Chapter Text
She feels hollow.
Tequila doesn’t help, vodka doesn’t help; she can’t sleep more than a handful of hours at a time, and mixing that with sleeping pills didn’t help. Even then she’s haunted by nightmares of that phone call. After a disastrous night in her own bed, she grabs her coat and ID badge and easily slides past the security guards at the hospital.
She has no right to be this upset, this invested. She’s only bloody known Max for a whopping two months, but being around him was exhilarating. It’s…something she hasn’t felt in a long time. But that doesn’t matter because Max is married, and she is his doctor. And she is failing at being his doctor. She is failing this hospital, failing her patient and she wonders if maybe Dr. Helen is better for New Amsterdam because all Dr. Sharpe brings her and everyone around is pain and loss.
Helen stops by Max’s office before going up to the rooftop. There’s a stack of books and medical journals on the coffee table, and she thumbs through them, tears pricking her eyes at the sight of his handwriting in the margins. Max always leaves notes on the things he’s read; things he likes, things he dislikes- quotes he wants to remember. The sight of his scratchy, slanted letters is enough to send slices of pain through her chest, and Helen shoves the stacks away, a sob leaving her lips as she swipes furiously at her eyes.
She’s on the floor ruffling through the bottom of his drawers, emerging minutes later wrapped in one of his old Brown sweatshirts and the bottle of whiskey he keeps for bad days, and she knows right now she looks like every cliche in the book. But she can’t find it in herself to care, because Max is downstairs practically dead and she’s alive and nothing is fair or right or just. She knows the reality, and the next step at this stage. As his doctor, she’s going to have to make that decision for him because that’s what he asked her to do. That’s what she signed up for, but now that she’s here in this position she can’t help but curse at higher beings for putting her in this situation. She curses at Max for making her choose and carry this burden.
So, she curls up on the floor and drinks shot after shot of whiskey until the world blurs around the edges, soft and shimmering and blue. She gets up to leave before anyone sees her and heads toward the elevator.
When she gets to the roof and opens the door, it’s empty, unsurprisingly. She wonders when the last time he’d even come up here, between making a legacy, turning the hospital upside down, and the insane clinical trials for his cancer treatments. The thought alone makes her chest ache, and she swallows heavily, eyes gazing around the rest of the space he claimed as “his spot.” She leans back against the rail before her legs start to give out and she slides down.
Helen doesn’t even consciously realize she has her phone in her hands until she’s dialing the familiar number, fingers pressing in the numbers she’s had memorized for reasons she can’t think about right now. The ringing echoes against her ear, and she feels the tears that slip from her eyes trail down her cheeks, already damp.
“Hey, you’ve reached Max Goodwin. Sorry I missed your call, leave your name and number and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can, ” she barely makes it through his voicemail message before the words spill out of her, stumbling over each other as they fall from her mouth.
“You’re leaving me behind,” she sobs, chest heaving as she draws her knees up to her chest. “You- you’re making me choose after keeping your secret, and now I have to live with it, and what am I- what am I supposed to do? ”
She rubs angrily at her eyes, trying to stem the flow of tears, but they come too quickly, and she hiccups around the next sob. “You left me here after giving me hope and making me believe that I-I could be something again a-and now I’m all alone again and what am I supposed to- to do without you! ” she’s shouting by the time she finishes, angry and drunk and desperate to fix something that’s entirely unfixable. “Because I think I might love you for God’s sake! and I know you’re married and we c-could never, but now I can’t- I can’t even tell you and none of that matters now…”
Helen cuts herself off, muffling her cries into her hands, and with all her might throws her phone, hearing it shatter against the wall where “his spot” used to be.
—
Two days later, after Max miraculously wakes up, Helen finds Lauren in the ED.
“I need you to get into Max’s phone,” she tells Lauren, her voice flat; the brunette’s eyebrows contract together, studying her face, and Helen swallows. “And erase the most recent voicemail from me. He can’t...hear it. When he wakes up again, he-he can’t hear it.”
Lauren’s lips part, and before she can speak, Helen presses forward.
