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Masking autism was exhausting when you were entirely healthy. And running on a fever, it was an ordeal.

The sound of ringing phones, groaning patients, and shouting doctors felt like a physical assault. Worse, the social exhaustion of constantly forcing eye contact, modulating your tone, and scripting polite interactions had drained your battery down to zero hours ago.

You had managed to hold it together for ten hours. But then, a trauma came in. It was messy and required a lot of communication. As you stood at the sink washing the blood from your hands, the bulb flickering above the mirror began to... sound loudly.

It was the final drop in a cup that was already overflowing. Your breath hitched as the sensory overload crashed over you.

You practically sprinted down the back hallway, slipping into an empty and dark exam room.

You sank on the stretcher.

The meltdown hit you violently.

Tears blurred your vision, your breathing turned into gasps, and you pressed your hands firmly into your ears.

You were rocking slightly, a self soothing stim you usually never allowed yourself to do outside the safety of your own apartment.

Suddenly, your throat felt completely locked. And you couldn't form a thought, couldn't explain the agony of your own body. And the panic directed itself outward. The fabric of your scrubs, usually manageable, now felt like sandpaper dragging across your feverish skin. Every fiber felt like a million tiny needles.

Desperate to get away from the sensation, you began fiercely scratching at your arms, your fingernails digging into the fabric and your bare skin, trying to scrape the torturous texture away.

The door clicked open. The brief influx of light and noise made you flinch.

"Hey. I thought I saw you slip in here."

It was Jack.

The two of you were close, closer than just a nurse-attending, but you had never let him see this.

Jack moved with urgency. He didn't grab you, but he slid closer, carefully extending his hands.

"Sweetheart, look at me," he murmured, his voice cutting through the ringing in your ears. "Hands off. Let's stop the scratching, okay?"

You couldn't answer. You just let out a choked sound, your fingers still frantically tearing at the scratchy sleeve of your scrub top.

It hurt, it was too hot, the texture was suffocating.

Understanding flashed in Jack's eyes. He, somehow, knew your signs. Gently, he reached out and captured your wrists, intercepting your hands before you could break the skin.

"What is going on? Are you okay?" he asked, worried.

The moment his fingers brushed your skin, he froze. He immediately used one hand to keep your wrists safely gathered, while the back of his other hand carefully pressed against your forehead.

You couldn't speak, tears spilled over your eyelashes, and you gave a frantic nod. You tried to pull your hands back to resume scratching, the panic making your chest heave.

"You're burning up," he noted softly, his brow furrowing with instant concern. "You have a fever."

"I- I'm fine," you choked out, your voice trembling terribly. "Just, just give me a minute, Jack. Please." You tried to sound fine but your voice betrayed you, sounding raspy.

"You have a fever. We need to check on you, get you some fluids—"

He was trying to be the doctor. He was trying to reason with you, to fix the physical symptoms, but the threat of being taken back out into the medical floor crossed the final wire in your brain.

The dam broke. The non verbal wall shattered under the weight of sheer desperation, and the truth came rushing out in frantic sobs as you burst.

"NO, okay, I’m sick, but please don't make go out there." you wept, the words spilling out of you in a desperate torrent. "I can’t think anymore. I can’t look at anyone. I need a calm playlist and I need everyone to stop, I want to go home, hug Duckie, and just stare at the wall. I'm sorry, Jack, I can't—"

"Hey, it's okay," Jack interrupted gently, cutting off the spiraling apology before it could swallow you whole. "Stop. You don't ever have to apologize."

He stayed a respectful distance, giving you space, but his eyes were filled with a protective warmth. "I know. You don't have to explain or be sorry."

A small smile touched his lips. "I pay attention to you. I see how you tap your fingers in a specific pattern when the alarms go off for too long. I know how much energy it takes for you to mask when the ER gets like this, let alone when you're running a fever. You don't have to hide it from me, okay? You can just be done."

He held his hands open, offering but not taking. "Can I touch you? Like I do when your shoulders are tense?"

You could only manage a small nod.

Jack moved in, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you tightly against his chest. He applied steady pressure, tucking your head under his chin.

"I'm going to tell Lena you're going home sick," he murmured after a long while, once your breathing had finally started to match the pace of his own. "And then, I'm going to take you to my car, drive you home, and make sure you get to your Duckie. Okay?"

You nodded against his chest, letting a long sigh out.

-

The cool leather of the passenger seat was a mercy against your feverish skin. Jack had practically carried you out the back exit of the hospital and now you were safely cocooned inside his car.

Jack opened the driver’s side door, the brief chime of the door alarm making you wince. He noticed immediately, slipping inside and shutting the door quickly to cut off the sound.

He didn't start the engine right away. He reached into his bag and pulled out a bottle of water and two white pills.

"Fever reducers," he murmured, as he carefully placed the pills in your palm and unscrewed the cap of the water bottle for you.

You swallowed the medicine. Your throat felt locked. Your social battery was empty. Jack didn't press you to say thank you. He just took the bottle back and set it in the cup holder. Then, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone along with his wireless earbuds.

"Here," he said softly, putting the case in your lap and holding out his phone. "It’s unlocked. Put on whatever you need."

You looked down at the screen, then up at him. Your eyes were still heavy and wet from the meltdown, your chest aching with exhaustion. You couldn't form the words to tell him how much this meant, so you just looked at him, letting your eyes communicate what your voice couldn't.

Jack’s expression softened. "I know. It's okay."

You carefully put the earbuds in, the active noise cancellation immediately kicking in. You tapped his phone, finding a familiar ambient track you always used to decompress.

It was perfect. It was the calm you needed.

Jack buckled his seatbelt and finally started the car, the headlights cutting through the dark parking lot. Before he shifted into drive, he turned his head to look at you. He tapped your leg so you would look at him.

"We're going straight to your place," he said, speaking a little clearer so you could read his lips. "I'm going to get you inside, and then I'm going to stay until the fever breaks. Sound like a plan?"

You looked right into his eyes and gave him a slow nod.

Jack smiled.

"Alright. Let's get you home."

The steady sound of the track in your ears blended seamlessly with the quiet rumble of the car's engine. The world outside the window was a blur of passing streetlights, melting into soft streaks of gold and white against the dark. Your eyes fluttered shut, your body finally succumbing to the heavy exhaustion of the fever. You floated in that peaceful limbo between awake and asleep.

Through the fog of your half-sleep, you felt the car slow down, idling at a quiet red light.

A moment later, Jack’s hand carefully brushed your face before the back of his fingers came to rest flat against your forehead.

He held it there for a few seconds. checking the heat radiating from your skin.

"Still a little hot," Jack murmured to himself. "But you're sweating it out. That's good."

He carefully pulled his hand back so he could shift the car into gear as the light changed.

As the car moved forward again, his hand returned across the center console, resting casually but securely on your thigh, a grounding weight to let you know he was still right there.

Your eyelids felt too heavy to open. Slowly, dragging your hand up from your lap, you slid your palm over the back of his hand. You slotted your fingers between his, squeezing weakly.

Jack was looking straight ahead at the road, but the moment your fingers intertwined with his, a small smile broke across his face.

He didn't say a word, respecting your quiet phase, but his thumb began to stroke the back of your hand. He squeezed back, a firm and reassuring promise.

You relaxed as you held onto him. The ER was miles behind you, the calm sound was filling your head, and Jack was driving you home.

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