not actually barb

Being a doctor is challenging, because you are always expected to be the best. Being an autistic doctor is even more challenging, because your mind was in a constant battle with your emotions and senses, finding a balance between not going into overdrive, but working in an environment that requires your senses to be heightened all the time. 

Your colleagues were no strangers to your autism — it was once mentioned in passing conversation. But even medical professionals often forget how to talk to someone autistic, and what to do if that person is overwhelmed. It is in human nature to forget, truly, but it also doesn’t take any effort to simply remember. 

Jack Abbot however, the handsome and kind attending, who remembers everything about everyone, never once overlooked your neurodiversity. 

He had asked you once, whether calling you by your last name is too formal and you might not like it, or if you prefer a first name. He understood that the tone of voice he uses with you has to be specific, otherwise you might not be fully be able to understand it. Because autistic individuals often process tone differently than a neurotypical person. 

So it was agreed, that he would only call you by your last name if he is talking about something serious. Your first name, if it was a causal conversation, and a nickname, when he is talking to you as Jack. Your friend Jack.

“Do you have a nickname in mind for me?” You ask him, not maintaining eye contact with him. It made you feel uneasy, maintaining his gaze — sometimes causing sensory overload if you had to stare at anyone too long. So you opted to look at just over his shoulder when you spoke with him. Jack on the other hand, never took offence once.

“I don’t have one in mind no… what is it you are interested in? Hobby wise.” Jack asks you a direct question, not an open question that would require a lot of conversation of thinking. Because with overthinking, comes spiralling. 

“I like… puzzles. They calm me down.”

“How about Patch? Or patchy?” Patch because you’re patching people up, but also because of your love for puzzles.

“I like that!”

“Are you sure?” Jack asks again, to check if you are okay with it.

“Of course!” You smiled and look at him for a brief second, “so last name for formality, first name for informality and conversation, and nickname when we are talking as friends?” You like to double check the information, because over the years you realised that people don’t often say exactly what they mean. 

“Exactly!” Jack smiles widely. “I’ll let you go, Patchy; it was good speaking with you.”

You sigh of relief once the conversation ends, not because you didn’t like speaking with Jack, but often maintaining a conversation with someone can be exhausting. Especially working in the ER — where you don’t get a moment of silence.

You and Jack became incredibly close at work because it was easy to speak with him. He maintained a great balance between pressuring you to do a task so it would benefit your career and delivering it in a way that you felt comfortable doing. He was incredibly gentle and patient, and you found yourself at ease whenever you were with him. You grew fond of him very quickly and found yourself looking forward to seeing him every day.

This fondness grew into something much warmer; something that made your chest flutter and not because of anxiety. The way he'd say your nickname made your stomach flip, and the crinkles around his eyes were so prominent when he smiled at you.

He never made you feel like you had to be anything other than yourself.

Jack, on the other hand, had grown deeply attached to you, too. He admired everything about you, including how resilient and determined you are. He loved the way your face lit up when he used your nickname, and how you always chose to present to him and not Shen. Over time, Jack found himself lingering after shifts just so he could speak to you or coming up with excuses just to check in on you.

You found your safe person and Jack found his.

Today had particularly started off wrong. First, everything went wrong when you tried to make your food. You burnt the toast, which set off the fire alarm, and that was your first push. You then had to turn on the extractor fan, which was incredibly loud and overstimulating. You then gave up on food and decided to grab it on your way in. But the restaurant was far too loud and busy, and you were starting to sweat as you waited for your takeout. You also overthought the conversation you had with the waitress, and worried you came across rude when you were simply too overstimulated.

You made it to work just on time, and that was another thing that almost tipped you off the edge. You hated being late. You didn’t have the time to take a breath before you got called into a trauma room, along with Jack. He instantly notices that you’re not yourself, given the subtle shaking of your hands as you put gloves on. He doesn’t ask; instead, he waits a few more minutes and studies your demeanour. You did well, hiding how overwhelmed you were and focusing on the task ahead. But with every noise, you felt as if someone was digging a knife in your ear. With every touch, you felt your skin crawl. You needed a minute, and your shift hadn’t even started yet. You hadn’t done rounds yet — and that required a lot of memorising, and your mind was already mushy. 

Once the patient was stable, which felt like hours later, you managed to finally breathe. You rushed out of the room, wanting to get to the bathroom for some silence, but Jack caught up with you. 

“Hey wait up”

“Sorry Dr Abbot I really-“

“Need a minute, I know” he says quietly. “Let’s go to the supply closet. It’s dark and much quieter than the bathroom.”

“I’m fine truly” you say quickly, rubbing both of your palms together to soothe yourself, “I just- today it was- I don’t know what I’m trying to say it’s all-“

“Hey, let’s not talk. No one needs to talk. Let’s go.” He doesn’t touch you, but instead gestures for you to follow him into the supply closet. “There’s no lock on the door but no one ever goes in here. Well, I do, when I need a minute. Take five.”

“Five?”

“Five minutes”

“Like literally five minutes?” You ask again, wanting to know the exact amount he’s allowing you to take. 

“Yes five minutes. Close your eyes and focus on slowing your breathing down.” He says softly, “I will set a timer so the noise doesn’t interrupt you, okay? I’ll come back and knock quietly.”

“I’m sorry, im really sorry I’ve only just started my shift and-“

“No one is angry or upset with you. It seems like your day’s going terrible and it’s not even started yet. Take five, I’ll be back.” He says quietly, and leaves you in the closet, closing the door very gently behind him. He sets a timer for five minutes — although he wants you to take longer, but he knows that punctuality is essential when it comes to you so taking ten when he said five, will only upset you further. 

You sit in the corner and hug your knees up to your chest, and focus on nothing but your breathing. You remind yourself that just because today started off wrong, doesn’t mean it should end this way. But it’s not always as simple as that. Because once you’re hyper aware of everything that could remotely affect your senses, everything automatically becomes heightened. The five minutes are up, and Jack slowly opens the door and whispers, “hey”

“I feel okay now” 

“Can I sit with you?”

“Don’t they need us out there?”

“Day shift is actually still here, something to do with an unfinished case so they’re helping.” He whispers again as he lowers himself on the ground slowly. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure”

“How can I help you when you’re feeling overwhelmed?”

“What you did today was good, Jack”

“But how can I do it better?”

“It’s difficult.. because I don’t know what helps me sometimes.”

“Do you benefit from deep pressure stimulation?”

“I try and do it on myself sometimes but… my hands are usually shaky and I start fidgeting a lot so I cant maintain the movement.”

“Want me to try? So you tell me if I’m doing it right?”

“Yes please”

“So from what I’ve read….” Jack murmurs as he shifts on the ground, “it’s best to apply pressure on large muscles, could be arms or legs…” 

He had read about it? You wonder what else he researched and it warmed your heart how attentive he is. 

“I’m gonna touch your shoulders, let me know if it’s good.” He shifts and faces you, leaning in and gripping each side of your biceps and he squeezes gently. 

You murmur, “maybe a bit harder?”

“Sure?”

You hum and nod. 

He squeezes your biceps harder and you feel your body as it grounds itself to his touch. You can’t help but close your eyes and focus on his squeezing. Jack smiles to himself, noticing how your face had already relaxed. “I’m gonna move down slowly…”

He moves down to your forearm, squeezing hard then reaches your hands. “I’m gonna go gentler now.”

He holds your hand, making small gentle squeezes on your palm. For a moment, your mind goes silent, your breathing is back to normal and you want nothing more but to stay here with him. 

“Patchy?”

“Yes Jack?” You murmur, opening your eyes slowly and you’re met with his warm gaze. 

“Feeling better?”

“So much better. Thank you”

“Anytime sweetheart. Do you think you’re ready to go back out there with me?”

In that moment, you felt like you would go anywhere with him. The feeling of being this content around someone was so incredible and comforting, and you never wanted it to end.

“Hey Mateo, you know that patient in room eleven — does he seem a bit… odd to you?”

“In what way?” 

“Just… not right. I don’t know how to explain it.” You had just left his room and asked him a couple of questions, but he didn’t seem… stable. It’s incredibly difficult to explain to a neurotypical individual how well you can read people's expressions. Maybe not tone of voice... but facial expressions or body language were different. Others may see him just like any other person, but over the years you’ve learnt to recognise patterns so you can truly understand one’s behaviour. It wasn’t always so simple, but in this particular case, something was not right. You went to find Jack, who was finishing up with a patient. “Hey Dr Abbot, do you have a moment?”

