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— DICK GRAYSON

— JASON TODD

— TIM DRAKE

“She sleeps between us half the time. The body heat of two parents and enough blankets to suffocate a horse works well to keep her warm. But sweetheart, listen to your mother—”

When he sets his prosthetic against the nightstand, Chubby stops trying to crawl away. She sits between the pillows and looks at Jack’s residual limb. The sudden stillness gets your attention first. 

When Jack notices, his hand moves to rest over the end of his thigh, as if there’s something indecent about her seeing too much of the part of him that she has literally helped you clean before. 

She tilts her head. 

“Dada, where leg go?”

Jack glances at his prosthetic, propped up. “Right there.”

“No. That’s Leggy. Other leg. Where it go?”

You lower her pajama shirt into your lap as you know Jack too well to understand that the muscles in his jaw settle in a way that tells you he doesn’t want to answer the question. That he’s arranging his body around her question, and you can’t stop him. 

Even if you could, you wouldn’t, because if you know your daughter well enough, too, she’ll know how to charm the hurt into something beautiful. 

“I don’t have it anymore. I lost it. You know that.”

He’s been better than good about his leg long before you. He’s let Chubby knock on the socket like it was a door.

...He pretended to answer. But this ain’t a joke. His daughter is looking at him and realizing that his body is different. 

He goes still, but he doesn’t stop her when she reaches out and presses a hand to his thigh. 

“Does it hurt?”

“No, not right now.”

She plops down next to him, criss-cross-applesauce style. Jack looks at you, but not to plead, which is obvious. He’d probably chew off his other leg rather than ask to be rescued from a conversation with his little girl. But…you see the clear uncertainty, because you’re so good at making big things fit inside small, soft words. 

You just nod. 

Go on. Tell her there was a world where you existed without either of us and almost stopped existing altogether. Maybe leave the parts that still visit you in your dreams for when she’s older. All she knows is that you kiss me too much and sometimes uses a scary voice when I accidentally leave the door unlocked. 

“My leg got hurt pretty badly.”

“Mommy fix with Leggy?”

Oh. That’s a heartkiller. Jack looks at you again, swallowing. 

“No, baby. I didn’t know Mommy yet.”

Chubby turns to stare at you. She’s disturbed by this. You understand totally. A world in which you and Jack did not know each other feels unreal to you, too.

“Mommy not there? Who fix you?”

“Doctors helped me. They tried to fix the hurt leg, but it was hurt too badly. So they had to take it away to help the rest of me get better.”

Chubby stares down at the rounded end of his thigh, her small fingers curling into his shirt.

“You were sick like me? Like Mommy when she cough?”

“Sicker than that. I was in the hospital for a while.”

“You cry?”

…Oop. That is also a heartkiller, the way she says it. The way Jack sighs.

“Probably.” 

“You were scared?”

Jack lowers his eyes at Chubby’s question. He feels as much as he feels he should lie. He could easily…well, not easily, but he could tell her that Dada knew everything would be okay and that he was brave. 

But she deserves more than that. She may be too small for the truth of fear, but she doesn’t deserve some false version of her dad. That’ll make the truth harder to take down the line. He doesn’t know if he could handle that. 

“Yeah, I was scared.”

Chubby’s face goes blank before it twists at the fact she’s just learned that her father can hurt. Of course, you should expect a tantrum or a wail for her dada, the immovable object of her life. The broad chest runs into, and the deep voice that makes the monsters beneath her bed dumb for even trying. 

Her eyes begin to tear up. Her lips begin to pout. You instinctively shift closer, but Jack rubs her back first. 

“Hey, hey. It’s okay.”

Anyway, Jack should think it beautiful and flattering that his being scared is harder for her to understand than his having one leg…considering it’s the most his heart can do before it dies on itself at her cries. 

…The way yours is right now. 

“Dada scared!”

“I was, but that was a long time ago.”

Her lip trembles as she sniffles.

“Your leg gone, you almost gone?”

…You’re not sure if Chubby even knows what she’s asking. Gone to her usually means work, or when you have to use the bathroom, and she can’t handle it. Or when she throws bun-bun under the couch. 

But, apparently, she’s put enough of the pieces together, and when you look at Jack, you think he’s the man that must’ve been in that hospital bed. 

You lay your hand over his before your tearducts can follow your daughter’s.

“I’m here now, baby—”

“No! Don’t go Dada! No Dada go!”

Chubby scrambles into him and locks her arms around his neck. Jack hugs her, which is too easy considering how tiny she is. 

“I’m right here, baby.”

“No go.”

“I’m not going anywhere right now.”

You hear the care he takes with the last two words, because Jack never promises forever, not with the future that he watches like a hawk. And as annoying as it is, you understand his point. 

But when your baby girl lifts her head and looks into his eyes, you understand the way he breaks in on himself. 

“Stay, Dada.”

And jeez, how can he not at that? You, though? Breaking inward—silently, that’s not your style. 

“...Dada’s not going anywhere. Can’t. I’ve got two girls to take care of.”

jude was sitting at the kitchen island answering messages when you saw the trend on your phone. you curled your legs beneath yourself on the couch as a grin slowly spread across your face.

immediately, you knew he was the perfect victim. you looked over toward him mischievously, you already knew exactly how this would end, because despite living together, jude had never once let you pay for anything.

the first time you’d offered, jude had looked genuinely offended. he stood in the living room holding his wallet while staring at you in disbelief.

“why would you pay rent?” he asked as though you’d suggested selling the furniture.

the second time, he transferred the money back into your account before you’d even finished talking. he sat beside you with the most stubborn expression imaginable.

the third time, he’d kissed your forehead and said, “absolutely not, sweetheart, nice try though.”

you casually propped your phone against the fruit bowl. you adjusted the angle to make sure jude wasn’t suspicious.

he remained completely unaware. he hummed softly while pouring coffee into two mugs.

“jude?” you spoke carefully, trying not to laugh.

he turned around immediately. his expression softened the second he heard your voice, “yeah, love?” he carried the mugs toward the island.

you swallowed and forced yourself to stay serious, “i need to tell you something.” you folded your hands together dramatically.

jude put both mugs down, his smile disappeared immediately, “what happened?” he asked quietly.

“i forgot to pay the rent this month.” you looked down at the counter.

his eyebrows knitted together, he stared at you, “what rent?” he asked slowly.

you kept your expression serious, your fingernails dug into your palm to stop yourself from laughing, “our rent.” you answered back softly.

jude looked at the ceiling, he seemed to be replaying several years of memories of you not paying the rent, or anything at all.

“baby.” he spoke with patience in his voice.

you nodded slowly, giving him puppy eyes.

“you don’t pay rent.” he said carefully.

you shrugged, “i know, but i forgot this month.” you replied.

the coffee in his hand stopped halfway to his mouth. his lips parted slightly, “forgot?” he repeated.

you nodded again, “to pay?” he continued.

then, it finally hit jude and he let out a loud laugh, “what are you talking about?” he managed between laughs.

you tried maintaining character, “i’ll make it up next month.” you said seriously.

jude bent forward, he covered his face with one hand,“next month?” he repeated.

you nodded and he looked at you like you were the most ridiculous person alive. his eyes crinkled at the corners.

“with whose money?” he asked.

you opened your mouth, then stopped midway, nothing coming out.

jude laughed again, he shook his head in disbelief, “you have lived with me for over a year.” he pointed at you.

you remained silent, still trying your hardest not to laugh or even smile.

“you’ve contributed exactly zero pounds toward rent.” he smiled.

you gasped dramatically, “that’s not true.” you defended yourself.

jude folded his arms, a growing smirk spreading across his face, “oh?” he challenged.

“i bring emotional support.” you answered immediately, “a lot.”

