member wander out of her room and find it sitting for all the world to see at the front desk, next to the fish tank, Marcus thought darkly.  Somehow his coffee was beginning to wear off, despite the fact that a large portion of it still sloshed around at the base of his stomach, undigested. It was a medical miracle.

“Excuse me, Doctor, have you seen my brain?”

“Huh? Your brain?” Marcus glanced up at the nurse in front of him. Oh my god, he's beautiful.

“Esca Mac Cunoval, RN,” was small and wiry, wearing almost-sexy black scrubs, and had blond hair in thick gelled spikes that reminded Marcus of something he couldn't quite put his finger on. He also had a disturbingly-attractive mouth. Ugh, I cannot believe I just thought that. Marcus, you are a perv.

Esca looked at him closer. “Have you seen. My brain.”

And, because he had no idea what was happening, the best Marcus could come up with was “I'm not a neurosurgeon.” Then he winced.

The nurse with the disturbingly-attractive mouth gave Dr. Aquila a look of condescending pity. “You must be one of the new residents. Helpful hint: my brain is the pieces of paper with all the notes for each of my patients written on them. And I just set it down here for a moment. Have you seen where it got off to?”

Marcus hesitated a moment too long, and the nurse's eyes narrowed. “You've seen it, haven't you?”

“I tossed them in the Shred-It bin.”

Esca nearly hissed, and Marcus' heart sank. Shift wouldn't even start for 10 minutes, and the day already did not look promising. “Why did you just throw away all my paperwork, Doctor … Aquila?” He peered at the name embroidered on Marcus' white coat like he was storing it away for some future, unpleasant use. “That's a serious waste of my time, making me rewrite all of it.”

The best defense was a good offense, right? Marcus at least could fall back on the knowledge that he had acted absolutely correctly. “It was confidential patient information, sitting out for everyone to see. If you wanted it kept safe you should have kept it on your person. I'm sorry it's a hassle for you, but I have to follow the rules.”

Unfortunately, whatever Marcus had been thinking might be the result of that short speech (the nurse's backing down sheepishly? A mutual laugh about what a pain in the ass HIPAA was?), the reality was far more awkward.

“Did you seriously just tell me how to do my job, Doctor? Do you have a problem with me grabbing some orange juice for the night telemetry tech, who thought his blood sugar was crashing out? Are you suggesting I'm new at this?”

Right, time to back-pedal. Hospitals were rough, and Marcus didn't want to start an entire year of cardiac residency by fighting with a nurse who could make his life seriously unpleasant. No point in making enemies this quickly.

“Nope, not saying that at all. Sorry if it came out all wrong; I'm kinda new at this. Tell you what—can I buy you a coffee to make up for it?”

Esca's jawline tensed, and he pinched his lips together in a way that Marcus really wished he hadn't noticed. “Hospital policy forbids receiving individual gifts from patients or family, and union rules discourage accepting them from other employees of the hospital system. It would encourage favoritism.”

Marcus, whose brain had apparently settled onto how fantastic Esca's mouth looked, replied, “Unions are kind of a hassle like that, aren't they?”

“Wouldn't know. I think they're great, myself. Big supporter and all.” His ID badge hung on one of those retractable strings; Esca pulled it away from his body and held it close to Marcus' face. “See the shiny gold pin?” Actually, Marcus wondered how he could have ever missed it. “UNION REP – support YOUR local nurse!” Esca let go of his badge, and it snapped back.

Dr. Aquila gritted his teeth. People were milling around them, chatting and greeting each other as they sipped various take-out coffees (apparently all the other nurses, except for one insane blond, showed up at 3 minutes to shift), and this argument was becoming very public. Time to cut and run. “Then will you settle for a simple apology, Esca?”

“Nurse Mac Cunoval, thanks. I'm not a big fan of hierarchies, and I don't see any particular reason why you get to be Doctor Surname, while I'm now-we're-first-names-intimates Esca.”

Oh my god, shift starts in 3 minutes and I'm about to lose my temper with a nurse already. This cannot be a worse start to the day.

He gritted his teeth and put on his best Lucky-Luigi's-Customer-Service voice. “Nurse Mac Cunoval, I apologize for any hassle I have caused you this morning. I shall do my best to avoid it in the future.”

Esca gave a brief, dismissive shrug, as if to say that the apology would have been a dismal failure had his mind had not already moved on to much more interesting things. Without a word he sidled off.

The Billy Idol look-alike secretary, who had apparently been listening to the entire thing, made eye contact with Marcus and rolled his eyes.

“That boy's such a fan of dramatics. And there's no point, man, none at all, 'cause we're all in this together. One big, happy, effed up family.” He turned back to his keyboard.

Marcus stared. I wonder when the other shoe drops?

~*~

Nine hours later, the day had not improved. The attending medical cardiologist, Dr. Ramasubramanian (“call me Dr. Rama”), had corrected him twice on very obvious mistakes. Half of the other residents had apparently met at some mixer that Marcus had not gotten an invitation to. His knees hurt, his look-at-me-I'm-a-doctor shoes hurt worse, and his brain felt so thrashed that he could barely remember the difference between Tylenol and Advil. Just when he was most behind and frantic, had a backlog of 8 pages to respond to, was two hours late in rounding on his patients, feeling extremely shaken (he had just broken the news to an overwhelmed and distraught Ms. Polanski), and had to pee, the other shoe dropped.

“Excuse me, Dr. Aquila, can I have a minute?” Esca—Nurse Mac Cunoval—flagged him down with one hand. The other hand was busy typing on his smart phone. Some medical staff, nurses and doctors alike, carried smart phones so they could look up medications, procedures, or other information pertinent to their jobs. Esca was on Twitter. Apparently Twitter was very distracting; he never bothered to look up from the phone at Marcus, who simply stood there and chaffed at the interruption.

“I need you to—type type—rewrite all the orders you—type type—gave for the new admit—type type—Mr. Johnston. I'm going on break—type type—and I need them redone by the time—type type—I'm back in 15.”

“I don't suppose you could at least do me the courtesy of looking at me while you talk to me?” Marcus snapped. If there was one thing he had hated about Lucky Luigi's more than the food, it was how everyone sneered at him. They didn't know he was putting himself through premed and trying to co-manage a business perpetually on the edge of collapse, plus dealing with an increasingly erratic mother and dodging a father who wanted him to get married and have babies. All they saw was a failed jock in a “Lucky Luigi's – The Best of Both Worlds” tee-shirt and baseball cap, selling hotdogs to clubbers at 3 am.

Esca glanced up at him, wide-eyed. “I think you'd better clarify that statement, Doctor. I am not certain I understood.”

“I said, Nurse Mac Cunoval, would you please do me the courtesy of looking at me when you speak to me, and not simply stare at your iphone like it's more important than whatever request you are taking up my time with.”

Esca's gaze returned to his phone. He was apparently twittering the exchange. Marcus could feel legions of nurses laughing at him, right now, in cyberspace. “And why do you, Dr. Aquila, think it's even remotely appropriate to give me a lecture on my behavior?” he asked coldly.

“Because I'm a doctor, and I'd like to be treated with respect.”

At that, Esca actually snorted, and Marcus felt his blood pressure shoot up about 30 mmHg. “And what's so special about being a doctor?”

A hell of a lot of school, a hell of a lot more student loans, and no union to back me up, that's what.

He picked school, which was a bad choice. “Maybe eight years of focused education in the most intense and competitive of all academic environments, for starters? Degrees from the University of Chicago and Brown Medical School? It's not exactly the sort of thing you can do for shits and giggles with part time night classes at Richard J. Daley Community College.”

There was a very long, very uncomfortable silence, which gave Marcus plenty of leisure time to digest what he had just said. Finally Esca reached up one hand, calmly took his badge, and stuck it in Marcus' face for the second time that shift.

“Now let me tell you a couple of things, Dr. Aquila. Number 1: I don't care where you went to school or how many degrees you have. This badge says 'RN', not 'BSN', which means I went to night school at a community college. Malcolm X, not Richard Daley. And I'm not embarrassed about the fact that I went to a community college, and I'm not impressed by the fact that you didn't. Number 2: Nurses do all the real work. We wipe asses, clean up vomit, listen while our patients bitch and moan or shriek in pain, and then you waltz in with your degrees from the University of Fucking Chicago and drop a bombshell like an HIV diagnosis on Ms. Polanski, who is by the way—and I'll bet you didn't know this, did you?—recently widowed, which means she's going to spend her evening crying and alone in a hospital, and I'm going to spend my evening listening to her cry, while she talks about how she was—and I'll bet you didn't know this either—always faithful to her husband but privately worried that he was cheating on her, and now she gets to forever wonder if, before he had the bad taste to drop dead of a heart attack 3 months ago, he had the even worse taste to give her HIV first. Number 3: You make 11-and-a-half times what I make. To diagnose, write orders on little pieces of paper, and send out your bill. So I'd frankly appreciate it if you'd at least do it all correctly.”

He paused to draw breath. Marcus didn't know what to do; he didn't know what to think; before he could come up with anything more intelligent than breathing, Esca had continued.

“Since you make 11-and-a-half times what I make, Doctor, I'll give you the courtesy of telling you to rewrite the orders, rather than just whining about you to your attending. Here is Mr. Johnston's chart. Go.”

Marcus flushed bright red; he couldn't believe how badly his voice was shaking, nor how helpless he was to stop it. “Everything is written just as you specified, Nurse Mac Cunoval. Meds, parameters, activities, restrictions, labs, and even the diet order stating that he wants to be able to have ice cream with dinner. What exactly needs to be rewritten?”

Esca gave Marcus a triumphant sort of smile, a smile that would have been really rather sexy on someone who was less of a colossal, Sears-Tower-sized dickhead. “You wrote it in red ink, Doctor. That's against protocols. You write orders in black ink only, and I approve them in red ink only, and then they're legal. These orders here? They do not count, and I will not risk my license following them.”

He abruptly spun on his heel and headed off down the hallway. “Black ink, Dr. Aquila. See you in 15.”

August: Wake Me Up When September Ends

Dr. Rama thought Marcus was an idiot and had told him so in the middle of the hallway (“Apparently they will let anyone graduate from medical school nowadays, won't they?”) while the other CardMed residents, who had all friended each other on Facebook, hid behind their clipboards and tried not to burst into giggles. The manager of his mother's adult family home had called three times the previous week because Ma—angry that her recent foray into food hoarding meant she was no longer allowed fridge privileges—was instead expressing her frustration via sexual advances towards the staff who, being mostly Sudanese and therefore Muslim, did not appreciate the gesture. And last night's date, the first he'd had in 14 months, had gone badly. Very badly.

“It's men like you, who refuse to proudly and openly acknowledge your sexuality, that are holding back queer progress in this country.”

“My patients have a right to feel comfortable with me. Do you seriously think I'm doing anyone any favors if I let on to all my Amish patients that I'm gay?”

“They're assuming you're straight if you don't. You're enabling the lie. And I don't go out on dates with liars.”

Marcus had spent the entire drive home thinking of rebuttals, comebacks, and well-reasoned defenses of why he kept his private life, well, private. It would help for the next time he bought someone drinks while they insulted him. In the meantime, he decided it would be better to stick to his regularly-scheduled life of celibacy interspersed with sad wank sessions in the shower, not that he could even think of many people worth fantasizing about. Well, maybe one or two—

“You're lucky, Dr. Aquila, that I'm a good nurse.”

Blushing and jerking his head up from his pager, Marcus watched in dread as Esca strolled down the hallway toward him, still sexy in his scrubs, still flaunting his spiked hair.

“And why is that?” It's like he knew I was thinking about him. Seriously, not now, please …

“Because a new nurse, or a nurse who didn't know, would have given these meds that you ordered, and then Mr. Farakhan would be dead.”

“All I wrote was for a basic antihyperlipidemic. They're practically the least harmful prescription drugs possible. They're on par with a stool softener, danger-wise.” But he felt too tired to even stand up for himself, let alone his medical practice. “Just tell me what's wrong with the order.”

“Well, you wrote it for sildenafil, for starters.” Esca shoved his brain under Marcus' nose, forcing Marcus to squint at the terrible handwriting.

“Which is what I meant to write. What's you're point, Nurse?”

Esca's eyes lit up, but not in a good way. “Mr. Farakhan is already on nitro to lower his blood pressure, and if I give him sildenafil too it's going to drop it so low that he crashes out. But at least he'll have a fantastic erection when he goes, so that's something.”

“What?” The text message on his pager blinked insistently at Marcus, but the letters were blurring together.

“Sildenafil, AKA Viagra? It'll kill him, but he'll die happy. If that's not your plan, however, and you'd really rather he got an antihyperlipidemic, possibly he should have a statin? I'm sure they must have covered that at one of your various universities. Simvastatin, maybe? Anyway, Dr. Aquila, fix it in the next 10 minutes and I won't write up a safety report on you.”

Marcus rewrote the order. Then he locked himself in the staff bathroom and spent five minutes hunched over the sink, rinsing his face again and again with cold water, hoping that no one would notice how red and watery his eyes had become.

~*~

That night, after an hour of moping around his studio apartment—it had been advertised as something called an “open one-bedroom,” which turned out to mean that the “bedroom” portion of the studio was separated from the “living room/kitchen” portion by a plastic sliding-glass door—he hit the gym for the first time since starting clinical rotations. It was empty except for him, which was the best part about working until 9 at night. The gym took up the entire 3^rd floor of his apartment building, and during the mornings it was unpleasantly crowded with sexy young professionals with time to spare in their lives, doing a few reps here or there, or messing about with pilates before showering and wandering off their sexy, non-strenuous jobs. What magical lives they all led. They did things that mattered (but not too much), worried about promotions rather than killing people on accident, and at the end of the day got to go out to bars and movies and parties and leave work behind rather than spend hours obsessing over misdiagnoses and how they could have better broken terrible news to distraught people.

After running on the treadmill until his lungs felt like bursting, Marcus headed for the shower; he was going to cry and he wanted a relatively soundproof place to do it. Plus the hot water felt good.

I can't do this, Pop. I'm an awful doctor. I don't even care about my patients anymore. All I care about is not being bitched out in front of the other residents, and avoiding this one jackass nurse. Med school was a horrible idea, your horrible idea, and now I'm stuck and you're not even here to be proud of me.

Fuck you for making me go after your dream, and fuck you for dying in the worst, stupidest, most dramatic way possible. You left me with nothing but guilt, a hotdog stand, and Ma.

Cursing at the shade of his father didn't help; never had yet, and never would. Certainly ratcheted up the remorse though. So he turned his attention to the water drumming on the back of his head and let the tears slide out until he felt nothing but emptiness. It was easier for him to sleep, when he was empty.

Even sleep was apparently going to avoid him tonight, however. It made no sense; he'd gotten maybe eight hours total over the last 2 days. He was so exhausted that his entire body trembled. But Dr. Rama's voice played over and over in his head, mocking eight years' worth of accomplishments, and frankly what did he have to be proud of if he was still so ignorant as to confuse a cholesterol-lowering drug with Viagra? He would go back tomorrow and get the shit kicked out him him again while he stood there and smiled and tried to be grateful for the opportunity. No choice and no chance to bail: he was hilariously in debt for med school and residency made him the virtual property of ProvChicago for the next 3 years.

Maybe an asteroid will hit Chicago. That would probably get me out of work. Or maybe I'll fall asleep and lapse into one of those weird comas and wake up in 5 years, and … I'll still be $200,000 in debt. Fuck. I wish someone would ask me if I was having suicidal ideations—I might just say yes. Maybe they'd put my on a locked psych floor and pump me full of Trazodone. That would be nice. I could get some sleep then.

~*~

For lack of a better idea, and because he was one of those cursed souls perpetually bothered by the notion that somewhere, someone didn't like him, Marcus started bringing donuts. He would swing by the grocery store in the morning, grab a box of whatever looked fresh, and drop them off in the staff lounge on the way to the physician's office. An apology of sorts, perhaps; he knew his presence on the floor wasn't making any lives easier. He didn't know if anyone cared but he felt a little better for doing so, which was well worth the cash.

By mid-August his donuts routine was well under way, his charting was no longer 100% inaccurate, he could find the cafeteria and the pharmacy and consistently remembered the code to the medications room. Maybe he would survive this after all.

There was still one thing that could shake his growing confidence. One small, sexy thing.

“Good morning, Nurse Mac Cunoval!” Marcus gave his best look-at-how-competent-I-am grin to Esca, who scowled up at him from the front desk. “Are you charge nurse this lovely Sunday morning?”

“Somebody's got to be. What's your point in asking?”

“Well, I'm just checking in to let you know I'll be the resident on call this shift. Please address any CardMed questions to me.”

“Oh goody. I drew the short stick!” Esca fixed his gaze on the box of donuts and jabbed it with his phone. “You make me cranky, Doctor. Why? Right there.”

“The donuts?” God, every time I think I've done anything right, anything at all …

“Exactly. The donuts. Do you see these donuts, Dr. Aquila?”

Marcus looked at the box in his hands. KROGER DONUTS – MADE FRESH DAILY! “Um … yes.” What was it about this one goddamn nurse that always made him so stupid and tongue-tied? “I've been bringing them almost every day, you know.”

“Of course I know. It's painfully, miserably obvious that you brought them.”

“You say that like it's a terrible thing!” How good it would feel, to strangle Nurse Mac Cunoval, RN with his own stethoscope. “You've let me know a hundred different ways what a pain in the ass I've been to the staff. I figured I could make up for it by bringing donuts. So here are donuts.”

“And what kills me, Doctor, what really kills me, is that you have no idea what's wrong.”

Most of the morning's good mood had evaporated, but Marcus was damned if he was going to let a skinny nurse with a doctor-loathing complex finish it off. “You're right. I don't. Please enlighten me. Is it the cholesterol? The carbs? Should I get less cake-style and more maple bars? And do you want me to just wait here by your desk until you tell me, or would you rather text my pager?”

Esca sighed impatiently. “These donuts, Doctor, are crap. Now, if a patient's family brings us a dozen cheap-o generic Kroger donuts with sprinkles, I'm going to eat them in a pinch and be delighted. Why? Because the families have so many things on their mind, and the fact that they've managed to think about us, the staff, specifically the nurses that do all the real work, is a really sweet gesture. Thoughtful. Cheers me up and all. But you … you are a doctor, Doctor. You make 11-and-a-half times what I make. Don't insult us by showing up with $5 worth of donuts.”

“I'm a resident! I make forty grand! I won't have a decent salary for years and years yet, and even then it will all go towards loans for about a decade.”

“World's smallest violin, Doctor.” A staff assist light started beeping from down a hallway, and without another word, or glance, he stomped away after it. Imani, the outgoing night charge, shook her head and gave Marcus a Significant Look.