“Not this second — I’ve got a meeting in 2 minutes. Everything alright?”

“Ummm” you hesitate, not entirely sure how to explain it to him, “never mind.”

“You sure? Do you need me or an attending?” You, you thought. You needed his attention to explain how you’re feeling, but you figured it wasn’t his responsibility to take ten minutes out of his day so you could try to explain a feeling. "I can be late for my meeting, no problem." He smiles softly and approaches you closer. "Is something bothering you?"

"No, don't worry about it." You mumble and quickly walk away.

He calls after you, “Hey, Patchy, we’ll catch up after my meeting, I promise.”

“Okay” you smile, and hold onto his promise as you head in the direction of room eleven.

“Caleb?” You knock and walk in, but he was not in bed. “Mr Richard?” You say quietly. Where has he gone?

“You” an animal like growl hisses from behind you. You turn around and see him standing in the corner by the door, with a psychotic look on his face. Psychosis eyes. That’s exactly what that look was. That was the feeling you couldn’t explain. 

“Caleb?” Your voice instantly shakes as you walk away from him. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

“He’s behind you” 

You look over your shoulder in a panic, but no one is there. “Okay, what-what does he want?” 

“He’s telling me things, things that are not good!” He yells. You look over at the panic button across the room, but you have to pass him to get to it. 

“Don’t listen to him, maybe listen to me? Okay?”

“No!” He yells again, “he’s telling me to hurt you!”

“Please, please don’t hurt me” you plea, “don’t listen to him!”

He yells something inaudible again, and so you yell at the top of your voice, “hula hoop”

He charges toward you but you jump on the bed to avoid him, wanting to get to the panic button. But he was too quick, and too big. He gets hold of the back of your neck, pulling you back up. You scream hula hoop again, repeatedly, until he slams your face into the wall. Pain, like you’ve never felt before, wraps all around your face, and not a muscle in your body has the energy to fight him. Everything then goes silent, and you are well aware that you have now dissociated.

Ahmed was the first one to run in, pulling the patient off you, followed by Lena, Parker, Mateo who are now surrounding you. 

Commotion had taken over the atmosphere as everyone started yelling, security is now in the room, dragging the patient away, who’s aggressively fighting them off. 

“Hey, you’re okay” Parker wraps her arms around you in an attempt to protect you from the chaos, but the walls were closing in on you, and the last thing you needed was someone being this close. “I’ve got you”

Her fingertips on your shoulder feel like sandpaper as you push her off and fall to the ground.

“Sweetheart” Lena crouches down next to your, lifting your bloody chin up, “come with me.”

Your hands cover your ears, tapping on them repeatedly as your body starts to rock back and forth. 

"He's not gonna hurt you now." Parker crouches down next to her, "Can I please touch you so I can stop the bleed?"

But you don't respond. You wouldn't be able to even if you tried.

"Mateo, can you call Abbot, please?" Parker adds, "He might be the only one who can help."

"Already did, no answer. I’ll text” ER. Stat. Hula hoop

Jack doesn’t need to know who was involved in code Hula Hoop, but as he runs into the ED, he goes to room eleven. Call it a gut feeling, but he knew it was about you, and blamed himself for not taking the few minutes of his time to talk to you, maybe the outcome might have been different,

Everyone’s surrounding you, desperate to try and check for injuries, but he finds you stimming, eyes closed, and rocking back and forth. 

“Everyone out!” He doesn’t mean to yell, knowing it’ll only make it worse for you but he’s far too anxious. “Now!” Bodies hesitate to move at first, but Jack pushes through them to get to you, saying once again in a firm and authoritative tone, “Everyone out now!”

He crouches down to your level, shaking his head at the mess the patient had made of you. Seeing you like this broke his heart, and he tries not to think about the guilt that sat deep in his chest.

He whispers, “It’s just me” and then slowly reaches for your hands that are hitting your ears. He holds both of your hands and starts squeezing them gentling, without saying a word. Calming you was his priority first, then attending to your injuries. He rests your hands on your knees then grabs hold of your biceps, squeezing them gently at first, then increasing the pressure slightly a bit by bit, until your rocking eventually slows down. 

He says gently, “You don’t have to answer me but I need to know what he did. Nod for a yes shake for a no”

You give him a shaky nod, eyes still closed. 

“Did he hit you anywhere apart from your face?”

You point at your neck and Jack slowly moves to look at it. “Did he do anything else, like hit your body?”

You shake your head. 

“Can I take you to another room so I can properly examine you? Please?”

You shake your head quickly, and your hands move back to your ears.

“Okay sweetheart let’s stay here.” He pulls up gloves from his pocket, snapping them on quietly, “I’m gonna touch your face so I can look at your nose.”

You nod and eventually open your eyes, wincing at the brightness of the fluorescent lights above your head. Your eyes meet his for a moment before he looks away. He can’t risk tearing up in front of you. He murmurs, “I’ll turn them off in a minute. I just need to check your injuries, okay?”

You whisper, "Jack?"

"Yeah, sweetheart?"

"Don't leave."

"Not going anywhere," he murmurs, "I'm right here...I’m so sorry this will probably stress you out even more but I need to know how hard you hit your head”

You shake your head, not wanting to think of what happened.

“Okay, okay, I’m gonna check for a concussion, then we’ll go to a dark room. Hmm?” Jack carries out his checks gently and slowly, careful not to startle you. Despite not saying much or answering his questions, your pupils showed signs of a concussion, but refused to be moved to a room. "Shall we go home? Instead of a dark room?"

"I can't take the bus or-" you whisper.

"I'll drive you home and i'll stay with you."

"Promise?"

"I promise, Patchy, I'm not going anywhere."

Jack keeps his promise, not letting anyone near you as he finishes up the last bit of paperwork before guiding you out of the ED through the side entrance. He unlocks the car, opening the door for you and patiently waits as you get in and settle. He starts the engine, reaches over, clicking the seatbelt in, "no radio, close your eyes if you need to."

The drive is quiet, and every few minutes he glances over, checking on you without making it obvious. When your hands start trembling again, he doesn’t say a word; instead, he rests his hand palm up on the centre console, as an open invitation if you want it. After a few minutes, you take your hand in his and start squeezing hard. He squeezes back -- the exact deep pressure that you prefer.

Your apartment is dark when you arrive, and Jack only turns on a small lamp in the corner. "Couch or bed?"

"Couch", you whisper.

He guides you over to the couch, helping you sit comfortable in the corner,, i'll go get you a change of clothes, can I go through your closet?"

"Sure"

He disappears and returns a few moments later with one of your jumpers and joggers, along with antiseptic wipes and a warm cloth. He helps you out of your shirt first, and slowly starts wiping the dried blood away. His jaw tightens at the bruises that sat on your face and neck, "is this okay?"

You nod.

Once your face is clean, he hands you the change of clothes, and helps you change slowly and quietly.

“I'll go get you some water." He brings it with a straw so you don’t have to sit up too much. After you drink, he sits next to you, keeping a respectful distance, but also staying close in case you need him. "You don’t have to talk,” he murmurs. “But I’m right here. I’m staying the night...on the couch if you want space, or in the chair if that’s better. Whatever you need, Patchy.”

You reach out and tug lightly at his sleeve until he shifts closer. He understands immediately and carefully lies next to you, letting you nestle against his chest. He pulls a weighted blanket on top of both of you, feeling you relax under his touch.

"You're safe, and I've got you." He murmurs against your head, "It's just you and me in here, and no one else."

"Thank you" Your eyes sting, and you feel physically exhausted, "for being here with me."

"I need you to promise me something."

"Sure."

"Promise me next time you have a bad feeling about a case, you come to me." He murmurs, gently lifting your chin up to look at him, "Promise me that you'll tell me everything. Because I never want to see hurt like this ever again."

"I promise you, Jack."

"Steph-"

"He goes away and she doesn't get skin cancer. Everyone wins!"

"If she freaks out-"

"She won't," Stephanie said shoving him again.

And Jason took a deep breath, scooping a tube of sunscreen off of his bag as he walked. He just hoped the water was cold and he could keep his hands steady.

"How much did you pay that guy?" Stephanie asked, not quite looking at Dick.

"Fifty Bucks and a beer," Dick said, grinning. "Hope this works."