“yeah, that’s true.” he nodded thoughtfully, “and apparently financial stress too.” he added, joking.

you burst into laughter at the last comment, jude squinted his eyes immediately, curious about your odd behavior.

“wait.” he glanced around the kitchen, then his gaze landed on the phone.

“are you recording me?” he pointed accusingly.

you couldn’t breathe from laughing, trying to grab the phone before he did. jude walked over and grabbed the it before you could.

“you’re evil.” he shook his head dramatically.

“it’s a trend!” you defended yourself, throwing your hands up, “you looked so concerned.” you giggled.

“because you said you needed to tell me something!” he protested, crossing his arms.

his expression softened almost immediately. the annoyance lasted two seconds. then, a he stepped between your knees and wrapped both arms around your waist, his forehead rested against yours.

“for the record,” he spoke quietly, “if you ever actually tried paying rent, i’d send the money straight back.”

you smiled, rolling your eyes slightly, “why?” you asked.

“because i take care of you.” he shrugged lightly, his hands squeezed your sides. “your responsibilities are being funny, stealing my clothes, and enjoying life with no worries.” he counted on his fingers.

you laughed softly, “that’s a full-time job.” you argued.

“exactly.” he kissed your forehead, “your money is your money, my money is our money.”

your grin widened, “fine, fine,” you narrowed your eyes at him, “can i have a kiss?” you asked, looking up, pouting.

he immediately placed a kiss on your lips, “how could i say no to you, princess?” jude said, holding your head in his hands.

-

ju. bellingham taglist: @luvrgrl-222 , @soobieewoobiee , @laneyrainy0 , @mmonkeh3000 , @mariaaaalm , @dianazyb , @brune77e , @strwayberrymilktea , @kylianaegyouwww , @seceretstvrn , @ceziaa <3

Before he even turns into their street, a feeling of dread settles in his stomach. There will surely be an argument over this - over Frank being an impulsive idiot who doesn’t think things through, and who bought a dog without asking his wife. He also knows it will start before he even enters the house - every day, when she hears his car in the driveway, she comes out to greet him by the front door. When it’s their week, the kids are there, but this week its just the two of them. Arguably worse, since she won’t have to hold back in their fighting.

He pulls into the driveway, which he knows means she’ll be outside any minute. They’ve had a good run, being married, Frank thinks. Sure, after his divorce with Abby, it’d all gone a little fast - he’d met her because she’d taken a drunk friend of hers into PTMC, and he’d insisted on getting her number so he could call and check in on her friend. That’s not what he’d used it for, but after three dates, she’d forgiven him for being unprofessional. And it’d only taken a few months after that for them to realise that the rest of their lives needed to start ASAP. After 10 months, they’d gotten married. It was a small ceremony, but they’d rented a restaurant out for the reception, and there was good food, music, dancing - it was Frank’s heaven. And he got to go home to heaven every night.

So sure, he’s sad now that it’s probably going to end. But at least he’ll have a dog.

He lifts the puppy out of the backseat and into his arms, holding it to his chest so its front paws are over his shoulder as he gathers his duffle bag in the other arm. There’s more supplies he brought for the dog in the back of the car - food, a bed, toys - but he’ll deal with it all later. The front door opens and he hears her calling for him before he looks up to see her. When he does, he feels like he could die on the spot. She’s wearing this beautiful butter yellow sundress, and it must be new, because he’d definitely remember seeing that on her. Not only is he getting divorced again, but she’s going to serve him looking like a knockout.

His whole brain flips upside down when she squeals upon seeing the puppy in his arms. As she squirms and twists in his hold, Frank’s back disagrees with holding her up, and he allows her to jump out and run at his wife, who crouches to meet the dog at its own height. The fluffy animal jumps into her arms, and she cuddles it right to her chest.

“Frankie!” She squeaks, laughing happily as the puppy licks excitedly at her face. The nickname warms his heart, and all of a sudden he’s not so worried about being in trouble anymore. All he can focus on is how gorgeous she looks with her whole face lit up with laughter.

“Surprise?” He offers weakly, still not sure if he’s in the doghouse (even his brain is unfunny) or not.

“This is the best surprise ever! You got me a dog?” She holds up the puppy in her arms, holding it across from her so it’s looking into her eyes. He’s jealous. He likes to be the one looking into her eyes.

“You like her?” He asks nervously, setting his duffle bag on the grass and crouching down on his knees beside the two of them.

“Like her? Frank, I love her!” She grins, and is scratching behind the dogs ears. She lets the puppy go, and somehow, it knows to run through the front door. Frank suddenly realises the house is not dog proof. That’s a problem they’ll handle later. She picks up his duffle bag for him (which he’s grateful for, because there’s shooting pains all up and down his back), and helps him to his feet. “How was your shift?”

“Absolute hell.” He admits, hand on her lower back as he guides her through the door so they can assess what kind of damage has no doubt already been done. He leans down to kiss the top of her head as soon as they’re through the front door, and she leans up to press a kiss to his lips after. His soul is singing. She’s not mad.

They eat dinner with the puppy yapping at their ankles, having finished her before they’d even gotten their food on the plates. She’d decided on the name ‘Lady’ for the sweet girl, because Lady and the Tramp was her favourite Disney movie, which Frank could swear would make his heart explode if he wasn’t careful.

And now they’re cuddling on the couch, Lady cuddled up on his girl’s lap as they’re watching TV together. His head is on her shoulder, and he’s looking up at her with his big blue eyes, waiting for her to look back. She’s really focused on the crime drama they’re watching, though, eyes squinted like she’s the detective.

“Baby,” He whispers, punctuating it with a kiss to her shoulder. That gets her attention, and she looks down at him with a soft smile, leaning down to kiss his forehead in return.

“Yeah?” She murmurs, brushing some hair out of his face. He leans up into her hand, pathetic, but he loves her. He can’t help himself.

“I was really worried you weren’t gonna like the dog.” He mumbles, and almost like Lady knows they’re talking about her, she stirs from where she’d been half-sleeping, and nudges her little wet nose into Frank’s hand. The cutest woman he’s ever seen and the cutest dog he’d ever seen, both staring at him expectantly. Maybe this was a bad idea after all. He was outnumbered, now.

“Really, honey?” She coos, and reaches out to stroke his cheek, which he leans into again. She shakes her head and juts her lip out, which she knows he hates. “You didn’t need to be worried about that, it’s a super sweet gesture.”

“Everyone at work was telling me that they thought it was a terrible idea-” He’s cut off with her lips against his, which is a feeling he welcomes eagerly, sitting up slightly to cradle her face in calloused palms. When she pulls back, he musters a weak, “Wha-”

“Do I wish you’d told me before? Yeah, I guess. But I like some surprises, Frankie. And this is an incredible surprise.” She murmurs, pecking his lips sweetly. Lady yips in her lap when he leans forward to deepen it, and he groans, diverting himself to press his head into her shoulder instead.

“Does this mean I never get to kiss you without being interrupted?” He grumbles, kissing at her neck gently. Lady protests to this one too. Frank is getting very frustrated.

“Well, you brought her home, Frankie, so surely you’re not gonna mind about that.” She grins down at him, tilting his face up to her. She shrugs, like she knows what she’s doing. If there was no dog between them, Frank would drill her into the couch right now. But there was the fact of the little furball in her lap. So he didn’t try anything.

And sure enough, even though she’d assured him that Lady would sleep in the dog bed he’d brought home, the dog sleeps curled up between them. Frank is facing her, and she is him, and they stare into each others’ eyes as the sweet little puppy snores. “Something is gonna have to be done.” He mumbles.

“Well this is her first day. We’ll transition her into sleeping in her own bed.” She shrugs, and kisses him softly over Lady’s head.

