Failing Up
Pairing: Mark Meachum x Reader
Summary: It’s a gut instinct you can’t ignore. Your baby’s cold is worse than it seems.
AN: Happy Valentine's Day! 💜 As promised, we're back in the 'Til When Do Us Part-verse for an angsty sequel to Tiger Mommy. The title here is meant in the more positive sense of resilience, working through and learning from the downs, so you can better appreciate the ups.
Word Count: 2.8K
Posted on Patreon: Dec. 17, 2025
Tags & Warnings: Established relationship (married), good husband!Mark, medical angst, one-sided office flirting, hurt/comfort, family feels
Series Masterlist
Of course you didn’t think it would be easy, but did it really have to be this hard?
You hadn’t truly slept in months. You hadn’t truly bathed in two days. Your hair was a messy, greasy bun tied up on your head, the house was a disaster of baby toys, dirty dishes, questionable stains, and piles of laundry (both clean and unclean), and Livvie was suffering from a cold.
She hadn’t stopped crying for hours, and with every wail and sniffle and cough, you felt like more of a failure. If you hadn’t gone back to work so soon, she probably wouldn’t have caught something at the daycare.
Mark having to work overtime this week didn’t help either. Not only did you have less help, but you felt even guiltier whenever she woke up coughing, then crying loud enough for the neighbor’s dog to start barking. You knew Mark’s job was taxing on a normal day; now he needed every scrap of sleep he could get.
That was the one thing in short supply in this house.
By now you were steadily unraveling at the seams as you held your infant daughter and tried rocking her to sleep at 10 in the morning. The two of you had been in this very chair for most of the night, teetering on the sweet edge of being awake, with you occasionally spreading Vicks BabyRub on her chest and cleaning out her congested nose.
You swept another stray tear from your cheek, sniffling yourself. Self-pity was irritating. It was weak and useless. Still, you felt defeat in every muscle of your body. The word failure invisibly stamped on your forehead.
You reached to grab your phone off the changing table and found the number you now had on speed dial: your pediatrician’s office.
“Good morning, Mrs. Meachum,” came the polite greeting from the receptionist, even though you knew it sounded a bit forced.
Okay, maybe you had been calling for the past few months with a few questions and concerns, and yes, a couple of false alarms. In your defense, you’d read somewhere that hiccups could actually be a sign of acid reflux.
So Tina could think you were a helicopter mom. Hell, she could think you were a fucking bitch. But after what you went through with Mark, you weren’t about to play with your daughter’s health.
“Morning,” you croaked. Had you even had coffee yet? Some semblance of breakfast? Probably not. Right now, you didn’t much remember what food tasted like. “It’s been four days, but I don’t think Olivia’s getting any better.”
“Okay, has she been eating?”
“Yes, but not as much. She’s just so congested—”
“Has the nasal aspirator been working?”
You frowned at her tone, threaded with a hint of impatience. You heard shuffling papers and keyboard typing in the background.
“I mean, I’ve been trying. She’s still got mucus coming out of practically every orifice,” you snapped. “Look, does Dr. Nutter have an opening today for a follow-up?”
“Unfortunately, he doesn’t. Tuesdays are very busy, but I can get you in on Thursday.”
“Thursday? At what time?”
“At 4:30. Maybe earlier if there’s a cancellation, but that’s the best I can do. I’m sorry.”
Yeah, you huffed at that “apology.” Very fucking convincing.
You took in a breath, so you wouldn’t lose the tenuous grip you had on your temper.
“Okay, thank you,” you managed to reply civilly. The way you ended the call and let it clatter on the end table beside you was anything but. The jarring sound startled the baby, and she started up a more powerful wail.
You gasped, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, sweetheart. Shhh.”
You stroked her head, her cheek. Her skin felt unnaturally warm. A fever?