“Don't take it too personally. Ever since his divorce, he's really hated doctors. Anyway, I like them just fine, although there could always be a couple more maple bars in the mix and less of that weird cake kind.”

Marcus stared at her. A legion of questions flooded through his head, not that any of them were likely to ever be answered.

~*~

Naturally, because he was one of those perpetually cursed souls, he woke up at 2 am struggling to escape from a dream in which skinny nurses laughed at him while throwing donuts.

Fine.

The good thing about being single was that, in case you happened to have a wonderfully-comfortable queen sized bed left over from a previous relationship, you could always keep the laptop in bed next to you and no one was around to complain. So that was something.

Ah, Google. Solver of Modern Problems.

The next day, Marcus showed up with fresh coffee and $25 worth of donuts from Swee Swee, which turned out to be directly on the route from his building to the hospital. The credit card was never going to forgive him, not if he kept this up for long, but the look on Esca's face almost—almost—made up for it. A fantastic combination of pissed, surprised, and … well, not impressed. Certainly not impressed. But he did take a Cinnamon Twist Cruller at morning report, and was eating a Southern Red Velvet donut at 10 am rounds. Marcus very pointedly did not call attention to this.

And although he really, really, really hated to admit it, Esca may have had a point: no less than three nurses mentioned how good the donuts were (one even had a smudge of Aztec Chocolate on her nose), and Marcus would take whatever kindness or friendliness he could get at that point.

After a week of exploring all the daily menu options at Swee Swee, he turned his attention to Frost. It was further out but had really good Bismarks and better coffee. After Frost he discovered an all-organic, all-vegan place called Sweet Retreat, which turned out to be surprisingly good. One day, wanting to do a little more driving before work (driving with DMB in the background always helped him relax), he even drove out to Elk Grove Village to pick up two dozen Krispy Kremes, not because they were particularly good but because he had loved them so much as a kid.

The credit card statement at the end of the month was almost painful, as was the realization that he had gained more than two inches of waistline. He didn't care.

September: That Voodoo that You Do

Finally, finally, finally, a break from work. Nearly.

OK, it wasn't a break of any sort. But it was a conference, rather than the hospital, and Dr. Rama had actually encouraged him to go (“Anything to get you off of my floor for a few days”), so he dutifully broke out the credit card once more and bought a ticket to Portland.

It was the best long weekend he had spent in years. For one thing, the conference was actually interesting. Marcus, who had no real interest in Advanced Life-Saving Techniques in Cardiology or—as he was rapidly discovering—anything involving cardiology, still found it fascinating how many different ways they could force a heart to beat. Portable AEDs for under $1,000, new rescue med protocols for codes, a heart pump called a TLC that looked like a piece of carry-on luggage, and a Ventricular Assist Device that was entirely internal and worked off of magnetic resonators. And to top if all off, it turned out that he was in Oregon at the most perfect of all possible times: Oktoberfest.

He skipped the meet-n-greets to wander through the fest and try barleywines. He took extended lunches to jog and discovered the food carts in the Pearl District. He tried to drive to Powell's, wanting to check out their travel section, but got lost on in the maze of one way streets and bridges; after his seventh trip over the river bisecting the city he gave up and slunk back to his hotel, vowing to walk next time. One day he skipped the conference altogether (it wasn't like he was being graded on attendance) swapped his rental for a convertible, and drove it through the Willamette Valley, looking at fields of hops, local vineyards, and hazelnut trees.

After three solid months of sitting indoors (where had the summer gone?), smelling nothing but cleaning solutions and iodine, staring at white walls and the artificial glow of computer screens, he could hardly wrap his head around how beautiful everything looked. Blue skies with towering columns of clouds, yellow wheat swaying in the late-summer breezes, acres of green hops and air that smelled of fresh-cut hay … it nearly overwhelmed him. A different world from ProvChicago, a world that didn't care about charting or hospital policies or infarctions. Finally he had to stop, pulling over at a roadside stand where kids sold pints of fresh cherries. He sat on the trunk of the car for half an hour and struggled with his emotions, staring at the fields, enjoying the heat, and spitting pips onto the dirt.

~*~

“It's been awfully quiet this week, Dr. Aquila, and I couldn't put my finger on why. Took me until yesterday to figure it out.”

“Because I wasn't around?”

“Precisely!”

“Nobody writing stupid orders that cause sentinel events, nobody to talk shit about in the break room, and nobody to guilt into buying donuts for the entire staff?”

Esca smirked cheerfully. Marcus couldn't think that he'd ever caught the nurse smile like that before, and didn't want to admit that he liked seeing it.

“It's been sad and calm, with no resident-caused disasters to write up for the Risk Management lawyers, and not a donut to be had anywhere.” Esca leaned in close, close enough for Marcus to catch a whiff of whatever he apparently used to keep his spikes pointy. “I actually bought a bear claw from the cafeteria on Wednesday out of sheer desperation. That'll teach me: acid reflux for hours. Had to hit up the ICU pharmacist for calcium carbonate.”

“My heart bleeds, truly.” This not-actually-praise was music to Marcus' ears.

They were sitting in the report room and waiting for the rest of the nurses to arrive. Esca was always prompt; he was the only punctual one. To kill time they sipped at their terrible lattes (“Support Providence Chicago's Service League! Buy your coffee from us!”) as the charge nurse paged overhead again, reminding all applicable staff that they were now late to 10 am rounds. As usual.

“So were you on vacation? Get an actual break from your abusive residency schedule?”

“Medical conference. Surprisingly informative!”

“Whatever. Where'd you go?” The nurse was unusually chatty this morning, which probably meant he was about to embarrass Dr. Aquila with some small but crucial thing he had completely screwed up. Last week it was failing to notice that he had just spent 15 straight minutes in an isolation room without a gown, gloves, or any other protective equipment, performing an up-close-and-personal physical assessment of a patient with c.diff infected diarrhea.

“Portland. Ever been?”

“Yeah, spent a week there some years back.” It was obvious that Esca was interested in spite of himself. Dr. Aquila was going to milk that for all it was worth; it would make up for some of the costs of the extra plane ticket he'd had to buy for the return flight, if nothing else. “It was pretty sweet, actually. Took some time off a couple falls ago and hit the microbrewery festivals. Best vacation I've had in a seriously long time, better than my own honeymoon.”

That comment lead Marcus down all sorts of paths he would never get to travel. So he brushed it aside, or at least tried to. “Yeah, I hit Oktoberfest too, and I was surprised at how much I liked the place. I'd never been but I read up on it a bit before I went. Really great downtown area, stupid, stupid highways, and the surrounding countryside … I swear, if I had the money I'd get a little farm and settle down there, leave medicine behind, build an apiary, grow thyme—for the bees, of course—and wheat for the horses, and maybe terrace some vines on a south-facing slope, and bottle my own vintage of red. Call it 'Cardiac Cabernet' or something.”

“That sounds like every doctor's retirement fantasy.”

Marcus laughed—it wasn't anything but a fantasy, that was true. Not with the student loans he currently had. “Well, it's never going to happen. I spent all my money on donuts.”

Esca waved his empty hands expansively in the air. “And yet, even though you say that, I do not have a donut with me.”

“That's because you haven't been to the staff lounge yet.”

Dr. Aquila had the singular pleasure of watching Esca's face shift from scorn, to confusion, to suspicion. Got you, Nurse Mac Cunoval, RN. This might be the only time I ever manage it but this time, I win.

There was a longish pause while Esca sifted through his diminishing options. It was so, so nice, how he looked at the moment when he caved …

“Fine. What's in the staff lounge.”

“Well, you've been to Portland, as you say. Have you ever stopped in at—”

“OhmysweetGod. You didn't.”

“I did.”

“Voodoo Donuts? You flew back from Portland with Voodoo Donuts?” Esca looked like he might weep.

“Of course. Have you seen their selection? They put Swee Swee to shame.”

The nurse glanced at the clock, hesitating. “Exactly what kind did you get?”

Marcus' grin grew even wider. He knew it was a mistake to gloat, but he couldn't help himself. “A little of everything. Why?”

“Did you get the ones shaped like voodoo dolls?”

“Of course!”

“What about the bacon maple bars? The gay rainbow bar? The nasty one with Tang powder? The massive Texas donut that's free if you eat it in under a minute?”

“They're all in the staff lounge. You should really take a look.”

Esca looked as if he could not decide whether to flee the report room immediately or kill a physician first. “How many donuts did you buy?”

“Five dozen, more than enough to clog the coronary arteries of all three shifts. I had to get an extra plane ticket back, just so I could keep them in the seat next to me.”

“You're insane.”

“Enjoy your donut, Nurse Mac Cunoval.”

The charge paged overhead for nurses to come to the report room for 10 am rounds, last and final call. Esca slunk back over to the table and leaned in close. “Did you get any of the … you know.”

Marcus leaned in even closer and raised his eyebrows conspiratorially. “The Cock n' Balls donuts with the cream filling? There's 6 of them in a separate box marked NSFW. If you're interested.”

The noise Esca made as he stomped out the door, just as the other nurses were all scurrying in, was more than worth the cost of the ticket.

October: Semicharmed Life

The long shifts were, at present, the hardest part of residency. Marcus decided to take that as an indication that he was getting better at being a doctor, because it meant that a long list of other unpleasant duties—paperwork, diagnosing, breaking bad news to patients, interacting with other doctors, and figuring out how to bill for all of it—were no longer the worst aspects of his job. So that was good.

He had worked out a method for dealing with the long days and wearying nights: as many power naps as he could get away with, plus all the coffee his digestive system could manage. For the first time he had sympathy for the many residents each year that were caught using speed or cocaine. But for him naps + coffee + as much sleep as possible on his days off = a near-simulacrum of a functional human. The fuzzy mental status and emotional fragility that came part and parcel with 24-hour shifts had slowly shifted from overarching priorities to background noise.

Having a slow brain still occasionally caught him off guard. For example, one night he spent a beautifully refreshing two hours hidden away in the physician's office, alternating naps with research and diagnostic test analysis. When he emerged to answer the pages he had been ignoring (none of them was more significant or pressing than “can my patient, who's on a heart healthy diet, order the bacon for breakfast?”), all the gloves outside each room had changed color.

Marcus stood in the middle of the hallway and stared like a moron.

Pink. All the gloves are now pink. I am almost 100% certain they were blue when I went into the room, which either means I've actually lost my mind, or … or what?

“You got trouble, Dr. Aquila?”

No rest for the weary, and no peace for the wicked, either. Apparently the cardiac nurses transitioned between day shifts and night shifts every three months, which meant Esca was now free to harass his favorite resident in the middle of the night when there were less people around to intervene.

“It's the gloves. They're different.” He waved a hand in the direction of the wall, wondering if that made any sense. Time to raid the resident's stash of Starbucks Via, again?

“Yes, they're pink.” Esca was a master of pointing out the blindingly obvious.

“But they used to be blue! I'm sure of it. Weren't they?”

“They were, but now they're pink.” Esca was also a master of not answering questions.

Marcus stared at his pager, which stared back. It didn't have any answers either. “So … how did they become pink? And why are they pink? What have I missed?”

“Elves. It was the work of elves.” Esca gave him a look that Marcus had come to call the aren't you-an-idiot look. “Seriously, Doctor, have you ever noticed the nurse's aides? The ones that run around cleaning up the worst of the poo, and taking people on walks, and changing all the beds? At night they restock all the supplies on the floor, and tonight they switched out all the regular blue gloves for pink.” He shrugged, as if that were enough information.

“Why. Are. They. Pink.” Marcus spoke through tightly gritted teeth. He had no reason to feel so angry at the nurse, but the lack of sleep was wreaking havoc with his serenity. Also he couldn't stop staring at Esca's hair, because his sleep-addled mind had finally realized what it reminded him of—it looked like the Statue of the Dying Gaul, something he had loved as a boy, back when he was still confusing his interest in naked men with his interest in ancient statues. Esca looked disturbingly like the statue; all he needed was a torque, and a sword, and a lot less clothing. Marcus focused on clenching his hands into fists, mostly because he was just tired enough to accidentally do something stupid, like compliment the nurse's hair. Or touch it.

“Because. It's. October.” With a toss of his hair Esca stomped away, leaving the doctor to watch as his retreating ass shifted slightly under tight black scrub pants. Marcus winced. Alright, now it's confirmed. I'm a perv.

An hour later, he had self-medicated with a double dose of Via and was feeling more alert, although he still couldn't puzzle out why the gloves were pink. It was bothering him more than it should, far more than the various tragic diagnoses and declining conditions of his patients. (Those were routine; everybody died.) Finally he slunk over to Esca under the guise of consulting him about the psychosocial history of a new admit.

“If I admit I have no idea why October means pink gloves, will you let me ask you about Mr. Juarez?”

The nurse pinched the bridge of his nose; he looked exhausted. 0300 was the hardest part of a night shift because the patients were usually still asleep, and inactivity meant that everyone started to fade. Still, he had enough energy to glare at Marcus from under drooping eyelids. “You just never give up, do you? That's incredibly irritating … fine. Señor Juarez only speaks Spanish, and he's functionally illiterate. October is breast cancer awareness month. That's why the gloves are pink. Pink for breast cancer. Surely you're familiar with this disease process, yes?”

What a stupid, obvious explanation. Because he was embarrassed, Marcus spoke less civilly than he intended when he retorted “Sorry I'm not up on my mass-marketing 'awareness' campaigns. And do I look like an oncologist? Nobody makes a huge fuss out of testicular neoplasms, but we're all supposed to be hyper-aware of a woman's health issue. Sorry, I'm not.”

Esca gave the doctor such a look of anger that Marcus actually took a step backwards. He hissed, “My step-dad died of breast cancer, thanks, and fuck you for being dismissive of what he went through.”

“Oh god. Really?” Marcus groaned. “I am so sorry.”

The nurse snorted. “No. He and my mom live in Scranton, drinking Old Style and going to Renn Faires. But men do get breast cancer, I hope you know, and it is a public health issue. And anyway, whether you care about breast cancer or not, you get a month of emasculatingly-pink gloves. Hope you like pink.”

As he slunk back to the physician's office, Marcus couldn't decide whether to get loaded on his next day off and call his ex so he could blub over the phone to her about how lonely he was, or work up an interest in the SCA so he could try talking to Esca about medieval swordsmanship. Eventually he decided against calling Shannon or wasting his time researching broadswords; instead, he hit the Service League Café when it opened at 0600. He returned triumphant with an enormous coffee.

“Here you go, Nurse Mac Cunoval! A little something to power you through the last hour of shift—16 oz double-shot with vanilla, whipped cream, and sprinkles.”

“What in the name of god did you do to this latte?” Esca stared at it in confusion.

Marcus tried to look innocent. This was nearly as much fun as donuts. “I breast-cancer-awarenessed it for you.”

Even then it took a satisfyingly-long moment for reality to sink in, as Esca rubbed at his eyes in disbelief. “Good holy god, I cannot believe I walked right into that. I'm so tired I thought the pink sprinkles were some sort of comment on my sexuality.”

“Not a chance. The idea that pink is a strictly feminine color suitable only for women and emasculated men, and its resultant association with the burgeoning gay rights movement, only came into popularity with the inflexible heteronormative standards of the late 19^th century.”

Esca stared as if the doctor had just started speaking Tagalog, then broke into undignified giggles. “OK … I'm pretty exhausted and all but you saying that just freaked me out.”

This was the most fun Marcus had had in quite a while. “I struggled with my sexuality as an undergrad—I kept trying to convince myself I was hetero-leaning bi, or something like that—so I minored in Queer Studies hoping that it would straighten things out in my mind. So to speak. Plus I wanted to see my Pop's reaction since he wasn't exactly a broad-minded individual.”

“What did your dad say?”

“He told me it was a waste of tuition to spend all my time 'hanging around with homos.' Going to drink that?”

“Of course I am!” Esca cuddled the latte protectively. “I'm just trying and failing to wrap my head around the idea of you writing essays on gender relations and being … are you actually gay, or just screwing with me?”

“Actually gay. Problem with it?”

“Well, I'm not going to say it puts you in a better light—you're still a physician, after all—but that's interesting to know. Are you aware that you don't really fit the doctor profile?”

They both smirked at the obviousness of his statement; by now it had become abundantly clear to Dr. Rama, the other CardMed residents, the staff nurses, a wide swath of the patients, and Dr. Aquila himself that no, he was not typical doctor material. Nor particularly well-suited to be one.

~*~

Marcus preferred to keep his phone off during shifts, partially because he didn't want to be disturbed, and partially because the total lack of phone calls he usually received only served to remind him of how little else he had going on in his life. But when he finally turned it on while heading out to his car, he made the unpleasant discovery that he had four voice mails, all from the same well-known phone number. Oh shit oh shit oh shit. The first message was merely discouraging. The second, distressing. The third made him want to pull his hair out. By the time he'd finished deleting the fourth he was struggling to fight back a host of very bad emotions, and didn't have the energy or resilience to do anything more than sag against one of the pillars in the parking garage and hope that no one spotted him if he fell to pieces.

I don't have time to deal with this, I certainly can't afford to deal with this, and I hate how much I want to wash my hands of the whole business. What a terrible son I am.

“You cool? You look like you just got really bad news or something.” Esca again, naturally, headed out to his own car and still nursing the last of his breast-cancer-awareness latte. “No, really—you look like hammered shit all of a sudden.”

Without further invitation, he grabbed the doctor's arm and led him over to a bench by the elevators. “Rule number one for receiving bad news is 'sit before you fall over.' So sit.”

They sat. Esca sipped loudly through a straw; Marcus stared at the concrete.

When he had finished his latte, the nurse cleared his throat pointedly. “So, do you want to talk about it? Do you need someone to call a cab? What's up?”

“You sure you want to hear this?” Marcus felt almost pathetically grateful for the questions.

“You buy me coffee and donuts. Temporarily, I'm all ears.”

“Thanks!” They shared a minute of silence together and then Marcus took a deep, centering, not entirely steady breath and began. “So, as you may or may not know, it's Ramadan.”

Esca immediately burst into giggles again. “That's twice in two hours! First Queer Studies, and now Ramadan? I'm sorry, I don't mean to, um, not laughing at you or anything, I just—you keep catching me off guard and I'm really not used to that. So anyway, it's Ramadan. Go on.”

“Ramadan it is. And my mom … see, Ma lives in an adult family home. It's the fourth for her in two years, and it's getting really hard to place her and keep her in a stable situation. Her disease process is currently itself manifesting as hypersexuality—let me tell you how awkward that is when I come to visit—and she's been making advances towards the staff again. She and I talked about it a few weeks ago and I thought it was improving, but based on the phone messages I just had the privilege of deleting, it's actually worse than ever. The woman who runs the home is Romanian but all the staff are Sudanese, and Muslim, and now that it's Ramadan they've put their feet down and refuse to work if she lives there any longer. So now I apparently have 72 hours to find Ma a new place to live.”