“Lauren, I’m asking as a friend, please don't ask questions,” she interrupts whatever Lauren starts to say, and she quiets, though her blue eyes shine with understanding.
“Okay, consider it done,” Lauren tells her, and Helen nods, clearing her throat against the thickness suddenly lining it. She feels sick to her stomach and relieved all at once, and she wonders how long this feeling will last; knows that she has to bury these feelings for Max, no matter the personal cost. “I’m sorry, Helen.”
She looks up at her lab coat, and can’t even muster up a faked half-smile for her.
“Thanks,” is all she says, and grips her upper arm before walking away, into the hallway to make her way back to her own department. Each step sinks into her chest like lead, the weight of what the future would hold settling on her shoulders,
II.
“I can’t be your friend, and your doctor, and your deputy. I-I have to choose. I-I have to triage us.” Max’s face is carved with anger, and she doesn’t want to say them like this, but there’s something in his eyes that pushes her forward; allows her to continue speaking. “This thing between us, Max. I—” Helen cuts herself off, feeling the words she’d sworn she’d never say out loud bubble in her throat.
Max’s face contracts, working hard to remain blank, and Helen feels something crack in her chest. The months of stolen glances and unsaid feelings feel like a ton of bricks, pressing against her shoulders, and her eyes burn as she searches his face. She knows she’s risking every foundation of trust she’s built with him, but she is his doctor and that comes first. No matter the personal cost.
“You may not believe me, but I am doing this for you, Max. For your treatment, so that you can get better for your wife and your daughter. You told me the first day I became your doctor that you wanted to be a father and a husband, that you were putting your life in my hands. I am trying to honor your wishes,” she says, begging him to understand.
Max stares at her, expression slack-jawed and wary, green eyes full of pain and an anguish Helen had never seen before. When he speaks, his voice is rough, and it sends an ache through her body she can’t properly articulate. “What if I want you?”
“Max,” she whispers, agonized, watching the way he winced. “I’m afraid that’s no longer an option.” Helen tries to catch Max’s eye but finds he can’t even look at her. “Because we all want you.”
She wonders if she’s ruined everything.
III.
The emptiness feels pervasive.
Max stands in his office, unable to muster up the ability to move, uncomfortable in the baby harness he’d grown so accustomed to wearing every day — growing more uncomfortable in his own skin that it doesn’t even feel like his anymore — until he hears a ding at his computer. He groans, moving to open the weekly Staff highlights email Dora started sending out after the ambulance crash. Skimming through, he doesn’t even read most of it, but he pauses at a link to a Youtube video.
He shouldn’t. Jealousy turns his stomach at the sight of Helen and Dr. Panthaki on the Daily Show. He has no right to be jealous. Hell, she got up and left before Georgia’s casket was lowered into the ground.
But the sight of Helen, sitting at a desk merely miles away from him, sends a stab of emotion through his chest. She’s only a few blocks away and doesn’t even send a text to let him know she’s back in the city. A glutton for punishment, Max clicks on the video and turns the volume up until he can hear them speaking, sinking further into his chair.
Panthaki is chuckling, and Max clears his throat, wishing he could drink.
“So,” he starts, and Max watches Helen’s face, eyes tracing the line of her jaw as she swallows the mouthful of water she’d taken. “Are you finally going to admit it?”
“Admit what?” she asks, eyebrows drawing together, and Panthaki snorts, sitting forward, elbows digging into the table. He cocks an eyebrow, studying her, and Helen mirrors the expression, lines deepening around her mouth. Even now, there is something tired about her- something bone-deep and harrowed, something even a good night’s sleep can’t fix. It’s been so many years of running and suffering. Max aches, wishing he knew how to fix it; how to make it better for her.
How to make things enough for her; how to be enough for her.
“That precision-targeted therapy is the future of oncology. The future of medicine really. That your archaic methods need to be retired and our field needs to be revitalized with research from doctors like Dr. Castro?” Panthaki starts slowly, and Max isn’t even looking at him- just watches the play of the muscles in Helen’s face, the pit of his stomach hollow and nauseous. “Because isn’t that why you’re trying to bring her to New Amsterdam?”
