the air is heavy when they leave the court house, marco a few steps ahead of her. they haven’t spoken much since the verdict was given and all the colour drained from his face. mel doesn’t know what she can say that is the least bit helpful, in the face of the deep exhaustion and anxiety that radiate off of marco in equal measure. but she tries, before they leave, offers hushed assurances for what she can control; that they will remain as close as they have been, that she doesn’t feel any differently towards him after his testimony, that she’s grateful he’d let her accompany him today, really grateful. it feels distinctly like something family does for one another. she hugs him for a long time before they go.
marco takes a step out onto the front step and mel watches from behind as her father is shot and collapses. he collides quick and heavy and hard against the stone steps. mel moves just as quick.
her knees, shins register sharp pain when she slams down onto them in her rush to get close. mel’s muscle memory from thousands of hours of treating patients just like this fights with the panic clawing up her throat, but the former wins out, for the moment. her hands move fast, tearing at the buttons on his collar, opening his suit jacket and his shirt, revealing multiple GSWs. they move upwards across the left side of his chest. if there had been any more, they would have hit his neck, maybe higher.
mel shouts for someone to call an ambulance. her voice is strangled and unfamiliar to her own ears, loud and breaking and painful in her throat as she repeats the request like a plea. every part of her feels the fear that cuts in; extremities cold, yet burning, breathing too shallow to fill her lungs all the way. she gets through by letting her body lead, with its deep memory of what to do in situations like these. mel takes off her jacket ( she wishes she were in scrubs, hates how her movements feel restricted by formal clothing ) and bunches up the fabric, pressing it firmly against the area where the bulk of the wounds lie. she needs to check his vitals ( which involves looking at his face. she hasn’t looked yet. she suspects she’ll be far less effective at treating him with once her brain catches up that these wounds, this blood, it all belongs to doc ). she’s used to the luxury of someone else, frequently marco himself, as a partner in the er, so she makes a frustrated grunt as she shifts, hand and elbow pressing down with all her weight, acting as pressure on his wounds, so she can free her right hand to check his pulse.
mel lifts her gaze to his face, her right hand following to find its place right under his jaw. thready, weak. doc’s features twisted in pain. it’s what she expects, but it makes her stomach turn, her hands tremble. “marco. marco, you’re going to be alright. can you hear me?” she so rarely uses his name, theirs an intimacy dotted with terms of endearment and nicknames, mel and doc. it feels wrong on her tongue, mingles with the scent of blood to make her mouth taste sour. she usually never notices the smell of blood, perhaps because she expects it in the context of the er. now, however, it makes her gag and cough, which easily deteriorates into a sob. he deteriorates along with her and she worries ( no, knows ) he'll lose consciousness soon.
“marco. you have to keep your eyes open.” she's losing composure, her voice shakes, desperate, so fucking scared. she has nothing else to help him, just her voice and her hands and the weight of her entire body pressing onto his wounds. the blood won’t stop but she is trying, dear god is she trying. “please. stay awake. please, dad, please-” it slips out and mel barely notices she’s said it. she’s thought it so often. it’s just a fact of their lives, really. and one mel keeps repeating. but this is so much unlike her mother’s death, which mel watched happen slowly over the course of years. this happens too fast, and she is unbearably present for every second, gaze flicking back and forth between her hands jamming the blood soaked blazer against his chest and doc’s face, repeating what he often says to her. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
when the ambulance arrives, doc slips into unconsciousness. the rest is blurry, coated in panic and tears. they arrive at ptmc, their colleagues takeover, they wheel marco’s horribly still body away. dana steps in to steady mel, arm around her waist to keep her from collapse in the ambulance bay. she retches, throws up on the pavement already speckled with his blood.
if he dies, it’s in trauma room three. mel will take a leave effective immediately and quit a few weeks later. she can’t return to a place that is inextricably linked to him, to their bond, to his violent death. if he lives, he’ll wake to find twins sitting by his bedside. becca’s head lulled over, asleep, resting against mel’s shoulder. mel wide awake, watching for changes on the slew of monitors, ready to greet him with something tearful and strained. “hi, dad.”
