runalldayandnight

When an injury causes me not to be able to run, mental functioning becomes highly suboptimal, and I drink too much and don’t sleep well, and this is what my brain does between 1 and 3 am. My sincerest apologies to Patrick O’Brian, who created these two lovely boys (sigh, what’s a girl to do when real guys just don’t hold a candle?ha ha) This takes place after Stephen operates on himself (a level of badassery most humble emergency docs and trauma surgeons can only dream of)

An anguished vigil through the small hours of the morning, but hope might rise with the coming of dawn. 

 You Never Knew

 

 

It had been hours since the doctor had pulled the musket ball from his own body, and then had fallen back, unconscious. Now, well into the midnight watch, he yet lay dreadfully still. Moonlight, shining through the tent flap, illuminated his face: his damp forehead, his dark eyebrows and lashes standing out starkly against the pallor of his complexion; his mouth slack, his lips dry. 

 

The Captain had not left his side, seated next to the cot, watching the barely discernible rise and fall of his chest, occasionally wiping the beads of perspiration away with a cloth. Warmth still clung to the doctor’s center, over his heart, thready but beating still, and emanated from the wound itself. So much blood, the Captain thought, was it too much for that meager body to bear? He knew that the spirit contained within that lean and spare frame was far from meager. So stubborn, he would let nobody else lay a finger on him (“I do this with my own hand,” he had pronounced); nobody else but Captain Aubrey. So obstinate, so fearless, so vital a life force would not easily allow itself to be extinguished. And yet, and yet…Seconds, minutes, hours ticked away endlessly and yet the form on the cot did not stir. 

 

As it will so often in the small hours of the morning, the despair Aubrey had been fighting sank deeply into his gut, and the emotions he had managed to control thus far surged forth, overwhelming even his own irrepressible optimism. He touched his lips to the cool forehead—too cool, too still, like marble—and then to his mouth, his lips so pale in the light of the waning moon.  A burning, liquid droplet slid down the captain’s face as his vision blurred, and splashed onto the doctor’s cheek. 

 

He touched his forehead to his motionless friend’s, squeezing his eyes shut, murmuring aloud to him. He regretted bitterly that he hadn’t had a chance to apologize after their argument; and he spoke now, into the silence, as the endless minutes slipped by, even though he doubted his words would be heard by the one he addressed them to: the only one to whom he would ever, could ever say such things. Might never be heard—no, no, that simply would not do—he forced the very thought of it out of his mind, but it refused to leave altogether. . 

 

“Oh, my dear Stephen,” he said at last, “forgive me. I…you…you never knew how—how much I love you, Stephen, and now I fear you never will.” He put his hands over his face for a moment and took a deep, hitching breath. Then he took his friend’s limp hand in his and lifted it to his lips, kissing it again and again. Another warm tear ran down his cheek and fell from his jaw, landing in the doctor’s upturned palm, and then another, and another: making a tiny pool that shone silver in the now-faint glow from the sky. If Stephen were awake to witness this scenario, he’d say something scathing like “Your soul to the devil, Jack Aubrey, such a display; what an over-emotional creature you are, to be sure.” How he longed to hear those words, that scorn: for it would mean his friend had returned to the land of the living. And oh, if only he could see the light of fondness in those pale eyes once more, giving the lie to his harsh words. 

 

He clenched his teeth but a sob burst forth regardless, and he could no longer deny the all-consuming misery causing a deep, rending ache in his very core. Anguish engulfed him and he slid from the chair to his knees, burying his face in the thin linen that covered Stephen’s chest, harsh sobs wracking his powerful frame, the doctor’s light blanket becoming wet with the tears that he was now unable to contain; but he must have drifted off at last, for he awoke with a start, blinking in grey predawn light: he could have sworn he’d just heard his own name. 

 

“…Jack?” Faint, hoarse, but definitely real. Jack lifted his head: Stephen’s eyes were open, and he attempted a smile as he met his gaze. “Oh! Stephen!” Jack’s heart was awash with relief; his spirits soared. He leaned close, and Stephen lifted a shaky hand and brushed a tear from Jack’s cheek. Jack caught the hand in his own, squeezed it gently, pressed it to his still-damp cheek, and then to his lips for a long moment, breathing deeply.  The doctor regarded the Captain with great affection, licked his dry lips, and said “All is well, acushla. I love you too, dear heart.” As a brilliant smile spread across Jack’s face and the light came back into his eyes, Stephen added, “I say, Jack, is there no coffee to be had, for all love?” 