The transition lasted a whole year, but Frank learned to be sneaky about when to sleep with his wife. He always got what he wanted, after all.

creds to @angeliicide for the dividers!

Frank watches you closely from the door frame of the PTMC break room. Being your husband for so long and knowing you for even longer, he knew all of your little tells by heart. Sure, you were pouring coffee into a thermos and seemingly present— but he knew your mind was elsewhere. He could see it in the mechanical way your arm moved, like you were on autopilot. Or the way your face lacked any expression or focus.

He steps closer to you, putting his hand on top of yours.

"Hey. You okay?"

He watches you stare at his hand for a second too long and he wonders if he should move it, though you never had a problem with it before. While you didn't like public displays of affection at work, you never objected when his fingers would find yours. Work was hard and grueling for the both of you and the little reminder that you were in it together always calmed you.

Or at least he thought it did.

"Yeah, just tired." You speak, gaze still not meeting his.

He raises a brow. Clearly not buying it. Anyone with common sense could tell you were lying and he knew you weren't stupid enough to truly believe he bought your lame excuse.

"We can talk later." You cut off his train of thought while smiling tightly and brushing past him. Frank stands alone in the break room, left behind with your coffee that you seemed to have forgotten.

"Okay then." He whispers, stealing your coffee for himself. Sooner or later he'd get to the bottom of whatever had you so freaked out. But for now, coffee.

· · ─ ·♡· ─ · ·

You're watching your patient lie on the table in front of you. You haven't said a word to him since entering his room, and you're not even entirely sure he can see you from his angle.

You've just finished breaking the news to his wife. You did everything you could to fix this mess, but laws were laws. His wife would be questioned by the police, charged with who knows what, while this man got to go home scot free. You didn't even want to think about what that meant for his daughter.

His hands on her. All in the name of "love" because she was his favorite. Daddy's good girl. No one will ever love her as much as he does. Isn't that right?

The lies you'd been told so many times ring in your ears.

You pick up the scalpel next to you, stepping closer to him. It's sterile metal surface rests heavy against your hot palm. Perhaps it should be calming, the temperature difference. But all you can think of is how sharp the tool is. How "special" of a relationship he thinks he has with her.

You watch him blink, still somehow unaware of your presence. You think how easy his life must be. How goddamn arrogant they all are. Blissfully unaware their actions have any consequence. You're beyond tempted to tell him otherwise. To show him.

Your hand tightens around the scalpel. An instrument meant to help people, now turned weapon. Isn't that ironic, you think to yourself.

How easy it would be, to put an end to this man's harm. To save his daughter. Your thoughts are however, quickly interrupted.

Dana steps into the room, "Hey kid. Robby needs you out here. Some idiot set himself on fire. Don't ask me."

Her interruption breaks whatever trance you found yourself in and you turn, hiding the scalpel in your sleeve. Forcing a smile you put actual effort into this time, you reassure her.

"I'll be there in a sec."

She looks between you and your patient but decides not to press, knowing when to let things go. She nods before turning around and leaving.

You let out a sigh of relief and quickly set down the scalpel. You force yourself not to look back at the man, who clearly knows you're there now. You walk out of the room, ready to busy yourself with anything else. As quickly as the interaction started, it's over.

· · ─ ·♡· ─ · ·

Frank looks up from charting, seeing you enter another trauma room. He can tell somethings off about you, but brushes it off. You said you'd talk to him later and he respected that. Still, something nags at him.

"Langdon." McKay rolls her chair over to his. "She's stressed because of her patient. I overheard her talking with Kiara." She whispers, as if reading his mind. Though he supposes he's not good at hiding his concern when it comes to you.

"The patients wifes been drugging his coffee with progesterone to try to protect their daughter because she thinks hes been molesting her. Apparently the girl won't talk though. They had to get the police involved and.. it's not looking good for the mom," McKay sighs, shaking her head.

"That's horrible," Frank says softly. He clicks his pen, thinking of you. As always.

The case would upset anyone, there's no doubt about it. But he knew it was more than that. He recalled the time you teared up on Father's Day upon seeing a dad and his young daughter walking together, hand in hand. When he asked why you were crying, you blamed it on your period and the fact it was just a sweet sight. He hadn't protested at the time because the last thing he wanted to do was get on your nerves.

Though now, he's wondering if he should've pressed more. He knew you didn't like to talk about your family, but he hated knowing you were carrying so many emotional burdens on your own. You were always there for him, throughout his recovery and rehab— he wanted to return the favor.

"Thanks for uh..telling me," Frank nods at McKay.

"Just make sure she's okay for me," She stands up, leaving to treat more patients.

He decides to do the same, hoping to get his mind off his worries until he gets the chance to properly talk to you.

· · ─ ·♡· ─ · ·

He clicks the car door open for you and you reach over and open his in turn. Silence settles between you both for a moment and you reach for his hand. He laces his fingers in between yours.

"We should quit and move to," he pauses, thinking, "Costa Rica. We can drink from coconuts all day and I'll find all the best seashells for milady." He grins.

"You'd miss this place."

"Maybe," he says, softening.

He looks over at you, head turned just slightly away from him.

You interrupt him before he can ask about your day.

"Let's get takeout today. I don't feel like cooking."

"That stuff'll kill you, you know?"

"It hasn't yet. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger."

"Right, because Kelly Clarkson lyrics definitely apply to McNuggets."

"Mhm." You mumble, seemingly not in the mood for what he thinks is his amazing humor.

He squeezes your hand, deciding to postpone his questions until later, when you're both home. You squeeze back, turning away once more.

· · ─ ·♡· ─ · ·

You drop a cold McNugget back into the box, disgusted. Why on earth you suggested even getting anything to eat when you should've figured your appetite would be ruined, you don't know. He watches you before clearing his throat.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" Frank asks, trying to lightly approach the subject.

"About what?" You say bluntly, cosplaying clueless. You know damn well what he means.

"What happened with your patient."

"Not tonight." You push away the food from you and start to stand up from the counter you were both eating at.

He grabs your wrist and you tense up for a second. Upon your reaction, he quickly lets go and almost apologizes before he realizes he can't let this moment pass.

"You can't keep shutting me out like this. Talk to me. I know you're upset."

"I've had a long day, Frank."

"So tell me about it. For fuck's sake, can you please just let me be there for you? I'm so tired of watching you bottle everything up. It's…it's stupid." His voice rises and you know he means well, but your nervous system can't differentiate between the loving man before you and the one from your past. You feel tears start to form before you can calm down.

"I'm not having this conversation with you right now. You're not the only one that has to work long ass shifts, you know? I'm already exhausted, I don't need you yelling at me on top of everything." You pause.

"This conversation is over. I'm not doing this with you."

He narrows his eyes, "Doing what?? Talking like normal people?"

"I'm not doing this." You repeat, walking away from him. You slam the door to your shared bedroom behind you before he can catch up.

You sit on the cold hardwood floor, pulling your knees to your chest. You almost laugh at the situation. It mirrors all the ill fitting breakdown scenes you've watched on TV. Though the tears that run down your face are nothing like the ones actresses adorn in those silly films.

You know Frank means well. You know you should just talk to him. The fear that he'd start to see you differently was the only thing holding you back. You exhale and stand up.

Walking to the bathroom, you turn on the shower before stripping and stepping in. You turn the knob to the hottest setting as the metal dial creaks. Scrubbing your skin as hard as your cheap purple loofah allows, you sigh. You remembered a time when you thought everything would be simpler than this. That if you just focused on your job, on your amazing husband and his kids, that you'd be okay. If you centered your life around your future and the life you wanted to build, the past would have no choice but to stop dragging you down.

