P e t a l

The star of the show is the man in 12. He’s middle-aged with stable vitals and no exact reason for the kind of pettiness he’s carrying. The pain he’s in for is just as petty. And loud. Abdominal pain that’s been a “ten out of ten” for two weeks. You think he’s been drinking for three more.

You squeeze the BP cuff you were going to put around his bicep. 

“I–Sir—”

“Get me a different one. Please.”

His demand is flat as he looks you up and down. You’re a healthcare product he’s disappointed in, apparently. Okay. Nothing new, but you still blink and swallow like you misheard his jab. Your heart is willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“A different—?”

“A different nurse,” The man repeats, louder. Slower, as if you’re stupid for being confused. “One that preferably doesn’t look like....” He gestures vaguely with a burp. “...You.”

…Oh. 

Well, can’t be everyone’s type, not with the way you look—not with the way you look even when you think you’re pretty. Even though…a nurse shouldn’t have to be anyone’s type to do their job. There was no beauty contest in the hiring process, from what you can remember. Whatever, sir.

Your smile doesn’t falter as you reach for the script of routine. 

“I can absolutely take care of you, but if you have a preference for a male nurse or, I’ll admit, someone who looks more experienced, I ca—”

“Listen, Honey. I’m in pain. I don’t need some ugly little girl fumbling around on me.” 

You blink. You swallow. 

The word ugly lands like a slap on your face. Ironic, considering that’s what he’s calling ugly. 

Ugly. 

It’s not like you haven’t heard it before, it’s not even the worst thing you’ve been called. But…none of that softens the blow. It doesn’t lessen the hurt in how he’s found your soft spot. 

You keep your tone even, again, despite the way your confidence just washes down the drain. Go you!

“That’s not appropriate.”

The patient laughs—a near snort, and you’d swear you can feel him enjoying this. 

“Oh, here we go. The lecture. You nurses all think you’re underpaid saints. God forbid, a guy don’t want some butterface twenty-something sticking needles in him.” His eyes flicker over your chest, your badge, your mouth. “Just expecting attention, acting sweet, and God forbid, that guy tells you the truth instead.”

You feel a heat drag a burning of humiliation along your neck. You think your palms are going damp, and you realize that you’re still holding the BP cuff, and now…it feels like a toy in your hands. 

“Sir, if you are…if you’re going to continue to speak to me like that, I’m going to step out, and we can try again when you’re calmer. 

He leans forward, scoffing as he rubs his nose, and as his voice drops, you’re very sure he’s purposeful in his poison. 

“If you don’t get me a new nurse when you step out, I’ll tell someone who can actually do their job right that you refused to treat me because you didn’t like what I said.”

“I didn’t like what you said, Sir—”

“Girls like you, you think you’re something because men look at you sometimes. Up close though…”

He makes a sound, a soft click of his tongue, before slumping back on the bed. 

“You’re not even pretty. It’s all the decorations you’ve got that are killing me. You’re trying, I’ll give you that, sweetheart.”

Your breath hitches. 

That opens up a wound, no—a scar, something old, something pre-Pitt. 

Something that’s making sure you know he’s only telling the truth, and it’s a splinter in your heart. 

You don’t melt down in front of him, because oh, wouldn’t that be material? You just feel your eyes stinging, your body betraying you as it follows your insecurities instead. 

“Okay…um—”

You turn away fast, like you’re reaching for supplies, anything to hide your face as you feel tears gathering anyway, hot and humiliating. 

Go you. 

“I’m gonna—I’m just gonna step out for a second and get—”

“Thank you.”

You fumble out of the room as your heartache compresses itself into one goal. Don’t let anyone see you like this, you absolute mess. You’ll be as ugly as he said you are. 

You make it to the supply closet, slipping inside. The door doesn’t latch all the way. There was no way you were going to make it to the bathroom without sobbing for free admission. 

The door stays cracked open, a sliver of fluorescent light spilling from the hallway. 

You press the heels of your hands to your eyes. You try to breathe. 