 

“For you, joy, anything you wish.” He raised his voice. “Killick! Killick there! Light along with our breakfast, and put on an extra pot of coffee!”

 

*~The End~* (for now)

There is a sequel, if interest exists. 

For some reason, my deranged, endorphin-deprived brain came up with this image as I was writing this: https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/9/94/Hamilton_Achilles_Patroclus.jpg

 I’m not much for introspection, but was wondering why, as a married straight female,  the Jack/Stephen fics attracted me so much. Well first of all it really speaks to POB as a writer that he could inspire a reader to have a hopeless crush on a fictional character(or characters, as the case may be). But I’d be the totally wrong kind of girl for the time period.

Maybe I can identify with Stephen, as a small, not the best-looking, eccentric, cantankerous physician and total bio geek. Only female. And definitely not as smart.

Definitely not much in the looks department.Nose way too big for face. Lips disappear when smiling. Nobody could be less photogenic. “Baby” belly (“baby” now 6) that resists all core exercises. And I like carbs too fucking much. Skin tone between dead fish and lab coat (except in summer, def better with tan). Had nice boobs, which seem to have disappeared after I stopped breast feeding and now all the fat has moved south  

Gets unreasonably excited about, say, finding Pagurus longicarpus in a tide pool. (HEY! LOOK AT THIS!! Yeah I see, mom) Nerds out about heart block (me, doing a case review at staff meeting: Here’s why Mobitz I and Mobitz II second degree heart block  are different. The cells in the AV node… My supervisor: Nobody cares. Get on with the case. Me: 🥺 but conduction cells)

No sense of style. (Brings to mind Stephen’s beat-up black coat and tendency to stain his clothing) Wardrobe mainly consists of scrubs, gym shorts, sweat pants, t shirts. “Dressing up” usually involves my “good” leggings and a t shirt that doesn’t have the name of a race, a location, “Team Fauci”, or other slogan printed on it. In the summer I might actually wear a dress now and again. But the gym shorts certainly show off my bangin’ legs, which is my one good attribute (plus my hair, but I had to hack off about 2” with trauma shears since it was getting all scraggly and just when I was figuring out how to do a nice braid and stuff ☹️)

My true passion is running. Not the most social pursuit. I’m too disorganized to schedule a run ahead of time, unless it’s a race; where and when I go are usually last minute decisions, and depend on how I feel even after a mile or two in, and I tend to get overcompetitive. But when I run. I. Am. Free. I can run all day, on a good day. My spirit soars. It’s when I really feel alive. There’s some kind of crazy gleeful savage joy in running as hard as you can, just to see what you can do. Maybe I identify a little with Jack when I’m running. “FUCK THIS SHIT, FULL SPEED AHEAD!!” And when I can do it…!!!! Nothing can touch me! When I can’t run, I kind of die inside. I don’t want to eat. I drink too much. The world turns grey. Which is hard for other people to understand. 

Also, Stephen is of a non-majority ethnicity that can often be unwittingly denigrated and faces real life discrimination, but is not so obvious as to be apparent just by looking (Ashkenazi Jewish here).

When I read about either of these two with a woman I always end up just feeling, well, jealous. Other women are intimidating, because they are always better looking, taller, smarter, faster, classier, just all around superior and I always come up short (ha ha, I’m 5’2”)  At work it’s ok. I’m wearing scrubs and a scrub cap and mask and I’m the doc, and it is fun to banter with colleagues. In a social situation I’m usually staring at the floor (or hanging out with the dog) progressively getting drunk by myself (or with the dog—no, I don’t give him any booze)

So maybe I can read about my fictional crush without feeling jealous of other, superior women. (And imagine a threesome, I’m sure Stephen has some serious, um, talents, what with his dexterity, knowledge of anatomy, and scorn of convention… and Jack is just,well… whewww)

Oh and I almost forgot. I do love to swim, almost as much as I love to run. If I didn’t get cold in like five minutes (hands losing all fine motor, can’t untie shoelaces or even grip a fucking doorknob after a run in the chilly weather) you’d have to drag me out kicking and screaming (or be like “come on out of the water, there’s cocktails…”) and I’ve loved the ocean since I was too young to even remember, and boats and ships, and tried to join the navy but stupid asthma although I could outrun any ten of them, so there’s that…
So there are my useless thought about a hopeless crush, maybe even a pointless obsession (although, Stephen does inspire me to remember how much I love medicine, and science, and nature; and Jack reminds me to take joy in life), and I’m sure I will be mortified reading this later  😳