Like Real People Do - Part 13

Simon has experienced many things he’d consider love at first sight.

The first time he met his nephew. The first patient he saved in an undersupplied field hospital. His first patient born at twenty two weeks that thrived, his first of many “kids.”

All of these and many others, he would have thought counted, and maybe they still do.

But none of them compare to this.

You’re in the rocking chair next to the incubator with the baby against your chest. Gloves, mask, but no shirt, only a sports bra, and the baby’s cheek is delicately resting just above your breasts. He’s seen plenty of parents, family members, hold their babies, rock them, but there’s something about you, the way you’re humming, the careful way you’re holding her, rocking her, the love in your eyes… its blinding him, making his chest tighten, his pulse stumble.

You’re beautiful. It’s not just the baby either, somehow he knows if he passed you on the street or in the hallway or accidentally bumped into at the store, he’d feel the same way. Blinded.

He can’t stop himself from knocking on the door, and your head snaps up, startled. “Sorry, just checkin’ on her.”

“Oh, no, I’m sorry. Her dad is downstairs with her mom so I thought I’d spend some time with her. I didn’t want her to be alone.” Your voice cracks but it’s well worn, broken in like you’ve been crying for a long, long time.

“Skin to skin is good for them.” He encourages, turning the lights up from low so he’ll be able to get a better look. They haven’t named her yet. Her dad wants to wait for her mum to wake up, so Simon just calls her baby girl.

“Do you need her? Or should I put her back?”

“No,” he moves further into the room, “I just need her blood sugar and the nurses are pretty busy. I can do it while you’re holding her.”

“Okay,” you sniffle.

“I’m Doctor Riley.” He takes a knee at your side, framing her tiny foot with his thumb and forefinger, swabbing it clean with an alcohol wipe.

“Daisy. I’m Tess’s, her mom’s sister.” Daisy. Wild flowers with their faces turned up to the sun.

“It’s nice to meet you.” It’s not, he knows that, but the traditional, polite exchange is normal, even in these circumstances. The grim line of your mouth lifts, barely, and you give him a small nod.

“You too.”

You wore white.

It’s not lacy or frilly or sparkly, there isn’t a row of buttons at your back or fabric trailing at your feet, but it sits on your body just right and stops at your knees, giving him a rare glance of skin he’s been desperate to see. Like a starved man, he drinks up every single centimeter.

He wasn’t sure if you would, considering, but he’s grateful to see it. He’d hate for you to come to regret not wearing white on your wedding day.

Even if this isn’t how he ever envisioned it.

This insurance problem is both a gift and a curse, so convenient Kyle actually asked him if he had orchestrated it.

“So you had absolutely nothin’ to do with it.” Kyle skeptically raises an eyebrow, and Simon scowls.

“I’m not that much of a bastard.”

“No, but you’ve never let anything stand in your way either.”

He’s let so much stand in the way. Himself, mostly. John, a little bit, though he can’t be blamed. Only Simon carries the fault here, the shame of knowing how badly he let you down. The depth of his failure is so staggering he’s worried he may never climb out of it.

He knows good fortune when he sees it, and he won’t turn his back on opportunity. Not when it comes to you, after all this time, not when he’s already made so many mistakes. This wasn’t his plan, but he’s never been afraid to pivot, change course. It may be selfish, but so be it.

“Hi.” You run your hands down the front of the dress, and they tremble. He wanted to push you harder about Riley attending, should have. After the torture he saw in your eyes the other day in his office, he knows he should have insisted.

“You look beautiful.” It’s a lie. You’re more than beautiful, you’re everything he’s ever wanted since the first moment he saw you, and he aches to fix this nervous, haunted look in your eye, the first layer exposed under the mask he’s cracked.

“Oh, thanks.” Your voice wavers, and he instinctively reaches for you. When you don’t immediately stiffen and pull away, a tiny part of the riot in his heart that’s screaming for you is quieted. For now.

“It’s going to be okay, Daisy.”