You don’t believe him. Not…not fully. But he wanted to hurt you. And he did. That’s the worst part. It’s like he walked in looking for someone to bruise, and he just happened to find the easiest one to make cry. You’re a crybaby. You’re nothing but tears, and sensitivities you hide with bubbilness and sparkles. Stupid! 

You swallow hard, shoulders shaking. A tear slips. 

Then another. 

And suddenly, as your breath catches, you realize you’re sobbing. Yep. Okay. That tracks. 

You’ve done so much, and you’re here in a closet because a stranger called you ugly. 

Well. That’s what happens when someone hits a nerve, right? 

You laugh through congestion and snot, wiping your face as you lean your forehead against the cool metal shelf. 

“Get it together—”

A shadow falls across the sliver of light. 

Your name falls out, graveled and low with all the familiarity that makes you freeze. Your stomach drops at the door creaking. 

Of course, it’s Jack. Of course, it’s the one person you don’t want to see you like this, is the one who finds you, because the universe loves you. 

You scrub at your cheeks again, turning your face away. You try to make your breathing even, like the claim you’re fine is a plausible one. 

“Just…just resetting.”

Jack doesn’t answer right away, and that quiet is what makes you look up despite everything. 

He’s standing in the doorway, broad-shouldered as his eyes take in the red of yours, the way you…at some point, you guess, ended up clutching a pack of gauze. 

…You think he looks…surprised. 

It’s a genuine, almost boyish shock, which seems impossible for such a well-aged man like Dr. Jack Abbot. You’d think he thinks a universe where you aren’t invincible is an alternate one. 

You’ve gifted me these types of tears, Jackie. More than you think. But it’s not your fault, I’m as sensitive as you are mean. 

“What happened?”

The surprise is gone as quickly as it went. You can tell by his neck rolling his head forward, eyes focusing on you through his brows, as his stare is just as harsh as his question.

He’s at your side in an impossible second, palm resting flat on the small of your back. 

He doesn’t blink as he waits for your answer. You laugh weakly. 

“Nothing.”

Again, Jack just stares at you, and that doesn’t help your heart to soften in its pained beat. His jaw only tightens, and you think he’s measuring the cost of getting the truth out of you. 

You know very well he can afford it. 

“This is not nothing. Tell me what happened.”

You swallow. Your throat aches. 

“Just a patient.”

“Which one?”

“It doesn’t matter, Jack—” You insist, wiping your face once again even though there’s nothing left to wipe. You hate that your hands are shaking, you hate the way you want to lean into Jack’s hot touch. “I just—it was stupid—”

“Did he touch you?”

Jack shifts closer in his low, lamenting question.

… You don’t know what to make of the anger he peers into you, as you’re sure he’s imagining a patient touching you. 

“No.” Your answer is immediate. No, he just made sure to remind me how ugly I am. “No, he didn’t touch me.”

“Did he threaten you?”

You hesitate for half a second. And wouldn’t it be Jack to catch it? Of course, not like he’s looking anywhere else to miss the slightest tell.

“Sleepy.” 

You exhale. There was no way you’d come out of this undefeated. 

“He said…he’d make stuff up if I left, that I refused to treat him just because I didn’t like what he said.”

Your voice cracks. 

“He was just being a jerk.”

You can’t stop the tears from streaking down your cheeks, and it’s where Jack looks like he’s holding a storm in his breath, where his hand finds its way to your neck, his thumb rubbing the end of your jaw. 

You watch him watch you through the blur, and you’re sure it’s his warm, soft-rubbing touch that soothes you as much as it engulfs you. That’s Dr. Abbot’s hand for you, always. 

“He’s got you in tears,” Jack swallows. “And you think this is nothing?”

The laugh that comes out of you is wet. “I know. I’m embarrassing. You tell me enough. You can—you can go.”

Jack doesn’t move. He just takes in a short breath. It leaves him in a slight huff. 

“Not going anywhere. You’re not embarrassing. I don’t—”

This is instinct, he thinks, Sleepy. He wonders if you can tell. It’s not a fucking choice, he just heard kiddo’s voice break and his body that’s already swallowed by filth, and, in turn, you decided mine, mine, mine before he could edit it into something relatively appropriate. 

