Chapter Text
Iggy rubbed his temples under the harsh fluorescent lights and intrusive beeping monitors of the curtained ER bay, as he read the notes of the guy in curtain two.
His chest felt tight, a dull weight pressing down, his jaw ached faintly, and his back throbbed. He hadn’t felt well since last night.
You’re late for dinner again, Martin’s disappointed voice echoed in his head. I told you to be here no later than 7. You can’t keep expecting the kids to wait up for you, Iggy.
He had had a good reason at the time. Just as he was about to leave at six as promised, a young patient had arrived, teetering on the edge of a mental health crisis. Iggy had stayed to keep them safe until their therapist had arrived back from their break.
But last night’s cold words from Martin left a sour taste, a lingering heaviness pressing down on him, the familiar weight of failure.
He had spent the night awake with an odd panic in his chest, trying to take deep breaths, wondering again whether the separation from Martin had pulled away the curtain and exposed the real truth about him: that without Martin holding him up, there was nothing worthwhile.
The patient he was about to talk to in curtains was injured, a gash on his head bleeding heavily. His notes read a long history of aggression and self-harm, possible undiagnosed mental illness, Iggy mused.
The patient slammed his fists on the bed and shouted, “You can’t fix anything! You don’t care, you’re all the same!”
“So... how can I help?” Iggy said, voice tight, hands raised as his anxiety increased. He glanced toward the nurses’ station, where Lauren was standing, calm and alert. Her presence grounded him, a fleeting reminder that someone else saw him, that he wasn’t entirely alone.
As he went to sit down to talk at the bedside, the man shoved him away hard, palm to chest. Pain flared sharply along with a spike of adrenaline and panic as he stumbled backwards. I need to step out… I need to de-escalate this.
He walked back toward Lauren, trying to steady his legs, his hands clammy. He felt sick. “You ok?” she asked curiously.
“Yeah... I’m feeling... I’m just a little off color today, probably the flu,” he said, voice strained. Sweat beaded at his hairline, his hand instinctively pressing to his chest.
Lauren’s eyes narrowed, concern sharpening.
“Iggy… you don’t look well,” she said gently, now fully focused on him. “What’s happening? Did he hurt you? I can call security.”
His breath came shallow, uneven. The dull pressure in his chest now sharpened, radiating into his jaw. He rubbed his left arm, feeling dizzy. “No, just… indigestion from too much pizza last night, maybe,” he whispered, attempting a small laugh but couldn’t find the breath.
The weight on his chest intensified, relentless, pressing him downward. He gritted his teeth, taking a step, then another. And then his legs buckled.
As he collapsed onto the floor, vision tunneling, he caught one last image: the patient, sitting back on the bed watching, wide-eyed and quiet. Iggy’s mind registered the irony before an oxygen mask was placed over his head and darkness took him: the real danger had been his body and mind all along.
Iggy woke to the antiseptic scent of the hospital room and the quiet beep of the monitors. His chest throbbed with a deep residual ache, every breath shallow and labored. He felt nauseous.
Martin was at his bedside, pale and tear-streaked, hands trembling as they held Iggy’s. Relief and fear collided on his face.
“Iggy… thank God. You’re awake, you’ve been in and out of it for a while,” he whispered.
Iggy managed a weak smile. “Mar’in?” Funny, his mouth didn’t seem to work.
“Reynolds says… it was a myocardial infarction, you should make a full recovery. You’re going to be okay,” Martin said, voice cracking. Then, hesitating, “… Lauren told me. About how depressed you’d been, how much you were struggling. I… I didn’t know.”
Iggy’s stomach dropped with familiar shame. “I’m… sorry.” he slurred, voice coming out in a rasp. He felt so tired. “For all of it. For screwin’ everything up.”
Martin shook his head, voice raw. “I should have known. I was just so angry at you with the separation, I didn’t see you. I’m so sorry.”
Iggy closed his eyes, feeling the familiar fear and exhaustion from years of stress and disappointment wash through him, but a small spark of hope flickered.
“It’s my fault,” Iggy whispered, trying to find the energy to form words properly through the haze, “I don’t know how to reach out to you. I just... I dunno, maybe one day… I’ll feel safe.”
Martin leaned closer, voice quiet as he shook his head. “No more, Iggy. Not ever again. I love you. We’re gonna figure this out together, OK? Promise me.”
For the first time in a long while, Iggy felt a fragile thread of hope.
One Year Later
Vermont was quiet in a way that the ER never was. Summer air filled Lauren’s lungs as her rental crunched along the rural roads and valleys before turning right on the gravel driveway, where a hand-painted wooden sign with a flower welcomed her to the ‘Healing Homestead’.
She had needed a break. The memory of the latest young gunshot victim, the twenty-fifth that year, was still raw, and she felt empty, doubtful about her abilities. She had booked four days of PTO and had emailed Iggy without a second thought.
As she drove, the farmhouse rose before her like a storybook: weathered gables, ivy curling along the porch rails, smoke rising lazily from the chimney, chickens scratching in the yard.
Lauren felt a weird sense of familiarity and comfort from Iggy’s emails that he sent frequently, always with an invitation. She had printed out and pinned one of his photos of the forested valley in the ER as a calming reminder when she felt overwhelmed. This was the first time she had been able to come.
As she drove past, two old barns were alive with fairy-lights in the evening sun: one bright and bustling, another open to reveal easels, canvases, brushes, and chairs scattered haphazardly.
She drove past to the main house. Iggy opened the door, strong, fitter than she had ever seen him, radiating energy and warmth. “Lauren! You made it!”
Lauren smiled, struck by his transformation. “Wow… Iggy, look at you, you’re jacked! You look incredible.”