“I know.” Your smile is forced. Fake. He hates it, wants more of the real ones, something like he saw in the bar that night. Worse, he wants them directed at him, happening because of him. “Do you have them?” Them. The rings. He couldn’t put it on you to find his, wasn’t sure you’d even do it so he took it upon himself. Two gold bands, both inscribed on the inside with the date. If you notice, you’ll frown. You’ll get that little wrinkle in your forehead, the one you get when you’re trying to piece something together, and you’ll ask him why.

You’re not ready for the answer.

The other ring, his grandmother’s emerald, is tucked away waiting for the day you’re ready to wear it.

He just has to get it on your finger first.

He pats his pocket, and you swallow just as the doors open.

“I guess we should get this show on the road.” His jaw clenches automatically, but he stays silent. It’s not your fault, none of this or ever was. It’s all on him, and he wears the guilt like a brand.

“Right then.”

His Daisy is a nurse.

It was a shock to see you in the ED, waltzing through the chaos of a code like you’ve danced it a million times.

Even more of a shock to hear you’re leaving.

“She’s not usually here for this long.” John explains as he swings the door open to the stairwell. “Picks up shifts between travel contracts, but with Tess and the baby, she stuck around for a while. Now that they’re home, she’s been pretty antsy. Think her contract is in Miami or somethin’, one of those beach spots.”

“Right.” He barely saw you over the last few months of Riley’s stay. You were there when she came out of surgery each time, but you never spoke to him, too focused and rightfully so, on the baby and supporting your sister, helping her and Liam. He didn’t see you in Riley’s room either, always too late or too early, haunted by the honeysuckle and leather left in your wake.

He had no idea you were working a mere few floors beneath him.

The missed opportunity makes his stomach sick.

Thinking about you has become thoroughly distracting, the desire to know you a disease. He’s lost his mind over one interaction, one single moment, minutes spent with you in a patient’s room, minutes he wishes he could stretch into a lifetime.

Maybe it’s a good thing you’re leaving.

Still, he can’t stop himself from being hungry.

Nothing dulls the pain except for more.

“So has she always been in the ED?” John nods, and jerks his thumb over his shoulder.

“Pint?” They lumber slowly down the street, and Simon balances the act of asking too little or too much, trying to avoid overplaying his hand. “Been a few years. She’s good, we miss her when she’s gone.”

“Why doesn’t she stick around?” John’s mouth twitches into a smirk and he shakes his head.

“Girl is wild, all I can tell you. You should ask her yourself since you’re so curious.” Two frost slicked pints are placed in front of them on the bar, and he drags his thumb through the condensation, chasing a drip.

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“Congratulations,” the judge smiles as he signs the marriage license. You’ve done a good job of hiding your anxiety, your conflict, walled it all up behind stone, but the tension in your shoulders betrays how close you are to crumbling. “All that’s left is…” the paper is stamped, signed, sealed, and the judge motions to him. “You may now kiss the bride.” Your hand shakes in his as you eye the judge nervously, but he tugs you into his body, shields you, tries to block everything else out so it’s just the two of you in this moment.

“What do you want to do?” He keeps his voice low, steady, one palm firm against the small of your back.

“I…” you lick your lips, breath hitching. He can see it building, the pressure, the panic, the weight, all of it. All of your worries and fears crashing down on you, trying to take you away from him, from this moment. He cups your face. You look so bloody terrified, and it breaks his heart.

This is an exercise in loss of control, and even though it’s necessary, it doesn’t make it hurt any less, for both him and you.

“Just breathe, Daisy. Nice and slow.” You manage a quick inhale, nodding as you let it out carefully. “What do you want to do?” He could kiss your cheek for all he cares, but he wants it to be your choice, considering the circumstances.

“I guess- I guess we should just kiss.” You whisper, and he strokes the slope of your cheekbone patiently. “Like real people do when they get married.”

“Okay sweetheart.” Your lashes flutter and he closes the gap before you lose the nerve, finally colliding his world with yours, bringing them together like they always should have been. Satisfaction rips through him when you lean into it, tiny whimper on your tongue slipping through your teeth to where he swallows it, steals it, buries it deep so no one will ever be able to take it from him.