That pulls something onto Helen’s face — her eyes go wide, and she swallows, lips thinning as she pulls them into a line.
“Yes, you’re right,” she says. Panthaki chokes on his water at her response and gives her a moment to expand. “Let’s think of this as a way to start fresh. Start something...new,” she tells him, and for a moment all Max hears is his own breathing. “We should be raising funds for Dr. Castro’s clinical trials because it is the future of medicine, and it can save our patients' lives,”
“To say I’m shocked, but nonetheless pleased, would be an understatement, Dr. Sharpe. But, I am curious how you’ve made such a drastic change in approach when less than three months ago we were at this very stage arguing why these clinical trials did not work. Does this have something to do with the treatment of your Medical Director?” Panthaki says, almost accusingly.
Helen’s face is expressionless, and she sets her glass to the side. “This has nothing to do with one singular person and everything to do with investing in our patients’ best interest and providing them with the best care,” her voice is warm, but there’s an edge to it.
Panthaki’s answering chuckle is softer, “Oh, I think we both know you’re wrong there, Dr. Sharpe,” he says, leaning back in the chair and shaking his head. “Your love and devotion for New Amsterdam will always have to do with Dr. Goodwin.”
“And that’s all we have from Dr. Helen and Dr. Panthaki. Thank you guys so much for coming here today.” Trevor Noah cuts in before Helen could reply and the screen fades to black. Max watches his own empty office for a long while, trying not to mull over the words.
His fingers curl around his phone, itching to dial the number he knows by heart, but he keeps his phone in his pocket, and deletes the link from his history.
Max sits in silence for a long time.
IV.
The hospital is quiet; in the hours after the three Rikers inmates held Max and Helen at gunpoint, Max couldn’t stop thinking about how she stepped in front of the gun. So reckless with her life to protect him. He’s so angry at her, and he can’t tell if it’s because of that or if it’s because she wants to leave him, again.
Just another thing to add to the long list of ways Max is failing this hospital and Helen. If he had just checked in more with her like a good friend and a good medical director, then maybe he could’ve prevented this. Maybe he could’ve given her a reason to stay.
When Helen finds Max in his office, he has a glass of whiskey in his hand, though he’s mostly staring into space when she shuts the door softly behind her. He looks up at the noise, and his lips twitch into an almost smile as she comes to join him, settling into the chair beside him.
“How’s Floyd?” he asks quietly, and she shrugs.
“The stab wound was superficial, so I think he’ll be okay,” she answers, rubbing her palms on her thighs. “But, Lauren, I’m not so sure. I think it’s going to be hard for her. She’s going to feel like she failed at all the progress she’s made. But we’ll help her through it.”
Pain crossed Max’s face, and after only a moment Helen’s fingers slid into his. “It’s okay,” she murmured, squeezing gently. “We’ll get through this.”
He nods, something in his eyes softening, and Helen’s expression mirrors his, feeling her lips curl into the smallest of smiles.
“You should go home, Max. Get some rest. We all need it,” she tells him, untangling their fingers and standing, moving back towards the door. She looks back over her shoulder, swallowing hard, and grips the door handle hard before she speaks next. “If she had pulled the trigger on you…I don’t know what I would’ve done. I wouldn’t have forgiven myself.”
His eyes widen, large and open as the sea, and her heart thumps in her chest.
“You know I—,” she stops herself, and there’s a few long, heavy beats of silence between them before she smiles sadly, “I’d be lost without you,” and backs out of the office, leaning back against the door, closing her eyes against the tears that threatened to spill and she moved quickly down the hall desperately looking for the stairwell.
V.
“I wanna know” Max’s face is open, daring her to say those three words.
“I think you already do.” Helen feels something weighing down on her chest, much like the first time she almost uttered those words out loud. After everything they’ve gone through - all the pain of his cancer, the agony of the ambulance crash had put them through; maybe it was time, to be honest.
“Then just tell me.”
“For god’s sake, Max,” she pauses, unable to help the soft cruel upward curve of her lips. Max’s expression mirrored hers, and Helen feels her heart pick up speed in her chest. “I did it for you.” Helen pauses, swallowing, and turns her head to look him in the eyes. “Everything that I have done. I have done for you.”