Iggy laughed and flexed his arm jokingly, as Martin appeared from the kitchen, towel draped over his shoulder, catching and squeezing Iggy’s waist briefly, exchanging a look of quiet intimacy. He looked more relaxed than Lauren had ever seen him.
Dinner was a joyful chaos: The children laughed as they talked excitedly about school, Harper knocked her juice cup over the roast chicken, there was the smell of vegetables and herbs, fresh bread, and cinnamon apples filling the air. After tucking the kids into bed, they settled on the porch swing with warm cider, moonlight shimmering across the orchard and the forested valley.
“This place… it’s amazing. How did you find it?” Lauren asked.
Martin’s eyes lit up. “Oh, it took months. But we were looking while waiting for our licences to come through, so had time. We had a wish list between all of us: Rooms for the kids, barns for offices and therapy, outdoor areas... you name it. When we found this place seven months ago, it just felt right.”
Iggy added, “I mean we weren’t able to get Harper’s space rocket launching pad, but I think we did alright.”
After Martin refilled their glasses, they started to walk around in an impromptu tour. Lauren peeked inside the art barn. One wall was covered in paintings, sketches, and collages, chairs scattered, easels tipped over. “It’s alive,” she breathed.
“It is,” Iggy said, smiling. “Art therapy, nature walks, we’re planning a sensory garden… every corner helps someone feel safe and seen.”
Lauren gestured between them. “And how are the two of you doing?”
Iggy squeezed Martin’s hand. “We’re thriving too. After everything that had happened, being stalked, losing Vijay, the stuff with my parents and Toby... I was diagnosed with PTSD and depression soon after coming here. Therapy has helped us a lot to talk... reconnect, you know?”
He waved over at the far building. “Those are the clinic offices. They were the stables. Hell of a commute, clearly. I work with children and young people, you know, I’m still board certified here, and Martin works with adults; his skill is phenomenal, far better than I ever was.”
Martin snorted. “So phenomenal that after twenty years in adult psychiatry, I missed seeing my own husband’s trauma and depression.”
Iggy smiled, “Well, I was good at lying to myself, never mind you.”
Lauren woke in the guest house sometime after midnight, woken by a dream where she was being paged. The quiet was disorienting.
The windows were open, curtains lifting gently with the night breeze, the air cool and clean. She lay there for a long moment, waiting for the familiar panic, the restless urge to do something, check something, wait for someone to knock on the door with an emergency.
It didn’t come.
She slipped on a sweater and stepped outside barefoot, the grass cool and damp beneath her feet. The property was washed in moonlight, silvered and soft. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called. The barns stood dark, except one.
The art therapy barn glowed faintly from within.
Iggy was inside, stacking chairs, wiping paint from a table, moving slowly and tired, like he needed to be in bed an hour ago. He looked up, surprised, then smiled.
“Hey,” he said softly. “Couldn’t sleep?”
Lauren shook her head. “I can’t remember the last time I slept somewhere this quiet. Where are the sirens, the horns and the constant drilling?”
She leaned against the doorframe, watching him for a moment before stepping inside. The barn smelled faintly of acrylic paint and wood, and something clean she couldn’t quite place. The wall of art loomed beside them; layers of color and emotion, overlapping and unapologetic.
“I didn’t realize how tightly wound I was,” she admitted. “Until I got here.”
Iggy nodded. “Yeah, that’s how it sneaks up on you.”
Lauren watched Iggy clean up in companionable silence for a beat. Then she said, carefully, “You know I came to see you because I really miss you, right?”
Iggy nodded. “But what’s the real reason?”
Lauren smiled and shook her head fondly, “That is the real reason. But truth be told, I don’t know how much longer I can do it. The ER. I keep telling myself I can handle it. That it’s just a rough patch.”
Iggy set the cloth down and leaned against the table, meeting her eyes. He didn’t rush her. He never did.
“I told myself that too,” he said gently. “My rough patch lasted for years.”
Lauren swallowed. “And then your body…?”
“Yeah,” he said, without bitterness. “It stopped negotiating with the rest of me. I’m now on five different medications and having weekly rehab sessions, my body wasn’t kidding.”
She let out a shaky breath. “I don’t want it to come to that.”
“I know,” he said. “Which is why you’re here.”
She looked at him then. At the ease in his posture. Tanned, glowing but still an edge of fragility, clearly pacing himself. A quiet confidence had replaced the frantic over-giving she remembered so well.
“Do you ever miss it?” she asked. “New Amsterdam?”
He stilled as he considered the question. “I miss the people, like you.” he said, eventually, “I don’t miss who I became to survive there.”
That landed somewhere deep in her chest.
“I don’t know... I thought leaving would mean I failed as a person,” he went on. “Turns out, staying almost killed me and I was failing everyone anyway.”
Lauren nodded slowly. “That tracks.”
They shared a small, tired smile as Iggy put out fresh paper and paints on the table.
“Look, I don’t know the answers. I’m not saying you need to move to Vermont and start an orchard,” Iggy added lightly. “Though… it has its perks and the local hospital does need a good ER doctor...”
She laughed, the sound cutting through the night.
“But maybe I am saying,” he continued, softer now, “that if your life doesn’t leave room for you to breathe, something has to change. Before your body decides for you. I learned that too late.”
Lauren closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, something in her had shifted. She had options.
“Thank you,” she said quietly, kissing him on the cheek.
“For what?” he said, surprised.
“For surviving,” she replied. “And for showing me what it can look like after. That there is an after.”
Outside, the night pressed close and kind around them. For the first time in longer than she could remember, Lauren felt steady.
When she finally turned back toward the guest house, and Iggy peeled off back to the main house, she noticed how easily her lungs filled with air.
And she held onto that feeling as she fell into a dreamless sleep.