You admit now to yourself that trying to plan out your life like an over ambitious Pinterest board was stupid. You should've known you'd have to confront your trauma sooner or later. Plus, your husband was right. You couldn't shut him out forever.

Quickly, you change into a thick sweatshirt. One that you got from a tourist trap on your first vacation with Frank. You recall how all those years ago after you left the store, you spotted an old couple walking together.

You had turned to him, smiling, "You think that'll be us one day?"

"Mhm, for sure. We'll have matching dentures and everything," he slung an arm over your shoulder in a familiar gesture.

"Can't wait," You laughed together, drunk on the Florida sun.

The memory left an ache in your chest. Perhaps you'd spent so long carrying this all alone, you forgotten you didn't have to anymore.

· · ─ ·♡· ─ · ·

Frank stirs on the couch where he had fallen asleep, now awakened by your footsteps. He sits up and moves over, offering you a place to sit.

"You shouldn't be sleeping on the couch. Your backs gonna feel even worse," you sniff whilst resting your head on his shoulder.

"Mm. Did you get any sleep?"

"A little. I had a bad dream,"

He hesitates, unsure if he should ask.

"It was one about my dad. About what he did," you pause, "I…I almost hurt one of my patients today. He's been molesting his daughter."

"For a second, instead of his doctor, I was just someone that wanted him dead. I couldn't stop thinking about....his hands all over me," you stop. "still, I was being so selfish and...and rash."

"No…," he begins.

"I just…I wanted to save her. No one ever helped me. It took me the longest time to stand up for myself. For so long, I let him get away with what he did to me. I didn't want that to be the case for his daughter. She won't even talk..." you shudder.

"I know that doesn't make what I thought right."

Frank waits a moment.

"What matters is you didn't act on those thoughts. I'm sorry you had to go through that alone, no one deserves that. Especially not you," he rubs a hand up and down your arm.

"I'm sorry I didn't let you in. I think I was always scared that you'd see me differently. Not just with the patient, but everything. Whenever I had the guts to speak up, which was rarely ever, people started to treat me like I was some kind of fragile doll. I'm sorry I didn't trust you enough to believe you wouldn't do the same."

"and I'm sorry your shirt is soaked with my tears," you add, laughing between sobs.

He smiles gently.

"Hey, its okay. We're okay."

"I love you," you whisper.

"I love you." He kisses the top of your head.

You couldn't solve all your problems and you surely couldn't erase your past, no matter how much you wanted to. But with him there, you knew you wouldn't have to carry the burden of it all alone.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands rest heavy on his knees, fingers perfectly still. His eyes are wide, unblinking, fixed entirely on the curtains. He’s sinking, trapped in a gray fog where past regrets and future dread blur together into absolute nothingness.

Outside the open bedroom door, small sneakers squeak against the hallway tile.

Your five year old daughter stops in her tracks. She carries a stuffed dog by its ear, her eyes peeking into the bedroom. She watches her dad for a long moment.

He doesn't move.

He doesn't even seem to breathe.

She’s seen this look before.

She turns on her heel and runs back to the kitchen, where you’re leaning against the counter. She tugs sharply on the hem of your shirt, her brow furrowed.

"Mama," she whispers urgently, pointing a finger back down the hall. "Dada is doing it again."

Your heart aches slightly, but you don't let it show. You know exactly what she means.

You set down your mug, offering her a reassuring smile. "Is he? Well, let's go, sweet girl."

You scoop her up into your arms, settling her against your hip. She wraps her arms around your neck, burying her face for a second before looking toward the bedroom.

When you enter the bedroom, Andrew hasn't moved an inch. He looks entirely detached from his own body, a ghost sitting in a room he built.

You position her on Andrew's right, and you sit down quietly on the other side. The bed shifts, but he doesn't react.

"Hey," you say softly. "Look who found you."

Andrew doesn't turn, but a microscopic twitch in his jaw tells you he’s trying to fight his way back through the fog.

"Okay, careful, on three, babygirl," you whisper, leaning close to Andrew's side. She mimics you perfectly, leaning her small frame against his right side, her face inches from his cheek.

"One... two... three."

Simultaneously, you press a kiss to his left cheek while your daughter plants a loud and sloppy kiss on his right.

The physical contact snaps through him.

Andrew blinks rapidly, the dull film clearing from his eyes as a sharp breath hitches in his chest. His gaze lands on his babygirl's hopeful smile, and then at you.

The tension in his shoulders visibly melts away.

"There you are," you murmur, reaching up to gently cup the back of his neck, your thumb smoothing over his hairline.

Andrew swallows hard, his hand coming up to cover yours, pressing your palm firmly against his skin as if to convince himself you're actually there. He reaches out with his other arm, wrapping it securely around his daughter's waist and pulling her tightly into his chest. He buries his face in her curls, breathing her in, baby shampoo and sunshine, before looking back at you, his eyes clear and entirely present.

"I'm here," he rasps, feeling grounded.

Andrew shifts the toddler so she’s sitting right on his lap, her back pressed against his chest. His arms wrap around her.

She looks up at him. "You were gone, Dada."

"I was," Andrew murmurs, his voice softening. He gently tucks a stray curl behind her ear, his thumb brushing over her cheek. "But you brought me back."

She beams, entirely proud of her mission. She reaches up, her small hands grabbing both sides of his face, squishing his cheeks together. "Mama said we have to kiss the monsters away."

A smile breaks across Andrew’s face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Did she?" he asks, glancing up at you with softness.

"Mmhmm!" She nods solemnly, releasing his face to pat his nose. "Are they gone?"

Andrew catches her tiny hand in his, pressing a gentle kiss right into her palm. "Every single one. Thank you, bug."

She giggles, the sound bright and musical, and immediately squirms until she can bury her face in his neck, hugging him tightly.

It was supposed to be a standard day off. While Frank was enduring the chaos of the day shift at the hospital, you were out with your crew. They were an adventurous bunch, one who spend a Tuesday scaling a sheer rock face because it was relaxing.

Everything was fine until it wasn't.

You fell. It wasn't a plunge from the peak, thank God, but a sheer fifteen foot drop onto hard earth and jagged rocks was more than enough.

You blacked out for a minute, the world rushing back in a blur of panicked voices and hands on your shoulders.

By the time your friends managed to scramble down to you, the adrenaline was already pumping through your veins, masking the trauma.

"I'm okay! I'm fine, seriously," you insisted, waving them off as you pushed yourself up. Your head spun, and your ribs throbbed, but you forced a laugh to quiet their terror.

Aside from some nasty scrapes and a deep ache, you looked intact.

"Don't call Frank," you ordered them strictly as you patched yourself up with the first aid kit. "He’s in the middle of his shift. I'll tell him tonight."

But you didn't.

By 8 PM, you were back home. The adrenaline had completely evaporated, leaving behind an exhaustion and sickening ache in your abdomen.

When Frank walked through the door, you offered him a weak smile from the couch, murmuring something about being tired from the hike, and told him you were going to take a hot shower to wash off the dirt.

Frank kissed the top of your head, completely unaware of the slight wince you hid against his chest. "Don't be too long, baby. I missed you," he murmured, heading to the kitchen to scrounge up some dinner.

While setting his keys on the counter, his phone buzzed.

Then it buzzed again.

It was a text from one of your friends.

Hey Frank, just checking in. Is she doing okay? She took a really nasty fall off the rock face today and knocked herself out for a second. She swore she was fine and made us promise not to call you, but I've been feeling sick about it all night. Please tell me she's okay.

Frank’s blood turned to ice.

Knocked herself out? Fall?

His thumb smashed the call button before his brain could even process the panic. The friend answered on the first ring, sounding guilty.

