Everything I Didn't Say (Last Words) | Luke Hemmings AU

01.

Getting through an evening without an anxious glance at the clock is still something I have yet to accomplish.

I'm waiting.

I'm not sure why his work schedule is still stuck in my head, or why after two months without him, I still expect a "coming home from work" message. I can't turn on the coffee maker without picturing that "Goodmorning, I love you" post-it note he put on it one day- even though the note is long gone. I can't drive down my street without wondering why he isn't in the passenger seat next to me.

Then, I arrive at work. I walk in confidently, determined to not let his (almost) presence alarm me. I walk to my desk, I turn on my computer, I look to my left- and there he is.

His picture hung large on the wall next to me. I'd take it down if it were up to me. I'd change desks if it were up to me.

But his donation saved the hospital and although I wouldn't take that back for anything, I think it's tacky that he's got practically a life-sized picture of himself put up in my hallway for it.

Don't get me wrong- that donation was the most amazing thing anyone has done for this hospital in a long time. I couldn't be happier with it. These kids are my world, and without this part of the hospital they'd have to go 40 miles to Hillside Pediatrics, which is out of the question in almost every case we see.

This donation was made seventeen months ago, in November. A fire started on the fifth floor. It was in the oral surgery wing which was under construction, right above pediatrics. The fourth and fifth floor east wings were destroyed. Luckily, only the center of our wing was burned, and we lost no children. The fourth floor gift shop was lost too. Somehow we got very lucky, or very blessed. Although the loss of two pediatric nurses was felt, we kept every child safe, and that was our goal to begin with. Pictures of those two nurses hang in the hallway, too.

His donation let us rebuild the wings we lost. Without that money we'd be done.

As for the donor, I met him three months prior to the fire. We met in an elevator of Westwood Hospital. His sister was a resident in the pediatric wing. She'd been in a crash the night before and was receiving treatment for minor brain damage and broken bones.

He entered the elevator as I did. He, on his way to his sister, and I, on my way to work. The ride to the floor was fast, but before I could step out, he stopped me.

"You work here?" He asked. Startled, I nearly jumped but regained my composure and replied with a nod and a quizzical smile.
"My sister," he choked out,  obviously in pain. "My sister- will she be okay? She came here last night and I think she's in a coma and-" I stopped him my putting my hand on his arm.
"If there's anyway we can help her, we will," I told him.

He hesitated before stepping off of the elevator with slumped shoulders and puffy eyes. He headed in the direction of the restrooms, as I clocked in and received my assignments for the evening.

My first patient was a little boy needing stitches in his hand. I took his vitals and gave him a stuffed animal to settle him down, which seemed to work for the time being. I turned on the TV and left, promising that the doctor would be in shortly.
My next patient promised me a challange: a screaming four year old girl with a broken arm and a temper. After a few minutes I was able to calm her down enough to get her vitals and then I was off to my next room.

Usually in the pediatric wing, nearly every room had a crying baby or a yelling toddler. Quiet rooms are a rarity. This room, however, was silent. I knocked on the wall softly then opened the curtain to look inside.
Elevator Boy. He was holding the hand of a tiny girl, not more than six years old. She was sound asleep and hooked up to what looked like dozens of wires and machines.
Elevator Boy looked up at me from his chair, eyes still puffy, but obviously trying to hold back in front of the girl.
He stood up but kept her tiny hand inside his.
"I should have been here sooner," he said, barely a whisper.
"You're doing what you can," I replied.
A machine next to the bed showed that her heart rate rythym was steady, but slow. She looked pale and had a cut on her forehead that had been cleaned and stitched, presumably the night prior, when she was admitted.

The month following my first encounter with the Elevator Boy and his sister, Sophia, he stayed by her side nearly 24/7. She had no other visitors- or at least none on my watch. Elevator Boy and I would sometimes get coffee on my breaks and he'd tell me all the things he liked to do with his sister. He'd take her shopping, to a movie, on Sunday Drives... He was worried he wouldn't be able to do those things anymore.

She had several operations in that month, and her condition was improving. She had come out of her coma, which she'd been in about a week. She didn't remember much but usually remembered her brother, whose name, I found out, was Luke. It somehow fit him very well. He had blonde hair and blue eyes, which wasn't my type, but for some reason I felt myself falling for him. The way he cared so deeply for Sophia, how he stayed with her, how he gave up his life for that month to be with her as much as possible.

In October, she was released from our care. Luke asked for my number as they left, telling me he needed someone to call if something went wrong. I told him he could just call the desk at the hospital, but he told me he needed someone familiar. I gave him my number.

Through all of this, I couldn't figure out why no one else visited her.
On an unusually warm night in November, I got my answer.

A/n: Hola, chapter one complete! I may edit in the next few days. Also,  rereading this and realizing that this isn't exciting yet but don't worry, more is coming! :)