2...Dashing Through the Snow

Jon would be lying if he said he wasn’t worried when stepping from the car into the snow that was beginning to fall heavily in front of the emergency room entrance.  Taking Gavin’s admittedly overdramatic nature into account and dividing the severity of Petey’s fall by half, his wife was still hurt at least badly enough to impair her mobility. 

Perhaps it was nothing more than an ankle, as she said.  That would be fantastic.  Then, they’d go home and prop her up on the couch to address the Christmas cards that still weren’t in the mail a week before Christmas.  Order some Chinese food in for dinner.  Life would be good.

If she’d rattled the Implet’s cage a bit too hard, though…

That was something he wasn’t qualified to judge, which is why they were here.  It would just make him feel better if somebody other than his genius wife would give the all-clear on the baby’s condition.  Jon trusted Petey know her own body, but when it came to the Implet…  This was her first time around the block, and no matter how many pregnancy books she read, there were some things a book just couldn’t tell you.

“You doing okay, man?” 

Pulling the bill of his black cap down low on his head as he walked side-by-side through the emergency entrance with his friend and keyboardist, Jon grunted noncommittally.  When he flew out of the studio as though his pants were on fire, the other guys had sent well-wishes and instructions to let them know how things turned out. 

Dave was the exception to that.  Without asking Jon’s opinion one way or the other, they curly-haired man had grabbed his jacket and followed out the door and into the car.  He and Petey were good friends, but then again, she was good friends with all of Jon’s bandmates.  Jon had no idea why he was determined to be here, but hadn’t felt like quibbling over it.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Dave reassured him casually – for the fourth time. 

It had ceased to be reassuring after the first time, and Jon didn’t bother responding as he glanced over the noisily humming constituency of the emergency room.  Petey and Gavin weren’t exactly the type to blend into the woodwork and, when he didn’t see them on the first pass, Jon presumed that they were either not there yet or had already gone back to an exam room.

The screech of an ambulance siren nearly deafened him as he stepped up to the desk and read the name badge of the guy sitting there.  Thank God the thing stopped before he had to scream over it. 

“Hi Casey.  My wife is supposed to be here, but I don’t see her in the waiting room.  Do you have a Bongiovi registered?”

“Can you spell that, please?”  Either the kid was too young to care about the relevance of the surname, or he simply didn’t care.  It was New York, and Jon sure as hell wasn’t the first celebrity to walk into this hospital.  If Petey was already here, she’d get more notice than he would.

From the moment the press found out that the Heinz heiress was his wife, Petey was not only the genius in the family but the rock star.  Part of that was because the media had a field day reporting on the secretive disappearance from her former staid life as a college professor, but most of it was… her. 

Cute, quirky and charismatic when she chose to be, she had instantly become a media darling.  Even when she got fed up with their “journalistic ignorance” and quoted the Constitution to them, they loved her.

They’d been following along closely since discovering her pregnancy and chronicling each step that they could catch.  Jon had seen numerous articles speculating on every frigging thing under the sun.  Whether the baby would have perfect teeth and dimples, be musically inclined or a genius.  They predicted that his next child could hold the title for bluest eyes in the world. 

The media was going especially nuts over the gender, because Petey had refused that particular information at every single ultrasound.  She wanted to do the old-fashioned thing and wait until the baby was born, which was only a pain in the ass as far as names were concerned.

It was another thing that the press was having a field day with, in fact.  At least once a week, some idiot was hypothesizing what they might use for their unborn child’s name, most of which were utterly ridiculous.  Ozzy and Einstein for example.  What the hell were these people thinking?   

He personally thought people should do something better with their fucking time.

“Oh, wait.”  Casey the ER registrar was frowning at his screen.  “Does she have initials instead of a name?”

“Yes.  P.T.”

Jaded eyes that had likely seen things horrific enough to give Jon nightmares slid to his before reverting to the screen.  “She’s in Trauma Room 6.  I’ll buzz you back, but whoever is with her now will have to come out to the waiting room.  Only one visitor per patient.”

“That means you’re stuck out here, too,” Jon told Dave.  “I’m sure she’s fine, so just go home.  We’ll call you as soon as we know something.”

“Nah,” the other man declined glancing around the waiting room, presumably for an empty seat.  “I’ll stick around and keep Gavin company, because I guarantee he isn’t going anyplace.  And if he’s as annoying about being left in the waiting room as I think he’ll be…  Both of us will end up back there before long.”

Jon didn’t have time to persuade him otherwise and, the truth be told, he was probably right.  “Okay, man.  I’ll let you know.”

Gurney’s whizzed by, monitors beeped and patients groaned with pain as he breezed down the back hallways of the trauma unit, checking room numbers until he found number six.  It wasn’t hard to locate, but he wouldn’t have required the room number to find his wife.  Gavin’s long, lanky arms were flailing outside the cubicle and his voice could be heard halfway down the hall.

“That bump in her belly isn’t a goiter, Nurse Ratched, it’s a bay-bee!  Do you think we could get moving to see if the little sucker is still doing the backstroke in there instead of dead man’s float?  Chop, chop!”