Jack expects nothing less from the girl who’s ruined him. 

Your lips wobble, and God—Jack’s sudden, gruff gentleness when you feel ugly and small almost worsens your cries with relief, with his comfort. 

It’s gonna be him. It should be, always, but you’ll be thankful if this is the only moment where you have him soft. 

“Talk to me. What did he say?”

“Jack—”

“What did he say specifically?” 

You look down at the gauze in your hands. You don’t really want to give the words life again. 

But Jack is here. Jack is waiting. Jack is listening. His steady, stern presence makes it harder to keep the lid on. You can’t—you can’t deny him. You don’t know why being stubborn with him became impossible. 

“He called me ugly. A butterface.” You’re ripping off a bandage with how you blurt it out. “A–and he said I wasn’t even pretty up close. The way he said it—it was like my face was a trap. He just…knew exactly how to say it.”

Your confession is what gets Jack to drop his touch from your neck, and in the moment after, he goes completely still.

For a heartbeat, you think you’ve done it, you’ve said the thing that will make his face soften the way it does when he’s hurt you, when you think he’s jealous but can’t think of yourself deserving of Jack’s feelings like that enough to fully claim said jealousy. When his flirtatious jabs turn controlling or entitled. 

“You didn’t tell me he was blind.” 

He crosses his arms. 

“Ugly?”

His question repeats the word, flat. You wipe your cheek with the back of your wrist, sniffling, shame and humor burning behind your eyes. 

“You really know how to flatter a gal. But…yeah. It sucks that he just…made my face a point. Brought up the elephant in the room. It’s ridiculous. I shouldn’t care.” 

Jack’s brows pull together. His voice drops. 

“No.”

You blink. 

“No…what?”

“No, that’s—” He looks genuinely…baffled. For the first time, you’ve thrown Jack off-balance when you didn’t mean to. “Kid, that’s bullshit.”

A tiny, startled laugh escapes you, but Jack’s every-color gaze locks on your face, and you wouldn’t have to know his features as well as you to know he’s frustrated. You make your face, trying to soften his glare with humor. Humor’s safer than sincerity. 

“I mean…I’m not, like, a model. He wasn’t totally wrong. I try. It’s fine.”

Sometimes humor is sincerity. See the previous sentence. Ha. 

Jack tilts his head a fraction, and you’re just waiting to see how the joke lands. 

With how the exhale through his nose comes out in a sound that’s almost a throaty scoff—not cruel, just more like he’s outraged on your behalf, you think it’s crashed. 

“Jesus Christ. Jesus fucking Christ.”

He’s shaking his head, and your cheeks heat with every second he seems disappointed. 

“What?”

“You’re not—” 

Kiddo thinks she’s ugly, the world might as well be made of fucking pudding. 

You watch Jack take a deep, deep breath. He’s trying to keep restraint tight, and you can’t know why, because his chest is stretching against his scrub top beautifully. That helps with the tears. 

“You are not ugly.”

You huff a laugh. “Okay, Jack—”

“Do not brush me off. I may let your jabs and bits slide enough that you think you can brush this off, but Sleepy, I swear to God—I can admit my temper’s scaling.”

His temper’s about to find a target. It’s usually you, but not today. Not in this moment. Just at the idea, you could actually fucking believe you’re not the most beautiful woman in the world. At whoever’s the dumb fuck that put the idea that you’re ugly in your head. 

“I’m…brushing it off because I have to go back out there and do my job.”

“And you can, you always do.” 

There’s a pause after his demanding fact, and you realize you’re being defensive because the idea of being this vulnerable with the man you dream about at night, his face between your legs with his fingers down your throat, well…really, you can’t lose points for being defensive here. 

“But you don’t get to stand here and tell me you’re ugly like it’s true. Like you’ve been walking around thinking this low of yourself, like your self-esteem’s some fucking joke.” 