"Me too- I think all the blood drained out of his head when she took her t-shirt off."

"Where'd it go?" Damian asked.

"What?" Dick asked, blinking.

"If the blood drained out of Todd's head, where'd it go?"

It’s hot as balls outside. You’re covered in sweat, which mingles in a sticky and unpleasant mix with the sunscreen you’ve been dutifully applying since the afternoon to avoid frying like an egg. When the sun finally set, you no longer had to worry about the burgeoning threat of skin cancer, but the heat doesn’t break. In fact, it almost seems to get worse, because more and more people arrive to crowd you as night descends and the bigger names with larger fanbases grace the stage.

You’re waiting for Beth outside of the bathroom facilities. She's been ingesting a steady stream of margaritas since sundown, so she leaves you holding the bag, literally. At least it's a nice excuse to separate yourself from the throng of jumping, sweaty bodies gathered by the stage.

It’s nearly two in the morning. You’re hungry. Your feet are killing you. You have a headache from the festival’s sugary cocktails. You’re sweating through the top Beth lent you. And on top of everything else, your ovulation cramps are kicking in like a motherfucker.

Growing desperate, you dig through Beth's bag, searching for the little Altoid tin that she always keeps her pain meds in. At long last, your hands make contact with the metal tin at the bottom of her tote. Nearly crying with relief, you pop an aspirin in your mouth and wash it down with the tepid bottled water you’ve been clutching for the last hour.

Beth's voice rings out from behind you, talking over the din of the nearby DJ set. “What are you doing?”

You turn towards her, and see Beth staring at the tin in your hand. “I have cramps,” you explain, and just as you’re about to shove the tin back in her bag and hand it to her, she grabs your wrist.

“…please tell me you didn’t just take one of those,” she says urgently.

You raise an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because those are not aspirin, babe.”

Your blood runs cold. Your brain quickly does the math — Beth had told you how much she’s looking forward to meeting up with her rave friends tomorrow for the second night of Pitt Fest. Beth has always been quite the partier. And she often partied with her good friend Molly.

Your eyes widen in horror. “Oh no.”

Pitt Fest, as always, is a huge pain in the ass for the night shift.

Handoff gets messy. There's a shit ton of substance cases, even more of heatstroke. Robby stays longer than he should and snaps at everyone, clearly in his feelings remembering last year’s Pitt Fest. Understandable, yes, but it also makes everyone’s life that much harder when they’re within sniping distance of him.

Needless to say, Jack is already over this shift, and it’s not even halfway done. It doesn't help that his favorite resident happens to have the night off, which deposits his mood firmly in the hospital basement. Which, coincidentally, happens to be the location of the morgue.

Now that Robby has been politely ordered to go the fuck home, Jack feels like he can finally focus on his job instead of doing damage control with the med students. As he walks down the hall, Lena catches his attention from the hub desk.

“We have an ambulance two minutes out with a mid-20s female, collapsed at Pitt Fest,” she informs him. “Probable dehydration, likely drug-related, because, well… Pitt Fest.”

This festival truly is the gift that keeps on giving. Jack cracks his knuckles and eyes the ambulance bay doors. “All right. Let's get ready to receive the party girl.”

A few minutes later, the gurney is wheeled in by two paramedics and received by Lena and Parker. Parker shoots an alarmed and confused look over her shoulder at Jack, who steps forward to supervise.

“Dr. Abbot!"

Of all the things Jack expected to see tonight, this is at the bottom of the list. You're strapped to the gurney, scantily clad and gleaming with sweat, a goofy smile on your face and your pupils blown so wide they nearly swallow your irises.

Jack scrubs a hand through his hair. “You're shitting me.”

This is quite the surprising turn of events.

After Lena sets you up in South 16, Jack discreetly shoos away Parker so he can handle your examination himself. He doubts you would be comfortable with one of your fellow residents seeing you like this, considering your condition and your current state of dress.

Jack closes the door behind him and saunters over to you. His eyes snag on your tight, strappy top, and the strategically placed cutouts baring sections of your midriff and chest. He’s holding onto his professionalism by a thread, especially with the way you’re shifting around on the exam table, causing the hem of your miniskirt to ride up.

He has no choice but to focus up. You need medical attention, not the kind of attention his brain and body really want to give you right now. First, Lena takes your temperature and shows him the number on the display. 100.2 degrees F. It's coming down from what the paramedics recorded in the ambulance, and not so high that he’s still worried about heat stroke. But you’ll need cooling down regardless.

“That’s quite the outfit you got on,” he mutters as he gently raises your chin and shines his penlight into your pupils.

“Do you like it?” you ask, beaming up at him even as you squint. “I borrowed it from my friend. She’s so nice.”

Your pupils are so dilated that your eyes are almost completely black.

“Yup.” Jack clicks off the light and sighs, turning to Lena. “She’s rolling, all right. Let’s get a tox to make sure there’s nothing else to be worried about.”

You don’t seem to even register the pain of the needle prick, but you let out a delighted little hum when Lena smooths a bandage over your arm and adds gentle pressure over top of it.

“That feels good,” you murmur with a lazy smile.

“I bet.” Jack crosses his arms and tries to give you a stern look. “Can I ask what my best resident is doing taking ecstasy at a music festival?”

“I didn’t take it on purpose, I swear,” you protest, your eyes widening in a brief panic. “It was my friend’s. I thought it was aspirin, for my cramps.”

“You’re menstruating?” he asks, picking up his tablet and sitting in the edge of the exam table next to you to amend your chart.

You shake your head and say matter-of-factly, “Ovulation cramps.”

His eyebrows shoot up towards the ceiling in surprise. 

You continue babbling, unaware of the grenade you just lobbed at Jack. “She tried to get me to throw it up, but I couldn’t because I don’t really have a gag reflex.”

Jack takes a deep breath to prevent his brain from completely short-circuiting. 

Your face breaks into a sheepish smile, and you giggle, “Oops. Sorry, that was probably too much information.” Leaning forward on the exam table, you bring your face inches away from his and observe with a sigh, “Your eyes are really pretty.”

From behind him, Jack hears Lena snickering under her breath. He clears his throat and straightens up to standing.

Avoiding Lena's eyes, he instructs her, “Let’s, uh, get her some fluids and cooling packs, huh? Maybe a Saf-T-Pop, too. Keep her mouth occupied, so she won’t say any more nonsense she’ll regret in the morning.”

Lena just shoots him an amused look and heads off to gather supplies. Nurses, he thinks ruefully to himself. They see everything.

Movement and sound draw his attention back to you. You're laid back on the exam table, eyes fluttering closed. And you’re running your hands through your hair, letting out a pleased little noise like the sensation is better than sex. 

Jack breathes carefully through his nose. He needs out of this room with you, before this becomes mortifying for everyone involved. His phone buzzes in his pocket, giving him the perfect excuse for escape.

His voice is thin when he speaks, and for a moment, he’s glad you’re too high to notice. “You sit tight, sunshine.” 

As he turns to leave the room, your hand catches the edge of his scrubs.

“You’re leaving?” your mouth turns down into a pout, those huge eyes shining up at him. He very nearly gives in, very nearly reaches out a hand to stroke a thumb across your cheek just to hear the kind of sound it would pull from you. But his phone buzzes insistently, so he briefly pats your knee instead.

“I have other patients to see. But I'll be back before you know it,” he assures you, pulling open the door and diving headfirst back into the glorious chaos.

At least it’ll be a convenient distraction from the thought of you, eagerly waiting in south fifteen for him to return.

He shakes his head in disbelief. Ovulation cramps. You’re gonna be the death of him.

An MVA, a ketamine overdose, and a cardiac event later, the Pitt finally slows down enough for Jack to breathe. Enough to check your tox screen and sigh with relief that the MDMA you mistakenly took wasn’t cut with anything. Alcohol is the only other thing in your system, in levels not high enough to be concerning. Although, combined with the ecstasy, it means you probably won’t remember much of this exciting little escapade.

At long last, he manages to find some time to check on you. 

In his absence, Lena had set you up with a gown to preserve a little more of your modesty. You’re laying on the exam table amongst the cooling packs, an IV attached to your arm and a Saf-T-Pop in your mouth that’s turning your tongue red. 

A smile breaks like sunrise over your face as soon as you see him.

