6. Icarus
Chapter six
It's been a long day. I worked through lunch like I usually do. Instead of going out and grabbing a fresh salad, I'm rocking the peanut butter sandwich sad desk lunch.
It is killing me that I cannot figure out this unidentified gene in Jordan Cross's genome. I'm making my head ache, and my eyes cross, trying to filter through other records to see where it popped up before.
But I've been at it long enough, and most of my coworkers have already left the Design Clinic, so I guess I need to call it a day. I can go home, grab a book, and spend the evening on the couch with my cat, Dae, short for Daedalus.
I understand that Daedalus was the father in the Icarus myth, but at least the names match.
I'm just packing up my messenger bag when my phone rings. "Dr. Valentine."
"Hi, Dr. Valentine. This is Ruby West from St. Michaels."
As I lean back in my chair, I brace myself for the unexpected. A call from St. Michaels could mean a long and unpredictable night. A mother is likely in labor, and I am the geneticist on call, so I have to be ready to test the genome. The Designers are very particular about it happening within the first two hours after birth, but I don't think there is sound scientific backing for that.
The Design Clinic is an interesting place to work. It is not without its controversies, most notably Plain Jane and the Perfect Omega, two instances where children were overdesigned to detrimental side effects. But since then, regulations have been put in place to limit the amount of Design work that can be done.
All proposed Designs have to be approved by a panel of physicians before they can be used.
It's not what I pictured myself doing when I went to med school. I wanted to be in research, and in a way I am. I just thought maybe I would be researching diseases or disorders and helping develop medicine for them. And while that isn't quite what I'm doing, I know I am making a difference in eradicating inherited diseases. I identify what each trait of the human genome does, which allows me to trick myself into thinking that my research won't be used for primarily cosmetic reasons.
"We have an Omega here who passed out at the grocery store. She had your card in her pocket, so we assume she's one of your patients."
"Do you have a name so I can look her up?"
"Jordan Cross."
I drop my phone.
It takes me a moment to scramble to get it back to my ear. My hands are sweaty, and I almost drop it several more times before I get out my next sentence."I'm sorry. Did you say you have an Omega named Jordan Cross?"
"Yes, sir. We're unsure why she fainted, and she's yet to wake up. We've confirmed she's not in heat, though she seems to have had a bit of a spike."
I throw my bag over my shoulder and flick the light switch as I dart out the door, all plans for books and my cat out the window. "I'm on my way. Put me down as her primary physician."
"Right away. See you soon."
Jordan Cross is in the hospital and is an Omega.
I knew it.
At the end of our appointment, when I got closer to her, something about her was drawing me in. My inner Alpha would not accept the fact that she was a Beta.
And now this beautiful, thirty-two-year-old woman just presented as an Omega in the grocery store. She is going through an insane amount of changes, way later than she's supposed to. There is no telling the strain it's putting on her body, which must be why she fainted and hasn't woken up yet.
I climb into my practical, grey sedan and take off towards the hospital. Could I afford a flashy sports car? Sure. But I have no desire for it. For me, cars go from point A to point B, and I don't think about them other than that.
The hospital is only ten minutes from the Clinic. The sixth floor is the Omega floor, and I check in at the nurses' station. "Dr. Valentine. I'm a consulting physician."
"Nice try," the man says before spinning around in his chair. The nurse behind the desk looks at me with exhausted eyes. Once they focus on me, he relaxes. "Sorry about that. Thought you were an Alpha trying to force his way in."
"That happens?" I ask, sweeping my eyes over the waiting room. There's a leather jacket thrown over a chair, but other than that, it's empty.
"More than you'd believe. Who's chart are you on?"
"Jordan Cross."
He snorts but doesn't say anything. He types on his computer and looks at my badge again before nodding. "Go on back, room 622."
"Thank you very much." He buzzes me through the double doors, and I greet some of the nurses I've met during my visits here. Room 622 looms ahead, and my stomach feels tight. Should I be doing this? I don't know her. She's barely a patient. I called in a blood work order and sat across from her at a desk.
I won't be a calming presence to her when she wakes up.
I'm effectively a stranger who decided to throw himself into her hospital room the moment she presents as an Omega.
But at the same time, I am her doctor. In a way. I did examine her genome. Maybe I could test it again and see if there was any mutation or change.
In the three hours since I saw her? It's nothing but delusional justification.
