Work Text:
Ron doesn’t believe in helping others. Okay, helping others on the job is one thing; that’s the job. He wouldn’t have suffered through med school and residency and his boards if it meant spending his days draining abscesses and setting broken bones and discovering the whole wide magical world of things people got stuck up their butts all for free. Off the clock, things are different. He doesn’t hold doors open for women (isn’t that the whole point of feminism anyway, that women are strong and independent and don’t need no man?), doesn’t swing ‘round to check on his neighbors. When his kids went away for school, he rented them a U-Haul and hired movers so he didn’t have to lift a goddamn finger. It’s called picking your battles. And in that case, it was him not picking the battle of throwing his back out again.
He’s got his limits, is the point. Joyce, on the other hand, has no line. She’s line-less. Which is why when her geek ex came crawling into the ER this morning and begged Joyce on his hands and knees to let him use the hospital for his wedding reception tonight, Joyce said mmhmm and has since spent her whole damn day making the place nice and weird for the new Mr. and Mrs. Sanderson. Ron doesn’t remember that idiot’s last name and doesn’t care enough to ask.
He walks by Joyce’s office on his way back from his NutRageous break (he’s got a secret stash now; he learned his lesson) and sees her running manic circles around the room on the phone yelling about sand. Not Sanderson, straight up sand. From what Ron can suss out, the reception can’t go on without a crap-ton of it. Joyce hangs up, spots Ron standing there, and blows out a breath that ruffles her bangs. “You just can’t get good sand these days, did you know that?”
“Uh huh,” Ron says, watching her toss her phone onto the table and start rounding up the balloons. There’s so many in here, it makes Ron feel like he’s at a funeral for Joyce’s dignity. “Joyce, what the hell are you doing?”
“Putting together a last-minute wedding reception, obviously, Ron, keep up. Ashley can’t crown him Lisanderson al-Gaib if there’s no sand, and apparently Amazon doesn’t deliver this far out into the sticks—”
“Okay, let me try this again,” Ron says. “Joyce. Why the hell are you doing this?”
Joyce splutters and puts her hands on her hips. “Come on, Ron, you don’t seriously expect Sanderson to pull all this together himself. It takes him an hour just to pull his pants on in the morning. But in his defense that’s because he keeps getting distracted by Pokémon Go; I told him a million times to charge his phone in the kitchen, but—”
“Oh, no, he’s a hot mess,” Ron agrees. “But that doesn’t mean you gotta organize the man’s goddamn wedding reception!” Joyce rolls his eyes and starts talking over him; he raises his voice. “He’s not even your hot mess anymore, Joyce! He’s not even paying you!”
“It is called being a good person, Ronald—”
“It’s called him taking advantage of you,” Ron cuts in. He doesn’t know what the hell is wrong with him, except that he feels as pissed off as he did months ago in the gift shop, watching Sanderson ignore his free romantic advice to get all worked up about cheap key chains. “You always do this. You always take on these pathetic charity cases and kill yourself trying to make them happy when you know you’ll never get anything in return.”
“That is not true!”
“Antonio Gonzalez, 1997,” Ron says. “Eddie Jenkins, 2003. Charlie Porter—”
“Charlie was homeless! He had nowhere to go!”
“He crashed on your couch for a year, Joyce! He almost burned your lake house down trying to cook crystal meth in your bathtub!”
“Well, it gave me the excuse I needed to renovate, so there,” Joyce says. She actually sticks her tongue out at him. Her phone buzzes; she stomps over and checks the screen. Ron sticks his tongue out at her while she’s distracted. “Sanderson again. He wants a picture of the balloons.” Ron crosses his arms over his chest and waits. “Oh. He and Ashley hate the balloons. Fine. That’s fine. That’s on me, I should have remembered his phobia of confetti balloons…”
“For God’s sake, just kick Sanderson out and tell him to have the party somewhere else,” Ron says exasperatedly. “I’m sure there’s an abandoned warehouse somewhere willing to take his business. Or I hear they cleared out that homeless camp under the overpass, that’d be nice. Very rustic.”
Joyce gives him a death glare. It’s marginally less effective what with the balloons she’s trying to drag out the door. She looks like a really angry clown. “You know what, Ron, if you’re not gonna help me—”
“I never offered to help you!” Ron says. “I don’t want to help you!”