“Hey there, sunshine,” he greets you, approaching you with a little more warmth now that Lena's sharp eyes aren’t here to observe.

“Hi. I missed you,” you sigh.

Jack smirks. “Did you now?”

You nod happily. “Mm-hmm.”

“How are you feeling?” he asks, his gaze attentive, checking you over.

“Cold,” you answer, wrapping your arms around yourself.

He reaches up a hand to feel your forehead. Still warm, but still steadily coming down over time. He’s satisfied enough with your progress. You'll be out of here in no time.

The prospect disappoints him just a little.

“Yeah, your body is having trouble regulating its temperature,” he explains, his thumb stroking delicately along your hairline. “We’ll need to keep these cool packs on you a little while longer.”

Just as his hand retreats, your hand catches his wrist. You press his palm to your cheek, almost nuzzling into it like an affectionate kitten.

“Your hands are so warm,” you murmur, eyelids slipping shut as you revel in the sensation.

The gesture catches him off guard, but he doesn’t pull away. He couldn’t even if he wanted to, and he certainly doesn’t want to.

“Easy there, gorgeous,” he chuckles softly. “I need that hand for doctoring.”

Your eyelids flutter halfway open, and you look up at him with a lazy grin, clearly pleased as punch. “You think I'm gorgeous?”

Jack freezes for a moment. The word had slipped out without him even registering it, familiar and endeared and entirely too revealing. 

“I plead the fifth,” he replies, warmth creeping up his neck.

You giggle again. God, that sound does things to his heart that are medically concerning.

“I think you’re gorgeous,” you mumble dreamily.

Jack blinks in surprise.

He’s been a little too fond of you for a while now, been staring a little too long when you brush past him in the halls. And he’s suspected before that it might not be completely one-sided. He sees how you receive his attention and praise differently than the other attendings, how you look at him with more than just the admiration of a mentor. But suspecting it and having it be confirmed are two different things. Especially since you wouldn’t be saying any of this if you were sober.

He tries to laugh it off before his ego can run away with the compliment. “I think you’re high.”

You shrug. “Maybe. But I always think you’re gorgeous.”

Removing his palm from your cheek, you examine it with fascination, running a finger along the deep set lines. “I think about these,” you say thoughtfully. “All the time.”

Jack is a little ashamed at how quickly that comment goes straight to his cock. His favorite resident, fantasizing about his hands, maybe even touching yourself to the thought of them, wishing your own fingers were his—

He drags his free hand over his face and mutters, "Jesus Christ."

“Can I tell you a secret?” You peer up at him again, that goofy, starstruck smile returning. “I’ve got, like, the biggest crush on you.”

Unfortunately for Jack, there is very little time to process this very interesting information before his phone buzzes again. Just beyond the doors, he can hear the familiar sound of what is likely a high-priority trauma heading into the bay. Voices overlapping in urgent tones, gurney wheels on tile floor, grunts and yelps of pain from a patient.

Jack crosses to the door in two steps, and speaks over his shoulder to you. “Hey, baby, I gotta handle something. Stay out of trouble, okay?”

As the door swings shut behind him, he just manages to catch the sound of you happily mumbling to yourself, “He called me baby.”

Which is how he heads into Trauma 1 with a smile on his face, entirely too cheerful for a man facing down a compound femur fracture. 

The shift that would never fucking end is almost fucking over. And all Jack can think about is you. You and your moony, lovey-dovey eyes and your wide, childlike smile. You gazing up at him and crooning I have the biggest crush on you. You giggling and telling him point-blank that you’re ovulating.

As he rolls out of yet another demanding trauma, Lena updates him on your condition. You’re rehydrated and back to a normal temperature, pretty much ready for discharge if you can be released to someone who will take care of you. He returns to your room, finding you unhooked from your IV and cold-pack-free, happily set up with another lollipop.

“Jack, you’re back!” you exclaim, and then laugh at your accidental rhyme.

Still rolling, he thinks. He checks his watch. According to your best guess of when you took the ‘aspirin’ in your friend’s purse, it’s been about four hours. You'll be due to start coming down anytime in the next two hours or so. He's due to head out, but he can’t bring himself to go home until he knows you’re leaving in capable hands.

“Hey, sunshine.” He offers you a tired but warm smile. “Seems like you’re in pretty good shape here, and you should be tapering off pretty soon. You got anybody to take you home, keep an eye on you?”

A little crease forms between your brows as you think hard. “I don’t know where my friend went when the ambulance came. And I think my phone died,” you add pathetically, gesturing to the device in your lap and its terminally black screen.

Jack pinches the bridge of his nose. He can’t in good conscience leave you to your own devices, especially when you’ve never taken ecstasy before. At worst, there’s still a chance you could have some kind of reaction. At best, the comedown is sure to knock you on your ass. 

He can only think of one thing to do. It's not the best idea. It might not even be a good idea. But his brain is too addled from the long shift to come up with anything better. And you need someone to take care of you.

“Jesus. Okay,” he mutters to himself, then sits on the edge of the exam table, bringing his face level to yours. “Listen up, sunshine.”

You gaze at him intently, attention vacillating occasionally between his eyes and his mouth. Jack has a feeling that what he’s about to say will go in one ear and right out the other. But there’s a chance you’ll retain it, so he says it anyway.

“You're gonna have a pretty serious crash when you come down. All those happy little chemicals that are making you feel good right now?” He gives you a soft little tap against your temple, and you giggle softly. He continues, “They’re gonna go on vacation for a day or two. I don't want you dealing with that on your own. So I'm gonna take you to my place, just to watch out for you until you’re feeling a little more like yourself.”

You’re quiet for a minute, your brain catching up and computing the meaning of what he just said. When it finishes, the lightbulb goes off behind your eyes, and you ask excitedly, “We’re having a sleepover?”

Of course that would be your takeaway. 

He chuckles as he helps you to your feet. “That's right. You got it.”

When Jack drapes his hoodie over your shoulders and guides you out of the Pitt to his car, he’s reminded of all the reasons that this is probably a terrible idea.

He sees the watchful eyes and the knowing smirks of the nurses. He sees Parker and Crus snickering behind their hands. He sees Shen counting up his winnings from the betting pool, because he wrote down molly and tripsitter Abbot.

And he feels your hand clinging to his bicep, sees how you gaze up at him with a dreamy expression as he walks you out to his car. He’s knows he’s really going to need to behave himself for a few hours, because there’s a very good chance that you won’t, and Jack doesn’t want to accidentally take advantage of your… impaired judgement.

You spend most of the ride with your face by the cracked car window, feeling the wind on your face, eyes blissfully closed. Jack thanks his lucky stars that he thought to give the apartment a once-over before shift, so he isn’t bringing you into a total mess.

He walks you into his bedroom and gestures to the en-suite. “Bathroom’s there, if you want to take a shower. I'll find you something a little more… comfortable to wear,” he adds, peeling his eyes away from your tiny little shirt and how you’re already fussing with the straps.

As he turns to his bureau to find you a t-shirt, he feels arms wrapping around his middle, your body molding to his back as you embrace him with a sigh. “Thank you for being so nice to me.”

Jack swallows and delicately removes your hands, stepping out of your embrace and ushering you in the direction of the bathroom.

“Go on, then,” he instructs you. “While you’re still upright.”

You barely even register it as rejection, heading towards the shower and wiggling out of your top before Jack even has the chance to close the door behind you. Which he does, quickly and with his eyes glued to the floor.

His instincts were right. He will very much need to behave himself while you’re here.

He busies himself while you shower by changing out of his scrubs and assembling a meal. It's a humble offering — just a couple of sandwiches and frozen french fries heated up in the oven, but it’s better than nothing. 

After about twenty minutes, you emerge from the bedroom with damp hair and your face scrubbed clean, clad in one of his t-shirts and a pair of his boxers, smelling like his soap. You lean on his kitchen island with a contented little sigh. 

Jack repeats it to himself like a mantra — behave yourself.

“Time to eat something,” he says, sliding one of the plates toward you.

“I’m not hungry.”

“I know. But I'm trying to set you up for success here, so you don’t feel as awful when this is out of your system. When's the last time you ate?” he asks.

You rest your chin on your hand as you think back. “I had… lunch.”

“Thought so.” He puts the plate into your hands and steers you in the direction of the couch with a hand on your lower back. “You and I are gonna eat these sandwiches, drink some water, and watch Planet Earth.”

