Chapter 4: The Doctor Who Knew Better

I don’t like doctors.

That isn’t irrational. It’s historical.

“Your appointment is in ten minutes,” Diana says, adjusting her cufflinks with effortless precision. “Try not to look like you’re attending your own execution.”

“I am attending something worse,” I reply, pulling my gloves tighter. “A waiting room.”

She smiles faintly. “How quaint.”

I glare at the door.

The door does not care.

The clinic smells like antiseptic and poor decisions i was booked in from telehealth to in person due to reccomendation considering the state of health as of late in my case.

I sit as far from everyone as physically possible, back straight, hands folded, mask firmly in place. A child coughs somewhere to my left.

I shift two inches further away.

Diana sits beside me, perfectly composed, legs crossed, one hand resting lightly on my arm.

Grounding.

Controlled.

“Your blood pressure will rise if you keep anticipating catastrophe,” she murmurs.

“It will rise if that child coughs again.”

“It’s already rising.”

“…I know.”

Her thumb brushes against my sleeve once. Subtle. Intentional.

I stabilize.

“Beckett Bloodbriar.”

I stand immediately.

Of course it’s a new doctor.

Of course it is.

Young. Overconfident. Smile too easy.

“I’ll be handling your case today,” he says, not reading the room. “Come on in.”

I don’t respond. I just walk.

Diana follows.

Uninvited.

Expected.

The exam room is too bright.

I sit. Still. Controlled.

The doctor glances at his tablet.

“So, Beckett… hypertension, anxiety, history of—” he scrolls, “—various concerns.”

Various.

I say nothing.

He continues.

“You’re quite young for this level of… complication.”

Diana speaks before I do.

“And you’re quite inexperienced for this level of assumption.”

He chuckles.

Mistake.

“No assumption,” he says. “Just observation.”

“Then observe more carefully,” she replies.

Silence.

I almost feel bad for him.

Almost.

He proceeds anyway.

They always do.

“Do you exercise?”

“Just walks and stretches thats only it.”

“Diet?”

“Controlled.”

“Social habits?”

“Minimal.”

He smiles like he’s found something.

“That might be part of the issue. Isolation can—”

“It isn’t,” Diana cuts in.

He glances at her.

Ah.

Now he notices her.

Really notices her.

Another mistake.

“Well,” he says, tone shifting slightly, “and you are?”

“His wife.”

A pause.

He recalibrates.

Poorly.

“I see. And do you always attend his appointments?”

“Yes.”

“That’s… very dedicated.”

“It’s called competence.”

I keep my gaze forward.

My hands remain still.

But I am aware.

Of everything.

He continues the exam, but his focus has shifted.

Not to me.

To her.

“Do you work in healthcare?” he asks Diana.

“No.”

“You seem very… knowledgeable.”

“I read.”

He smiles again.

“I can tell.”

I don’t like his tone.

Not at all.

The questions drift.

Subtly.

Then less subtly.

“And how do you manage stress?” he asks her.

“I remove its source.”

He laughs.

He shouldn’t.

“And does he—” a nod toward me, “—help with that?”

Diana’s hand rests lightly on my shoulder.

“He is the reason there is no stress.”

I feel that.

Quiet. Steady.

Mine.

The doctor leans back slightly.

Relaxed.

Too relaxed.

“Well, it’s rare to see such… devotion,” he says. “Must be nice having someone so—”

He searches for the word.

He finds the wrong one.

“—attentive.”

I speak.

Finally.

“Yes,” I say calmly. “It is.”

He looks at me.

Really looks this time.

And something in his expression shifts.

Too late.

He clears his throat, trying to recover.

“Right. Well. Beckett, your numbers are stable, but I’d recommend—”

“You’ve contradicted yourself three times,” Diana says softly.

Silence.

He blinks.

“I—what?”

“You described his condition as ‘complicated,’ then ‘manageable,’ then implied it was self-inflicted.”

Her voice remains calm.

Measured.

Precise.

“Which is it?”

He opens his mouth.

Closes it.

I watch.

“And,” she continues, “you diverted from the patient to irrelevant personal inquiries.”

“I was just making conversation—”

“In a clinical setting.”

“That’s not inappropriate—”

“It is when it interferes with care.”

Her gaze sharpens slightly.

Not aggressive.

Just… undeniable.

“And when it reveals a lack of focus.”

He shifts in his seat.

I say nothing.

I don’t need to.

He’s doing it himself.

“I think,” he says, a bit too quickly, “there’s been a misunderstanding—”

“There hasn’t,” I reply quietly.

He looks at me again.

Really looks this time.

Sees the stillness.

The restraint.

The lack of uncertainty.

Oh.

Now he understands.

The rest of the appointment is… efficient.

Clinical.

Correct.

No more unnecessary questions.

No more smiling.

When we leave, he avoids eye contact.

Good.

“Now mine,” Diana says lightly.

I stop.

“…What is it Diana?”

“My check-up.”

“Oh No.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“That wasn’t a request.”

I follow anyway.

Of course I do.

Different doctor.

Older.

Worse.

He reviews her file briefly, then looks up.

And immediately—

“Oh, well,” he says, smiling in a way I already dislike, “you’re certainly not what I expected.”

Diana says nothing.

He continues.

“Very striking.”

I feel it.

Sharp.

Immediate.

Unpleasant.

He begins normally.

Vitals. Questions.

Then—

“You don’t look your age,” he says.

Diana tilts her head slightly. “I am aware.”

“And your husband—he’s quite young, isn’t he?”

Silence.

My hands tighten slightly.

Gloves creak.

“It’s an interesting dynamic,” he continues. “Do you find that—”

“No,” Diana says.

He pauses.

“I haven’t asked the question yet.”

“You were going to.”

A beat.

I almost smile.

He chuckles awkwardly.

“Well, I was just curious—”

“About my personal life,” she says.

“Only in a general sense—”

“In a medical setting.”

He hesitates.

There it is again.

That moment.

Where they realize—

They’ve misstepped.

I speak.

Quiet.

Controlled.

“Is this relevant to her health?”

He looks at me.

“No, but—”

“Then don’t ask.”

Silence.

Diana’s hand finds mine briefly.

Approval.

Warm.

The rest of her appointment proceeds correctly.

Because now—

He knows better.

We leave the clinic together.

Step outside.

Fresh air.

Clean.

Controlled.

I exhale slowly.

Diana adjusts my scarf, then gently nudges my mask down just enough to press a soft kiss against my lips.

“You did well,” she murmurs.

“So did you.”

She smiles.

“Of course.”

Back home, everything returns to normal.

The manor is quiet.

Dim.

Safe.

No lingering tension.

No unresolved thoughts.

Just—

peace.