"Frank, I—"

"How far did she fall?" Frank’s voice was authoritative. "Tell me exactly what happened. Now."

"About fifteen feet. Her rope snapped. She hit the ground hard, Frank. She was unconscious for at least a full minute, maybe two. But she woke up, got right up, and refused to go to the ER. She said she just had some scrapes..."

Frank didn't hear the rest. He immediately connected the dots. Blunt force trauma.

Brief loss of consciousness followed by a lucid interval.

Internal bleeding. Epidural hematoma.

"Baby?!" he roared, his voice cracking with terror.

He put the phone on his pocket and bolted down the hallway, throwing the bathroom door open. The room was thick with steam, the shower running at full blast, but you weren't under the stream.

You were collapsed against the wall. The hot water had washed away the dirt, exposing deep purple and black contusions mottling your entire right side and ribs.

Your eyes were open, but they were glossy and unfocused. The sudden drop in blood pressure from the hot water had completely betrayed your compromised body.

"Frank..." you breathed."J-Just got... dizzy..."

For a second, the fear of a husband seeing his wife bleeding and broken threatened to paralyze him. The panic was shoved into a corner of his mind; he had to save you first. He could break down later.

He was beside in an instant, turning off the shower.

"Okay, I've got you," he muttered. His fingers pressed against your carotid artery, your pulse was thready and dangerously fast.

He gently tilted your chin up, checking your pupils. One was sluggish.

"Frank," you whispered, your eyelids fluttering closed.

"Baby, hey, open your eyes, look at me," he commanded. He grabbed his phone from his pocket, dialing emergency and putting it on speaker, dropping it on the bathroom counter.

"This is Dr. Frank Langdon, I need an ambulance to my house," he barked at the dispatcher, never breaking eye contact with you. He rattled off your address, your symptoms, and his suspected diagnosis without a single tremor in his voice.

He grabbed a towel, gently wrapping it around your shivering shoulders, careful not to pressure your battered ribs. With one arm under your legs and one behind your back, he lifted you and laid you down on the cold bathroom floor.

"Keep your eyes open, baby, please." Frank pleaded, his hands cupping your face. "You stubborn, foolish woman... why didn't you tell me?"

"Tired..." you mumbled, your head rolling slightly against his palm.

"I know you are, but you have to stay awake. Let's count to 100, okay? Count with me, please."

As the distant wail of sirens finally began to echo in the night air, Frank held your face in his hands, fighting a silent battle against the dark to keep you with him.

-

Frank stayed by your side in the back of the rig, his hand gripping yours so tightly his knuckles were white.

The doors flew open, and the bright lights of the ER hit Frank’s face.

"What do we got?" one of the trauma residents called out, rushing forward with a gurney.

"Blunt force trauma from a fifteen foot fall," Frank barked as he walked alongside the gurney as they wheeled you in. "Brief LOC followed by a lucid interval. GCS is dropping, currently at a nine. Hypotensive, tachycardic, and extensive bruising to the right thoracic wall."

The trauma team immediately went to work, transferring you to the table. Seeing his own wife beneath the harsh resuscitation lights sent a visceral jolt of pure terror straight to Frank's chest.

"Hey, Langdon," Dr. Jack Abbot said, stepping into the bay and gently but firmly placing a hand on Frank's shoulder to stall him. "Frank. We’ve got her. You need to step back."

"Jack, I- I think she’s bleeding internally, her pupil is sluggish—"

"I know. I see it," Jack interrupted, his voice was calm. "Let us do our job. Be her husband, Frank. Let me be her doctor."

It took everything in Frank to take two steps backward, his chest heaving as he watched the team cut away your clothes.

The scans confirmed his worst nightmares: three fractured ribs on your right side, a minor splenic laceration that was thankfully clotting on its own, and the true threat: a brain hemorrhage.

The pressure in your skull was building, and if they didn't drain it immediately, the damage would be irreversible.

"We need to operate. Now," Jack called out, reviewing the scans on the monitor. "Call up to the OR. Tell neuro surgery we're coming up hot. I'm coming with her."

Frank was by your side again. He didn't care who was watching. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, his hand gently cupping the uninjured side of your face.

"You fight, okay?" he whispered, his voice trembling, thick with tears he refused to let fall until you were safe. "You are the most stubborn person I have ever met in my life, baby. So use it now."

You couldn't speak, but your fingers gave a microscopic squeeze against his palm before the doors to the elevator slammed shut, taking you up to the operating room.

The next two hours were felt like hell. Frank sat in the surgical waiting room, staring blankly at his hands. Right now, he felt completely helpless. He kept replaying the night in his head, how you had smiled at him, how you had hidden your pain just to spare him a little stress.

If I had just looked closer, he thought, burying his face in his hands. If I hadn't been so tired, I would have seen it.

"Langdon."

He snapped his head up. Jack was walking through the double doors, he looked exhausted, but his expression was soft.

Frank stood up so fast his chair nearly flipped.

He couldn't even form the question.

"She's out," Jack said immediately, offering a reassuring nod. "The burr hole went smoothly. We evacuated the clot and relieved the pressure. The hemorrhage is completely drained, and there’s no sign of rebleeding. Her pupils are equal and reactive."

Frank let out a breath.

"The ribs are going to hurt like hell for a few weeks, and they're going to keep her sedated for the rest of the night to let her brain rest," Jack continued, clapping a hand on Frank's shoulder. "But she’s going to make a full recovery, Frank. Go see her."

The ICU room was quiet, saved for the sound of your heart monitor.

Frank sat in the armchair pulled flush against your bedside. He had your hand enveloped in both of his, pressing it against his lips. You looked peaceful now, the deathly pallor replaced by a healthier flush, sleeping off the heavy anesthesia.

He knew that when you woke up, he was going to give you the lecture of a lifetime about keeping secrets from him.

He was going to remind you exactly how dangerous head injuries were, and he was probably never going to let you go rock climbing again.

Next night, you blinked your eyes open and the lights of the ICU forced you to squint.

"Hey," a soft voice murmured.

You shifted your gaze to the side. Frank was sitting there. His clothes were wrinkled, his jaw was dark with stubble, and his eyes were bloodshot. He immediately leaned forward, kissing your forehead. "Welcome back, baby."

"Frank..." your voice was raspy.

He quickly poured a tiny sip of water from a plastic cup with a straw, holding it to your lips. "Easy. Take it slow."

As the water cleared the fog in your throat, the memories of the bathroom floor and the blinding dizziness came rushing back. You looked at him guiltily. "Why am I here?"

Frank’s expression hardened. "You have three broken ribs. And you had an acute epidural hematoma. Your brain was bleeding. They had to take you up to the OR for an emergency craniotomy to drain the clot and relieve the pressure."

Your eyes went wide. The weight of the medical diagnosis hit your nurse's brain, but then, a sudden realization struck you.

Your hand flew up toward your head, encountering a thick layer of sterile gauze wrapped around your skull.

"Oh my god," you gasped, winced immediately as the movement flared the pain in your broken ribs. "Frank. Oh my god, did they cut my hair?!"

Frank blinked, completely thrown off. Of all the reactions, this was absolutely not on his radar.

"They had to do a burr hole," you stammered, your eyes welling with tragic panic. "You have to shave the scalp to drain a hemorrhage! Frank, am I bald?!"

For a second, Frank just stared at you, utterly bewildered by how quickly you had shifted from a life threatening trauma patient to a woman mourning her haircut. Then, he let out a laugh. The sound thick with unadulterated joy that you were alive and well enough to care about your hair.

