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Understandably, Bertie Chickering does not remember his first birthday, but Father most certainly does.
Partly because of the sentimental value such an occasion holds, and partly because an hour and a half into dinner, Dr. Chickering has resolved to never participate in feeding his son birthday cake again.
Twenty-five years later, Bertie still protests to eating anything even remotely vanilla flavoured.
(Just without the collateral damage involved.)
Day One
The first days for any beginning resident are terrifying enough. Bertie still vividly remembers them. He'll never be able to forget, quite frankly, the way he stumbled and panicked, the way he frantically tried to answer every question Dr. Thackery―or, God forbid, Dr. Christiansen―had asked. Questions directed at him or otherwise, meant for him, or otherwise. That kind of nerve wrecking discomfort does not wear off for weeks.
Bertie had been relieved, first and foremost, when he could put in his hours working without that familiar pang of panic in his stomach. When he could do something without clenching his fists or faltering. When he wouldn't delay, but actively pursue any given request.
He had happily become accustomed to being able to do things without worrying so darn much.
So when he feels that tense discomfort again, over a year and a half later, he doesn't entirely know what to do about it. Only that he's positive that he'd quite like to be rid of the feeling altogether.
At least he's not the only one, in that respect.
It's been three days since Dr. Thackery's... leave of absence, and nobody at the Knick is entirely sure what to do about anything, anymore.
Father had warned him of this. Frequently, throughout that very morning before he set off to work, and the evening beforehand, when Bertie had finally dragged himself back from Cromartie Hospital with Dr. Zinberg's blood type papers securely under his arm. Warned him, especially considering the Knick's prior circumstances, that everything would be chaotic.
"If there is ever a good time to take your leave," he had stressed. "It will be now."
And that's that. No arguing, no persistent complaining. Father had said what he had wanted to say and just...
Slip away in the midst of the confusion. Bertie will not lie, he can see the appeal.
He sees an awful lot more of everything from his current position.
And it's this sudden grasp of social perception that starts causing him―and everyone else―problems. Problems that are not entirely great, but significant nonetheless.
Ask around the Knick about a Dr. Bertram Chickering Jr, and people will say that said Dr. Chickering doesn't quite get angry. It's not one of his more prominent features. Instead, he's sensitive. Gentle. Considerating. A good man.
But when Bertie steps into the Knick that morning, he's not. When Nurse Pell asks him, however innocently, if Dr. Thackery is okay, he's not. If anything, he's irritated at being asked, and it's not often that Bertie gets irritated at anything.
Irritated, and full-blown infuriated.
"I don't know." Bertie snaps, gloved fingers clenching so forcefully that the leather creaks loud enough to surprise them both. Or, perhaps, it's the look he was giving her at the time that did the surprising. Either way, the look on Pell's face is shocked to say the least and because Bertie is, in all accounts, horrified by his response under his scowling exterior, it's him who retreats first.
He spends the better part of his first day back in his office, avoiding everyone, throwing himself into his research and ignoring Thackery's brand of scotch that someone had, at some point, decided to relocate into his space.
It will not be the last time.
Either the scotch or, well...