Max walks toward her, but his wedding ring burned on his finger, and she knows she bared her soul for someone who can’t say the words she desperately wants to hear. She turns around and closes the door behind her. She keeps walking, not waiting to hear what he has to say, and feels something lift from her shoulders. And, yet she wonders if she’s blown up another relationship before it even got started.
VI.
The smell of jasmine and sun air fills her apartment, and Max’s fingers running across her hair are near enough to lull Helen back to sleep.
Contentment laces through her, soft and gentle as the streets of New York halted just for them to enjoy this one night, and she turns her face further against Max’s face, sun-warm against her cheek. The sheets next to the couch ensconced themselves and caught just enough sun from the windows to keep them drowsy and warm without burning.
She isn’t trying to think about this fleeting moment, a blip on her screen because she knows this has to end. She leaves for London, again. Permanently. And she has yet to tell him. Soon, she thinks. She lets him stroke her face in and out of sleep like the worries of her move are a problem for another day.
Helen has known this man for three years, and he always finds a way to surprise her. She’s convinced they would spend a lifetime together and he would always find new ways to surprise her. She wants to live in that possibility for as long as she can. She wants to stay here in this moment with Max, forever.
But she keeps reminding herself that there is no forever, not for them, at least. If they were different people under different circumstances, then maybe. And that maybe would just have to be enough for her because she can’t undo the past.
If she's being honest with herself, Helen also feels a sense of relief — knowing that this has an expiration date. She knows it has to end, and that it won’t be ripped away from her like Mohammed was. Or that one day Max will wake up and walk out that door and she’ll never see him again like her dad did. There are a thousand things she could say, a thousand things she wants to say, but she settles on just three.
“I love you,” Helen whispers against the soft howl of the April winds, and the words only hurt a little as they pass her lips, pressed to Max’s shoulder. All she receives in response is Max’s chest lifting and falling in his sleeping breaths, but it’s enough. Each moment feels like a gift, and Helen takes them gratefully, palm resting over his heart as he had in the hospital after he almost died in her arms.
God, that feels like a lifetime ago, but Helen reminds herself that was only last month. She replays that day in her mind over and over again hoping to keep herself awake just a little while longer because she knows when she wakes up, she’ll have to walk away from this.
VII.
Floyd’s face still echoes in her mind as she comes to slowly, and it takes her a moment to realize no part of her hurts. Frowning, she cracks open her eyes gingerly, her surroundings are blinding white as her eyes adjust to the hospital room, and sits up with a hand against her middle- no longer are there any clots causing her any pain.
“Easy there, tiger.”
She startles at the voice, familiar deep down to her bones, but she’s unable to trust if it's real. “There you are,” she hears that voice again. Her gaze slowly shifts to its source, but the moment her eyes rest on him, she knows it can’t be anyone but Max.
“Max?” she asks, pushing herself to an upright position, unable to stop herself from sliding her fingers over his arms, confused as to what happened or where she was “Where am I?”
“You’re at New Amsterdam, we got all the clots,” he answers, and Helen swallows, eyes widening.
“You mean…”
“I mean we can still have a baby, babe,” he says, and Helen can’t help the damp chuckle that elicits, her grip on him tightening. “Here.” He reaches back and pulls out a velvet black box. “I got this made specially for you.” He takes the ring out of the box and slides it on her ring finger.
“God, I almost lost you.” He croaks out.
“I’m okay,” Helen whispers, fingers lifting to trace over the cut of his jaw, unable to stop the tears that filled her eyes. “I’m okay.”
Max’s throat bobs as he swallows hard, his hand coming up to stroke through her hair, and Helen leans into the touch, relishing it as her eyes slipped shut. She almost lost all of this.
“I love-,” she starts, but the brightness around her begins to dim, and Helen feels sensation begin to seep back into her body. Pain radiates through her stomach, her legs, and her arms, and she doubles over, clutching at Max’s hand.
Desperation let her cling to him another moment longer, and the last memory she had was of his eyes, watching her fade away from him once more.