For a moment, you couldn’t even compute. You just rocked her and wept. Please, please, please…
Her voice suddenly turned to a wheeze between the sobs, no tears, even though her face was still screwed up in distress. That was when you couldn’t breathe.
Mark had felt so sure about this case. A young woman overdosing on coke and fentanyl at a club? Unfortunately, it didn’t usually warrant that deep of an investigation in LA. He thought it was going to be one of those short, but difficult deals of informing the parents.
That part tended to hit him harder, now that he had a daughter. Before, of course he’d understood the devastation on parents’ faces, the grief that climbed up out of a mother’s soul when she fell apart right there in the doorway.
But now, all Mark could see was a fantom of you, crumbling to your knees. He could see himself in the father, proverbially knifed and gutted, still trying to be a man his wife could lean on.
No criminal record, they later managed to tell him, which he’d already verified. No boyfriend. No history of a drug problem. Just a stressed college kid looking to let loose on a night out with her friends. She might not have even known exactly what she was taking.
Mark had felt compelled to look deeper, even after questioning her clueless friends. Torres, his partner, thought it was just a case of too much alcohol and a slip of the girl’s hand. Mark had been inclined to agree.
But when a bad batch of cocaine laced with fentanyl added four more bodies to the list within a week—two of them being local gang members who were obviously using their own product—that was when his brain kicked into high gear. Who else was selling this shit? And how many thugs could he put in jail for it?
Mark and Torres had been working with Narcotics for the past couple of weeks, but they still hadn’t found the gang’s distributor. Whoever it was, the guy was high up the chain of delinquents.
“Hey.” Torres’s head popped over the divide of their computers, earning Mark’s attention. Their desks faced one another in the office. “Street cams are a bust so far, but I still think we should check out Frank Rivera again. We know the shitty bar he hangs out at.”
“Look, I don’t know how well you know your LA street gangs, but Frank’s brother-in-law is Gordo Alvarez. He's El Jefe of the Kings. Meaning if we shake down his little hermano too much, he’s gonna start taking pot shots at anybody wearing a badge,” Mark said. “We stay smart about this, get all the angles before we go in on these guys.”
Torres was young, early thirties, sharp and hungry, and a bit cocky. He reminded Mark a little too much of himself.
“Do we have those phone records yet on Vics 4 and 5?” Mark asked.
“I’ve got ‘em right here. Printed out, just like you like,” said Hailey, the 24-year-old office assistant. She liked her sweaters tight, and apparently, her men of a certain age as she gave Mark a smile—perky like her tits. Not that he was looking.
Though Torres definitely was, and he gave her “the nod,” along with a smile filled with boyish charm.
“Hails, I like the nails,” he teased, glancing down at her flash of sparkly blue polish. She preened at the attention with a bubbly laugh.
“Thanks! I wasn’t really sure it was my color,” she said. Her gaze veered over to Mark, with a telltale hesitation that hoped for some kind of compliment.
He kept his gaze on the packet of records she just handed him.
“Yeah, my wife hasn’t had a chance to do much of that girly shit since the kid was born,” he said.
“Maybe you should get her a spa day,” Torres suggested.
Mark looked up and shot his partner a pointed finger of agreement.
“That’s actually not a bad idea. Good lookin’ out.”
Hailey politely nodded at the idea, but her smile had faltered slightly at the mention of you.
“Okay, do you guys need anything else?” she asked, though she mostly directed the question at Mark.
“No, that should do it for now. Thank you,” he said. Professional and direct.
She couldn’t keep his gaze for long. “Um, yeah, you’re welcome.”
Torres opened his mouth to ask her something, like what she was doing tonight, but she cut her losses and went back to her desk across the room. Torres turned toward Mark, shaking his head and whistling low.
“Jesus Christ,” he said. “She wants to risk it all for you, bro.”
Mark snorted. A few years ago (before he met you), he wouldn’t have thought twice about indulging a little hero worship. Matter of fact, he used to bank on it. He’d have a Hailey on his short list anytime he needed a little stress relief between cases (or during).