“That sounds like a lot to deal with on very short notice. What are your other outside support resources?” Esca sounded exaggeratedly soothing, as if he was trying to talk down a particularly psychotic patient.

“None. I'm on my own with this.”

“Dad?”

“Dead. Genuinely dead, by the way, not pretend-dead-so-I-can-get-a-latte.”

“Low blow, man.” But at least Esca had the grace to look guilty. Well, slightly guilty. “You mind if I ask what she has?”

“Huntington's.” The searching-recognizing-panicking-concealing look that passed over the nurse's face actually made Marcus start to laugh. Laughing felt good, so he allowed himself to continue doing so until he was wiping tears from his eyes. “Thank you. I needed that.”

“Happy to help! But not sure what I did there … ”

“You made the Huntington's face! Everybody in health care does that. They nod sympathetically while they try to remember what Huntington's is, they remember, they think 'oh my god, does he know his odds of inheriting it,' and then they cover that up with the 'well, if he doesn't know I'm not going to be the one to tell him' look.”

Esca scowled. “Glad I'm being such a therapeutic listener! But you do know the odds, yes?”

“50%. I actually diagnosed Ma myself after the neuro portion of pre-med. Dragged us both off to get genetic testing the next month. There's no way in hell I would have gone through med school and residency knowing I was going to die of a neurodegenerative disorder 15 or 20 years down the road. Turns out I was right—she had it, and I didn't.”

“That's good to hear, truly. Huntington's is a tough diagnosis. And sorry about the situation. Will you be offended if I give you a suggestion?”

“Probably not.” I'll take whatever I can get at the moment, Esca, especially from you.

“Don't deal with this on your own. It's too much. As soon as you can, today if possible, talk to William—he's the floor's social worker—and tell him honestly what's going on. He'll probably be able to point you at resources for more social support, help you find another group home, something like that. He's got a master's degree in solving problems like this and he's a good guy, so lay your cards on the table and see what he can do.”

A stupid sort of relief flooded through the doctor's tired brain. Just the thought of someone else helping, or simply lending an ear, was better than he'd ever managed to have before. “But doesn't he just work for the patients?”

Esca brushed off the concern. “Naah. This is health care: one big, fucked up family. Don't you ever look at people's moles or chat with them about their bum shoulder even thought you're not billing for it? It's the same thing. The pharmacist can always answer meds questions, the nurses can patch you up if you burn your arm on the stove, and social work can give you insider tips on the legality of kicking someone out of a group home on 72 hours notice, which I'm pretty sure is not actually legit. Give him a call and prove me wrong.”

“Thank you. This is a huge help.” Marcus resisted an urge to give him a hug and ruin the moment.

November: Go Go Power Rangers

He should have been able to recognize Esca out of the corner of his eye by now, mostly because of the hair and because he was about a foot shorter than the other male nurses, who tended to look like MMA retirees. Nevertheless, Dr. Aquila looked straight past him the first two times he scanned the crowd clustered around the front desk, waiting for hand-off.

It was the scrubs; they were entirely out of character. Colorful. Playful, almost. Were those—

Esca, who had a 6^th sense for noticing when he was being ogled, glanced up from the paperwork and gave Dr. Aquila a look that said Don't you dare, and I mean it.

“Morning. Coffee?” Marcus played it cool, kept it short and sweet; by the look of determined politeness on Esca's face—the expression that said he had just enough patience for his patients, and not a single ounce left over for anyone not currently admitted—he was guessing that a single word out of place might mean he got his head bitten off. It was too early in the morning for that sort of thing.

“Actually, Doctor, I'm not in the mood for—” Esca's eyes drifted from his brain to the drink Marcus was offering. “OK, maybe. What's in it?”

“The usual 16 double vanilla. If you don't want it … ”

Esca snatched the cup away. “Of course I want it. Not just want, need. You have no idea.” He took a long, cautious pull at the coffee. As an afterthought, he muttered, “I suppose I ought to say thanks. I need all the caffeine I can get today. But don't you dare.”

“Don't I dare what?” Marcus tried to sound as innocent as possible. His words were entirely negated by the fact that he could not stop staring at Esca's shirt.

“Not a word. Not one. No questions, no comments, nada.”

As Marcus was busy snapping his lips shut and trying to tear his eyes away from the riot of colors strewn across the scrubs—red, yellow, blue, green, pink and black, and were those ninjas?—the charge nurse sidled up to them.

“Bad news, Esca, but I've got to change your assignment.”

“I've already started getting hand-off, Merilee.”

She grimaced briefly before turning back to her own brain. “I know. I'm sorry—there's not much to be done. I'm going to have to switch you out room 15 for room 27, and give 27 to Ginger instead. But 15 is walkie-talkie, independent, just staying the night for a dosage adjustment, so hopefully things will be a little calmer for you.”

“For me, but not Ginger. Why change then? She's already got a heavy load.”

“I know, but 15 says he doesn't want, and I quote, 'Any of those damned Orientals' in his room.”

Esca scrunched up his face in annoyance. “Awesome. If he starts off on how gay men are destroying America, I'm out.”

“Deal.” Merilee wandered off to deal with the next crisis and Esca turned back to Marcus, who was fiddling with his pager and trying to look like he wasn't eavesdropping.

“Sorry you're having a rough day,” he muttered.

“You don't know the half of it.” Esca abruptly laughed, then just as fast switched back to angry. (Emotionally labile, Marcus diagnosed). He started ranting in between swigs of mocha. “For no particular reason, my washer chose to break yesterday, and of course I had been putting off laundry all week, and so I spent all evening with an emergency repairman who charged me $200 to tell me it was hopeless, and I won't have time to hit a laundromat until tomorrow and I can't afford to buy a new machine until payday, and these were the only clean scrubs left, so … here I am.” He glanced down at his top.

“I think they're quite nice.” Marcus couldn't think of anything more clever to say at the moment; he began to wish he had bought himself a latte as well. “Colorful and cheerful and all.”

“I hate them more than anything else I have ever owned,” the nurse replied calmly.

Persistent grumpiness always brought out the contrarian in Marcus; now it was a challenge, and he was going to say positive things until Esca either cheered up or put coffee all over him. He hoped it was the former; he didn't have a spare lab coat.

“And I think they're the most charming, eccentric scrubs I've ever seen you in. I like the colors, and the little ninjas. Why don't you wear them more often?”

“They're not ninjas, and I don't want to talk about it.”

Marcus leaned in close and put on his best Doctor's Voice. “What if I told you I thought they were a very good look on you? Strictly between professionals?” In for a penny, in for a pound, eh, Doctor?

Esca jutted out his chin and got right in Marcus' face. “That sounds suspiciously like sexual harassment, Dr. Aquila. The union would slap a lawsuit on you before you could say stat. And, even worse, you'd be hitting on a man wearing—”

“Voltron scrubs?”

“Oh god!” Esca stepped back and glared in horror. “How old are you?”

“Uh, 29. Why?”

“Because you ought to be ashamed of yourself. You're a child of the 80's! Did you grow up in a barn on the moon?”

“I grew up in Little Italy! I know it's not as sophisticated as North Side, but we're not barbarians.”

“And yet you think I'm wearing Voltron scrubs. Christ, man, have a little self-dignity.”

“If they're not Voltron, what are they?” Marcus could not decide whether this conversation was ridiculous, or merely insane.

“Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers. Totally different cartoon.”

“Fine, I'm an idiot for not knowing my overly-commercialized 80's anime. Happy?”

“Maybe.” Esca turned back to his coffee; he was apparently done talking for the moment.

Marcus' pager went off: time to start rounding on his patients. He spoke quickly. “So why don't you ever wear them? And why don't you want to talk about them? And how's your latte?”

“I can't tell if that's a bribe or a threat. And I don't talk unless I've been drinking heavily, Doctor.”

“So can I take you out for a drink tonight? Strictly acquaintances?”

Esca gave him such an obvious once-over that Marcus hoped his late-night trips to the gym had been paying off. “Maybe. How long are you here tonight?”

“Just until seven-thirty.”

“I'm also working a 12. You promise to get me drunk, Dr. Aquila?”

“Anything you want, anywhere you want, if the union approves.”

“The union is willing to overlook your physician status in exchange for a few mixed drinks. See you then.” He spun around on one heel and stomped away.

Marcus could not decide if he had been clever or very, very stupid.

~*~

Esca had suggested a speakeasy called Hub & Spoke, and Marcus dutifully drove them both in his Mustang. After sneering mildly at it (“Do you have a problem with my car, Nurse Mac Cunoval?” “I'm not surprised you drive an American muscle car.” “My Dad taught me to always buy American. Those were practically the last words he ever said to me.”) they spent the entire ride in a silence broken only by Esca's fiddling with the radio until he found 88.5, WHPK. Marcus hated WHPK, having heard far too much of it as an undergrad at UC (his then-live-in-girlfriend Shannon had been one of the night DJs and he had felt obligated to listen to her show every Wednesday), but recognized that his tastes in music—and therefore everything else—were being challenged. He could practically hear Esca's thoughts: you drive American cars, Doctor. Do you listen to Creed as well? Train? Toby Keith? Unfortunately, it was true about Train.

Naturally, the bar was the sort of place he would never normally set foot in. Marcus preferred English-feeling tavern-y pubs, where he could have a couple of bottles of some regional beer and watch other people shoot pool while he studied. Apparently “speakeasy” was code for “dress like you fell out of the 1920s.” The bartender wore a button-down vest and a bowler; two men sitting at the bar in vintage suits actually had spats on. Esca still had on his Power Rangers scrubs; Marcus felt hideously conspicuous.

When they sat down, at a table mercifully tucked away in a darkish corner, the waitress (flapper dress, long strings of fake pearls and a headband with a feather in it) didn't bother to bring a menu. She just asked Esca, “Want the usual, Hun?” He nodded and she wordlessly turned to Marcus. He haltingly ordered a Sam Adams.

“It's a speakeasy,” Esca hissed. “They don't have beer.”

“Could you have told me that 10 seconds ago? Um, JD and coke, thanks.”

The waitress shook her feather at him. “We don't carry Jack Daniels.”

Marcus flailed around for what he knew about mixed drinks, but all he could recall was a young Sean Connery in Goldfinger. “Martini?”

“Suit yourself.” She flounced off, flapper-style, and Esca pulled out a cigarette. Marcus briefly wondered if they'd get thrown out or merely ignored—indoor smoking, illegal for three years, had not been well-received by the bars or the casinos—but it turned out to be one of those e-cigarettes instead. They sat in a not-exactly-companionable silence, while Esca puffed away and Marcus played with the corner of his napkin and hoped drinks would arrive soon.

Drinks arrived. They drank. It didn't improve things.

Finally, after Esca had finished his first two drinks (both something called a Sidecar) and was nursing a third, Marcus decided it was time to speak up or call the evening a wash. “So why the scrubs?”

“Why the hell not? It's a free country. ” Marcus didn't respond—therapeutic silence, they called it—until Esca turned grumbly and stared at his drink.

“Fine, Doctor. If you actually want to know, I used to work in peds. Pediatric ICU, actually. Kids love scrubs with cartoons on them and parents think you're OK, which they really need when their kids spending a week in the PICU.”

“But you're in adult care now.” That was called a leading statement, an invitation to elaborate without putting undue pressure on the patient. It worked. Marcus wished it hadn't, actually, because just like that everything became even more uncomfortable. Esca puffed, fiddled with his hands, and stared at his drink for a full two minutes before speaking again.

“I killed a kid.”

“Oh. I'm sorry.”

Marcus didn't say anything else; there wasn't anything else to say. A fatal error was the silent nightmare lurking in the background of every doctor's and every nurse's mind. Hearing about one committed by somebody else was a bit like learning that a friend had Huntington's—you made sympathetic noises and tried to hide the massive sense of relief that it wasn't you.

“Technically, it wasn't my fault. I didn't give an incorrect med or a massive dose of heparin or anything, like what happened to Dennis Quaid's babies. The pharm tech mixed up a wrong concentration of IV potassium—a fatal concentration, as it turned out—and the pharmacist didn't check it carefully, and there was no way I could have known. It all looks the same when it's in the bag. But that never mattered, not to me. It didn't matter when the nurse managers talked to me about it, or when the risk management committee explained that there was nothing I could do. When there's a sentinel event and it causes harm, especially a fatality, at first you're just glad to learn that you're not going to lose your license, and then it starts to sink in that whether you do or don't, for the rest of your life you get to carry it around that you killed someone.” He paused to sip his drink; his hands trembled slightly. “You tell yourself in school that you'll be a good nurse, that nothing like that will ever happen to you, and then it does. And that's that, forever. Every day of my life I'll remember that boy.”

It was hard to fight down the contact panic that Marcus felt just hearing the story, but he tried his damnedest to play it cool anyway. As casually as he could he asked, “Was that the case some years back where the pharmacist went to jail?”

“Good memory. Yeah, lost his license and spent 6 months in jail, and he can't work in health care any more. I hear all the time about how it was unfair to him, and that everybody makes mistakes, and it's true. We all do. I've given wrong meds, wrong insulin, and it's just luck that nothing serious has ever came from those errors. So I sympathized to a point. But a pharmacist's job is to get it right. And as for me … ”

“There's always the guilt of knowing that you connected him to the IV.”

Esca gave him a long, guarded look, and for a moment Marcus thought he had just ended everything. But then the nurse smiled, and it sent a shot of heat through his stomach that had nothing to do with the martini. It was sad, really sad, how badly he wanted Esca to approve of him.

“It's just like you say. I think about that boy every day. I have nightmares from it. Not my fault, yeah yeah, but fuck. IV Potassium is how they execute people, Marcus! And I had a hand in that. Anyway, he was on telemetry because of the potassium drip, so to the computer it looked like his heart was beating, but in reality he was having a PEA.”

“Refresh me? I'm a terrible cardiologist.”

“No, you're not. Don't let Dr. Rama tell you you're crap, because I've heard stories about his cock ups that would make your hair stand on end.”

“Ooh. Will you give me the dirt on him if I buy you another drink sometime?” That seemed like a good thing to say; let the focus of the conversation stay on Esca, and leave open the possibility of a second whatever-this-wasn't.

Esca, however, did not look enthused. “You're not trying to pick me up or anything, are you?”

“No, no! Not like that. Really.” I am a liar. A terrible, terrible liar. “I just like the idea of having someone on the floor who I could go out for a drink with, if we both wanted to. Like a friend, sort of. A colleague to decompress with after work.”

“Uh huh. Why don't you drink and complain with the other residents?”

Marcus hated how small his voice sounded. “They all have a lot more in common with each other than they do with me. It's an awkward group dynamic.”

Luckily the nurse sympathized. “It's never fun when you feel like an outsider. That's part of why I couldn't go back to the PICU—it just seemed like everyone was watching me and thinking about what had happened.”

“That makes sense.” Good, they were back on safer ground. Not happier ground, but definitely safer. “So … PEA?”

“Pulseless Electrical Activity. Ring a bell? Please say it rings a bell, Doctor.”

Great. Now he was being quizzed. Back when he was getting his MD every single exam, test, and pop quiz had sent terror racing through his heart, and he began each one with the same gut-wrenching thought: this is the part where I fuck up and they throw me out of med school. Now he could not help but think: this is the part where I fuck up and Esca tells the residency committee on me. He squinted—in his mind's eye he could almost see the words in the cardiac textbook—got it. “It's where the cardiac monitor registers electrical impulses, and so it appears that the heart is beating, only the cardiac muscle doesn't actually contract with the impulses, so unless the patient—oh. God. I hope you weren't the one who found him.”

“Oh no, it was much worse than that. It was his mom. I wasn't in the room, and she'd gone to the cafeteria, and …” Esca's voice grew tight he had to take another long sip of his drink. “There's his mom, running out into the hallway and yelling for help, that her kid is turning blue, and I run back in, take one look at him and call a code because it's really obvious that whatever's happening is bad, and then—we did everything. Did our best. Epinephrine, atropine, bagging him, intubation, CPR … doing CPR on an eight-year-old is pretty much as bad as you can imagine it being. And none of it worked. How could it? You're heart stops when your potassium gets to 10 or so—the labs they drew registered his at a 14. What a nightmare. I couldn't sleep for weeks, and sometimes I still wake up with the sweats.”

“It's an awful situation, and an awful thing for you to have to carry around. I'm so sorry that happened to you.” Marcus wished he had something better to say, better than empty, greeting card platitudes. As it turned out, saying nothing at all might have been smarter.

Esca set his drink down with a thunk and gave the doctor a bitterly cold look. “I've heard that a hundred times, and you know what I've learned from it? You're not sorry. Not really. You might pity me, or maybe even empathize with how frightening it was, but there's a big part of you that's glad. Glad that you don't have to relive it, over and over and over. Glad that it was me instead of you. That's why I don't like to tell people, because I am so fucking sick of making people glad that it happened to me.”

Marcus stared at his napkin. His face felt like it was made out of plastic. “Why don't I take you home now.” This is the part where I fuck up and Esca hates me forever.

“Why don't you call me a cab instead.”

December: Shattered

Esca wasn't speaking to Marcus. Hell, Esca wasn't even interacting with Marcus; on the few occasions when they had to communicate, it was via text message. It shouldn't have mattered, since the focus of residency (and the purpose behind the 80 hour work weeks, which were frankly more like 100 hour work weeks since they were tacitly encouraged not to track their hours after they hit the magic eight-oh) was on learning and applying the art/science of medicine, not making friends or interacting with people or thinking about anything beyond the cool white walls of the hospital.

The Christmas decorations only served to remind Marcus of how well it was working, at least in the thou shalt not have a life outside residency sense.

William, the social worker with the master's degree in problem solving, had indeed managed to buy Marcus a little time and get his ma a one-month grace period before she had to move. Better yet, he'd even tracked down a group home out in the suburbs, one run by a nurse who specialized in neuro disorders. She was able to give Marcus a much better perspective on how his mother was declining (in short: not quite as badly as it had seemed), and the further distance meant that he felt less guilty about how infrequently he drove out to see her.

He owed William a bottle of scotch. He would have owed Esca one too, if he thought Esca would accept it. Which he wouldn't.