"It's not funny!" you protested weakly, pouting. "Tell me the truth!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Frank chuckled, wiping a stray tear of relief from the corner of his eye as he leaned over the bed rail, gently capturing your hand to stop you from picking at the bandages. "You're not bald, I promise. Just a little part. They were very neat, they only shaved a small strip near the incision site. The rest of your hair will cover it right up. You still look beautiful."

You let out a dramatic sigh of relief, sinking back into the pillows, though your eyes narrowed slightly. "You're not just saying that to make me feel better?"

"Doctor's honor," Frank smiled looking at you.

He leaned back in his chair and he couldn't resist a little payback for the sheer terror you had put him through. "Though... now that I think about it, they did mention they had a bit of a slip with the clippers. There might be a random bald patch right at the crown. Kind of looks like a reverse mohawk."

Your jaw dropped. The playful look on his face completely bypassed your foggy post op brain. Combined with the lingering anesthesia, the pain in your ribs, and the emotional exhaustion of the last twenty four hours, the thought of a botched hospital haircut was the final straw.

Your lower lip began to tremble. Your eyes welled up with tears. "A reverse mohawk?" you said, your voice cracking. "Frank, are you serious?"

Frank’s smile vanished in an instant. The teasing persona evaporated, replaced immediately by absolute panic as he realized his joke had completely backfired.

"Oh, baby, no, no, no," he immediately leaned over the bed and gently catched your face in his hands. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I was joking. I swear to you, I was just joking."

"You're lying," you sniffled, a tear slipping down your cheek as you tried not to sob because it hurt your chest.

"I am a terrible liar, you know that," Frank cooed. He used his thumbs to wipe the tears from your cheeks, his heart aching at the sight of your distress. "Your hair is perfect. They didn't slip. There is no mohawk. I was just being an idiot."

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then another to the tip of your nose, staying close so you could feel the warm comfort of his breath. He carefully combed his fingers through the intact strands of your hair that weren't covered by the gauze, showing you that it was all still there.

"See? It's all here," he murmured. "Every beautiful strand. No more jokes, I promise."

You sniffled one last time, leaning your head heavily into his palms as the panic subsided, replaced by the warm of his affection. "You're terrible," you whispered.

"I know," Frank chuckled softly, pressing his lips to your crown, completely consumed by the relief of having you safe in his arms. "But I'm your terrible husband."

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.｡⋆💉

"Maya, absolutely not. We do not throw things," you said, your voice tight as you tried to maintain a calm exterior despite the exhaustion rattling your own bones.

You stepped forward to lift her up, but she lashed out, kicking her legs wildly and catching you square in the shin. "Go away! You're ugly! Leave!"

"Maya, babygirl, please."

"Don't like you! Bad mommy!"

"Hey. That is enough."

The commanding voice came from the doorway. Jack stood there, his bag slung over one shoulder. He went only one hour into his shift before coming back home because he had a bad feelinf. And damn right he was.

He had just walked through the front door, but his eyes took in the entire scene in less than a second: the flying toys, your slumped shoulders, and the irrational fury of a toddler operating on zero battery.

Jack dropped his bag and was at your side in an instant. He didn't yell, but the sheer gravity of his presence immediately drew Maya’s tear filled eyes toward him.

He placed a hand on your lower back, leaning slightly and leaving a kiss on your shoulder. "Go upstairs," he murmured, his voice a stark contrast to the screaming match that had just been taking place. "I've got her."

"Jack, she’s just throwing a tantrum, I should—"

"You've been dealing with her enough," Jack interrupted gently, giving your waist a supportive squeeze. "Go. Run a bath, lie down. Let me handle it."

With am exhausted nod, you stepped back. Maya noticed your retreat and tried to go with you.

"M-Mommy." She called for you with a tiny voice, it was like all her anger vanished the moment you turned your back to her.

But Jack smoothly stepped into her line of sight.

"Maya," Jack said, his voice was firm. "Look at me."

The toddler sniffed, big tears rolling down her cheeks as she tried to look away. Jack didn't react to her hostility.

"Wan-Want Mommy."

"I know. But you're being mean."

"No! Mommy!" She screamed looking past Jack body. He lifted her up as she looked at the stairs.

"We don't throw things at Mommy, and we don't use mean words. Mommy loves you, and you hurt her feelings," he said, keeping his tone perfectly even, treating the tantrum less like a behavioral crisis and more like a symptom of acute fatigue. "You are very tired. It's time to sleep."

"No! No sleep!" Maya kicked her legs, trying to scape from Jack's srms.

"No. Maya, stop. I'm not going to put you dowm. I know you're tired, sweetheart, the fighting is over."

Maya looked up at her dad. Realizing her violent outbursts weren't going to work anymore, the fight slowly drained out of her. The anger melted away, leaving only a profoundly exhausted little girl.

She let out a pathetic sob and collapsed forward, burying her face into Jack’s shoulder.

Jack immediately softened, scooping her in his arms and supporting her head. "I know, bug, I know," he whispered, rubbing circles into her back as he walked to the girl's room. He walked her slowly around, humming low under his breath until her lashes finally fluttered shut against his neck.

Once she was sleep, Jack walked back into the bedroom, the silence of the house finally settling in. He spotted you by the armchair, a laundry basket resting at your feet.

"She's out," Jack said softly as he watched you. "Completely dead to the world. Didn't even wake up when I put her in the crib."

You didn't look up. Your hands were busy smoothing out a tiny pair of leggings, folding them into a neat square, and placing them on the stack. You just nodded, your jaw tight, and reached for the next item in the basket.

Jack waited for a moment, expecting you to say something, or at least sigh in relief. But the room remained dead quiet.

His brow furrowed slightly. He walked over and you still didn't look up, your focus entirely locked on a pair of toddler socks.

"Hey," Jack murmured, reaching out. He gently caught your wrists, stopping your hands mid fold. "Look at me. What’s going on?"

The moment his warm hands made contact with yours, the fragile wall you’d built up over the last hour completely shattered.

Your hands trembled under his grip. You tried to swallow down the lump in your throat, but a choked sob escaped your lips instead. The sock dropped from your fingers back into the basket as you completely broke down, covering your face with your hands as the tears finally poured out.

Jack stepped into your space, pulling you tightly against his chest. He wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in your hair as your shoulders shook with uncontrollable sobs.

"What's wrong, doll? Talk to me," he whispered, holding you.

"I hate it," you cried, your voice muffled against his chest. "I hate it so much. I hate when she gets like that. And I shouldn't. I'm her mom."

"I know, sweetheart. It’s draining," Jack murmured, rubbing your back.

"No, it's not just that," you choked out, pulling back to look at him, your eyes red and brimming with fresh tears. "It’s not just tonight. It’s... it’s been every single day this week. This is the fifth time she’s had a meltdown like this. She just snaps when she's sleepy and I don't know what else to do to calm her down. I tried, I swear, I'm really trying."

Jack froze, his chest tightening as he looked down at you. "Every day? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Be-because you were working," you confessed, your voice cracking with the weight of the secret you'd been carrying. "I can't call you over a tantrum. You're saving lives. I didn't want to add it to your stress. I didn't want you worrying about us when you're already carrying so much on your shoulders, so I just... I tried to just handle it."

Jack closed his eyes for a brief second, cursing the grueling demands of his schedule that had left you feeling so isolated.

"Fuck, baby," he breathed, wrapping his arms even tighter around you. "You never have to protect me from our life. You should not have been dealing with this alone."

"She looks at me with so much anger," you sobbed, the words tumbling out now that the dam had burst. "She screams that she hates me, she calls me names, she throws things at my head... I know she's just a baby. I know she's just tired and doesn't mean it, but it hurts so bad. It makes me feel like a horrible mother. I’ve spent the last days dreading the afternoon because I know what's coming, and I feel like a monster for not wanting to be around my own daughter."