I've almost convinced myself to turn around and leave, forgetting about Jordan Cross when Nurse West shows up. "Dr. Valentine!" she coos, wrapping an arm around me. She's an older Beta woman with greying hair and smoker's lines around her lips. "Miss Cross still isn't awake. I'm not sure what she was seeing you for, but…"
"Is that her chart?" I cut her off, watching her type into the laptop that perches on the cart she rolls around.
"It is, yeah. Do you have privileges?" She doesn't call out my rudeness, and I'm grateful for it. I'm feeling unmoored. These are waters I haven't chartered before.
"I do, yes." She spins the cart to face me, and I scroll through the blood work they ran on Jordan. It's all so very ordinary. Nothing sticks out to me except for elevated estrogen. I point it out to Nurse West.
"Oh yeah, that's the heat spike. It's not full heat because if you flip the page, you'll see the levels are going down regularly." She moves around the back of the cart, peering at me over the back. "You wanna keep that? Or get your own?"
I shake my head, pressing the print icon at the top right of the screen. "No, the printouts will do. I'll go see Ms. Cross now." With the papers in hand, I go into the clinical, uncomfortable hospital room.
The Omega floor is supposed to be much nicer overall than the rest of the hospital. It was designed to be like a little nest in the room, a comfortable place for an Omega to recover. But this room is not that. Sure, there are more blankets and pillows on the bed in soothing, pastel colors, but the walls are bare, the bed is the standard adjustable one with railings, and the air smells so strongly of antiseptic that it makes me feel sick.
There's a single, uncomfortable chair in the room. It's got scratchy blue fabric on the seat and back, with minor padding on the arms. I pull it over to the bed, sit down, and stare at the unmoving form of a woman I barely know.
She's hooked up to a heart monitor with an IV in her right hand, but other than that, she's not being monitored at all. How could they not keep a better eye on her? First, she's shoved into this soulless room, and now she's barely being monitored. I should file a complaint against the hospital for how they're treating my Omega.
Wait.
My Omega?
She's not my Omega.
But then she shifts where she lay, and I get smacked in the face with the scent of chamomile tea.
Since childhood, I have had a mug of chamomile tea every night before bed. It started when I was about six years old and noticed my mother drinking it. I begged her for a sip and loved it, asking for my own mug each evening. It made me feel so grown up, and it became a part of my routine from then on. Even now, whenever I visit my mom, we have a mug together as we talk about our days.
And the newly minted Omega in front of me smells of chamomile tea.
She smells like mine.
All my hesitation gone, I pull one of her hands between both of mine, stroking the heated flesh. Her dark red hair is slicked with sweat, frizzing around her temples. They've cleaned off her makeup, revealing a smattering of freckles over her nose.
She's beautiful.
I thought so when I first saw her, but it's even more apparent now.
Now that she's mine.
Like a creep, but unable to help myself, I pull her hand towards my face and sniff her pressure point. A purr starts to rumble and tumble out of my chest. After a few moments, a deep sigh escapes Jordan's lips, but she still doesn't wake.
"Anything?" Nurse West says. I can only see her head as she pokes it through the doorway.
"Are all Omega rooms like this?"
She stands in the doorway in her mint green scrubs, propping her thin hips against the side. "What do you mean?"
"It's soulless," I grumble, looking from Jordan's sleeping form around the room. "It's depressing."
She laughs and shakes her head. "You've never mentioned this before, Dr. Valentine. But yeah, this is how they are all. Except for the labor and delivery rooms. Those are just massive nests. Anyway," she says, turning her back to me. "Hit the call button if you need me, I suppose."
Once the nurse is gone, I kick off my shoes and do something stupid and reckless that could probably have them revoking my privileges at this hospital, but I don't care. Every one of my instincts is on fire to take care of the Omega in front of me, and I will do it.
I climb onto the bed with her, rolling her on her side so I can rest her head on my chest. Her soothing, floral scent immediately relaxes me, and a purr rolls through my chest. It's rusty. I haven't used it since my sister was a kid when I would purr to soothe her broken bones and heart. But it sure is getting a workout today.
It feels like so much, and yet so little time has passed, but one moment, Jordan is still, the soundtrack of her soft breathing the only noise in the room, and the next, she's blinking up at me with pretty, moss-colored eyes.
"How are you feeling, Omega?"