You gasp in delight and plop down onto the couch. “I love Planet Earth!”

He knows you do. You'd gushed about it being your favorite docuseries at work, and he’d bragged about owning the box set. It had been the first day you and he had really started to bond.

Once the tv is on, it thankfully keeps you occupied. You chew your food slowly, enraptured with the beautiful imagery on the screen. Managing a decent effort with the meal, you eat half the sandwich and most of the fries before you start to lose a little steam.

You abandon your plate on the coffee table, then take Jack completely by surprise as you lean over to lay your head in his lap.

He goes still for a moment, unsure if he should be allowing this. But he doesn’t have the heart to push you away, so he puts his plate aside and lets a hand come to rest on your shoulder.

You sigh happily and snuggle closer.

It's been so long since Jack has taken care of someone like this that he’d almost forgotten what it feels like. How good it feels to be needed. The easy intimacy of sharing a space, sharing a meal, of letting someone melt against you after a long night.

Affectionately, he brushes a stray lock of hair out of your face, and you practically purr in response, leaning into his hand. So Jack keeps doing it, keeps gently stroking his fingers through your hair, preferring to watch your relaxing form instead of the polar bears on screen.

The two of you spend nearly an hour like that, until your breath starts to take on that even, drowsy quality and Jack’s own brain starts calling for rest. He gently eases you off his lap to sit up, takes you by the hand and leads you to bed, already resigning himself to the aching back that a couch nap is going to earn him.

Jack sets you up with a glass of water and the best blankets in the linen closet. As he turns to head back to the living room, your hand grabs his arm, pulling him back.

“Stay.”

Your voice is low and warm. You're sitting up in his bed, his sheets pooled around your knees. Your eyes are dark, tempting, pleading.

Jack knows dangerous territory when he sees it.

Still, your serotonin is due to start dropping any time now, and hurt feelings are only going to be worsened once it does. Jack sits carefully on the edge of the bed, maintaining a few inches of distance, his other hand gently cradling your cheek.

“Sorry, sunshine. Not a good idea.”

You move closer, your gaze fixed firmly on his mouth. “Why?”

Best behavior, Jack. 

“Because you’re still tapering off. Plus, I just worked a long shift and I need to sleep.” He takes in a deep breath as he feels your hand slide across his shoulders. “And I've got a feeling I won't be getting much rest next to you.”

In a move so surprising that Jack is momentarily powerless to stop it, you rise up onto your knees and shift to straddle one of his thighs.

“What if I promise to be really, really good?” you murmur sweetly.

Jack knows he should stop you, and he almost does. But then you rock your hips on his thigh, the tiniest little life-ruining movement, and you let out the softest, neediest little sound. Suddenly, Jack is hanging onto his sanity and self control-by a thread. And that thread is fraying rapidly.

“Baby,” he whispers, half warning and half plea. His hands come to your hips, torn between stopping you and spurring you on.

Your hips rock again, more purposeful this time. “Please,” you beg quietly, so close now that your lips just barely brush against his.

For a few shameful moments, Jack forgets about his fatigue and the ache in his leg and he wonders… how morally reprehensible would it really be to just let you get off on his thigh? You’d said yourself that you’re ovulating, probably making you even needier. Fuck, he can feel how badly you want it, wetness soaking through the boxers you’re wearing and Jack’s sweatpants. Would it really be so awful of him to sit passively as you hump his leg to get the relief you’re clearly so desperate for? To take pity on you and let you use him for your pleasure? 

But he knows it would be wrong, because he’d be getting off on it even if you didn’t touch him. You're not in your right mind, and he doesn’t want to make you come for the first time when you’re whacked out on MDMA.

Summoning the will from deep inside himself, he stills your hips and eases you off of his thigh, ignoring your whines as he nudges you back onto the pillows.

“It wouldn’t be right. I'm not touching you until you’re sober,” he says firmly.

Jack gets to his feet and tucks the blankets around you. “I’ll see you in a few hours. Wake me if you need anything.” He laughs softly at the pointed pouting look you shoot his way. “Other than that.”

“You’re no fun,” you call after him as he retreats into the living room.

Once the bedroom door is shut behind him, he collapses on the couch and wrestles off his prosthetic, punching a throw pillow a few times to soften it before going horizontal. Even after what felt like the longest shift he’s had in months, he’s unsure how much sleep he’ll actually manage to get knowing you’re in the next room. Probably snuggling one of his pillows as if it’s him, probably squeezing your thighs together until the last of the drugs leave your system.

He groans and rolls over, willing his body and his still half-hard cock to go to sleep.

You wake feeling like death warmed over.

You’re in a bed that doesn’t belong to you, but smells familiar and comforting. Same with your clothes. A few memories make it through the fog, blurry and out of order. Planet Earth. Jack’s hand, warm and pleasant on your cheek. An ambulance ride. Lena ruffling your hair and handing you a lollipop. A shower with a chair and a grab bar and soap that smells like Jack.

You’re at Jack's apartment, you realize with a start.

Checking the time groggily, you observe that you've slept from the early morning until late afternoon. Thank god you’d asked for tonight off as well, anticipating you’d need recovery time after Pitt Fest. 

You can vaguely recall the warm, fuzzy feelings you’d experienced last night. In the abstract, at least. Now, you feel mostly guilt and shame and embarrassment and anxiety. How could you have been so stupid?

Sounds of life echo from the kitchen, which means Jack has woken up ahead of you. Your guilt sharpens. Jack is spending his hard-earned downtime taking care of you, because of your own carelessness.

Fatigue clings to your bones as you shuffle to the bathroom. The reflection in the mirror is less than kind. Dark shadows frame your eyes, worse than the usual bags worn by the night shift crew. Your hair is a mess, and you sigh as you comb your fingers through to tame it.

Time to face the music.

You trudge out into the kitchen, where Jack is wearing an apron over a t-shirt and sweats and cooking an omelette, looking awfully chipper for having slept seven hours on the couch. He looks so good that it briefly makes you angry. Fuck him for looking so good, while you look and feel like utter dogshit.

Of course, that annoyance turns to guilt again when he looks up and smiles.

“Hey, lover girl,” he greets you warmly as you lean on the kitchen island. “How are you feeling?”

You rub your eyes and groan, “Like I got hit by a Mack truck.”

He squeezes your shoulder fondly and grabs a plate from an overhead cabinet. “Let’s get some food and water in you.”

“Thank you,” you mutter sheepishly. “I’m sorry about… all this.”

“Don't even worry about it, sunshine.” 

Jack hands you a glass of water and starts making you a plate. You accept it with a grimace. “I'm not feeling very sunshine-y right about now. I can't remember half of what happened after I went down at the concert.”

“I hope we’ve learned not to go digging for meds in that particular friend’s purse.” He smirks and sets a plate in front of you. A vegetable omelette and buttered toast. Your appetite hasn’t yet returned to its normal levels, but your doctor brain knows that you really need to eat, so you reach for the toast first.

“Never again,” you vow as you take a bite.

In the light of day and out from under the influence of Beth's ‘aspirin,’ you get a good look at Jack's apartment for the first time as he assembles his own plate. It's not spotless, but it’s generally tidy, and it’s a very nice place. Good furniture, great windows with better blackout shades, a nice floor plan. Its niceness only makes you feel smaller.

You poke at your omelette, stewing. “Jack?”

“Yes?”

“Don't take this the wrong way, but…why am I here?”

He plates his own omelette and leans a hip against the kitchen island. “You’d never taken MDMA before, and I knew you’d be in for a hell of a drop. I didn't want you to be on your own.”

You resist the urge to frown. This whole saga is doing nothing to remedy your tragic crush on him. Did he have to be so nice and caring on top of everything else? It feels a little unfair at the moment.

“That’s… very considerate,” you mumble.

“What can I say? I'm a considerate guy.” He pops a bite of omelette into his mouth with a wink.

A thought occurs to you that briefly makes your stomach turn. “Does the whole Pitt know?”

Jack's expression tells you everything you need to know before he even speaks. “There… might have been a betting pool on the subject. Shen cleaned up.”

You drop your face into your hands. “Awesome. That's really awesome.”

Every single one of your coworkers knows that you spent the night rolling. Tears prick at your eyes beneath your palms, which only worsens your humiliation. The last thing you need right now is to cry in front of Jack Abbot. Even if it’s just because the chemicals in your brain are out of whack, it doesn't make it any less embarrassing.