…Why is he so peeved by this? 

“It’s just—some people are pretty, some people…adorn themselves in sparkles and fun makeup and hope flirting and sweetness are enough to distract others from this.”

You gesture to your face, hand circling as your lips pout dramatically. 

“Uh, ow!—”

And you don’t know what, Jack practically slaps your hand down, face casual as he holds onto your wrist after. 

“Excuse me, Dr. Abbot—”

“You walk into a room, and people look at you. It’s always you. And I don’t know what the hell is wrong with you that you can’t hear yourself speak. You hearing yourself?”

You roll your eyes, trying not to collapse from the stern warmth of his hold. That, the tears, his unrelenting gaze, and comments that are somehow demeaning and uplifting…it makes for a bad cocktail. 

“They look because I’m loud.”

“No.” Jack denies you immediately, stepping half a pace closer, and his voice turns gruffer as you can hear his spit move along his tongue and teeth. 

…Somehow, with this being fourth worst shift you’ve ever had, you could die happy. You can smell the whole of him when he’s close like this. 

“They look at you because you’re…you’re beautiful. Very beautiful.” 

You freeze. 

He’s made the occasional joke that you could never believe, the most recent one being how “He couldn’t care that you’re pretty. Blood getting everywhere, including the mug, makes sure of that.” But this, it finds your stomach flipping wildly, and every other muscle burns so hot that you’re sure you might melt. 

How can the most beautiful man in the world think that?

“I’m not saying that to—” He shrugs. “It’s just…fact.” 

You’re stunned enough to only keep your mouth open, a baffled codfish in scrubs. Jack’s jaw only works. 

“It’s fact, and you’re crazy if you wanna act like you’re some busted little thing.” He shoves his hands in his scrub bottom pockets. “Busting my brains, alright. Who else?”

You can’t even take in a breath with the raw…intensity behind Jack’s words. He’s insulting you, because you think that’s just because he’s—he’s offended, like the idea of you thinking you’re ugly is an insult to reality. 

“Jack, calm down—”

“I am calm, I’m stating a fact.”

You watch him, the roll of his head and his quick, furrow-browed blinking. 

“You really think I’m beautiful?” 

His thinking you’re beautiful feels like an insult to reality, but god, you’re selfish enough reality to mean nothing. You want to be flattered. You want to sink into him. 

“It’s not about me thinking. You are. Obviously.” 

His gaze drops only to snap back, and his voice returns slightly more controlled. You watch his shoulders loosen, and you think it’s a forced sort of calm. 

“Listen to me.” 

He squeezes your wrist, and that touch edges down to your hand. He squeezes there before just…holding.

It’s the lightest hold, and what you thought before sticks true now. 

I could die happy here, Dr. Abbot. I’ll listen to you forever and a day. 

“That guy said that because he wanted to hurt you. That’s all. And because of that, you’re not going back in there alone. We’re not giving him another nurse to harass either.”

“Jack—”

“I’m not asking. I’m coming with you. He needs to get treated by a doctor anyway. He can find himself another hospital if that’s not a suitable form of treatment.”

You hesitate, and you’re thankful he doesn’t mind waiting for your hesitation. 

Sometimes, his protection can feel so cruel, but here, hand on yours, it feels like relief, and that fact blooms your belly all too sweetly. 

You nod. Jack drops your hand, and you’re pathetically reeling from the loss of his touch. 

But you don’t mind at all when he replaces it with his palm between your shoulder blades.

He opens the supply closet door, pausing as you step out just before him.

“Sleepy?”

“Hm?”

Jack’s eyes hold yours. Something raw flickers there, and boy, does it make you tingle.

Though he’s hoping you’re not sober from your tears enough to know it’s just ruin and attraction, intense and ready to kill, that he’s trying to bury under anger and righteousness. He’s right. The prettiest girl in the whole wide world think she’s ugly.

He’s right to be angry and righteous in the filth, he just doesn’t know when he stopped caring enough to deny there was that sort of rage for kiddo in the first place. 

He rubs the slight of your spine with his thumb.