Someone knocks on the door, announcing the next appointment, and the judge clears his throat. Your pupils are dilated when he pulls back, and he’s still holding your face, reluctant to let go, lose this moment. “We should talk.” He says softly and offers you his hand, ring to ring.

“Alright.”

He could kill John.

He shouldn’t have left you alone, shouldn’t have listened when you insisted you wanted to be by yourself.

“I’m sorry,” you sob, broken and hoarse, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Shhh,” he murmurs across the top of your hand as he cradles it, holding you to his chest as tightly as he can. You’re shaking, crying so hard it’s trying to rip you open, your fists knotted in his shirt, just trying to hold on. “Shhh.” He knows this pain, has lived it. His mum, his brother, all his losses too similar to yours.

The door creaks open, and Riley’s nurse is sticking her head into the room, eyes sad. “She’s awake.”

“No,” you sputter, panicked, “no, no I- can’t yet, I can’t… I c-can’t. Please.”

“Okay. We’ll wait, it’s okay.” You’re hyperventilating, wheezing to the point he knows you’re not getting enough air. “Breathe Daisy, you have to breathe.” He tightens his grip, pinning you against him, speaking softly in your ear, but it doesn’t reach you. Nothing can in this moment, nothing will matter in the face of grief so fresh it’s like a physical wound. Like a hole in your heart, bleeding out all over the floor, in his arms. You lock up. Bones and muscles rigid as stone, ice creeping through your body until your lungs turn to ice. No matter how firmly he holds you, he can’t take any of it away, just like he can’t force air into his lungs.

Still, he can try.

“Daisy.” He orders, gripping the back of your neck while still keeping you close, trapped between a forearm and his chest.

Nothing works. You’re lost, in the grief, in the despair, in the face of a bleak, painful future.

And all he can do is hold you as your lungs lose the fight, and you slip away.

Whatever happened in the courthouse is gone.

The short walk to the park has given you too much time in your own head and now you’re pulling at the reins, trying to break free. Wild.

And always a test of patience.

“I can’t stay long, I have to get home. Riley is with a sitter.” You’re stiff at his side with your arms crossed, gaze fixed in the distance, not giving a single inch when he pushes the boundary, brushing your arm with his. “I guess tomorrow we should meet with HR and get the rest of paperwork done.” Paperwork. Because that’s what this is to you, paperwork.

For now.

“That’s right.” He placates and you manage a small, polite smile. You’re automated, objectives and demands rolling off your tongue like you’re going down a checklist, rapidly trying to bring this to a close so you can escape it. Escape him.

“Should be easy enough, and then once you get Riley over-”

“And you.” You freeze.

“Me?”

“Not sure HR will believe I’d keep my wife on the worst insurance plan.” Calling you his wife sounds so good on his tongue, like it’s belonged there all along, but you’re staring at him like he’s lost mind. He cocks his head, daring you to disagree. You can’t, he knows it. And he knows you know it too.

“Okay, well I guess we don’t need these until then.” You reach for the ring on your finger, but before you can even touch it, his hand is on yours, meeting your control, your fight, head on.

“I know you don’t have any expectations Daisy, but I do. Might be married for the insurance, but it still makes you my wife, and as my wife, you’ll wear my ring. That’s my expectation.” It’s firm. There are certain things he won’t let you control, even for now. Your expression turns panicked.

His ring. His wife.

His.

“You- I- I’m not actually your wife.” He treads delicately, careful not to overplay his hand. Too strong, you’ll spook, and too soft, you’ll seize the opportunity and try to throw him off.

“In order for this to be believable, it has to look real, which means wearing the rings.” You tense. Freeze. A rabbit ready to run. He slowly, gently, rubs his thumb over the backs of your knuckles while solidifying his grip. “Daisy.”

“I know. I get it.” You snap, jerking your hand free. You’re so frustrated, and he wants to hold you, soothe you, even though he knows it’s not what you need right now. “I really need to get home.” You insist wearily, and he reluctantly nods.

This will be a stalemate, two waves crashing against one another, expecting the other to move. It’s a battle of wills and always will be, but he’ll need to pick and choose which ones he fights, and which ones he waves the white flag on.

This one will be a surrender.