Marcus had no plans to visit Ma over the holidays, which he pretended to blame on a brutal December schedule: as the low man on the totem pole, he was scheduled for 15 of the next 17 days, with Boxing Day weekend off as a reward. He didn't mind that there were only 12 shopping days left; work was better than sitting at home alone and trying not to call Shannon (or worse, hanging around his ex-coworkers at Lucky Luigi's). Being raised by an Italian father who spat whenever he saw a priest in public and an agnostic non-practicing Jewish-Polish mother who refused to celebrate Christmas (“do I look like a Christian?”) or Hanukkah (“what if the Nazis come back and find out that we have a menorah?”) meant that Marcus had lived a childhood full of being forced to resent Christmas trees and mistletoe, but without having a festival of lights to enjoy instead. So now he hated the whole month, on principle.

That made him sad, because secretly he'd been hoping to cage an invite to a party, maybe even a party thrown by—never mind. It wasn't going to happen.

He would just have to keep his head down, not kill anyone, stay out of the way of a certain cranky nurse, and in 6 months he could transfer to some other horrible floor where they sent the internal medicine residents who were really bad. 2.5 short years from now he'd be a real, practicing doctor, living the dream that had been his father's, not his, and that he would never have actually followed through on had said father not keeled over dead of a heart attack five Decembers ago, the week before the deadline for signing acceptance papers for med school. Do it in memory of Pop!

Marcus was still thinking about his father when the code alarm sounded 25 feet down the hallway from him. He was in the room immediately, of course, along with every other available nurse, both pharmacists, two aides with the crash cart, a herd of stat team members from the ICU, and virtually every other resident in the hospital. But it was a CardSurg patient, not CardMed, and Marcus wandered off so as not to be underfoot. Nothing he couldn't propose or order that a half-dozen people wouldn't have thought of first. Dr. Marcus Aquila: a day late and a dollar short, as always.

Five minutes later he was staring at x-ray results online and trying not to notice the code, which was continuing at a furious pace. Back as a med student he'd learned that the longer they paged the code overhead and the more people they paged to the code, the harder the patient had crashed and worse the probable outcome. Judging by the number of doctors paged stat to room 17, some family's December was going to be forever saddened by memories of Grandpa's untimely death.

Death, death, death. Everywhere. And nothing he could do about it.

Esca wasn't at the code either; he was sitting at the front desk approving the orders for a new admit, less than twelve feet away from Dr. Aquila and ignoring him pointedly. Marcus caught himself staring at the nurse's hips. He couldn't even remember how long it had been since he'd had a proper wank session in the shower, now that the object of said wanks hated everything about him. Apparently it was much too long, to judge by how pathetically his dick leaped around at the very notion of scrub pants that were slightly too tight in the back.

Maybe they could have some sort of quasi-therapeutic hate-sex over coffee after the end of shift. Yeah.

What the hell is wrong with me. That will never happen in a million billion years. I just need to resign myself to 2.5 more years of celibacy, and then maybe I can find someone who will mooch off me for my salary.

Two things happened next. From down the hallway, a voice yelled “Hey! I need help!” Simultaneously, the cardiac monitor computers made a horrible alarm and the monitor tech said “Asystole in room 39! Somebody get in there stat!”

The number rang a bell in the back of Marcus' mind but he couldn't put his finger on it, and anyways most of his mind was focused on not tripping over anything or crashing into anyone as he ran. Esca, also running, beat him to the room by an arm's length. Once inside they both paused for a fraction of a second to take in the scene: a patient on the floor, non-responsive and turning gray, a wide-eyed janitor doing CPR, and … nobody else. As Esca lunged for the code blue alarm, Marcus realized that the room number was familiar because he'd been in there two hours ago, making evening rounds on the patient—his patient, 64 years old and set to discharge the next morning.

He's dead. My patient is dead, and he looks exactly like my dad when he died. I think I'm going to throw up.

“Tsadik, keep doing CPR,” Esca said to the janitor. He moved quickly but sounded completely calm, as if he did this sort of thing all the time. Maybe he did. “Doc, I'm starting with a fluid bolus of 500 cc normal saline—”

Marcus just nodded vaguely, standing frozen in the doorway. My patient is coding. I'm in charge of it, and all I can think about is Pop. Fuck. I should never have gone to med school.

While the doctor stood there, Esca barged past him and out into the hallway. “Where is this patient's nurse? Where is my crash cart? Where the hell is everybody?” Apparently those were the magic words—at that moment Imani the charge materialized with a handful of bottles and syringes.

“The other code is her patient too. Crash cart's coming from the ICU. Here's some rescue meds, and stop swearing.”

“Great. Thanks. Next I'm pushing epinephrine.” Esca glanced furiously at the doctor as he fumbled with a syringe. “Marcus! You gonna run this thing or what?”

Come on, come on: cardiac conference, new evidenced-based applications of rescue meds …

“Hey—epi, then atropine, and I cannot give them until you say it, so say yes!”

Finally Marcus remembered. At least he hoped he did. “No epi. Start with vasopressin.”

“Bullshit!” Unfortunately, Esca had his own idea of what to do. “Vasopressin is not indicated. I'm giving the epinephrine.”

“No—40 units of vaso, wait one minute, 40 more units, then epi and the defibrillator.”

“I've never heard that before!” Esca wheeled around and glared in frustration. “That's not protocol—are you making shit up, Marcus?”

The fear pounding through Marcus' veins shifted to rage in a flash. “That's Dr. Aquila to you, and I'm the one giving the orders! Push 40 of vaso, now, and don't swear at me.” I cannot believe I just said that.

Imani, ignoring them both, rifled through her bottles to find the right one. “Here's vaso, Esca. Not standard but it's your call, Doctor.”

“Goddamn right. Esca, give it one minute and push again. Imani, call ICU and tell them they've got a patient coming.”

“They're full. Other ideas?”

“I don't care. Tell them to make a bed.” I cannot believe I just said that either. What is happening. I sound like a massive prick.

While Esca drew up and gave the patient vasopressin (he even managed to throw in an eye-roll at Marcus) an aide showed up to take over CPR from the shaken-looking janitor, Imani began writing down everything that was happening, and then the code started to move too quickly. Marcus gave orders. People repeated orders back. Things happened. Time passed. Staff filled the room as they eventually realized that the code alarm was not just a carry over from the other code. More things happened. More time passed. Everyone kept looking at Dr. Aquila as if he knew what he was doing and he really really wished they would stop it. Eventually three burly nurses picked up the patient, lifted him unceremoniously onto the bed, and started moving the entire operation in the direction of the ICU.

In the ICU, the physician on duty demanded to know what Marcus had done so far. Marcus gave the best account he could, turned the patient over to her almost nonchalantly, as if he did this sort of thing every day of his life, and the moment everyone looked the other way he fled to the empty physician's office.

For a painfully long time he sat in the dark and trembled, his breath coming in great ragged gasps. Visions of his father's collapse—at home, in the hallway, transitioning from living to dead in the span of fifteen failing heartbeats—kept flooding through his mind and all he wanted to do was run. Catch a cab, leave the hospital behind, leave everything behind, go back to his apartment, go back to Portland, vanish like Jason Bourne and reemerge in Goa napping on a beach and eating fish curry. Anything but this.

Someone knocked on the door. He ignored it.

Louder knocking, and a painfully familiar voice: “Dr. Aquila? You in there?”

He didn't want to open the door, certainly not for a nurse who would probably tell him all the things he had just done wrong, but maybe a patient needed him. An idiot patient, obviously, one who didn't realize just how incompetent and terrified his doctor was. Still, people trusted their physicians and so by extension people trusted him. Fools.

Light flooded in as he opened the door. Esca was lounging outside looking cheerful, as if he hadn't just watched a human being die.

“Man, you were sassy back there! About time you grew a pair. I wanted to tell you that the ICU—hey, you OK? You look a bit off.”

“I'm fine. I'm a little tired. Didn't sleep well last night. ICU said what?”

“They got a heart beat back! Sort of!” Esca actually looked as if he was expecting Dr. Aquila to be pleased by the information. “He's v-paced, which isn't great of course, but the family's been called and they're—”

“V-paced doesn't matter. His brain went without oxygen for half an hour. He's still dead.”

The room grew quiet. Esca didn't respond and didn't go away, and Marcus didn't say anything else for fear he would start shouting or worse. Then Esca closed the door behind him with a click and in the darkness Marcus heard him come close, so close that he could even smell the hair gel. The nurse's voice was level and unusually kind.

“No, v-paced is a good thing. Everybody dies in the end, one way or another, and ultimately all medical intervention is a stall. But because he's v-paced, ICU can keep him alive until his family shows up. It gives them the chance to say goodbye and that's important. We did that—you did that—and that does matter, even if it doesn't look like it to you at present.”

“No, you don't understand.” Marcus' voice turned raspy, as he tried to fight back the pressure welling up inside him. It wasn't working. “He's still going to die, and I was a dick to you back there, and that's almost exactly how my dad died five years ago, and I don't want to be here, and I only went to med school because Pop wanted me to, and I hate being a doctor with every single ounce of my strength but I'm trapped and I can't get out of it no matter what I do because I own Sallie Fucking Mae $200,000, and I'm so lonely. I've got no one but an ex-girlfriend in Springfield and a mom who thinks the Nazis are making a comeback and I can't do this anymore.”

He was badly on edge. Fragile. Any request, any amount of effort, or any conscious thought and he'd shatter into thousands of splintery shards, Humpty Dumpty-style, and it would take hours to try and put all the pieces back together again. And he didn't have hours. Hell, he probably didn't have 5 minutes.

“It sounds like you've got a lot of stressors in your life. Right now, what do you need from me?” Esca had put on his neutrally-concerned-nurse voice; therapeutic communication, it was called. Marcus recognized the straw being offered and grasped at it with both hands.

“Can you do that nursing thing you do with your patients and act like you give a shit about me for a couple of minutes? I know you don't and that's fair, but I'm really … I just need someone to … I don't know, tell me I'm going to be OK. Pretend to care about me.”

There was an unreadable silence. Marcus focused on holding his breath, because anything more challenging than that and he'd lose it, right there in the stupid physician's office. Finally, he heard Esca shift around restlessly in the darkness.

“Marcus, why do you want me to pretend to care? If you'd really rather it be like that, I can, but I don't—”

Crash.

There went the shards, all over the polished office floor. No willing them back. And wasn't Marcus grateful that at least they were in a dark room, the only light streaming in from under the door, because although Esca could still hear him at least they were both spared the shame of making the nurse watch Dr. Aquila cry as well.

“No, man, that's not what I meant by it … ”

“It'sOK. Youdon'thaveto. It'scool.” Words came in short bursts, in between the hideously-unmanly sounds of what Marcus hoped to pass off as a coughing fit.

Therapeutic touch was also a nursing technique. Esca fumbled around in the darkness until he found Marcus' hands (which the doctor had clamped over his face, just in case the nurse spontaneously developed night vision). Carefully, but firmly, he took the hands away, holding them in between his own. This freed the tears to roll silently down Marcus' face; they tickled and he wished he could wipe them away before they made it down to his collar.

“I'm not going to pretend to care about you, because I don't have to pretend.” Then Esca shifted in and kissed him gently on the cheek.

And Marcus went perfectly still.

He stopped feeling sad. He stopped feeling frightened. He stopped feeling frantic. But he didn't feel happy or surprised, either. What he felt was: nothing. No needs, no wants, no hopes. He was nothing, nothing at all.

Holy shit—I think I just achieved nirvana.

He hardly even noticed when Esca moved away, or when Esca leaned over once more and kissed him on the other cheek. Marcus could have stayed like that, empty, for the rest of the night. Hell, for the rest of his life.

“I'm going to turn on a light,” Esca whispered. “Don't move.” Marcus obeyed—he couldn't come up with a reason not to—and listened as Esca pawed around until he found an old-fashioned banker's lamp with a green shade, the kind people bought after they earned advanced degrees and wanted to class up their desk. It was Marcus' lamp, of course. Dr. Rama had mocked it. They blinked at the light (dim though it was) and fidgeted, suddenly awkward, both realizing that things could now go one of two very different ways but neither wanting to make the decision. Marcus took the opportunity to rub at his eyes, not that he fooled either of them.

Esca smiled at him, a touch hesitantly; Marcus smiled back broadly because it was the best he could come up with. Then Esca grasped one end of his stethoscope in each hand, lifted it off his own neck and looped it gently over Marcus'. He gave a small tug and pulled the doctor down for what grew into a much more involved kiss. Marcus couldn't figure out what to do with his hands and so they ended up clutching at Esca's hips, fingers slipping greedily under the waistband of his scrubs and finding nothing but warm, firm skin as far down as they could reach. By the time they broke away he was blushing and so hard it actually hurt.

Luckily, based on the size of his grin, Esca was not offended. “I think you like me, Dr. Aquila. Am I completely off base?”

No point in denying it now, not with the way his dick was misbehaving. “Yeah, I—yeah. I do. You're awesome. And I try not to, but I look at your ass sometimes. I'm sorry, it's totally inappropriate.”

“Why? I do lunges for a reason. Good to know they're paying off.” He gave Marcus another smile before calmly reaching back to lock the door.

January: The Dog Days are Over

They were not dating. Esca had been very specific on that point.

For Marcus, it didn't matter whether the term 'dating' was attached to what they were doing or not. What mattered to him was this: several times a week, Esca would come over, they would ineptly cook a little dinner together (it turned out that each man had been secretly hoping that the other would be some sort of gourmet chef), sometimes declare the food to be awful and order up Thai or wings and beer, and then watch TV or try to play Halo. (Marcus had bought the X-Box on a whim a couple of years back because he had heard that Halo was a good game and he wanted to feel less alienated from pop culture, but he'd never gotten a chance to really learn how and so they mostly just ran around, lobbing grenades and accidentally blowing themselves up.) Finally, they would collapse into Marcus' double bed and have sex. The sex was fantastic at first, then a bit awkward as the first rush of endorphins started to wear off, but steadily improved after they got over the so-we're-actually-sleeping-together hump. Sometimes Marcus would wake up in the middle of the night and nuzzle Esca on the back of the neck, just for the hell of it, and Esca would mutter fuck off in his sleep and roll away.

In the morning, they would eat terrible, heart-unhealthy breakfast sandwiches from Starbucks if they had to go to work. If they had the day off, Marcus would cook them both breakfast, because while he was crap at dinners (unless the dinner in question was polish sausages) he had long ago realized—back when he was an undergrad and still in partial denial about his sexuality—that cooking good breakfasts was the way to a woman's heart. Or a man's.

The way Esca looked as he lounged around the “living room/kitchen” portion of the studio, wearing nothing but plaid pajama pants, would leave Marcus nearly speechless. It wasn't right having someone so sexy in his apartment, and it was all he could do to stay focused on the omelets and not turn the toast into charcoal.

“Your music sucks. Please tell me you're aware of that?” Esca had taken to poking at Marcus' iPod, searching for suitable music for their meals. He had not yet approved of a single song.

“I listen to things that make me happy. I don't care if they're not 'cool', because I don't have time to track down and teach myself to enjoy trendy, hipster music. I hear a song, I think 'hey, that's pretty good', and I download it. The end.”

“And then you listen to it forever, apparently. I mean, Third Eye Blind? Erasure? Hoobastank?” He frowned in mock-horror. “2002 called, and they'd like their shitty bands back.”

“Shut up about my music!” Marcus resisted the urge to snap Esca with a dishtowel.

“I am bringing a USB drive with me next time, and you're going to listen to better albums and like them. No arguing.”

Marcus did not argue. Secretly he loved it whenever Esca threatened things like that, because it increased the possibility of their actually being a next time.

The following Sunday, while Marcus cleaned up the wreckage of the “kitchen” (breakfast burritos and bloody marys were a delicious meal, but also a messy one), Esca lounged on the couch, patting his stomach and groaning happily. (What's the Story) Morning Glory? was playing on the stereo because he had declared that if they were going to listen to music from 1995, it should at least be good music. When that finished Marcus countered with a Ginuwine album he'd found under a dusty pile of U2 CDs, and this earned him an actual compliment on his musical taste. So he demanded a kiss as reward. Esca kissed him. Marcus demanded another. Esca refused and said he was being greedy. Marcus said he was horny, not greedy. Esca swung his knees apart, patted the inside of one thigh and asked what, exactly, was Marcus waiting for?

“I'm not working a 24-hour shift tomorrow with rug burns on my knees.”

“Good thing we're only about 4 feet from your bed, then.”

They both moved a bit slowly because they were so full and stuck to the simple hand-jobs-while-making-out routine. Afterwards, as Marcus was drifting into a post-breakfast, post-sex nap, Esca murmured,

“So are you one of those guys who doesn't like anal?”

Marcus woke up instantly. “Um, no, but it's kind—er—why do you ask?”

“Just curious. You've never brought it up—not that I'm complaining about the blow jobs, mind you—and I thought maybe it wasn't your thing.”

“There's no reason for it to be seen as the gold-standard for homosexual acts.”

Esca snorted. “Queer studies strikes again. Do you ever want to?”

“I certainly wouldn't completely rule it out without a discussion of … preferences.”

“Wow. Way to dance around the issue. Have you had anal sex?”

“Um. Yeah, a few times.” Please do not ask me for the specifics. Please please please.

The nurse was peering at him incredulously. “I don't entirely believe you. Actually, I don't believe you at all. All your ideas about sexuality seem to have come from classes you took in college, and that's weirding me out. Are you actually gay or just playing with me?”

This conversation had the potential to turn ugly, fast. Best to head it off at the pass. “I'm gay, Esca. But I've only been honest with myself about it for maybe five years now, and my life has been so consumed by med school that I'm still … new at lots of things. Lots of things I've just read about rather than doing, either for lack of opportunity or lack of nerve. Sorry.”

“So have you ever … ?”

Why can't he drop it? Surely this doesn't really matter to him. “Yes, but not with a guy. OK? My girlfriend and I were going through a rough patch and were trying to introduce new things into our relationship, to spice it up or whatever. All we learned is that neither of us liked it. Why do you want to know all this?”

Esca went uncharacteristically quiet. “I've always known I was gay, no one ever really cared one way or another—certainly not my parents—and the idea of sleeping with a woman is kind of … eech. So I just can't wrap my head around you. You seem happy going down on me but then you keep spouting off academic ideas, like you're trying to distance yourself from it. Are you one of those totally repressed gays who spends Saturday night at the club passing out blow jobs, and then Sunday at church telling yourself you're just 'going through a phase'?”

It was meant as a joke—probably—but the question just made Marcus sad.