“Then why are you even here?” Joyce snaps. Her hair’s come out of her bun and is all staticky from the balloons, and the collar of her jacket is crooked. He fights the urge to straighten it for her. “Why do you even care what I do or why I do it?”
Ron opens his mouth, but nothing comes out, not even air. “I don’t,” he says, even though he can’t hear himself over the sound of his own voice from months ago: Because Joyce deserves better! “I don’t care.”
“Then get out of my way,” Joyce says. “I have a last minute wedding reception for my ex to throw together. By myself.” She stalks past him with her collection of balloons. One of them snags on the hinge and pops, confetti exploding everywhere, and Joyce yells, “Keith! Clean that up!”
Ron’s face heats when he notices the camera crew and half the hospital standing around gawking like they’re watching an episode of Grey’s Anatomy. Val is sharing a bag of Skinny Pop with Rene. “Don’t you have people you need to heal?” he snaps, and they all scatter like roaches in a Raid storm. Only Keith stays, squatting down to pluck confetti off the linoleum. “Get lost, Keith.”
“But Joyce told me to,” Keith begins, but Ron isn’t around long enough to hear him finish his sentence. He sighs and gets back to work. “No one ever lets me finish my sentences.”
Ron spends the rest of his shift with his nose to the grindstone. He sees a woman with a bad case of Covid (she’s unvaccinated, naturally, and doesn’t take well Ron’s response of ‘then what do you want my help for’), and diagnoses a kid who fell off a slide with a sprained wrist, and calms down a set of parents who brought their ten week old in with a rash that turned out to be jelly. He doesn’t see Joyce once, which is fine by him. If she wants to work herself into another nervous breakdown for a man with a soul patch, that’s her prerogative.
If it were up to him, he’d avoid Joyce and any reminder of that wedding reception indefinitely. But word gets around about the open bar and the hors’ d’oeuvres, so when everybody heads downstairs to take advantage, Ron shares the elevator with them. He’s gotta cut through the lobby to get to the parking lot, anyway. Might as well grab a snack for the road.
When he sees the place, though…he’s gotta admit, it doesn’t look half bad. There’s no sand, thank God, and also no balloons, but the decor is the perfect mix of Sanderson-level weird and Joyce-level tasteful. Sanderson seems pretty pleased; he and his bride are on the dance floor with their arms wrapped around each other, swaying together to—of all the songs—Every Breath You Take. Chaplain Steve is at the DJ booth, which explains the pick. Man’s got no taste.
“Wow,” Matt says, gazing in awe at the string lights with his big stupid Montana Bambi eyes. “This place looks great. Joyce did a really good job.”
“She shouldn’t have had to,” Ron mutters.
Matt blinks, confused. “But I thought she volunteered.”
“Because that idiot asked her to in front of everybody.”
“She still could’ve said no if she really didn’t want to do it, right?” Matt says.
“One,” Ron says. “Two.” Matt’s look of confusion doesn’t abate. “Three. You better be gone by the time I hit five, Matt.”
Matt vanishes at four. Ron sighs and hooks his thumbs into his pockets. Alex and Serena are giggling by the bar, Bruce is trying to subtly flex in front of some of the guests, Keith is talking to Holly and Brandon, and…there’s Joyce, sitting alone with her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands, watching the bride and groom with a wistful expression.
Instead of walking out the door and driving home to his soon to be lukewarm Postmates order, Ron finds himself approaching Joyce. He takes the empty chair beside her and says, “Hey.”
Her eyes flick to him, then dart away. “Hey.”
Alright, Ron thinks wearily. So it’s gonna be like that. “Place looks nice,” he says.
“Mmhmm,” Joyce says. Her eyes are fixed again on the happy couple. They’re dressed in all black and have scarves wrapped around their heads. He’s pretty sure Sanderson’s wearing a nasal cannula and blue eyeshadow. Lisanderson al-Gaib, indeed. (Obviously he’s seen the movies. He pays for HBO, might as well get some use out of it.)
“So that’s them, huh,” Ron says. “Mr. and Mrs. Sandworm.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Sanderson Ashley, technically,” Joyce corrects. “But I think Ashley’s keeping her last name.”