“Hey.” Jack's hand finds your shoulder again. “Don’t worry about it. They're good people, no one is judging you.”

Despite your best efforts, a mortifying little sniffle slips out at the kindness in his voice. 

 “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Come here.”

You can’t bear to look up, but your breath hitches in surprise when Jack pulls you into his arms. Instantly, your brain begins to quiet, focusing on the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, the reassuring weight of his arms around you, the slow arc of his thumb rhythmically stroking your shoulder blade.

It's medicine. Oxytocin and dopamine, feel-good chemicals produced by physical touch, bolstering your brain against the sapped well of serotonin the ecstasy left in its wake. It also makes your heart flutter pathetically in your chest.

He holds you for a long moment, his grip tightening when you finally loop your arms around his waist and return the embrace.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” you whisper, allowing the comfort to sink into your skin and fill your lungs. 

“Of course.”

Jack only pulls away when you do, gently swiping a calloused thumb underneath your eye to banish the straggling tear that managed to escape. 

“Let’s get comfortable on the couch,” he says, a hand settling on your back to guide you. “You’re still on the comedown.”

You worry you might be overstaying your welcome. But Jack seems to be in no rush to get you out of his apartment, content to let you rot on his couch as long as you need to. Surely he must have better things to do on his night off than take care of you, but he sits sentry at your side without complaint.

After some consideration, Planet Earth is tabled for the time being — even if you’ve seen it before, animal death is sure to bring back the waterworks in your current state. Flipping through channels, you settle on a cheesy mid-2000s rom-com that you’ve seen before and snuggle back into the couch cushions. 

Through it all, you feel the comfort of his steady presence, his hand rubbing idle circles on your back, like an IV drip of Vitamin Jack straight to your brain. You give into the feeling, too worn out to fight it, curling into his side. Eventually, you feel a gentle graze at your scalp as he idly plays with your hair. It surprises you for a moment, but you’re not complaining in the slightest. You melt into it, eyes fluttering closed until you’re slipping in and out of a light doze.

Afternoon fades to evening, to dinnertime, to nighttime, to bedtime. Even after your intermittent sleep, your fatigue is still bone deep, and Jack insists you can stay the night. You really try to convince him to let you take the couch, but he refuses, insisting that your body needs proper rest to return to baseline. At the end of the night, he sends you off to bed with a smirk.

When you wake up in Jack's bed for the second time, it’s much less disorienting. It helps that you’re much clearer than you were seventeen hours ago. The clock reads 9:05 am — you have the whole day ahead of you to shower, change, and steel yourself for the humiliation ritual that is bound to be your shift tonight.

You stumble into the living room, bleary-eyed. Jack is reclined on the couch with a laptop and readers perched on the end of his nose. Ugh, fuck him again for looking so good.

His eyes find yours over the edge of the screen. “Hey there. You sleep good?”

“Mm-hmm,” you reply, stretching. “I'm feeling much better, I think.”

His mouth curves at the corner. “Good.”

Leaning on the edge of the couch, you sigh and glance at the clock on the wall. “I should probably head home soon, get my life together before shift tonight. Would you be able to drive me home?”

“Sure thing, sunshine.” 

After you eat breakfast and shower off the cast of bedrotting from the day before, you change back into the clothes you arrived in, which Jack took the liberty of washing for you. As much as you appreciate the gesture, you blanch at the idea of Jack handling your underwear, and try very hard not to think about that mental image.

As the quiet car ride progresses, you ponder your looming fate, mentally preparing yourself for the teasing you’ll get from the nurses and other residents. It's disorienting to not know what you’re walking into, to have been mentally absent for most of it.

You can’t resist the urge to ask anymore. “Was I a total mess?”

He nods, amused. “Yes. But a very cute mess.”

“God, this is so embarrassing,” you groan. “What did I say?”

“Are you sure you wanna know?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.

That makes you pause, glancing at him warily. “…was it bad?” 

“You got a little fixated on hands for a while.” Jack pauses, like he isn’t sure how much to reveal, if you’re ready to handle it. “Said you think about mine all the time.”

Suddenly, you feel a bit sick, even though the car is headed in a straight line down the road. If that's just where it starts… if that’s not the worst of it, then what is?

“Oh god,” you whisper in horror. 

“You said you think I'm gorgeous,” he continues, voice thick with amusement. “And that you have a big ol’ crush on me. And… you might’ve tried to seduce me a little at bedtime.”

Your cheeks flare hot. This is quite possibly the worst outcome of the situation aside from death. At the moment, death feels preferable.

You stare straight ahead, sinking in your seat and pressing your hands to your forehead to try and keep your brain from exploding. “Excuse me, I'm just gonna open the door and go lay down in traffic.”

He laughs, the sound warm and fond and doing absolutely nothing to temper your embarrassment. “It's okay.”

“It is completely not okay, Jack,” you protest, turning your body away from him and towards the passenger side door, like that will save you from this conversation.

Jack places a hand on your thigh.

All the systems in your brain go down simultaneously.

His palm rests just above your knee, not high enough to be too inappropriate, but it’s intimate. Especially because your choice of garment for Pitt Fest leaves your leg bare and exposed to his touch. Never once does he take his eyes off the road.

“It was flattering,” he says coolly, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over your knee. “And extremely cute.”

He lets the assertion hang in the silence, and he doesn’t move his hand, letting it rest warm and comfortable against the soft skin of your thigh.

After some considerable effort, you remember how to breathe. Once the oxygen makes it to your brain, you manage to peel your hands away from your face and peek sideways at him. 

“…really?” you ask, because you need the confirmation. Does Jack Abbot — your mentor, the object of all your desires, and the man who just babysat you through an unwitting MDMA trip — really think you’re cute?

He gives your thigh a gentle squeeze. “Really.”

There isn’t much else to say for the rest of the car ride. Jack keeps his hand on your thigh until he turns down your street and throws the car in park. You try and fail to suppress a smile the whole way, and allow him to walk you up to your building’s front step, palms tingling with anticipation.

“I’d like to do this again sometime,” he says as you unlock the main entrance. “Minus the party drugs.”

You grin up at him, slightly emboldened by the revelations that occurred in the car. “You wanna have another sleepover?”

“Very much.” His eyes crinkle at the edges when he smiles back. “See you tonight?”

“See you tonight.”

You turn to head inside, but Jack catches your elbow. “Hey. One last thing.”

Before you have time to register his closeness, a hand slides along your waist, another cupping your jaw, and Jack is kissing you.

A warm, pleasant feeling floods you from top to toe, a high rivalling the chemical one you’d experienced twenty-eight hours ago. He kisses you like he’s been thinking about it that entire twenty-eight hours. It's tender and hungry at the same time. By the time he pulls away, your lips follow after his and you almost stumble forward into his arms.

You open your eyes and blink up at him, feeling a little dazed and starstruck again.

“Had to wait until you were level,” Jack murmurs. He gives you a lingering peck at the corner of your mouth and descends down the front steps to his car.

You beam after him.

After the bulb in your living room had blown while you and Jack were half-asleep, half-watching your show, he’d made you promise that you were not going to attempt to change it, that he’d stop by the hardware store on the way home from his shift and get to it, but you just couldn’t let it sit.

The words—I’ll get to it—stung, like it was just another task to add to his burdensome list of responsibilities. He’d complete it, yes, but after he’d changed out of his scrubs, picked up your special-occasion Friday night takeout, gotten some sleep while you ate. The thought caused a surge of guilt to rise in your chest—here you were, reading a book at home after classes, while Jack was out saving lives, and you couldn’t even change a damn lightbulb.

No, you had to do it. It was the least you could do. You thought of the text he’d send, the On my way to the hardware store, be home soon, to which you could reply I found a spare in the garage, don’t bother, taking a load off his back. He’d pat you on the back with one of those proud-dad smiles that you saw in the movies, pride shining in his eyes with a mutter of my girl is all grown up. With that thought in mind, you made a beeline for the garage, googling the correct bulb for the light and swiping one from Jack’s extensive supply of spares.

The ladder was the hard part; you were already afraid of heights, but the mere thought of lugging the thing into the living room without assistance sent a chill up your spine. For a moment, you stalled—maybe you’d drop it, or break something irreplaceable—but the thought of Jack’s pride sent you straight back to the garage to tuck the ladder under your arm and carry it, painstakingly slowly, into the living room.