“You're going to think this is really stupid, but the truth is you're only the 4^th guy I've ever slept with. I had a live-in girlfriend all the way through college, my parents thought the world of her, and she was so great after my dad died. But we split a few months later, right before I started med school, because we both knew it wasn't working and there wasn't any more pressure from Pop to get married and have babies. I kept saying that we could make it work and telling myself I was bi, and finally one day she just said 'No, Marcus, you're not.' And that was hard. We stayed good friends and she even went in with me when I got my Huntington's results, but now she's married and has a baby and lives down in Springfield and I … I don't know. It's weird how someone you were so close to can just drift away like that. And then in med school I was so busy that I hardly dated at all. My whole life has been on pause for so many years now, and I feel like I haven't had a chance to figure anything out. Hell, I'm still sleeping in the double bed Shannon and I bought when we moved in together our junior year. Although most of the time I just share it with my laptop.”

That at least made Esca laugh and lightened the mood a little. “Leftovers from relationships are the worst. There's a reason I've never had you over to my condo—cats. My ex wanted them and when we split naturally he ditched them with me. They're evil, possessive little shits but I've had them for so long now that it would be kinda lonely not having them around, if that makes sense.”

It was bad timing and Marcus couldn't put his finger on why he wanted to know, but apparently he was going to ask anyway and probably destroy their morning in the process. “Someone mentioned you were married to a doctor once?”

“Aw, hell. Who told you that?” Yep, bad timing. “It was a long time ago, I was young and stupid, we flew to Canada and got hitched almost on a whim, and it only lasted 8 months. The moment we got married it became this epic power struggle and you know what? All the power turned out to be on his side. Older, more important, this hotshot endocrinologist, and it sucked being with someone who made 11 times what I did. We divorced, I got the cats, the end. Want to poke at any other sore spots?”

Marcus shook his head. “Nope. Sorry I bothered you.”

“Hmph, maybe you should be,” Esca grumbled, but he was calming down already. What Marcus was doing with his hand certainly didn't hurt matters. “Keep doing what I think you're doing and I'll let it—ahhhhh.”

Sometimes a simple apology worked best.

~*~

Maybe work had improved dramatically, Dr. Rama had undergone some sort of religious conversion, Marcus' diagnostic skills had finally developed, and the floor was in the middle of a sweet spot (enough staff, no horrible patients). Or maybe getting laid was affecting more than just his dick. Either way, Marcus was temporarily having an okay time of it and not about to look this particular gift horse in the mouth.

Esca only worked three days a week (unlike the residents, who had to work six days out of seven), which meant there were plenty of opportunities for Marcus to spent 24 hours alone and exhausted and trying not to think about what he had been doing at that time the previous day. But since he virtually lived at the hospital, it also meant he got to see Esca nearly every time the nurse was on the floor. They were very careful not to let anyone know they were involved (the ethics committee did not approve of “fraternizing with the enemy,” as Esca called it) and kept it strictly professional.

Well, mostly. There was the occasional dirty text. And the time when Esca felt up Marcus under the table during the 2 am Sunday potluck because he knew Marcus couldn't do anything about it. And the hookup in the physician's office shortly after the potluck, during which they discovered that Dr. Rama's cherished desk was the perfect height for a shortish nurse to sit on while a tallish resident knelt in front of him and did entirely unprofessional things with his mouth.

But other than that, it was a 100% proper working relationship.

Their schedules worked out so well in January that they only had one day where Dr. Aquila was off and Nurse Mac Cunoval had to work. Unfortunately, that turned out to be the day a 300 pound patient fell on Esca, destroying his ACL.

February: The Reason Is You

[How are things at Chez Esca?]

[sucks]

[Need anything?]

[No]

[Cool. Call me?]

Marcus stared at his phone. He always called Esca; Esca never called him. That summed up their relationship pretty succinctly. After 3 more minutes of staring (he timed it, thinking there should really be some sort of Sad Boyfriend Track-the-Phone-Calls App) he gave up and went back to the dishes.

Sometimes movies are bullshit. Actual relationships rarely start with a Meet Cute. Shy Girl doesn't suddenly become more confident after sleeping with Drunk Guy at a party. In real life, newish cars with a full tank of gas and regularly scheduled maintenance start each and every time the key turns in the ignition, whether or not Zombies are shambling towards it.

Sometimes, however, movies so accurately reflect reality that they just serve to remind people of how much real life can suck. In this case the phone did ring, of course, but not until Marcus had achieved Maximum Suds, straight up to his elbows. When he saw who was calling he lunged for it, toweling as he went, and naturally—just like on TV!—it insisted on squirting out of his grasp like a bar of soap and careening across the linoleum. When he finally got it up against an ear Esca was laughing.

“Smart phone trying to make a break for it?”

“There's a reason I burn through those protective sleeves, and it's not style. What's up?”

“I just thought of something I could really use before surgery, and I think you're the only one who can manage it for me.”

Marcus immediately forgave Esca's failure to call. “It's no problem—what can I do for you? Absolutely. Happy to help and all.” He tried to be cool but was fairly certain it didn't work. Maybe Esca wanted someone to talk through post-surgery rehab options with him, or just wanted someone to hang out and keep him company, or maybe he wanted some pre-admission action to give him something to think about while he was stuck overnight in the uncomfortable hospital bed—

“Can you swipe me a couple urinals from work? They're in the supplies room. I'd ask Merilee or Yosh but I don't want to get them in trouble for stealing. I doubt anyone would bust you for taking them, since you're a doctor and all.”

Marcus actually double-checked the phone, as if it had suddenly sprung to life and were trying to gnaw at his ear.

“Uh, yeah … no problem. No problem at all.” Oh god, I just said 'no problem' something like 3 times in 60 seconds. I sound like a guy who's getting dumped at his anniversary dinner. “That sounds like a reasonable idea, actually. Good sound thinking. Very, uh … when do you want me to bring them over?”

“Can you swing by Wednesday night? I get 'scoped on Friday and I've got to be non-weight-bearing on the knee for 48 hours after discharge, so it's going to be nothing but laying on the couch watching HBO.”

“I'll be over. Need anything else?”

“Nope. Thanks, Doc!” Esca hung up abruptly. Marcus set it down and continued with the dishes; rote motions felt very soothing, all of a sudden.

Exactly how badly am I getting used by this?

~*~

Esca's condo was on the West Side, disturbingly near Little Italy; Marcus hoped that the nurse had never stopped by Lucky Luigi's for a late night polish sausage. He hadn't mentioned that part of his life yet and preferred to keep his hotdog-slinging-past as secret as possible.

The building was pretty cool, he thought, classic brickwork with “1916” in tile at the entrance to the lobby, high hallway ceilings, crown molding, and lots of wrought iron. Unfortunately, the condo itself was one of those places that realtors said had all sorts of possibility. Some previous owner had remodeled it to match the height of fashion circa 1983, and it had stayed stubbornly stuck in the eighty's ever since. Wall to wall beige carpeting, “architectural features” made out of those weird glass cubes and honest-to-god teal accents in the bathroom (which smelled like kitty litter). Also it was a total mess. Marcus' hands were already itching to at least take out the garbage or something.

“Welcome to Chez Esca. Don't say you weren't warned.”

“Your place is awesome! It makes me feel like a kid again. Do you have any Scott Nagel posters?”

“Shut up, you. I've been meaning to redecorate for a while now.” Esca tried to throw an empty bottle of water at him but missed badly, and the bottle landed on the kitchen floor next to a pile of old Readers overflowing their recycling container.

I'm glad to know I'm not the only one at ProvChicago who needs a life.

“So where's the goods?”

Marcus scowled and handed over a grocery bag with three plastic urinals in them. “I hope you appreciate it. I got a really weird look from a nurse who walked in while I was grabbing them.”

“Did you tell her what you were doing? You'd better not have told anyone they were for me.”

“Don't worry, as far as everyone knows you still hate all doctors equally.”

“Thank god. I'd hate to blow my reputation!” Esca settled back onto the couch, where he'd apparently been camped out for the entire week since the injury. He had made himself a little man-cave of pillows and blankets, and fortified himself with nursing journals and DVDs which, as far as Marcus could tell, were entirely medically-related.

He picked one up and frowned. “Are you doing anything with your time off other than thinking about work? Seriously, are you just watching Scrubs reruns over and over and over?”

“Absolutely not! I've got a large variety to choose from, plus Netflix. I don't just think about nursing, you know.”

“Mmm hmm.” Marcus picked up the stack, ignoring the nurse's protests, and started reading. “Gray's Anatomy. ER. Nurse Jackie. Mercy. Three Rivers. HawthoRNe. House—really?”

“House is a dick. I hate that show. I'm only watching it because I had a crush on Robert Sean Leonard when I was 10.”

“And yet you have five seasons of it here. Seriously, you're just watching shows about hospitals. Can I bring you anything different? A book, maybe? Want my X-Box for a few days?”

“Don't both trying to nurse me, man, because it will not work. I know good nursing, and you are not it.” Esca waved a finger at him threateningly, and Marcus laughed despite his irritation. Surely stealing the urinals could at least have earned him a thank you? He looked around for a place to sit and, finding none, pressed ahead with being pointlessly helpful.

“Surgery is set for Friday? I'm surprised they got you in so soon.”

“They tend to make a hole in their schedule for employees for are hurt on the job. It's better than paying me workers comp for months and months and months. Straightforward knee scope, just an overnight stay, and then lots of physical therapy and light duties. In other words, I'm fine.”

“Yeah, I know. Do you want me to drive you? I can figure it out the schedules, talk someone into swapping a partial shift for me or something—”

“I've got friends, you know. I'm not crippled and helpless on the couch when you're not around.” Esca snapped.

There was an uncomfortable pause. Marcus stared at the bad carpeting. He was in so far over his head; he was way too invested in this relationship that wasn't even really a relationship, just two men going out on what Esca refused to even call dates, and it was all well and good to spend his free days and nights and thinking about Esca, but he'd have to be pretty far along with the self-deception to convince himself that Esca was doing the same.

Esca slumped back against the cushions, sulking. “That came out a bit … harsher than I had expected. Sorry.”

“It's cool. You're in pain, and you hate being inactive. It makes sense that you'd be on edge.” Marcus gave him a game smile that didn't fool either of them.

Almost too quietly, the nurse murmured, “When I'm a dick, you don't have to be nice in return. You know that, right? I'd sorta rather you weren't, actually.”

No good would come of this conversation, certainly not now. Marcus decided to leave before he said anything else stupid. “Why don't you give me a call after you're discharged and feeling a little better? Let me know if you want me to swing by with food some night.”

Esca made a face. “Ugh. I'll probably be too hopped up on Vicodin to want anything to eat.”

“Anti-emetics, then?” Another forced smile; again, neither of them were fooled.

“I'll call you,” Esca promised. He turned back to the TV and began fiddling with the remote. Apparently the piece of plastic in his hands was more engaging than the human being standing four feet away.

When he let himself out, Marcus closed the front door a bit harder than intended.

~*~

Someone drove Esca to surgery. Someone else drove him home. Marcus spending his weekend focused on not calling every 14 minutes to see how everything had gone, and reminding himself that looking up Esca's surgery records in the hospital database was a federal violation. Finally he got a text on Sunday afternoon.

[Come tonite if u wnt]

[Time?]

[Wheneevr cant sleep]

[I'll be there at 8.]

When Marcus arrived, nothing had changed in the apartment. Esca was still on the couch, surrounded by nursing journals. The bathroom still smelled like kitty litter. The kitchen floor was still covered in garbage—as he watched one of the cats, a fat orange tabby, hopped onto the counter, gave him a look that said you're not wanted here, and knocked a coffee mug onto the floor with a single swipe of his paw. It shattered on the linoleum.

Esca, not even bothering to look up from what he was reading, yelled “Get off the counter, Hobbes.” As an afterthought, he added “Hi, Marcus.”

“Hi yourself. How's the knee?”

“Hurts like hell, but the incisions look good and I should be weight bearing on Tuesday. PT's coming to see me tomorrow.”

“Why does it hurt? What did they prescribe for pain?” Marcus picked his way over to the couch and winced—two of the three urinals were full of a darker yellow liquid than he would have liked to see. “Also, you're not drinking enough water.”

“I know. But if I pee I have to get up to dump them. And I've got Vicodin but it puts me to sleep. I was going to have a beer instead. Want one? Help yourself; they're in the fridge.”

“No thanks, and none for you either.” Marcus was frankly getting sick of being pushed around, and sick of the Esca-pity-party he had to listen to. “Alcohol will dehydrate you further and the Vicodin works best if you take it on schedule. Please?”

He got a Look for his trouble. “Seriously, Doc, I am in so much pain. Do not start with me.”

Marcus ignored him and shook out two Vicodin into the palm of his hand. “They work better when you take them, and you know it. You'll heal faster if you're in less pain. If you argue with me over that, I will give you my lecture on the impact of blood glucose levels on healing times. Also, we can also discuss non-pharmacological methods of pain relief if you like.”

“Like what?” Esca rolled his eyes as he pushed himself into a sitting position. “Ice packs? Soothing music? Guided imagery?”

“Endorphins. Take your pills and I'll get you off.”

The nurse's eyes lit up. “I don't remember that ever being discussed in school!” He reluctantly swallowed the pills under Dr. Aquila's watchful gaze, washing them down with a full 8 oz of water. “Done. And hydrated. This had better not ruin my liver.”

Marcus helped Esca lift his hips up off the couch (difficult with only one working knee) and together they awkwardly shifted his sweatpants down, snickering at the total non-sexiness of the situation. It took far longer than his ego would have liked to get any sort of a response out of the nurse—and he knew the clock was ticking—but finally Esca started to stiffen. Marcus' original plan had been a blow job, but the angle was all wrong and Esca frankly smelled a bit stale after 4 days on the couch, so instead he worked with one hand until his entire arm ached. Judging by the response he got it was still well-appreciated. For a long time afterwards Esca refused to let him stand, curling up with one of Marcus' arms and making happy affectionate noises. Marcus was not about to argue with that.

Finally, when Esca had fallen asleep right on schedule (Vicodin kicked in after 30 minutes on average), Marcus eased himself away and stood up, willing the blood back into his tingling legs. He estimated he had a couple of hours at most; time to get to work.

Two and a half hours later the doorbell rang and Esca woke up, grumbling and bleary-eyed. “Dammit, was I asleep? Why did you let me go to sleep? Was that the door?”

“Yup, dinner has arrived.” Marcus buzzed in the delivery man. “Hope you like Indian food? Chicken tikka masala and aloo gobi, side of naan.”

“I love Indian but—no! What the hell!” He glanced around in despair. “What's that smell? What have you done to my condo?”

“Cleaned it. Your place was a dump and I couldn't handle it anymore. I organized the living room, took down the recycling, washed two loads of dishes, emptied out the litter box and ran a load of laundry that your evil bastard cats immediately fell asleep on after I folded it. Had to open a window for a while to get rid of the stale air, so it's a bit chilly, but I found some cinnamon candles under the bathroom sink and I'm burning them to at least make it smell different, if not better. Beer?”

Esca gave him a long, hard look followed by an actual smile. “I take back what I said. You'd make a pretty good nurse.”

March: What's This Life For

Marcus had finally worked out what the problem with their relationship was, of course; their relationship didn't actually exist. Esca was simply taking advantage of him, and if he was really, really honest with himself, he was taking advantage of Esca just as selfishly. He needed more friends, he needed more people he enjoyed seeing at work, and he needed to get laid. Currently, Esca was providing all three. Once the cardiac residency was over, he doubted they'd see much (if any) of each other again.

For the present, it was enjoyable enough. He had someone to talk shop and gossip with, and someone he could take out to a bar and buy a beer. He felt more like he actually belonged somewhere. The cardiac floor was a relatively tight unit, with nurses and aides and therapists and social workers all throwing potlucks and giving birthday cards and generally having a good time together. The rotating cast of residents was rather pointedly not included. So Marcus felt almost cool, like an insider, when Esca would sidle over to him and ask favors. Like he was doing right now.

Physical therapy had cleared Esca to return to the floor, so he was working nights as the unit secretary—nights were calmer and he could stay off his feet most of the shift. He liked it because he could once again be where he was happiest (which was at work). Marcus liked it because the nurse's presence cheered him up when he was least happy (which was at work).

“Any chance you could talk to the kid in room 35?”

“Emmett? Sure. What about?”

“He's gotten pretty rude and uncooperative. Hard to take care of. Refusing meds, not talking to social work and palliative, just sort of … laying there.”

“Can you blame him? He's 28 and dying.”

Esca's expression turned unusually sympathetic. “I'd probably do the same, but it's hard on us nonetheless. Patients are always polite to you doctors, and so grateful that you come in and say hi for 4 minutes, and then they're awful to us the other 23 hours and 56 minutes. If you could try …”

“Of course I can. Got a recommended time when a conversation might work best?”

“Now's just fine. He'll probably be up until midnight playing WoW, so don't worry about waking him up or anything.”

Marcus grimaced. “Is that why he won't let anyone in the room until 0800?”

Esca just tapped his nose and went back to what he'd been doing previously, which was harassing the clown fish in the grimy tank.

It wasn't like Marcus had much to do, and since (glancing at the clock) it was only 2130, he still had about 10.5 hours of shift to go. Might as well kill time. He headed over to room 35 and knocked.

“What do you want, Aquila?” Emmett never called anyone by anything other than their last names.

Marcus rolled his eyes and popped his head in to the room. Two could play at this game. “How did you know it was me, Mr. McIntyre?”

“'Cuz you're the only doctor who knocks. And don't call me 'Mr. McIntyre'. Makes me sound like me dad.”

“You got it. Um … can I come in?”

“You're already in.” Emmett, wearing a headset and clutching a controller, did not take his eyes off the laptop in front of him, forcing Marcus to awkwardly pull up a chair along side the bed and join in watching the video game. On the screen, some sort of—was it a fight?—was taking place. Tall creatures with wings were sending blue zaps at even larger green things. Numbers appeared and vanished. Sounds of explosions and magic spells nearly distracted Marcus from what he slowly realized were the real-live sounds of people talking in the background. From the way they were swearing, presumably things were going well.

Finally Marcus cleared his throat. “So, can we chat for a minute?”

“Whatever.”

“You'd have to stop the, um, whatever is happening.”

“Christ. It's a guild war. Fine, hang on.” He spoke to the computer, “Doc's in the room. Catch you guys in 10 or so?”

Various tinny voices from the laptop's speakers said things along the lines of “See you then,” and “Be cool, Em.” Emmett set the controller down and pulled off the headset with an irritated jerk. He looked at Marcus with flat, emotionless eyes.

“What do you want.” It wasn't a question. Luckily, Marcus had prepped for this ahead of time. He was also getting better at accepting the fact that a significant percentage of the people he encountered at work would hold a visceral hatred for him, at least once.

“I wanted to talk about why you won't fill out the 'Five Wishes' paperwork for Palliative Care. Or at least get you to be a bit more willing to work with the nurses here? They're trying their best, and you frequently express a … frustration with their even being in the room to give you meds. I'm just hoping we can find come common ground.” Marcus stared at the wall as he said this. His whole practiced speech had an atmosphere of tragic pointlessness about it, more pointless (in a way) than whatever was happening on the laptop. He and Emmett both knew it.