“Which is…”
Joyce sighs. “Sanderson.”
“You’re telling me Sanderson Ashley married Ashley Sanderson?” Ron says incredulously. He’s pleased to see Joyce crack a smile. “Maybe they should have hyphenated. Imagine them going through life as Mr. and Mrs. Sanderson Sanderson-Ashley.”
“They’re not British, Ron,” Joyce says, which makes precisely zero sense, but that’s Joyce for you. “Better Sanderson squared than Sanderson Henderson, I guess.”
Sanderson dips the legally-speaking Mrs. Ashley Ashley; she squeals happily. Ron says, “I thought you didn’t want to marry him.”
“I didn’t,” Joyce says, fast enough that Ron believes her. Mostly. “I don’t. I just…” She stops. Her voice, when she finds it again, is very quiet, a little wavery. “I wanted this. I thought I’d have this by now. The open bar, the endless appetizers, the cake, the flowers, the dancing. Someone to dance with. I thought helping him out with this would make me feel better that I haven’t had my own. God. Who am I kidding. I probably never will.”
Ron shifts in his chair. “You know,” he says. “My wedding reception was pretty perfect.”
“I remember,” Joyce says hollowly. Of course she does. She was there. Monique made him invite everyone from work—they’re doctors, she said, they’ve got the money for good gifts; see if you can slip ‘em a hint I want a new microwave—including the new overly friendly first-year resident with the magenta scrubs with shoulder pads, and so he did. Joyce got them a set of Pyrex casserole dishes. Monique got them in the divorce. “You looked good. You looked happy.”
“I was,” Ron agrees, trying to suppress the shiver that just ran down his spine. His ex-wife must be cursing him out somewhere. “That night. After that, things started going downhill for us. Not right away, we were good for a while, but…”
“I remember,” Joyce says again. Her voice is warm with sympathy, not pity.
“My point is, it’s good that you haven’t had this yet,” Ron says. “It means you know what you want, that you haven’t settled. Your person’s out there. Trust me. And when you find him, he’ll be worth the wait.”
Joyce’s eyes are shining. Her hair is still down and loose, Ron notices, swept over her shoulders. Her jacket is gone; her arms are bare. It’s hard to look at her head-on. Like staring at the sun. “You’re a pretty soft touch, Dr. Grumpy.”
“Don’t tell anybody,” Ron says, putting a conspiratorial finger to his lips. Joyce smiles then, a real smile, wide and true. He doesn’t get to see those very often. He’s glad to see it again.
The last notes of this song fade into plush guitar and Australian-accented cooing, and Joyce perks up back to her usual annoying levels. “Oh my God, wow. Hashtag Throwback Thursday.”
“It’s Monday,” Ron says, and Joyce waves him off. She’s humming along off-key, swaying in her seat, tapping her fingers on the table. Ron hears himself say, “Want to dance?”
Joyce stops mid-hum, gaping at him. “You want to dance?”
“I just don’t want to be the only people sitting down,” Ron says, which is mostly true. Even Matt is dancing with Serena. God help him. She’ll eat him alive. “And I might as well wait for rush hour traffic to cool off a little before I head home.”
Joyce gives him a look he can’t quite decipher, but eventually, slowly, she nods. “Okay.”
Ron stands up with some effort (because he’s been on his feet all day, not because he’s old) and lets Joyce lead the way to the dance floor. In her heels, she’s tall enough to put one hand on his shoulder. He places a hand on her waist and takes her free hand in his, and just like that, they’re dancing. More like swaying, to be technical, but it counts. For Ron, it counts.
The song reaches the chorus, and Ron shakes his head. “Standing on a mountain I get,” he complains. “Who’s out here wanting to bathe in the sea?”
Joyce giggles. Having her this close is surreal. He can smell her perfume; can see the laugh lines at her eyes, her light blonde eyelashes. “It’s romantic.”
“If you find getting sand and salt everywhere romantic, then sure.”
Joyce rolls her eyes and gives him a look that’s equal parts fond and exasperated. Monique used to look at him that way, like she was saying I can’t take you anywhere, Ron. Joyce looks like she doesn’t mind. “You can wash sand and salt off,” she says. “The point isn’t where you are. It’s about being close to somebody you love.” While Ron tries to process that through his sudden lightheadedness, Joyce throws him another curveball. “Sanderson told me about your little talk.”