You steeled yourself. The hard part was over—now, you just needed to screw in the bulb, which you’d seen Jack do a million times. It couldn’t be that hard, right?

Slowly, bulb in hand, you climbed the ladder one-handed, arms quivering as you attempted to keep yourself upright while simultaneously trying not to drop the lightbulb lest it shatter into a million pieces, yet another thing to clean up.

Finally, you reached the top--however, just before you stretched to screw in the bulb, you made the fatal mistake of looking down; immediately, the room began to tilt, and you lost your grip on the rungs, plummeting to the floor. As you fell, the lightbulb slipped out of your grasp, shattering immediately upon impact with the hardwood. You winced, mostly because you were envisioning sweeping up the shards once you'd regained your bearings, neglecting to realize that you'd knocked your head on the arm of the couch on your way down. Upon your attempts to sit up, a fierce, pulsing pain began to radiate through your cranium, and your stomach dropped.

All of Jack's warnings, his protocols, his procedures, seemed to slip from your mind the moment you felt the first throb of pain travel around your head; in that moment, crouched on the floor of the apartment in, you realized, a puddle of your own blood, seeping rapidly into your blue jeans as you pressed your palms to your thighs in a vain attempt to steady yourself, you realized that you had no idea what to do. Your father's voice, his lecture, playing on an endless loop in your head, was distant and hollow.

Your hands went out from under you for a split second of lost consciousness before you regained enough sense to at least reach for your phone (with your good hand, of course, considering you'd sliced the other open on a stray shard of glass while you groped around for something to hold onto in your stupor). You weren't exactly sure what you were going to do with it yet, only that you wanted to feel it in your hands, let the frigid, sleek metal cool your burning skin (oh, god, was it you, or was it sweltering in the apartment all of a sudden?). Your first thought was, of course, your father, for how could it not have been?

Jack had always been there, no matter what. Every awards ceremony, every recital, every doctor's appointment, every skinned knee--you couldn't imagine a life without him. He'd never gotten angry, never yelled, and yet, with all of his contributions in mind, you were always determined to please him; so, pressing the edge of your sweater to your palm in an attempt to quell the flow of blood in a rare moment of clarity and scrolling through your contacts with the other, it occurred to you that now, in your moment of need, you could absolutely not call Jack--for one, he was on shift, but, more importantly, he would have a heart attack on the spot if you called him and, with a disoriented slur to your voice, informed him that you were likely in need of a CAT scan and few stitches.

The second the words left your mouth, he'd immediately hang up the phone with an assurance that he'd be home in twenty minutes, tops, abandoning whatever patient urgently required his care to tend to you. You just couldn't do it, ask him to do any more than he already did--you were an adult (well, sixteen, but close enough), and you could handle a little knock on the head. Your collapse onto the couch after an attempt to stand told you that you, in fact, could not, leaving you only one possible course of action--Robby. Typing seemed too laborious in your current condition, so you fumbled for the call button on his contact. He answered after four rings.

"Hello?" A beat passed before you realized, in your haze, that he had been expecting you to respond. "What's going on? Are you alright?"

"Uh..." You fumbled to get the words out. "I hit my head."

Robby sucked in an urgent breath, and you could hear a mutter of Jesus Christ on the other line. "I need you to tell me exactly what happened."

"I was changing a lightbulb for Dad, but then I slipped, and my hand is bleeding, and my head really hurts, and--"

"Okay," he interjected. "Did you lose consciousness at any point?"

"I don't know. I-I think so."

"Okay," Robby repeated. The sound of a door shutting could be heard in the background. "I'm coming to pick you up, and we're going to the hospital."

The thought of having to face Jack made you nauseous. "Oh, Robby, I don't need to--"

"I wasn't asking. You need medical attention."

"Can't you just check me over?" you pled, but to no avail.

"Trust me, if I had access to hospital machines, I'd do that in a heartbeat, but I don't, and that's why we need to get you seen."

You winced, both at the thought of your father's reaction and the pulse of pain in your forehead when you shifted positions. "Dad's going to lose his shit."

Robby chuckled mirthlessly. "Damn right he is. Now, you stay on the phone with me, and don't move. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

“I can’t go, Robby," you breathed.

“You need—“

“I’ll only go if Dad doesn’t find out.”

You could almost see the purse of Robby’s lips. “Kiddo…”

“What? He’s so stressed all the time, and I don’t want to make it worse by showing up and making him worry about me.”

God, you and your big heart. Robby sighed. “You’re lucky handover is soon. I’ll get you seen when I come in.”

⋆˚꩜｡

When he arrived, Robby practically broke down the door trying to get his key into the lock. You were in the same place you'd been when you'd called, slumped against the couch, chin resting in your palms, fighting the persistent urge to fall asleep. Immediately, he was on his knees in front of you; in your haze, it took a moment for you to process his presence, his rambling, his incessant probing. Robby frowned.

"The doctor is in," you slurred, placing your hand on Robby's scrubs-clad shoulder for a brief moment before you lost your strength and it slid down his bicep.

"Hey, hey, stay with me," he said, cupping your cheeks. "Can you walk?"

You highly doubted your ability to even stand at the moment, but who were you to deny a challenge? You nodded, tried to stand, and then immediately stumbled into Robby's waiting arms. He shook his head; you were truly your father's daughter.

"Come on, lean on me." Gently, Robby slung an arm around your shoulder, allowing you to distribute some of your weight onto him.

"Do you promise that..." you shook your head. God, you were foggy. "...that Dad won't find out? He's getting off soon, and... and I don't want him to stay. I want him to go home and sleep."

He sighed. "He's going to wring my neck if he finds out that I didn't tell him, kiddo. He's your dad--he wants to be there for you, no matter what. He's told me that a million times, and I'm sure that's what he's going to tell you."

"But--"

"No buts. Hush. Conserve your energy."

⋆˚꩜｡

The car ride to the PTMC felt like it lasted years. Robby kept one hand on the wheel and one hand on the passenger seat next to your shoulder--just in case your head lolled to the side, he was prepared to catch you. It astounded you that, with such hyper-awareness, he'd never had kids. Little did you know, he had you.

After a few minutes of circling the parking lot, Robby finally found a space (not without a bit of complaining about how packed the lot was, of course). Before you could even finish taking your seatbelt off, Robby had left his seat and circled around the front of the car to open your door. Your hands had since begun to quiver; the world felt as if it were swimming around you, the letters on the hospital entrance sign blurring into a haze of illegible sludge. You groaned.

"Okay, up we go." With a grunt, Robby moved to hoist you into his arms, but you gently pushed him off.

Stubbornly, you huffed. "I can walk, Robby."

"I'm getting some major déjà vu."

Deliriously, you chuckled. He was right--he'd tried to carry you just like this when you'd been seven, coming home from a playdate gone long. Within moments, you were fast asleep in his arms with your face pressed into his shoulder. You hadn't really been asleep--you'd both known that--but Robby was always happy to carry you whenever you needed.

"Well," you muttered. "This time, I might actually fall asleep."

Robby tensed. "What?"

"I just mean, that... you know..." Before you could finish your sentence, you crumpled, just in time for Robby to scoop you into his arms with quite a loud expletive. Before he could think, Robby was sprinting into Chairs, pushing his way through the throngs of people to make it to Lupe. She was just finishing beckoning a patient with a nasty burn on her forearm to go behind the curtain where Langdon was waiting to examine her when Robby appeared at the window.

"Trauma," he blurted, so frazzled that he couldn't seem to get any further words out. After a few moments of catching his breath, he managed a longer, but no less concise, "Concussion. Fell off a ladder."

"Is that--"

"Yes, Jack's daughter--and he's going to lose his mind if he catches wind of this, so he can not find out, do you hear me?"

"Robby," Lupe replied, as if to say what the hell do you want me to do? "You take her through and get her help, but other than that, you're on your own."

Robby sighed, but darted behind the curtain, announcing your condition and his subsequent need for a gurney. It was almost as if the impact of your body on the foam jolted your senses back into working order--when you came to, you were moving, surrounded by a crowd of doctors. You cried out. In your head, you were calling for Robby, for Jack, for anyone who would listen, but it came out as an unintelligible moan. Finally, you managed a, "Where...?" before a blur that you recognized as Dana recounted your surroundings to you.

"You're in the hospital, hon. You fell and hit your head--you remember that?"