He’d like to think he’d become slightly more evolved since then.
“That girl couldn’t fucking handle me,” Mark said, smirking in amusement.
Torres chuckled. “Hey, mad respect for that though. You know what you got at home.”
“That I do,” Mark nodded. And losing that, any of it, wasn’t worth anything Hailey was offering.
His phone buzzing in his pocket broke him out of his thoughts, and even his concentration on the phone records he needed to continue looking through. His lips quirked when he saw your name flash on the screen, along with a picture of you holding Livvie after she turned three months old.
It reminded him that he’d wanted to check on you anyway. He knew neither you or the baby had slept last night, and hearing his daughter coughing like that had damn near broke his heart. He still felt guilty for having to go to work and leave you in that state, but he hoped you’d called your mom over to come and help you, like he suggested. But Jesus, you could be stubborn about that kind of thing, insisting you could do it all.
“It’s just a cold. I should be able to take care of her,” you’d said, with that exhausted, but determined look in your eye. Mark sighed through his nose and answered the call.
“Hey, sweetheart. Was just thinking of you,” he said. “How’s—”
“Livvie’s getting worse,” you said. The stress in your voice reached him immediately, along with the noise of shuffling clothes, the front door shutting and locking. “She’s having trouble breathing and she has a fever. I couldn’t get an appointment with Dr. Nutter, so I’m taking her to the ER.”
Mark’s heart fell into his stomach. “Which one?”
You told him the name of the hospital, and he promised he’d meet you there.
“All right, it’s gonna be okay. I’m on my way,” he said, catching the way you were sniffling, probably crying.
You struggled to speak for a moment, but you eventually replied, “Okay, see you soon.”
After he hung up with you, Mark tossed Torres the packet of phone records with the briefest of explanations, grabbed up his keys, and took off. Every step that led him to his car had a phantom ache mounting in his skull.
He realized it after he pulled into the parking lot. The wave of that remembering hit him with pulsing clarity while he was walking through the familiar doors of the ER.
This was the same hospital he took you to after he got you back, ending Volchek’s sick ultimatum. This was the place where you miscarried.
It was a cruel sort of irony. Mark hoped it hadn’t crossed your mind. He knew his heart was falling into his stomach the moment he found you in one of the curtained off treatment rooms. Medical staff were placing small oxygen tubes under Olivia’s nose, while a nurse was gently securing an injected IV on her arm with medical tape.
Another nurse was standing next to where you sat, holding a supportive hand on your shoulder. You were weeping, almost silently, holding yourself while you watched their every move—until you heard the curtain peel back. Your eyes filled with some relief when they caught hold of Mark.
He went to you, sharing a nod with the nurse. You stood and let his body, his warmth, his presence envelop yours. Your tears seeped into his shirt. His hand ran over your hair soothingly, avoiding tangles, and rested at the nape of your neck.
“I should’ve brought her here sooner,” you said.
Mark pressed his lips to your forehead. He tried to hide the growing well of panic lodged in his throat in order to be what you needed him to be right now—an anchor.
“It’s not your fault,” he said. “The pediatrician told us it was a normal fucking cold. What’s happening?”
“The doctor here thinks it’s RSV. It’s a respiratory virus,” you said, sniffling.
“It’s pretty common in babies, but it can be serious,” one of the nurses said, a friendly one who’d done her best to make you feel at ease since you got here. She rubbed your arm. “It’s good that you brought her in when you did. Good job, Mom.”
A fresh wave of tears stung in your eyes, especially when you stared at Livvie’s chest finally able to fill in with enough air in her lungs. You shook your head.
“I don’t feel like a good mom,” you whispered brokenly.
Mark pulled back on you, just enough for you to be faced with his frown. He brushed strands of your hair behind your ear, stroking his thumbs across your wet cheeks, flushed with upset.