Oh hell. “What exactly did he say?”
“That he wished you helped him pick flowers for Ashley too,” Joyce says. “Then I got the too story.” Her voice softens. “You never mentioned you were the one who talked him into proposing.”
“Because I didn’t,” Ron says. “That was all him. I was just trying to get him to man up and take you out somewhere nice for a change.”
“Why?”
Any other time, any other place, Ron would be glib: because I was sick of your endless relationship drama, because Bruce roped me into helping him help Sanderson, because I wanted Sanderson to leave and this was the fastest way to get him out of my hair. Looking down at Joyce, into her eyes, all he can say is the truth. “Because you deserve it.”
Joyce’s face goes the exact same pink as her silk top. Her lips part, then press tightly together. All around them, couples are breaking apart and laughing and heading back to their seats, but they’re still holding each other close. Ron makes no move to let her go.
“Ron,” Joyce says at last. Her thumb runs back and forth on his shoulder. “Do you—”
Before she can finish her sentence, America’s Weirdest Married Couple butts in. “Hi, Jo-Jo!” Sanderson says brightly. “And Dr. Ron-Ron! So glad you could make it.”
“Don’t call me that,” Ron says, but Sanderson ignores him.
“Have you met my beautiful bride, Dr. Just-One-Ron?”
“I haven’t,” Ron says. He resists the urge to ask her to blink if she’s being held hostage. She seems perfectly happy where she is. Exactly the right flavor of dorky to complement Sanderson.
“Hi, Dr. Ron,” Ashley giggles. She has the face of a middle school librarian and the voice of a possessed Victorian doll. “Oh! Joyce, have you met my older brother, Ian?” Ron watches as she scoops said older brother almost out of thin air. He’s tall and trim; good-looking in a nerdy sort of way. Full head of hair. No wedding ring. No soul patch either. “Ian, this is Dr. Joyce Henderson. She’s the one who put this party together for us after my condominium lost our party room reservation.”
“You don’t say,” says Older-Brother-Ian, looking Joyce up and down appreciatively. Not appreciatively in a lascivious way, just…appreciative. Of her efforts. “Thanks for your help getting my kid sister hitched in style, Dr. Henderson. I should have figured you’d be a woman of great beauty as well as great taste.”
“Oh!” Joyce says. She’s blushing again. Ron’s stomach roils like he ate an expired NutRageous bar. “Uh, thank you, Ian. It was nothing. Both my haircare routine and getting this place all ready. Same amount of effort. Which was zero.”
“Still, maybe I could grab you a drink and hear all about it?” Ian says. Then he seems to remember Ron is standing there, because he quickly adds, “Uh, that is, for you and your husband.”
“Oh, he’s not—”
“I’m not her—”
“We’re not anything, really,” Joyce says hastily, laughing loudly and awkwardly. They’ve dropped each other’s hands like hot potatoes and leapt back to leave plenty of room for Jesus. “Just—”
“Coworkers,” Ron says, at the same time Joyce says, “Friends.” Their eyes meet; Joyce looks away. “Yeah,” she says. “Right. Coworkers.”
“Well, I amend my offer, but it still stands,” Ian says earnestly. “For both of you.”
“Actually, I should get going,” Ron says, and everyone’s heads swivel to him. “I got an uncle to check in on. But you crazy kids have fun. Drink responsibly.”
“Right,” Joyce says, more quietly. For a moment, her eyes meet his, and it’s like they’re alone on a mountain. The air crackles with that same electricity from earlier, all that unspoken promise. And then, just like that, it’s gone. Everything back to normal. As it should be. “Right. Yes. I’ll see you tomorrow, Dr. Leonard.”
“Dr. Henderson,” Ron says. He walks past Joyce and Ian, Sanderson Ashley and Ashley Sanderson, Alex and Serena and Matt and Bruce and Keith and Val. If he stops briefly and turns to look at Joyce before he goes, only the cameras are there to catch him.
(When Joyce’s eyes follow Ron out the doors, the cameras catch it too.)