Jack let you cry for a long moment, letting the worst of the pent up trauma from the week pass. He just held you, absorbing the tremors of your exhaustion. When your breathing finally began to slow, he gently leaned back, keeping his hands securely on your neck so you had to meet his gaze.

"Look at me, baby," he commanded softly. "You are not a monster. When someone is screaming in your face, throwing things at you, and calling you names, your brain goes into fight mode. It doesn't matter if that person is a grown adult or a thirty pound toddler. It takes an emotional toll on you, especially five days in a row."

He reached up, using the pads of his thumbs to gently wipe away the tears tracking down your cheeks.

"It is entirely valid that you hate those moments. I'd be worried about you if you didn't hate them," Jack continued. "It doesn't mean you don't love her. It just means you're human, and you're taking the brunt of her worst moments because you're her safe space. She looked for you the second you walked away. But she needs to learn that what she's doing is wrong and you'll not always have the strength to deal with her. Your safety matters too."

He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

"We are a team, okay? From now on, I’m adjusting my shift so I can stop her throwing things before sleep, and the second I walk through that door in the morning, you pass the baton to me. You don't have to sit there and take it alone anymore."

You let out a shaky breath as you nodded, leaning back into his warmth. "Okay. Thank you, baby."

"I love you," he murmured, pulling you back into his arms and resting his chin on your head. "Leave the laundry. Let's just go to bed."

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.｡⋆💉

Your foot caught the edge of the third step. The laundry flew from your grip, sending sheets and towels flying as your weight shifted violently forward.

You launched. Your knee slammed hard against one step, and before you could even register the ache there, the sharp edge another one scraped violently across your cheekbone.

For a second, the world just went completely quiet. You were crumpled on the steps, the breath knocked clear out of your lungs, staring down. The pain in your knee was loud and throbbing, and your face felt… numb.

"Doll, what happened? Are you okay?"

Jack’s voice broke the silence. You looked at him, his gaze sweeping over the scene. Because of his leg, he couldn't just drop to his knees or rush up the stairs to scoop you up; he had to take each step deliberately. The frustration of his own physical limitations was already written in the tight line of his jaw.

"I'm fine!" you managed, your voice sounding small. "Just... dropped the towels. And added another bruise to the collection." You tried to laugh, pulling yourself up to sit straight.

Jack reached the step just below you. "Don't move. Stay exactly where you are."

His tone was rigid. Stripped of all warmth.

"Jack, seriously, it’s just a scrape—"

"I said, don't move," he snapped, his fingers gently but firmly clamping onto your chin to tilt your face upward into the dim stairwell light.

That was when you felt it. A strange trickling sensation creeping down your cheek. Something dripped past your jawline. You reached up to touch it, but Jack caught your wrist mid air, holding it tightly away from your face.

But your fingers were already stained red.

"Oh," you whispered, the adrenaline suddenly spiking. "That's... blood." You tried to deflect with a nervous laugh. "Does the cut matches the bruise on my knee? A matching set for the collection. I'm keeping you in business, Doc."

Jack didn't laugh. He didn't even smile.

"Shut up," he said. "Don't make a joke out of this."

"Jack, I'm just trying to—"

"I don't care what you're trying to do." He snapped, letting go of your chin. He pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it firmly against your cheek. "Apply pressure. Hold it there."

You took over, pressing the cloth to your face, the sting finally waking up beneath the numbness. "Don't talk to me like that. I just tripped."

"Because you were running! How many times do I have to ask you to slow down?" Jack’s hands were trembling slightly. "You treat your own safety like it’s a punchline. 'Another bruise to the collection.' Do you have any idea what it’s like for me to hear a crash and know I can't run down there to catch you? Do you know what went through my head when I saw you lying here?"

His voice cut through your defense mechanism. You looked at him, he was angry and terrified. And, you knew, he was trapped by a body that wouldn't let him be the protector he desperately wanted to be.

"I wasn't trying to minimize it," you said softly. "I joke because I'm embarrassed, Jack. I'm clumsy, and I hate that I make you worry."

"I don't care about being worried," Jack replied. "I care about you being safe. I spend all day at the hospital patching up people who didn't see the accident coming. And you... you're rushing through our own home like you're invincible. And I can't... if something happens to you, I can't get to you fast enough. You know that."

The silence returned, heavier this time.

Jack gently reached out, taking your hand away from the handkerchief to check the bleeding. The edge of the cut was clean, but it was deep enough that it would probably need a few butterflies, if not a stitch or two.

"It needs to be cleaned properly," he murmured. "Can you stand?"

"Yeah," you whispered, wincing as you shifted your weight onto your bruised knee. "I can stand."

"Good." Jack took a deep breath. Once he was stable on his good leg, he offered you his hand. "Let's go fix you up. No more jokes."

"Okay. No more jokes," you agreed, letting him pull you up into the kitchen.

Jack guided you to a stool by the kitchen island. Without a word, he moved around, pulling a first-aid kit from the cabinet and grabbing a damp washcloth from the sink.

"Keep pressure on it," he ordered softly, setting the kit down.

When he turned back to you, he pulled up another stool, carefully positioning his stiff leg out to the side so he could sit close enough to work.

"Okay, take the cloth away. Let me look."

You pulled the blood soaked handkerchief from your cheek. Almost instantly, a fresh crimson stream welled up from the split in your skin, tracing a rapid path down your jaw and dripping onto your collarbone.

Jack’s brow furrowed. He took the damp washcloth and gently tapped around the wound, trying to clear the area to see the actual depth of the laceration. "Hold still. I know it hurts."

The cold water hit the raw nerves, and you gasped, leaning back instinctively. "It stings—god, Jack."

"I know, I know. Don't pull away from me." His hand was firm on the back of your neck, holding you in place. But as he wiped a fresh layer of blood away, the wound immediately filled again, spilling over. The edge of the step had sliced deep, right over the prominent curve of your cheekbone where the skin was tight.

He waited a beat, pressing a clean piece of sterile gauze against it, counting silently under his breath. One minute. Two minutes. When he pulled it back to check, the blood welled up just as fast. It wasn't clotting. The edge of the cut was jagged, grinning open in a way that made his stomach do a sick flip.

Jack let out a frustrated breath. He didn't say anything, but the professional shift in his posture told you everything.

His ER doctor self had completely taken over.

"I-Is it bad?" you asked, your voice trembling.

"It’s deep," Jack said, his voice felt cold. "It tore right through the dermal layer. It’s too wide for butterflies, and because of the location on your face, it’s going to keep opening every time you talk or blink. I can't close this here. It needs a layered suture, and it won't stop bleeding until it gets one."

He packed a thick stack of sterile gauze against your cheek, taking your hand and forcing your fingers to hold it there with heavy pressure.

"We're going to the hospital," he said, already standing up. The sudden movement made his brace click sharply.

"Jack, can't you just do it? You have a kit, you're a doctor—"

"I don't have a local anesthetic or the proper fine gauge monofilament sutures in the kitchen cabinet," he snapped, his voice cracking with sudden panic. He grabbed his car keys and his and your jacket from the hook by the door. "If I try to patch this up with what I have here, you’re going to end up with a massive scar on your face. We’re going to the hospital. Now."

The drive was quiet. He kept his hand firmly on the steering wheel, his eyes locked on the road, while you sat in the passenger seat, pressing the now heavy gauze to your face.

You looked over at his profile, his jaw was clenched so tightly a muscle was jumping in his cheek.

"Jack," you whispered, the movement pulling painfully at the cut. "I'm sorry."

He didn't look at you, but his grip on the steering wheel tightened. "Just keep pressure on the wound, please. We're almost there."

-

The doors of The Pitt hissed open, swallowing you both into the familiar air of the emergency department.