“Sweetheart, I don’t think there’s anyone in the world who’s harder on you than you,” he said. “This kid isn’t just lucky to have you as a mom. She’s fucking blessed.”
Your tears flowed harder then, but at least this time, it was tinged with a wobbly smile. You buried it into his chest and let him hold you for a while—as long as it took for Livvie to fall into a peaceful sleep.
It was another full week before she could come home. The infection was cleared with the help of medication, IV fluids, and oxygen to stabilize her breathing. You’d had to take way more PTO than you planned, but you and Mark spoke to Blythe together to explain the situation. It wasn’t exactly professional, but your tears probably helped soften him up.
You hadn’t left the hospital since you brought your daughter to the ER, so Mark driving you all home was both a relief, and a niggling reminder that the house was still a ridiculous mess. You sighed when you got out of the car.
“Home sweet home, baby girl,” Mark grinned down at Livvie while he unhooked her carrier from the car seat.
“Be honest with me. What level of disaster is it at?” you asked.
He shot you an amused look. “Don’t you worry about that, all right? When we get in there, you’re going straight to bed, young lady.”
You snorted mildly, but you didn’t even have the energy for a retort. You were covered in hospital smell and already had a mental checklist for Livvie and the house running into double-digit items long, but still, you had to smile. You went up ahead and unlocked the door.
You actually gasped when you stepped inside.
Your mom was waiting in the living room with Amina and your best friend Sarah. Between the three of them, they’d made sure the entire house was immaculately clean and organized (mostly) the way you liked it. You even smelled your mom’s pot roast baking in the oven, a hint of rosemary and fresh bread in the air.
“Welcome home,” they quietly chorused, mindful of the baby dozing in her carrier. Mark handed her off to her grandmother, who was all too happy to bring her over to the rest of her “aunts.”
Tears swam in your eyes. Your lips wobbled. Goddamn hormones.
You managed to choke out a thank you.
Mark’s heavy hand came to rest on the small of your back, drawing your weepy gaze. His smile was tinged with mischief. It told you that he was responsible for this little homecoming.
“How much do you love me right now?” he asked.
You bit your lip, shaking your head. But you reached for his cheek and drew him down to you for a kiss, slow and sweet.
“Entirely way too much,” you whispered.
He smirked, briefly resting his forehead against yours. He allowed himself to take in a deep breath and let the calm after the storm wash over him. And you.
“You know what, I don’t think we should put a cap on that,” he teased.
You laughed. “Fair enough.”
His answering kiss was a balm to your frayed heart.
AN: Inspired by some of my mom friends who've had rough days like these, but keep it pushing because they're rock stars. 💜💜💜
Tag List Form || Fic Library Blog -> (you can follow and turn on notifications)
Join My Patreon ⟡ Get early access to new stories, bonus content, and first looks at upcoming stories. Top-tier patrons can even send me requests!
Series Masterlist
Mark Meachum Masterlist
Main Masterlist
Mark Meachum Tag List (Part 1):
@luci-in-trenchcoats @lamentationsofalonelypotato @winchestergirl2 @deans-spinster-witch @roseblue373
@waynes-multiverse @hobby27 @kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @mostlymarvelgirl
@midnightmadwoman @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @waywardxwords @twinkleinadiamondsky
@rizlowwritessortof @jackles010378 @nancymcl @spnaquakindgdom @bettystonewell
@this-is-me19 @spnwoman @illicithallways @pieandmonsters @jensensswthrt
@stoneyggirl2 @cheynovak @jollyhunter @deanwinchestersgirl87 @rachiem4-blog
@leigh70 @aylacavebear @kmc1989 @siampie @masked-lost-girl
@spnbabe67 @deanbrainrotwritings @alwaystiredandconfused @supernotnatural2005 @globetrotter28
@cookiechipdough @winchesterwild78 @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @mrsjenniferwinchester @fromcaintodean
@kiddieclaws @gabavaldman @wvffles @charmed-asylum