"Uh... yes." It was almost as if you were ripping the words from your throat. "Is Dad...?"

Dana smiled. "He's out in the ambulance bay right now, don't you worry. We're going to get you stable first, and then we'll break the news, okay? Trust me, none of us want him to lose his shit right before handoff."

"Please, you can't--"

"I'm gonna stop you right there, kid. Now, I love you like my own, but that I cannot do for you. Your dad would wring my neck personally if he found out you were here and nobody told him. He worries about you, you know that?

"Dana--"

"...And it's nice of you to not want to stress him out, I get that, but that's not really how it works, hon. My Jonathan is taller than me now and I still nearly give myself an ulcer when he's out overnight."

You frowned. "When do I, uh.... get to go home?"

"I'm afraid it's going to be a little while. We've still got some tests to perform, just to rule everything out. Probably tomorrow, at the earliest." Dana patted your shoulder. "But you just sit back and let us do all the work, huh? You'll be right as rain in no time."

For Jack's sake, you sure hoped so.

⋆˚꩜｡

"Abbot, go home. We got this," assured Shen, sipping on his second coffee of the night. "You've been on your feet all shift. At least go do some charts or something."

"I can't. I don't know, I just..." Jack sighed. "I have a bad feeling. I need to do something."

"I'd be surprised if you didn't," Ellis chimed in, to which Jack raised his arms as if to say what the hell do you mean by that? "I just mean, that, you know... you haven't taken a day off in a while, that's all. You can only run for so long before you crash."

"I'm not going to--"

"She's right," interrupted Shen. "You nearly missed a brain bleed today. You're off your game."

"Oh, come on," Jack scoffed. "I'm fine."

"That's what they all say," muttered Ellis. "You need--"

Slowly, she was drowned out by the sound of Dana, engrossed in a conversation with Robby at the Hub. "It's Y/N, Robby. A little knock on the head won't keep her down for long. She's young."

At the mention of your name, Jack whipped around. "You're early. What's going on?"

Well, shit. "Jack--"

"Robby." A beat passed, and then, "You wouldn't be here if something wasn't going on. Tell me."

Robby sighed, pressing his lips into a hard, thin line. A long moment of silence passed before Robby muttered, "She's here, Jack."

Immediately, before the last syllable of your name could even leave Robby's lips, Jack's heart dropped to his stomach. "What?"

"She... she hit her head. She's getting a CT right now, just to rule out--"

"My daughter is in my ER getting a CT right now, and you didn't think to, I don't know, fucking tell me?"

"We just got here like, thirty minutes ago," replied Robby, scrambling for an explanation. "She called me from home, and then in the parking lot, she... passed out."

"Jesus Christ, Robby, this is something you call me about! I could've been there when she came to, and she must've been so confused waking up in an unfamiliar place, and--"

"Jack, she is fine!" Dana exclaimed. "I was there when she came to, and she was perfectly cognizant, talking fine when we sent her off to the CT. Pupils a little uneven, but nothing serious. Please, calm down."

"Don't tell me to calm down! That's my daughter in there, and I--"

Robby placed a hand on his fellow attending's shoulder, and all of a sudden he was silent. "When she gets back from tests, you can go to her room and see for yourself, alright? But for now, I need you to, please, calm down. You're going to stress her out if you go in there and get in her face."

Jack sighed, the sort of sigh that seemed to deflate him.

"Take a break. Go eat something. Everything is going to be okay."

"How do you know that? How do you know she doesn't need a craniotomy, or, or--I don't know, a fucking VP shunt? How am I supposed to just take a break when she's in there, and she's scared, and she's confused, and she needs me? I-I can't just sit around, doing nothing, I can't--"

"Jack, look at me." Immediately, Jack's gaze traveled to meet Robby's. "She's awake. She's talking. There's no brain bleed. She is going to be fine. Now, please, go get something from the vending machine. You're shaking."

Frowning, Jack made a beeline to the break room. Ellis and Shen sent each other a look--who knew that the all-knowing, self-sacrificing Jack Abbot took orders so easily? All eyes were on him as he departed; for someone who hated being worried about, he didn't exactly make it easy not to.

⋆˚꩜｡

After a few preliminary tests, you were finally back in your room. You had a mild concussion that was said to heal quickly with lots of rest (though would be confirmed when your CT scan results came back) and stitches on your palm, but other than that, you were going to be fine. Now, for the hard part--facing Jack. Despite your apprehension, you couldn't help but feel yourself craving his comfort. After the day you'd had, the only thing that seemed like would help was Jack, his arms around you, a whisper in your hair that it would all be okay, even if it wouldn't be. You knew he could never be mad at you, but making him worry felt worse than any anger; he did so much for you, and this was how you repaid him?

However, the second you saw Jack pushing through a crowd of people to make it to you, all of your thoughts melted away, replaced by an undeniable, insatiable desire to be held. Before you could even open your mouth to explain yourself, Jack was on his knees in front of you, cupping your cheeks, running his fingers gently along the gash on your hand, counting each stitch to make sure that they'd been done right. Your lip began to tremble.

"Oh, Daddy, I'm sorry," you murmured, voice wavering as you struggled to hold back a wave of emotion. "I didn't mean to--"

"Hey, no, none of that," Jack interrupted, running the pads of his thumbs under your glasses to wipe away any tears before they could fall down your cheeks. "What did we say about apologies?"

"If... if you had no control over it, don't say sorry."

"Right." A beat, and then, "What happened?"

"I... I was trying to change a lightbulb--the one by the TV. I wanted to surprise you, so you didn't have to do it when you came home."

Jack felt as if his heart could jump out of his chest with the mix of emotions pumping through it. Part of him wanted to sit you on the couch wrapped in bubble wrap and keep you at home forever so that nothing bad would ever happen to you, but he knew that that was an unrealistic prospect; you had aspirations, and it would be wrong of him to prevent you from reaching for them, even if he nearly gave himself an ulcer each time you had to travel out-of-state for debate club meets.

The other part of him, despite his anxiety, was simply overwhelmed with pure, unadulterated adoration. His perfect, perfect girl had hurt herself trying to make his life a little easier--how could anyone not adore you? Little did you know, your mere existence did just that.

Coming home each morning to you getting ready for school, putting your hair in a braid and pulling on your boots with a cheerful greeting (how anyone was that upbeat at seven in the morning, he would never know) was enough to keep him going for the rest of the day. Picking up takeout on Friday nights was never a chore, because he knew he would get to see the grin on your face when you opened the bag and found your favorite noodles nestled between a package of egg rolls and his own lo mein. Jack lived and breathed to see you happy, and would go to any lengths to do so.

"Oh, honey," he said, softly, pulling over one of the creaky visitor chairs so he could be at eye level with you. "You didn't have to do that."

"Of course I did! You're always doing so much for me, and I couldn't even do this one thing without screwing it up. I can't do anything."

"I was happy to change it, bug, I promise. But even then, this isn't your fault, you hear me?"

"But I took you away from your job, and..." you paused, and Jack held his breath, expecting to receive confirmation that you'd gravely injured yourself, or something to that degree. Instead, like it was top secret, you whispered, "...I dropped the lightbulb when I fell, and it broke into, like, a million pieces all over the floor, and--"

"Hey, hey, look at me," Jack interrupted, placing one hand on either side of your face. "I don't care about the lightbulb, okay? All I care about is that you're okay. Nothing else matters to me. You could've brought the TV down with you, and I wouldn't give a shit."

"But--"

"No buts, honey. Things are replaceable. You are not."

Absently, Jack stroked your left shoulder blade. In moments like these, Jack always had to have a hand on you, one way or another, simply to confirm to his dubious mind that you, his life, his livelihood, were whole and alive in his arms.

"Are you sure?" you asked, and Jack nodded.

"Of course I'm sure. We'll get to that when we get home--for now, I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere, okay?" When your lip began to quiver once more, Jack scooted closer to your bed, allowing you to melt into his waiting arms. "It's okay if you want to cry, but I want you to know that I'm not mad at you, bug."

"Promise?" came your feeble voice, muffled in the shoulder of his scrubs.

"I promise," he replied, pressing a kiss to the top of your head before pulling away to look you in the eyes. God, you looked just like your mother, with those big, pleading eyes. He pursed his lips. "I could never be mad at you, honey. Now... I'm not going anywhere. Get some rest."