Tonight, you were the intake.

"Jack? What the hell happened?"

Robby said from behind the central desk, his eyes darting instantly from Jack’s tense face down to you. He saw the blood soaked gauze you were holding tightly against your cheek and the dark stain on your collar.

"She took a fall on the stairs," Jack said, sounding entirely professional, though the tight grip he kept on your elbow betrayed him. "Laceration to the zygomatic arch. It’s deep. It’s been bleeding consistently for minutes. I couldn’t get it to clot at home."

"Alright, let's get her into Room 4, it's empty," Robby said, immediately stepping into gear, stepping beside you. "Can you walk okay? Did you hit your head? Lose consciousness?"

"My knee is a little banged up, but my head is fine," you muttered around the cloth, feeling a flush of embarrassment as a couple of nurses glanced your way. "Just... really clumsy."

Robby guided you onto the examination bed. "Let’s take a look."

You layed down and slowly pulled the gauzes away. Without the constant pressure, a fresh bead of dark blood immediately welled up. Robby leaned in, using a piece of sterile gauze to gently dab the edges of the wound. He winced slightly, assessing the deep split over the bone.

"Yeah, you really did a number on this," Robby murmured. "It’s a clean tear but it’s deep. It’s definitely going to need a few sutures. I'll get the lidocaine and—"

"I'll do it," Jack interrupted.

Robby paused, looking up at Jack, who was standing at the foot of the bed.

"Brother, you know the protocol," Robby said softly. "You don't treat family. Let me handle it. I'll make the lines clean, I promise."

"It’s my wife, Robby." Jack said, he stepped closer to the bedside, his eyes locked on the wound. "I’m doing the stitches. I need to do them."

The two doctors locked eyes for a long moment. Robby knew Jack, he knew his friend's frustrations, he knew how much Jack hated feeling helpless.

Letting Jack treat you wasn't standard, but Robby knew that forcing Jack to stand by and watch someone else patch you up would be worse.

Robby sighed, stepping back. "Fine. But I'm staying in the room to assist. And if your hands shake even a millimeter, I'm taking the needle."

"They won't shake," Jack said.

He moved to the side of the bed, carefully adjusting the stool so his rigid leg could extend comfortably.

Jack snap on a pair of sterile gloves, and when he pulled the tray of instruments closer, where a nurse put all the necessary.

"Look at me," Jack murmured softly. He picked up the syringe of lidocaine. "This is going to burn. A lot. Hold my knee if you need to. My good one."

You reached out, gripping his good knee tightly. He didn't flinch as your fingernails dug into his skin. "Okay, you're going to feel a little pinch."

The needle pierced the edge of the cut, and a sharp burning sensation flared across your cheek. You squeezed your eyes shut, gasping as the medicine flooded the tissue. Jack’s was completely steady as he repositioned the needle to numb the entire perimeter of the wound.

Within a minute, the burning subsided into a heavy weight.

Jack worked in absolute silence. He used a small suction tip to clear the pooling blood, exposing the deep layer of tissue beneath. With a needle driver, he began the meticulous process of closing the deep dermal layer first.

You only could feel the gentle tugging of the thread as he pulled the edges of your skin back together. You watched his face. His brow was furrowed, his eyes entirely locked on the millimeters of flesh he was mending. The anger from the stairwell was gone, completely replaced by an aching tenderness.

Every movement of his hands was incredibly precise, deliberate, and gentle.

Robby stood by, cutting the sutures as Jack tied off each knot. "Nice tension," Robby commented quietly, validating his friend's work. "That's going to heal beautifully."

Jack didn't reply. He just kept sewing, treating your face like the most fragile and precious thing in the world.

By the time he tied off the final knot, the wound was closed, reduced to a thin black line across your cheekbone.

Before Jack could even reach for the dressing supplies, Robby quietly stepped into his line of sight, a non adherent telfa pad and a strip of medical tape already in his gloved hands. "I've got the dressing, Jack. Step back for a second."

Jack blinked, the sharp medical tunnel vision breaking as he looked up at his friend.

He didn't argue.

His hands were just starting to develop a microscopic tremor from the adrenaline crash, and he knew it.

Robby offered you a warm smile as he leaned over the bed. He placed the small protective gauze pad directly over the neat row of black stitches, securing it firmly to your cheek with the clear tape. "There you go. That’ll keep it clean and protected. Excellent handiwork, by the way. You won't even be able to see the scar in a few months."

Jack dropped the instruments onto the tray. He pulled off his gloves, tossing them into the bin, and took a deep breath.

"All done, baby," he said softly. "You're okay."

"Thank you," you murmured, with an uncomfortable feeling in your chest.

The ride back home was calm. The dashboard clock glowed a late hour as Jack pulled the car into the driveway and cut the engine.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

"Let's get you inside," Jack said softly. He had the night off.

He got out of the car and walked around to the passenger side. He opened the door and offered you his hand. As you stood up, your leg wobbled, and Jack immediately caught you. He held you close, bearing your weight as he carefully guided you into the house.

He led you straight to the living room, easing you down onto the couch. He disappeared for a few minutes, and when he returned, he was carrying a plush blanket, a fresh ice pack, and a glass of water.

He carefully lowered his weight onto the couch beside you and draped the blanket over your lap, then gently held the ice pack against your bruised knee.

Looking at him, seeing the dark circles of exhaustion, the faint smear of dried blood on his forearm that he hadn't fully washed off, and his unconditional care, the dam broke.

Tears slipped down your cheeks.

"Hey," Jack murmured, his brow furrowing as he set the ice pack down and instantly reached for your face. "Hey, what’s wrong? Is the local anesthetic wearing off? Is it hurting?"

"No," you choked out, your voice thick and trembling. You shook your head, immediately regretting it as the movement pulled at the tight stitches. "No, it doesn't hurt. Jack, I'm so sorry."

"Sweetheart, you don't need to-"

"I do," you interrupted, a sob catching in your throat. You reached out, taking his hand and squeezing it tightly. "I'm so, so sorry. I know I make a joke out of being clumsy, but I hate that I frightened you. I hate that I made you feel... helpless. I know how much you want to protect me, and I was careless. I didn't think about how it would affect you to hear me fall and not be able to just run down there. I'm so sorry for being reckless with myself."

Jack stared at you, his eyes softening.

He reached out, his thumb gently catching the tears on your cheek, careful not to touch your wound. He pulled you into his chest, wrapping his arms around you and holding you close. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the comforting scent of his cologne.

"Thank you for being honest with me" Jack whispered into your hair, his hand gently stroking your back. "But you don't have to carry that guilt. I was angry because I was terrified. When I'm at work, I can control things. I have a team. But when it’s you... here... Seeing you hurt, and knowing my own body slows me down from getting to you... it scares me, baby."

He pulled back to look into your eyes.

"I know accidents happen," he said softly. "But I just need you to take care of yourself, because you are the most precious thing in my life. Okay?"

"Okay," you sniffled, wiping your nose with the edge of the blanket. "No more running on the stairs. I promise. I'll take them like a snail."

A smirk broke across Jack’s face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. It was the first time he had smiled all night. "A snail might be a bit too slow, but I'll take it."

He leaned in, carefully placing a kiss on the uninjured side of your face, then another on the tip of your nose. "I love you, doll."

"I love you, my Jackie."

"Lay back, you need rest," he commanded gently, helping you settle on the couch. He placed the ice pack back on your knee and tucked the blanket securely around you. He picked up the TV remote and settled back against the cushions next to you.

As the soft sounds of a night time program filled the air, Jack's fingers gently stroked your head, lulling you to relax and close your eyes.

After a few seconds, you drifted off to sleep, feeling completely safe and secure in the tranquility of home.

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