“Because I don't care.”

“About anything?”

“Not at this point.”

“Except WoW.” He winced internally; doctors were supposed to be calm and a bit detached. Definitely not sardonic.

“At least WoW makes me feel like I've accomplished something with my life.”

“So if I'm understanding you correctly, it sounds like you're saying that the video game gives you more fulfillment than, uh, cooperating with the medical team?” Ugh. That was not smooth and empathetic.

The look Emmett gave him was almost terrifying in its hopelessness. “Fuck you.”

Marcus nodded. “That's fair.” They sat in silence for two uncomfortable minutes. When Emmett spoke again his voice was shaking.

“Have you seen me? Have you actually seen me, Doctor Fucking Aquila? Look at me.” Marcus looked at him, at his face bloated by a lifetime of steroids and heart failure, his broken-out cheeks and thin, brittle hair. “I'm on 6 liters of oxygen, continuously, my heart is almost done and your asshole attending Rama won't give me a transplant because I've also got pulmonary hypertension and total renal failure. I can't even walk around any more, because my legs weigh about 60 pounds each. Have you seen them lately?”

Emmett pulled back the blankets and pointed, as if daring the doctor to look away. Marcus did not. He knew what they were like. Swollen and purple, all thickened, shiny skin and varicose veins. The ankles were too wide for anyone to span with their hands, the feet so large no socks would ever fit them again. Typical for chronic heart failure; nothing he hadn't seen a hundred times before. He wondered, briefly, what it would be like to actually be attached to those legs, rather than just look at them and walk away.

“I'm ugly, really ugly at this point. Ugly, gross, pimply, huge, and a mouth breather because I feel like I'm suffocating any other way. And what's the date?”

“March 17^th.”

“Great. Opening day's the 4^th, so if I live another month, I'll get to see maybe five more Cubs games before I die. Am I going to live a month, Aquila?”

“Probably not.”

“So by May I'll be dead. And that scares me. You have no idea. I mean, I'm not stupid, I'm an atheist and I know nothing happens after you die. You just … stop. So I won't care that I'm dead, because I'll be dead, right?”

“I honestly don't know.” Suddenly, Marcus was sick of being the one who was supposed to have answers. Sick of what felt like an endless stream of lies, cheerfully presented to desperate people. He had already lost control of the conversation, of the situation, and if he wasn't careful, he was going to be losing control of himself next.

“So I guess I'm scared of dying, of being in pain or feeling like I'm suffocating, but then that's all done, so I won't—” And just like that, Emmett started to cry. Not a dignified, self-conscious, dabbing-tears-out-of-the-corner-of-one-eye sort of crying. This was the noisy, snotty, shaking sort of crying that people usually only allowed themselves to do in private, where no one could see them.

Marcus had no idea what to do. It was hideously embarrassing having to watch the scene. He thought briefly about patting Emmett on the back and shushing him, discarded it in favor of offering kleenex, realized no amount of nose-blowing or calm words would work, and gave up. There were actual things in the world to be embarrassed about, and witnessing the honest mourning of someone who was 28 and would never see 29 was not one of them. The only problem was the effect Emmett's crying was having on the doctor.

Oh well. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em?

Emmett ran out of tears first, and then noticed the doctor next to him. “Holy shit. Are you OK?”

“No. No, I'm not, not at all. I'm so sorry.”

“Um—why?”

“Because I can't fix you. And I want to, so badly that it hurts, it just eats away at me every single day, and there's nothing I can do but say sorry and walk away. And I'm so sorry.”

“Huh. OK, then.”

They cried a little while longer, and then—

“You want a kleenex or something, Aquila?”

“Thanks.” Marcus grabbed three (hospital kleenex was worse than cheap toilet paper, thin and scratchy and there was never enough of it in a box) and he and Emmett blew their noses simultaneously, loud stupid honking noises. This made Emmett laugh a little, and then more, and then they were both giggling—giggling, for Christ's sake—like total morons.

“I don't think I've ever had a doctor do that before.”

“Yeah, it's the floor's dirty little secret: Dr. Aquila's a crier.”

“Oh. Want a pudding cup?”

“Hell yes I want a pudding cup. Where are they?”

“Top drawer, right behind you.” Emmett turned out to have a pretty excellent supply of hospital snacks, and so he and Marcus ate two chocolate puddings apiece. They were delicious, nearly. By the time they had finished Emmett was actually smiling.

“Sorry to kinda lose it back there, Aquila.”

“It's cool. Anything in particular or just general, you know, everything?”

“It's mostly my mom.” Emmett's voice sank again, and Marcus dreaded a second outburst. For one thing, they were almost out of pudding. “I won't care when I'm dead, but she will. And that's what really frightens me. You know?”

“Absolutely.” Marcus nodded, then nodded even more emphatically. Oh yes, he knew all about this. “When my dad died I was so angry at him, which didn't even make sense, but I was totally furious because he was dead and so he didn't have to deal with the fact that he was dead! It wasn't rational, but I think I felt that more than I felt sad.”

“Yeah. I'm just scared for her, and what she's going to do, and have to go through. And I can't do anything about it.”

Time to be Dr. Aquila again, just for a moment. “I hope it doesn't sound like a total dick move, bringing this up, but that's what the 'Five Wishes' thing is for. It's not really for you, not completely. It's for everyone who is stuck with living after you die, because you won't care, you're all 'outta here, ciabatta,' but they still have to cope in an awful, post-Emmett world. This way they'll know that you died on your own terms, and that will help them.”

“Did you just say 'ciabatta?' You are not normal,” Emmett laughed.

Marcus shrugged; he was starting to enjoy himself, in a reckless sort of way. “Why should I waste your time? Think about it. It sucks that you're dying, but in a way you have this huge opportunity. My dad didn't know he was about to die—he was going to work like normal, stepped out of the bathroom, had a heart attack and dropped dead. Literally. You know that it's coming, so you can at least do a few things first. Watch good movies. Or watch really bad, awkward porn! Eat at a super-expensive restaurant. Go to a Cubs game with your mom and take a bunch of pictures and make a scrapbook out of it or something. They're going to lose, but what the hell. You can do something about how she'll feel after you die. She'll remember that game forever, and that will be something you did to help her out.”

“That's not a bad idea, actually. What about—” He grew quiet and Marcus worried he was going to start crying again. “OK, you seem pretty cool so I'm going to ask you this but you can't tell Rama, right? 'Cuz he's a turdball. What if I had a couple of beers? Would that totally be a problem?”

This was rapidly shaping up to be an excellent conversation. “As a doctor, I have to tell you yes. You can't have beer. With the meds you're already on, if could cause catastrophic liver failure, possibly in as little as 6 months.”

“6 months? Noted!” They were grinning at each other like drunken idiots now. Emmett dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “So what about sex, Aquila? What about, um, oral sex? I can't really get laid, not with my legs, but I'd really like … you know. Am I freaking you out, asking that?”

“I spend up to 12 hours at a time with Dr. Rama, so you'd be amazed at how little frightens me nowadays. The general principle is: if it doesn't make you feel like shit, do it. Eat nothing but cupcakes for a week. Stay awake for 3 days straight playing WoW. And when you start to feel too awful, we can talk hospice. All the morphine and antianxiety meds you want, at home and on your own terms.”

Emmett nodded; he looked thoughtful. Then he leaned over and whispered conspiratorially, “I don't think I know anyone who can give me a blow job.”

Marcus kept his face carefully neutral while he tried to figure out exactly how fast and hard the ethics committee was going to take away his right to practice medicine. “Nobody at all?”

“I'm pretty gross-looking.”

“Well, frankly I can't recommend any illegal activity. I could lose my license. So I can't say things like 'it's fine to get high' or 'drink yourself silly at the pub' or 'there's plenty of nice women in the back of the Reader who would be happy to help in exchange for cash.' You have to come up with those ideas on your own, and if you run them past me I'll have to say no, just like I did with the beer. Cool?”

“Very cool.” Emmett glanced up at the clock; ten minutes had come and gone some time ago. “Hey, I should really get back online or my friends are gonna worry that I coded. I did that once during a guild battle and they were pissed.”

“Yeah, of course. Um, good chat. Thanks for talking.” Marcus stood to go, suddenly self-conscious again. Before he could turn, though, Emmett held out his hand.

“Thanks. I think you're the only doctor who's been 100% straight with me. Not that the others lied or anything, but you were … honest. I appreciate it.”

He didn't want to start crying again, so Marcus took a bit longer to respond than he would have liked. “I'm not about to waste your time. You've got better things to do than listen to me try to sound professional.”

As he was putting his headphones back on, Emmett nodded goodbye. “Ciabatta?”

“Ciabatta!”

Dr. Aquila spent the next hour hiding in the empty physician's office, getting ahead on paperwork and waiting until he looked less like he'd just bawled in front of a patient. When frequent checks in the mirror reassured him that he looked normal, he wandered out to find Esca. He wanted to be with other people for a while.

Esca was in the snack room, head buried in the fridge and muttering to himself. “Did you manage it?”

“Maybe.” Nine months on the floor had honed the doctor's cynicism to a fine point; he figured the odds were no better than 50/50 that Emmett would actually follow through with any of what they had discussed. “Time will tell, I guess. But he seemed receptive to the idea of doing things other than play WoW.”

“That's good.” Esca nodded absentmindedly and returned to his task, sorting through the patients' personal food and throwing away what was expired, or what had been left behind when someone went home. Every item that landed in the garbage was punctuated by a single word of explanation.

“Discharged, discharged, moldy, expired, discharged, deceased, deceased, discharged—god, this man left a lot of food behind—discharged, oh, hey now. This is promising!” He held up a bottle in triumph, as if it were some sort of good-conduct medal.

“Virgil's Root Beer. Ever had it? Absolutely the best.”

“Isn't that the really expensive stuff that's $2 each?” Marcus wasn't sure he liked the look in Esca's eyes.

“Yup, that's the one. Wanna split it with me?”

“Sweet Jesus, no. Are you serious?”

“Of course. You're not going to tell on me, are you?” Esca batted his eyebrows at Marcus, who glanced around the empty room in desperation.

“Stealing a patient's food and eating it? No, I am not going to be involved with this.”

The nurse shrugged. “Your loss. And, by the way, it's not stealing if the patient's dead.”

“I'm not sure that makes it any more ethical.” They both looked down at the bottle in Esca's hand. “Whose was it? Anyone I know?”

“Devyn. Remember him?” Esca's voice turned sad. “Poor thing. It's always hard when they die, but that one … I just don't understand it sometimes.”

Marcus remembered, all right. Devyn had gotten the page on his 24^th birthday—Come in to the hospital for transplant immediately, we have a match for you—surrounded by his overjoyed family. They were so grateful, they said, so grateful to God for this opportunity that He had given their only son. What a wonderful gift. Surgery had gone well, and his older sister had decorated his recovery room with posters from friends, cards from church, and pictures of the birthday presents he hadn't gotten a chance to open. But Devyn always felt so weak, so tired. Even brushing his teeth wore him out. At first he could walk a full lap around the floor, then a short lap, then out into the hallway. Then it took two people to help him stand to pee. Then he went back to the ICU. Failure to thrive, the doctors said, which meant that they couldn't find a cause, and thus couldn't find a solution. For two months they poked him with needles for countless blood draws, inserted and removed chest tubes, titrated IV drips, wheeled him down on a stretcher to an endless series of x-rays and CT scans, and woke him every 4 hours for vital signs. His mom stayed with him every single night. Five months to the day after his transplant, they took him off life support.

Thank you, his family said. You did your very best. Even the chief surgeon got emotional then.

“Anyway, I'll split it if you want. He's been dead for three weeks, and I'm sick it sitting there, taunting me.”

Marcus stared at the label, at the smiling bearded man with the tray of drinks. It seemed so impossible that the root beer still sat in the fridge while the young man it was intended for was gone forever. “How do you manage this?” he hissed hoarsely. “How do you not spend all your time just … overwhelmed by everything?”

Esca sighed as he poured the root beer into two paper cups. “I'd lie and tell you I'm used to it, but I'm not. Some days are great, and some days I go home and hide in the shower and never want to come back. Frankly, lately I spend a lot of my time wishing I was somewhere else. But he's gone, and I'm not, and he never got to enjoy the root beer so I'm going to do it for him. Sorry that's not very profound.”

“It works for me. To Devyn?”

“To Devyn. Cheers, Doctor.”

They touched the cups together and drank in silence. When they had both finished, Marcus leaned down and whispered, “I like your philosophy. Celebrate life and all. I think it's a pretty good strategy.”

Esca smiled, a wicked smile. “Got a particular celebration in mind? Because I can take my dinner any time you like.”

“If I told you that right now, I want to give you a blow job as badly as I've ever wanted to give one to any guy, anywhere, what would you say?”

“I'd say it looks like I'm on break.”

April: Under Pressure

The thank you letter—and funeral notice—from Emmett's family had been posted on the staff bulletin board that evening. Esca read it to Marcus with a smile.

“You did a really good job with that kid. I'm impressed, and I actually mean it. For the first time ever, he had people coming and visiting, taking him out on field trips, just being with him. Half the time there was a 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the door, and he'd have some sort of get-together in there. Although I do have to say some of his friends were a little … not what I expected.”

The hairs on the back of Marcus' neck stood up. “No, go on.” He nudged Esca with his elbow. Oh shit oh shit oh shit. I didn't mean at the hospital!

“It's just that he was always such a gamer geek, right? But a couple of times this redhead dropped by after dinner, and I swear she totally looked like a stripper or something, and then out would come the sign and then half an hour later she'd take off again. A little weird. I thought it was really sweet of her, though—she always brought him a cupcake.”

Among other things. Emmett, you're lucky you're dead, or I'd strangle you with my tie.

“Well, you know, WoW is a very popular game. All kinds of people are into it.”

“Ain't that the truth.” Esca rolled his eyes and wandered off as Dr. Rama barreled down the hall towards them, giving Marcus the haven't-you-screwed-up look.

“There you are, Dr. Aquila! I just finished perusing some of your diagnostic write-ups on that athlete with dilated cardiomyopathy, and I must say. Which university did you attend again? Brown? They've had some troubles in years past, I've been hearing. At any rate, it's been a rather long time since I've seen such a dramatic failure to connect pathology with physiology … ”

Dr. Aquila practiced his pursed lip breathing, in through the nose and out through the mouth, while he tried to appear interested and reminded himself that punching his attending was always an option, but never a good one.

~*~

As his cardiac residency drew to a slow, painful close Marcus began to realize that if a new and exciting way to screw up presented itself, he would inevitably grasp that chance with both hands. For example, one morning while sharing an 0600 coffee break in the staff lounge with Esca, he made the mistake of pointing out a consulting physician who had just arrived on the floor for a visit.

“I don't know why he's here, but he's pretty spectacular in an unusual sort of way. You know, objectively speaking.”

The nurse just shook his head. “I'll believe it when I see it. What's so impressive?”

“Tall, fit, handsome, looks like he's from Africa somewhere, couldn't wrap my head around his name for the life of me. A pleasant change from the usual ugly schmucks we have hanging around here.” He patted his stomach self-deprecatingly, trying to remember how long it had been since he'd been to the gym. Esca looked confused for a moment, then frowned, set down his coffee and left without saying a word. It seemed odd, but three pages in a row distracted Marcus from the nurse's response.

As he was finishing up the last text message, he noticed Esca had returned to the staff lounge and was glaring at him in immense displeasure.

“Are you OK? You look mad all of a sudden.”

“That tall, handsome African physician?” Esca hissed. “Born in Cameroon. Endocrinologist. Asshole. Named Oluseyi Ogunyemi. Congratulations, now you've seen my ex-husband. And in case you're wondering, he's better hung than you are.” He stomped off in a huff, leaving Marcus to wonder what response, if any, he should make.

Eventually he decided not to apologize, reasoning that he hadn't done anything wrong. (Marcus concluded that actually he should receive an apology, given the totally unnecessary insult Esca had thrown out at him.) But he didn't want to push it given how little time they had left in their non-relationship.

~*~

24-hour shifts still exhausted him, even though he had the chance to nap if not responding to pages or mopping up crises. A 24-hour shift, followed by a day off spent at the ER with a mother in the midst of a manic psychosis episode, followed by another 24-hour shift—that struck Marcus as downright dangerous. But he was a resident. His opinion didn't count for anything.

Currently it was somewhere past midnight, he'd slept maybe 5 hours out of the last 72 and felt incredibly bad in an ill-defined sort of way. He was just cognizant enough to recognize the danger of the situation, but not cognizant enough to do anything about it.

Keep your head down, focus on the task at hand, don't do anything stupid, don't prescribe any dangerous drugs, don't make any important decisions. Power on through this. Hope that nobody codes.

His technique worked right up until the moment it didn't.

“Dr. Aquila! Dr. Aquila—hey, are you OK?”

Marcus glanced around in a vague confusion. People stared down at him from a great height; all the could see were legs. Imani the charge nurse shook him by the shoulder while feeling for a pulse on his neck.

What is happening. Where am I. Am I on the floor? Everyone is looking at me. “Yeah, I'm fine. Just tripped. Sorry. Didn't mean to … um … trip.”

“I think you just had a syncopal episode. Don't move.” While he lay on his back people started poking at him, and Marcus briefly realized how unpleasant it was to be a patient and have nurses constantly invading his person space. Somebody pricked his finger to check his blood sugar. Somebody else took his vital signs and shone a penlight in his eyes. Imani pinched at the skin on the back of his hand and tsked loudly.

“Stick out your tongue.” He did, and she frowned unhappily.

“Neuro checks out but your sugar is very low, you're tachycardic, dehydrated, and hypotensive. Have you been drinking anything besides coffee, Doctor? When was your last void? How much sleep have you gotten lately? Are you taking any blood pressure medications?”

He tried to answer the cascade of questions but the room wouldn't stop spinning. Then salvation arrived; Marcus' salvation was short, had spiky hair, and carried a can of Gatorade and a handful of cheese packets.

“Seriously, are you pushing yourself so much that you're going to faint at work?” Esca also tsked him, and Marcus wondered if that was something they taught in nursing school. “Sit up, drink the whole can, then eat the cheese.”

So Marcus drank and ate, and the lemon-lime Gatorade tasted better than anything he'd ever had before. Happiness and calories flooded through his system. People were discussing something in the background and he didn't care; the Gatorade was cold and sweet and about as complicated as he could handle at the moment.