With a stifled sigh, Jon quietly apologized to the nurse who was exiting the room.  Stepping inside the curtained glass cubicle, he found that Petey was reclining on the narrow exam bed with her eyes closed, and to most people, she would seem relaxed.  His eyes, however, immediately logged the paler-than-normal porcelain skin, a rigid jaw and the slight movement of her lips.  His imp was stressed. 

“Gavin, thanks for getting her here,” he said, taking control of the situation while tugging his scarf off and reaching for the zipper on his black down jacket.  “I appreciate it, but they only allow one visitor per patient.  How about you go keep Dave company in the waiting room?”

The mouth of Petey’s best friend was pinched with displeasure.  “How about I just tell them to stick their single visitor rule up their rectal cavity, instead?”

“Marley was dead to begin with.  There is no doubt whatever about that.”

“Just relax, Sugar,” Jon soothed his wife, grateful that he recognize the Charles Dickens staple.  It was a fifty-fifty shot as to whether her literary choices registered with him, but A Christmas Carol was in his catalog, and he stroked the inky hair away from her forehead to press soft lips there.  With a meaningful look at the effeminate toothpick whose eyes skewered Jon like a holiday canape, he assured Petey, “Gavin knows you’ve got enough anxiety.  He isn’t going to cause any more.”

“Oh Great Liz Taylor’s ghost.  And you call me dramatic.”  A skeletal hand flapped in front of his face as he blinked away what looked suspiciously like a sheen of tears.  Shooing Jon to one side, he stepped in and placed his own kiss alongside her cheek.  “I’ll be right outside with Curly Jo.  If you need anything at… all… just shoot me a text and I’ll go all diva on their asses until you get it.  Comprende?”

“I need you to turn my Christmas party back into a Christmas party,” she murmured without opening her eyes.  “It’s tomorrow night.”

“You just cross your legs and keep that kid tucked in there, Holiday Hellion.  Let me worry about the party.”  With that and the waggle of his bony fingers, Gavin floated flamboyantly out the door.

A diminutive hand with hot pink nails was extended with its palm up, and Jon settled his onto it, folding cold fingers into his.  “Tell me what happened, Sugar.”

For the first time since he entered the room, her eyelids cracked open to reveal her favorite pink contacts.  “Gavin turned my Christmas party into a purple and black baby shower with skulls.”

That much he knew, because Petey was the only one who thought tomorrow night’s get-together was a Christmas party.  Everyone else was looking forward to a “one-of-a-kinda baby celebration event, the likes of which hasn’t been seen since Jesus hit the scene”. 

According to Gavin, anyway.  Jon had given him carte blanche to do whatever he saw fit, because the eccentric man seemed to have his thumb on the pulse of what Petey wanted when it came to these kinds of things.  Forget the fact that she didn’t want a shower in the first place.  That decision had been taken from her by both men.

“I’m more interested in hearing how you ended up on the floor.”

A demonic shadow crossed her scowling imp face as she planted a fist in the plastic mattress to try and push herself higher on the gurney.  “I was bitching at him and turned to leave too fast, I guess.  Maybe there was a slick spot on the floor or something.  I don’t know.  My leg twisted and, the next thing I know, I’m looking at the ceiling.”

“Is it your ankle?  Your knee?”  He didn’t want her to be hurt in any way, but a wrenched extremity was a damn sight better than belly pain.  She would lose her very logical mind if this baby decided to make its appearance two months early.

“Both.  And I’ve got a spasm in my back.”

Ah, fuck.

He was spared from commenting on that suspicious symptom by a smiling hospital staffer pushing a cart of electronics.  “Hello, Mrs. Bongiovi.  I’m Natalie, and all these scary looking stuff is nothing more than a monitor, so don’t be concerned.  I’m just going to wrap these stretchy things around you so we can make sure everything’s going okay inside your belly.”

Fierce pink eyes cut in his direction, and Jon was forced to swallow a laugh.  Petey could probably quote the brochure on that “scary looking stuff”.  At the very least, she could dissect it and reassemble it without thought, right down to the “stretchy things”.

“Natalie, let me save you some trouble,” he broached gently.  “My wife knows more than most people when it comes to electronics of any kind.  You don’t have to dumb things down for her.”

To her credit, the girl’s smile didn’t falter in the least.  “Good to know.  Let’s get everything hooked up then and make sure baby’s not too upset over your fall.”

His imp gave a begrudging nod, and Jon offered both his hands so that she could use them to pull herself into an upright position.  When she lifted the t-shirt so that the elastic belts could be fitted around her waist, the pain streaking through those pink eyes almost gutted him. 

“Something hurt?” Natalie asked casually, affixing the first of the fetal monitors and cinching it into place.

“Back spasm.”

At Petey’s grumbled admission, the nurse’s eyes connected with Jon’s over her head and what he saw was enough to make his stomach sink. 

That spasm had nothing to do with his wife’s back.