“I'll find a cot and set it up in their office. He's probably sleep-deprived as well. Dr. Rama just about works them to death.” Salvation vanished and Marcus wished it would come back, maybe with more Gatorade. He drifted into sleep for a moment, then woke up to find Esca checking his vitals and poking his finger again.

“Blood glucose is up, blood pressure's a little better, heart rate is down.”

“Let's let him get some sleep, but I want somebody to check in on him from time to time.” That was Imani's voice again.

“I don't mind doing it. My patients are quiet tonight.” That voice he recognized as Esca's. “The joys of residency! Come on, Dr. Aquila, I've got a bed with your name on it. Go take a nap and no arguing—give me your pager. I'll wake you if anyone calls.”

Marcus looked around stupidly; they were no longer at the nurse's station. I'm in my office. I'm on a cot. Somebody got me blankets. It's dark in here.

“Go to sleep, love. I'll keep my eye on you.” Marcus was fairly sure his weary brain was hallucinating, because he knew Esca would never call him love, but he felt the need to clarify anyway. He tried to ask but fell asleep before he could remember the words.

~*~

“Feeling a little better?”

Dr. Aquila was warm, comfortable, rested, and somebody was rubbing him on the back. He nodded sleepily.

“Sorry to have to wake you up. You've gotten a couple pages, nothing urgent but it's probably time to deal with them.”

“How long have I been out?” It felt so good, just laying there and being touched …

“Two hours or so.”

“What? Two hours?” He tried to force himself awake, but his body had turned to lead.

Esca started running his fingers through Marcus' hair. “Nothing's on fire and nobody died. More importantly, what's going on with you that you're taking such bad care of yourself?”

Having someone play with his hair was Marcus' secret joy; in some ways he liked it better than sex. Plus it turned him into a puddle inside. “Just a tough couple of days. Been thinking about Emmett, Dr. Rama was his normal old self to me, I pissed you off with the ex-husband thing, and then I spent most of yesterday with Ma in the ER while she had a meltdown. I don't think I've ingested anything but coffee in about 48 hours. I need a break.”

“Don't worry about the ex thing. I'm not happy here anymore, but I've got no right to be an ass to you because of it. And you do actually have the right to call in sick once in a while, you know? You have to take better care of yourself.”

“I guess I just always feel like if there's something that has to be done, I can put off whatever I need for a little while longer. But then I feel so wiped out all the time, like I'm a punching bag that never gets the chance to recover from being hit.” Marcus hid his face against the pillow and tried to sound tougher than he felt.

“I remember feeling that way in school, and then again the first couple of years on the job,” Esca sighed. His hand was sending shivers down the doctor's spine. “I looked at it as being a bit like bulking up your muscles—you've got to tear them down again and again, and each time they get a little stronger. But the process hurts, and it only works if you look out for yourself and make the time to recover.”

“I've done what other people have told me to do my whole life. I've never made time for myself. I don't think now's exactly a good time to start. I don't know—I'm just whining.” Marcus tried to focus on how good Esca's hand felt, rather than on how miserable he was.

With a murmur of acknowledgment, Esca bent over Marcus and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Tell you what. Come crash at my place for the weekend and I'll spend some time fussing over you. Think of it as payback for cleaning while I was out cold after surgery. I'll pour you beer, order you a pizza, and make you feel good for a little while.”

May: Everybody Hurts

Marcus and Esca lay curled up together in Esca's bed, the first time the nurse had ever allowed spooning for more than a couple of minutes. Some band called Florence + the Machine played in the background; Marcus was trying to force himself to like it. It wasn't working. He suspected that he was mad at the music because he was feeling used, because this was the most contented and affectionate that Esca had ever been towards him (when Marcus wasn't passed out on the floor), and because it was only occurring because they had, after months of persistence on Esca's part, finally had anal sex.

I guess he got what he wanted, and now I'm getting mine. Or something.

“You're kinda quiet.” Esca rolled over and gave Marcus a kiss. “You OK?”

Marcus faked a smile. “Mmm hmm! Just a little sleepy.”

“Gee, and I almost believe you too. I take it that wasn't your thing.”

“It just feels a little bit weird,” Marcus admitted. “Not physically, but it seems a little, I don't know, disrespectful to you.”

“And yet, I had a great time.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” They both went quiet.

Finally Esca sighed. “If you've never tried it I can see how it might seem a little odd. Do you want to switch at some point and see what you think?”

No, not really, but you seemed so happy about it and I liked that. “Sure! Never say never.”

“I suppose if it makes you uncomfortable we don't have to again.” The nurse sounded sad for some reason Marcus could not begin to fathom, and so he wrapped his arms tighter around him.

“I'm not good at doing things for the first time, but I don't want to be the sort of person who tried something once and then spends the rest of his life avoiding it. We'll do it more, it will stop seeming weird, and in a couple of months I won't be able to get enough of it. And then you'll have a proper gay man in your bed.”

This just made Esca sadder. “You're still gay, Marcus, no matter what kind of sex you have or how often you have it. You could be a celibate Buddhist monk but if the people you want to sleep with are men, you'd still be gay. I wish you had the confidence to be more comfortable with that.”

“I'm not embarrassed to be gay, Esca! I just walk around feeling like there's a correct way to do it, and I'm not doing it right because I … I don't know, because I came out so late or something. Or because I was so afraid to admit it, even to myself, and now I feel like I have to apologize for that fear, because I don't want other people to think that I thought there was anything wrong with it. If that makes any sense.”

To his surprise, Esca actually seemed to understand. “Being honest about your sexuality always had all these repercussions for you, with your parents and your girlfriend and everything. Far more so than mine did. So it does make sense. But I want you to stop being embarrassed about who you are now, even if the reality of Dr. Aquila is different than other people's expectations.”

“How about if I try, and we see what happens?”

“I can live with that,” Esca whispered. He snuggled under Marcus' arm again and promptly fell asleep, leaving Marcus to wonder why they had even had this talk in the first place.

~*~

The next day at work, Marcus couldn't find Esca anywhere; this shouldn't have bothered him, but he still had the previous night's conversation floating through his mind, and part of him worried that the nurse had injured his knee again.

[Where are u today? Didnt c u at report.]

[they floated me to the icu, wankers]

[bummer! C u tonite then]

[sweet :p]

That resolved, Dr. Aquila headed off to see his newest patient, who was not on the cardiac floor—she had been admitted to OB the previous night with shortness of breath, and her ob-gyn had asked for a cardiology consult. Just in case.

The L&D floor was like a hotel compared to cardiac: warm, soft lighting, carpeted floors, serene nurses who spoke in low voices and live plants in every corner. Even the fish in the tank by the front desk looked perky and well-fed. Marcus knocked on his patient's door and was welcomed in by a nervous father-to-be.

“Are you Dr. Aquila? Great. Hi, I'm DaShawon McClaren and this is Zippy, she's my wife—”

“He knows that, honey!” Zippy waved and smiled; she looked ready to give birth at any moment.

“Yes, right. Anyway, we're so glad you're here. Maybe you can shed a little light on what's going on? Why she's having a hard time breathing? Please, sit. Want a brownie?”

Marcus took the brownie, sat, and tried to look confident, like he dealt with patients who were tremendously pregnant every day. “First of all, I want to reassure you that I'm only here as a precautionary measure. Because you're a captive audience, in a way, and because you don't appear to have preecclampsia, we're going to try just about everything to find out what's going on. And it might not be anything—usually it isn't. But we in medicine are a paranoid bunch. All your labs so far indicate that your liver and kidneys are healthy, your blood pressure is normal, and your electrolytes are stable, so we're investigating a little further. Mind if I listen to your heart, Mrs. McClaren?”

“Mrs? Hey! You'd better call me Zippy. You make me sound old, like my grandmama or something. Are you Cubs or White Sox, Doctor?” She smiled playfully at him.

“Um, Cubs?”

“Hmph. Such a shame. Still, they lost yesterday so that's good. OK, what the heck, have a listen.” Marcus couldn't hear much of anything, no obvious murmur or a whoosh that might indicate a hole in her heart. He felt her pulses—nothing abnormal. He checked her ankles—no puffiness. Finally he shrugged.

“You look great. What I'm going to do is order an echocardiogram, which is basically an ultrasound for your heart. I want to determine your ejection fraction—that's the percentage of blood in your heart that is ejected with every beat. Most healthy hearts pump out about 70% of their total carrying capacity with each beat, but sometimes it decreases and when that happens you can feel short of breath. When the echo is done I'll take a look at the results, and in all likelihood I'll tell you nothing's wrong, and to get some sleep before the baby comes. Oh, and I'm going to put you on a monitor that watches your heart at all times, like a mini-EKG. It's called telemetry, and it's just another precaution.”

“This is all nothing, right? This never happened with our first two kids.” DaShawon still looked worried; Zippy laughed again.

“Don't mind him, Dr. Aquila. He's always a little freaked before I go into labor. Me? I'm not. Women have been giving birth since before the dawn of time. Unless I'm secretly a Cylon.”

They all laughed and Marcus excused himself before they could offer him any more brownies. His waistline was already too big.

~*~

Two hours later Zippy's ob-gyn paged Marcus to learn the echo results. Her breathing had worsened and it took 4 liters of oxygen to keep the patient's saturation at a level the ob-gyn was comfortable with. “She's started latent labor, but I don't like how she looks. Did you hear anything? Is it cardiac?” Dr. Younker's voice had an edge to it that made Marcus' own heart skip a beat, and he promised to get the results to her as soon as he could. When he hung up he checked lab results again, but no new results had posted. So he hassled the echo lab, which said they were just about to start the procedure if he wanted to watch. He declined.

15 minutes later the echo technician called him back. “Dr. Aquila, you know I can't diagnose, but I've been doing this 10 years and I have a pretty good idea of what I'm looking at. I can do the full half-hour, if you like, or upload the info I've got now—”

“Upload it. I'll take a peek right now. Thanks for the heads-up.”

He went online and looked at the preliminary echo results. Then, as calmly as he could, he picked up the phone and called the ob-gyn.

“Dr. Aquila, you'd better have results. She's up to 8 liters of O2 and I'm tempted to stop labor.”

“Her ejection fraction is 20%. She's in active heart failure. I recommend no labor, and let's draw some stat labs to see how her other systems look.”

“Done. I'll prep her for a c-section. Come down as soon as you can?”

He swung by and said hi; DaShawon still acted nervous and Zippy still acted confident, although she admitted disappointment that she wasn't allowed to have a natural birth this time around. Marcus managed not to appear concerned at how much worse Zippy looked and focused instead on a short explanation of the echo, one that emphasized that her heart had a degree of heart failure but quite possibly a temporary one, so they would proceed with a c-section just in case. Then Dr. Younker arrived to finalize consent for the surgery. Briefly Marcus wondered at her starched white cap—she looked Amish or Mennonite or something—and then she pulled him out into the hallway for a private conversation.

“Stat lab results are back. No preecclampsia. Liver enzymes are still fine, no troponin so no silent heart attack, kidneys could look better.They're operating at maybe 60%, which makes sense since her tissue's not being well perfused. Anything else you'd like us to keep in mind before surgery?”

“No, but I'll admit I'm really surprised at how much she's changed since two hours ago.”

“Me too. I want that baby out now.”

Dr. Aquila popped his head back in the room, wished the couple good luck, and promised he would come say hi and admire their new son after they had recovered from the c-section.

~*~

Three hours later, all the further information he'd gotten was a brief text from the ob-gyn stating that surgery had gone smoothly. He visited the ICU to bring Esca a latte (Esca carried the code pager for the day so he couldn't leave the floor). In theory, this was supposed to take his mind off things. It wasn't working.

“I'm just worried. I can't stop thinking about her. I've overlooked something and it's frankly scaring me.”

“I suppose you could call Dr. Rama and consult with him?”

Marcus made a face but it was still good advice, so he dialed up his attending and braced himself for the tongue-lashing. After some generic complaining about the state of modern medical schools and the residents they sent out into the world, Dr. Rama said he would come by in a couple of hours just to check on Marcus' work and see if anything was overlooked.

“With all due respect, Sir, is there any chance you could be here sooner? Just for peace of mind?”

“Now now, Dr. Aquila. You're probably fine. I doubt there's anything too significant that you missed. I'll see you in two hours!” Marcus' mouth actually sagged open at the almost-compliment, and the line went dead before he had a chance to repeat his request.

Esca shrugged. “See? Maybe he's starting to come around to the idea that you—”

The nurse's code pager rang just as the overhead paging system calmly announced “Code blue, code 199, 7 North, room 725. Dr. Younker, Dr. Aquila stat to room 725. Code blue, code 199, 7 North, room 725. Dr. Younker, Dr. Aquila stat to room 725.”

Marcus didn't need an explanation but Esca gave one anyways. “Fuck! That's postpartum. Follow me.” And they ran, barging through double doors, hurtling up stairways and through halls until they arrived at 7 North.

The floor was no longer serene. Two OB nurses and a chaplain stood in the hallway trying to calm a distraught looking DaShawon McClaren, who appeared to be hyperventilating; a NICU nurse stood nearby and held the baby. Upset staff huddled in the hallway in clumps; a maternal death in OB was extremely rare and probably most had never seen one before. With any luck they wouldn't today, either. Marcus fought his way through the crowd and into the room, where two nurses performed CPR while an anesthesia resident attempted to intubate. He briefly saw the scene at the bed, caught a glimpse of Zippy's head flopping over to one side as anesthesia struggled for better positioning, and then realized if he was going to do his job well he couldn't look at his patient again. Esca opened up the crash cart and started drawing up medications that might be useful. The charge nurse pulled Marcus into a corner for a huddle with Dr. Younker and the floor's pharmacist.

“She started to crash while her nurse was in the room. Telemetry never saw a problem. Defibrillated once with no result. No success at intubation so far. We're having a hard time getting venous access for fluids.”

“Surgery was unremarkable. I doubt it's internal bleeding,” Dr. Younker reported.

“We need a line for rescue meds stat.” Marcus agreed. “Let's try interosseous access. Page orthopedics.”

While waiting for an orthopedic internist to arrive they made another unsuccessful attempt at defibbing. The anesthesiologist finally managed to intubate and began infusing pure oxygen into Zippy's lungs. Then two nurses rolled the patient onto her stomach and began frantically scrubbing iodine onto the back of both knees, just as the orthopedist arrived. Esca helped him gown up while the charge nurse opened up the interosseous kit, and then without hesitation or warning the internist picked up his sterile drill and drilled straight through the back of Zippy's knee, aiming for bone marrow. Marcus, who didn't look away in time, realized he was going to be sick and then decided he would be sick later when there was more time.

“I've got access.” The internist seemed unfazed by everything else that was happening in the room. “Ready to infuse.”

Esca, who was trained in that skill from his days in PICU, began infusing fluids and an epinephrine bolus straight into Zippy's leg while the nurses turned her onto her back again and resumed CPR.

“Stat labs are back, Doctors.” The charge nurse waved a piece of paper that Dr. Younker snatched up and scanned.

“Potassium's an 11, Dr. Aquila. Kidney filtration rate almost nil. I swear she was stable after surgery. Oh Jesus, please.” She looked ghostly pale, as white as her starched cap.

Marcus stayed huddled in the corner of the room with her and the pharmacist, trying med combinations, talking through strategies, and throwing out increasingly desperate ideas. He called the CardSurg attending, who said he would come down to evaluate the possibility of mechanical assistance. Everybody liked the idea, but the attending said a balloon pump would only work if any sort of a heart beat was recovered. So they continued with what they had already been doing: vasopressin, epinephrine, and atropine. Every two minutes CPR would stop, one of the nurses would attempt to defibrillate, and everyone would wait for three terrible seconds to see if a heartbeat returned. Then the entire process started up again. At some point Marcus realized that Zippy's nurse was crying slightly; it was around the same time he noticed that he was too. Only the charge nurse looked calm; she had seen this all before.

Nothing worked. He began to realize nothing would, either, but decided he wasn't ready to admit that yet.

Finally, after 45 minutes of attempted resuscitation, he looked at Dr. Younker in desperation. “Other suggestions?”

“No. I have none.”

“Let's keep going then. I remember someone in New York a few months ago who was revived after 78 minutes.”

They watched and they waited. Dr. Younker wanted to try emergency dialysis; Dr. Aquila wanted to run down to the OR and try open heart massage. They both knew none of these things were possible without a pulse.

Just as they were hitting the 60-minute mark, which Dr. Aquila had privately set as his own benchmark for reevaluating their attempts, Dr. Rama appeared in the room. For the first time all year Marcus was glad to see his attending.

“I decided to come early. Your instincts were correct, it seems. What has been tried so far?” Dr. Aquila gave a rundown and Dr. Rama nodded, almost as if they were colleagues consulting on the matter. His only advice was to wait a little longer. So they waited.

When they passed 78 minutes Marcus said, “Do we proceed?”

Dr. Rama nodded. “More time at this point is not going to hurt anything.” They waited until 90 minutes, while the nurses wore themselves out performing CPR and the anesthesiologist kept forcing pure oxygen.

At 91 minutes the attending patted Marcus on the shoulder. “Do you think we've tried enough?”

Marcus nodded stupidly. He couldn't stop thinking about the brownie for some reason. Dr. Younker stared at the floor. The OB nurses, anesthesiologist, and Esca all looked at Marcus; only the charge nurse still seemed calm.

“Call time of death and I'll talk to the family,” Dr. Rama offered. Dr. Aquila shook his head.

“No. This is—was—my patient. I can do it.” He glanced at his watch. “Time of death 1757. Let's clean her up before the husband comes in.”

June: Sometimes You Can't Make it on Your Own

“Are you serious, man? Hospice? Hospice sucks.”

After a sleety winter and forgettable spring, June was defying all expectations just by being in the 60s. They decided to spend their day off at Oak Street Beach, staring out over the water while Lake Shore Drive roared away in the background. Since it was a Tuesday nobody else was around except students ditching class and the unemployed. Things had been awkward since the code. Marcus, for one, couldn't stop thinking about it, playing the scenes over and over in his head in super slow-mo as if his mind had nothing better to do; he didn't want to admit to Esca how much it was bothering him. Esca'd been withdrawn to the point of secretive, and more sarcastic than usual when they did talk. They'd only spent the night together four times in three weeks; one or the other kept making excuses. Marcus figured it was probably because he was leaving the floor—maybe Esca was doing some sort of protective withdrawal.

“Yeah, I'm serious. If there's one thing I've learned, actually learned, from this past year, it's this: I'm sick of stalling. I'm sick of stalling in my own life, and I'm sick of stalling with my patients.”

“And hospice is your answer?”

“It really gets to me, how everything we do is just dragging them along. Sometimes things work, and they get another 10 or 20 years, even, and sometimes they get 6 months. And sometimes those 6 months are really meaningful, and sometimes it's nothing but pain, discomfort, endless hospital stays while people wake you up every 4 hours to draw your blood. It feels cruel. At least in palliative care there's not much of that. Just straight conversations about how much time they really have left, and I don't have to lie and tell them they've got a chance when we both know they don't. I want to do what I can for them, and make those last days or weeks worthwhile. And it won't be a stall.”

Esca just shook his head in disbelief. “Props to you for it, I guess. I'd never touch end-of-life care with a 10 foot pole.”

There was another silence; Esca lit up an e-cigarette and Marcus fiddled with his left hand, jammed into a pocket of his windbreaker. Finally he cleared his throat and sat up a bit straighter. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt such a wrenching blend of nervous and vulnerable.

“Since I'm stuck in medicine despite the fact that I kinda hate being a doctor, at least I can specialize in something I might actually like. And I'd rather be one of those awesomely zen doctors in a Hawaiian shirt that's calm and happy all the time, even if it's not very respectable or exciting. I don't need to be George Clooney.”

“Nobody does,” Esca snickered. “Plus he's straight.”

“Another point against him. So, anyways,” Marcus could already feel his heart sinking into his stomach, “like I said, no more stalling. So I figured I'd better tell you something.”

With a small groan, Esca slumped back on the bench. “I don't like the sound of that. Nothing good ever comes from those words, you know. It's like 'I need to talk to you,' or 'the test results have come back—why don't you come into the office and we'll discuss them'?”

Marcus knew all about that particular phone call. “Yeah, it's probably bad phrasing on my part. But maybe it won't be like that. It's up to you.”

The look of apprehension on the nurse's face made Marcus' stomach clench around his now-sunken heart. He figured he had no better than a 10% chance of pulling this off, but he had to know.

“So what is it?”

“It's this.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the box. No turning back now, and no mistaking things either. Every single jeweler's box on the planet looked exactly the same: chintzy velveteen and a little hinge. “I don't want to leave the floor without at least letting you know, once and for all, exactly how I feel about … you and me. Us.”

Esca took the box in his hand, but Marcus could already see what he was going to say. He watched as Esca palmed it uncomfortably and then shook his head.

“I'm sorry. I can't. You're a great guy, but I can't.”

Marcus nodded and swallowed hard. In an alternative universe, right now Esca was opening up the box and cooing at the ring, they were both laughing a little, he was trying on the ring and saying “I can't believe you did something like that!”

Back in the actual universe, Actual Marcus was clenching his jaw grimly and staring at the sand. “I thought you might say no. But I really had to ask. I just needed to know … sorry. This is probably pretty weird for you now.”

“And you're worrying about my feelings? Don't. It's not necessary.” Esca bit his lip until it was bloodless as his toyed with the unopened box. “Look, it doesn't mean we have to stop—”

“Of course it does! Things are pretty all or nothing at this point.” He hadn't meant to give Esca an ultimatum necessarily, but the stubborn part of his mind kept shouting, if you only come up with the right combination of words, the right argument, the right tone of voice, you can still change his mind.

“You're right. I know. I just wanted to, I don't know, cheer you up or something? You're pretty upset looking.”

“Well, I'm pretty upset.” Be cool. Be cool. Be cool. Please be cool. Please.

There was an awkward pause while Esca took an enormous drag on his e-cigarette and Marcus concentrated on the breathing technique he taught to COPD patients. In through the nose, out through the pursed lips. Repeat.

When Esca finally glanced over at him, Marcus had to look away. “Fuck, Marcus, I'm sorry. I hate that I'm hurting you. If I said 'it's not you, it's me' and I really meant it, I know you wouldn't believe me. But I swear, it really is me. This—” he waved the velveteen box in the air, “—this is not for me. Not anymore. It's not what I want.”

And neither am I.

“You deserve so much more than I can offer. Someone who's nicer than I am, someone who will actually call a date a date, who will pay more attention to you and less to work. Someone who won't demand you have types of sex you don't like. Someone who will say thank you on occasion. You're a great guy and you can find someone better than me.”

Marcus smiled, bitterly. He didn't want to be great. He wanted to be with Esca. And since they had apparently reached the part of the conversation where they both spoke in idiot cliches, that's exactly what he said.

Esca did not respond.

In the alternate universe they were going back to Marcus' place, laughing and happy, to have takeout and watch a movie and have a lot of celebratory sex. In the actual universe, Actual Marcus was going to go home by himself and spend the night huddled in bed with a bottle of Jack, his phone, a box of kleenex, and his laptop. He could already hear himself drunkenly fumbling through his pathetic contacts list, trying to find someone who would listen to him at 2 am. He should have spent less time studying and more time making friends. In all likelihood he'd end up calling Shannon, asking her if she had time to talk, and she would be so sweet about the whole thing. “Oh Marcus, I'm so sorry. Of course I have time to listen.” And she would listen, for about 10 minutes, until the baby started crying and anyway she had to be up early tomorrow because the legislature was in session … and then he would lay there alone and in tears next to a growing pile of damp tissues, thinking about all the ways he could never have Esca again, never send him stupid texts or share leftovers in bed, never wake up with him, never talk shop, never ogle him in those damn jeans he wore. Never again see him naked and happy in bed.

I'm beginning to panic. Deep breaths. I dealt with it when Pop dropped over dead. I'm dealing with Ma. At least I can go to bed tonight knowing what will happen next. In a month it will be easier. In 6 months I might be dating someone else. Maybe I can find someone just like him, but who would say Yes.

Esca fished through his backpack and eventually withdrew a real cigarette. His hands trembled slightly when he lit up. “You're pretty upset. You can't really be this serious about me, can you?”

Marcus began to crack. “Of course I can! I know how one-sided it probably always was but that doesn't change how I felt. Feel. And I'm not embarrassed about it, and I'm not going to apologize or pretend this was some elaborate joke, or that I'm really cool with everything right now.” He was struggling to keep up with the tears as they escaped down his cheeks. “I love you, Esca, no matter what you do in return and I can't change that. And I'm not sorry, and I don't regret anything that happened between us, and I'm so goddamn tired of hiding from how I feel all the time. If this is the end result then so be it. But I won't feel stupid for telling you that I love you or for being upset to learn that you don't reciprocate. Because that's all anyone can do—try their best and hope for the right outcome.”

He pulled a travel-pak of kleenex out of his pocket, where it had sat all morning next to the ring. He had figured it would be useful no matter what happened. Tears of joy, etc. When he blew his nose, he could not help thinking: this is the first of many, today.

At least the nurse had the decency to look surprisingly shaken. “You know I admire you for trying your best, right? It's true—if you're going to do something, give it your best shot.”

“And yet you haven't even looked at the ring. Be gracious enough to at least do that, will you?”

With almost visible reluctance, Esca opened the box. He heaved a sigh of relief and muttered something stupid about Marcus at least having the good taste not to buy an ugly one. Then he frowned. “It's not just a plain—what is that?” He took the ring out of the box and held it up in the sunlight.

“It's custom. Something a little more personal than a generic band.”

“It looks like a … stethoscope. Oh my god, it is. It's a little stethoscope. Marcus!”

Despite everything, Marcus actually smiled. “I thought you would enjoy that. Not that it matters at this point, but it might even fit.”

Esca slipped on the ring. “It does, actually. How did you figure out my ring size? I would remember if we talked about something like that.”

“I measured your finger a couple of months ago while you were asleep,” Marcus admitted sheepishly.

“That's so sweet and pathetic that I'm not even sure how to respond.” He laughed a little, and then winced. “Ooh, it's custom. All that money and you can't return it.”

Marcus joined him in laughing, probably for the last time. “Nope. I'll have to get rid of it with some stupid-yet-dramatic gesture. Throw it into the river or something.”

“Go to a Cubs game, sit in the bleachers, get properly drunk and sunburned, and then throw it onto the field when the other team hits a home run. That would be cool.”

“I'll keep it in mind.”

They both fell silent. The mood shifted back from relieved-laughter to doom-and-gloom. Esca hunched over, almost curled up as he leaned forward on his knees, twisting the ring around and around on his finger. When he finally spoke it wasn't even about the present situation.

“I haven't told anyone this, but I applied for a different job. And I got it. And it sucks—I want it so badly, but I have to turn it down. I just can't make it work.”

So they were going to talk about Esca's employment status now. Well, so be it. It gave Marcus a chance to stare at Esca's hand and masochistically pretend he was keeping the ring.

“Different hospital?”

Esca shook his head sadly. “School nurse. There's a new elementary school opening up West Lawn and it's accepting medically fragile kids, so they need a full-time RN on staff. I don't want to work in a hospital anymore, and I miss kids so much. Being a school nurse is hard but I'd love it. Regular hours, no nights, less pressure, and a completely different skills set.”

“So why can't you take it?” Marcus didn't want to talk about this, but the longer they talked the longer he'd get to sit next to Esca.

“I can't afford it. It pays half of I make right now and I can't swing my ugly condo's mortgage on the salary. I've run all the numbers every which way and it's no go. Don't you see it?” Esca suddenly turned to face the doctor. He looked seriously distraught (which was almost gratifying, not that Marcus would ever admit it). “Part of what I hated about being married to Olu was how much more he made than me. I don't want a sugar daddy. If I said yes to you a significant part of that yes would be because I needed the extra money so I could take the job. And that would be stupendously mercenary of me; people should be together because they want to be, not because it makes their lives easier. I won't do that, not to either of us. Especially not to you. I don't want to think I'm such a bad person that I'd take advantage of your generosity or your heart like that.”

Marcus buried his face in his hands. The conversation was getting worse with every passing minute. “Can we clear some things up a minute? Number 1: Nobody who makes forty grand a year should be considered a sugar daddy, ever. Number 2: I don't just love you for your charming personality. Trust me on that. It's also your bizarre cooking skills, and your fascinating sense of housekeeping, and the way you look in bed. And honestly, number 3? My generosity? I want someone in my life who I can care about. Who I can have dinner with, and sex with, clean up after sometimes, and be friends with, and that's at least as mercenary as your saying yes because you need help covering half of your mortgage every month. So please, I'm asking you—no, I'm begging you, Esca—can you please turn me down for an actual reason? Tell me no because you don't care about me back. Just say: 'Marcus, I don't care for you, I don't love you, so I'm not marrying you.' I can live with that but for god's sake, don't say no because being with me would improve the rest of your life too much!” He was ranting; this was the last time they would ever talk together, and he was going to end it with a shouting match.

Esca did not take the bait. He finished his cigarette, took out another, fiddled with it, broke it in half, and shoved the carton back into his windbreaker. Next he pulled off the ring and stared at it in the sunlight. Finally he cleared his throat.

“I don't want to be married. Not again. Getting a divorce is exhausting and traumatic, and just because a couple of states let us get hitched like real people now doesn't mean we have to run out and do it to strike a blow for gay pride or something.” He paused to brush off his eyes, which was a surprise; Marcus had never seen them wet before. “Still … exactly how firm is your ultimatum? I do care about you, although I'm not going to go on and on with 'Oh Marcus, I love you so much' in front of a sunset or anything. I hate gooey shit. I guess I'm saying that I'm willing to talk terms, but I'm not marrying you. So if marriage is a deal-breaker then we're kind of at an impasse.”

The universe took a lurch, leaving Marcus uncertain of exactly which one he currently occupied. Luckily, there was a way to find out. “It's surprisingly flexible for an ultimatum.”

Spiky blond hair bobbed up and down as the nurse nodded. “If you want to break your lease, move in with me and split the mortgage so I can be a school nurse and you can have somebody to clean up after, I would say yes to that much. Maybe start there, go really slowly, and see how we feel in 6 or 12 months?”

In an alternate universe, Marcus was going home by himself to spend the night huddled in bed with a bottle of Jack, his phone, a box of kleenex, and his laptop. In the actual universe, Actual Marcus had no idea what would happen next. He shrugged weakly. “Friends with benefits is not exactly what I'd hoped for, but I've gotten pretty good over the years at—what do they call it? Defining down one's expectations? My worry is that it would become as one-sided as our current relationship frankly is, but I'm still willing to give it a shot.”

Esca sighed a dramatic, overly-exasperated sigh. He slipped the ring back on and gave Marcus the stop-being-silly look. “For a man who graduated from U Chicago and Brown you have surprisingly little self-esteem. Apparently I'm going to have to be gooier than I planned. I do love you, if you must know, and I'm not suggesting we be friends with benefits. I just don't want all that 'til death do us part' legal hassle. Hell, I'll even wear the ring as long as you get one too. Does that sound any better?”

In the actual universe, Actual Marcus fought down an urge to run around the beach like a little kid, waving his arms in the air and hooting. Instead he leaned back and draped an arm around Esca's shoulders, because he could. “Yes, yes it does. We can talk more, set terms, maybe I'll even come up with a term of my own or something. In the mean time, want to come back to my place for takeout and a movie and sex?”

“God, do I ever. I think I'm starting to sunburn.” Esca glared at the good weather, hopped off the bench and hauled Marcus to his feet. They smiled stupid, happy smiles at each other. “I'm thinking deep dish, you pick the film, and then we can do dirty things to each other all night long, taking into account that shift starts at 0700 tomorrow.”

The thing about a 10% chance is that statistically, one time out of ten it actually works.

July: Home (is wherever I'm with you)

The floor threw a goodbye potluck for Dr. Aquila; he joked that he was the only resident whose departure they were so happy about that they actually set aside time to celebrate. When Esca also gave notice it became a joint potluck. Marcus and Esca both loved the idea—it made it easier for them to conspire about what sort of present to give the floor without tipping people off that they were a couple.

“Are you serious, Doctor? Hospice? Hospice … is not fun.” Marcus, Esca, and 16 other employees—the unit secretary, a couple of aides, the nutritionist, almost a dozen nurses and William the social worker—had all crammed themselves into the tiny staff lounge, eating delicious and heart-unhealthy foods. (Presumably the few people not currently at the potluck had things under control.) Currently Merilee was grilling Marcus on his future career while Esca snickered in the background and struggled to assemble their present.

“I'm absolutely serious. I'll do a year of psych, then a year of gerontology, and then transition to palliative care. I'm really looking forward to it actually!”

“God bless you for it, I guess. I'd rather be dragged over hot coals than work hospice.”

“I'm just happy I've found an area of medicine I feel really passionate about.” (Marcus was beginning to suspect he would have this exact same conversation, in various iterations, for the rest of his residency.)

“And you, Esca—school nurse pays what? Half of what you currently make? And what are you hiding over there in the corner?”

Esca glanced up from what he was fiddling with. “No peaking, it's a surprise! And yes, school nurse pays crap. But I get to work with kids again, and no more night shifts, and anyway I found myself a pretty sweet sugar daddy who's shacking up with me and spitting the mortgage so I won't have to live in my car.” He threw a mischievous glance in their direction, and Marcus blushed slightly.

“Woah woah woah. Say that again, young man.” The nutritionist waved a pot sticker at Esca, who waved one back. The nurse was clearly in a great mood (as evidenced by his grin and the pink Hello Kitty hoodie he had worn for the occasion). “You've not only been dating someone without telling us, but now you're moving in with him also?”

“He's sexy, and adorable, and got these ridiculous biceps, and great in the sack, and he makes breakfast burritos, and has terrible taste in music but we're working on that.” Esca ticked off various attributes on his fingers while Marcus tried to decide if he should fake a heart attack to get out of the situation.

“Where did you meet him? All you ever do is hang around work.”

“Right here on the floor! I have been getting laid big time in the physician's office these past few months.”

Merilee clutched at her temples as if she were developing a headache. “God, I am so glad you are not my employee anymore—wait. You met him here, on this floor? So we know him? And he'd better be a doctor if you're going to be hanging out in their office, and you hate doctors. I don't believe a word of this.”

Esca's grin got even bigger. He shoved his left hand at her and wiggled his fingers. “There's one doctor I'm willing to make an exception for. And look—ring! We're not getting married married or anything, because Brad Pitt says it's not fair for some people to get married until everyone can, but we're going to do the non-legal bits. Rings, faux honeymoon in Portland before the school year starts, and so on.”

While everybody in the room cooed over the ring and made comments to the effect that a stethoscope-shaped ring was sweet but also a good indicator of clinical insanity, Esca threw Marcus a wink. Marcus blushed deeper and fiddled with a taquito.

“So who's the lucky man?” William asked over the general ring-induced commotion. “It's got to either be a resident or fellow, because I'm guessing it's not Rama.”

Esca and Marcus made eye contact; Marcus gave a little shrug and Esca blew him a kiss. “Just one of the CardMed residents. He's got some grand plan to go into palliative care and be one of those laid-back docs working a sane schedule. I'm not complaining because that means he'll bring me coffee in bed. But I don't blame you all for not noticing; we tried to be hush hush about the whole thing, and besides he comes across as pretty straight. I'm going buy him a matching Hello Kitty hoodie for his birthday and see if that helps.”

Now everybody looked at Marcus, who blushed even harder. After the chatter died down (it was mostly of the “congratulations, Esca's a good choice” and “I'm so sorry, I totally did not catch that you were gay” variety) he spoke up a little awkwardly. Public speaking had never been his thing.

“Thanks for putting up with me this past year. I wouldn't say it's been great, except for the Esca-related bits—um, I don't mean that the way it sounds—never mind.” While the rest of the room laughed Esca leaned over and kissed him on the temple, and Marcus perked back up. “Anyway, I'm leaving you all a present—we're leaving you one, I should say—as a thank you for your patience. Esca can show you how it works.”

Esca demonstrated with all the panache of a daytime gameshow host. “It's a Keurig coffee maker. Fresh drink in 60 seconds, vastly better than the Service League will charge you for. Watch this.” He opened the lid, stuck in a k-cup of Starbucks House Blend, closed the lid again, and pushed the brew button. They all watched as hot black coffee poured out into his mug.

“Ta da! Nearly-instant coffee. Marcus bought the machine and I'm leaving you a box of the cup thingies. They're in all different flavors, so you can have coffee or tea or cocoa or cider or whatever. Go nuts.”

So everybody cooed over the coffee maker, and then over Marcus' matching ring, and then over the adorable idea of Esca being paired off with someone, and then over the more adorable idea of Marcus the zen'd-out hospice doctor showing up to work in a Hawaiian shirt, and then over the entirely adorable idea of Nurse Esca patching up playground scrapes and passing out asthma inhalers, until Marcus couldn't take it and wanted to start throwing spring rolls just to see what would happen; he started staring at Esca to distract himself. Luckily, Esca still had his 6^th sense for knowing when he was being ogled.

He slipped over to Marcus and ran his fingers through the doctor's hair until Marcus smiled again, then whispered the magic words: “Had enough? Me too. Let's go home.”