Slut

You had never meant for it to get anywhere, to be something other than a way for you to earn some extra cash alongside your work. Student debt was killing you, but that was nothing new. It was killing all of the other nurses, as well. Still, it would have been nice to afford a proper meal at least once a day.

You mentioned it to a buddy of yours who off handedly suggested you start selling feet pictures. He was joking, of course. You hoped he was.

But it got you thinking of another friend who had gotten a sugar daddy and was now living life without any worries of her student loans. Gods, you would have lied if you said you hadn’t been jealous. So you reached out to her and she directed you to the site she had used, which was an immediate shock. Here, you could see multiple entries posted by sugar daddies and mommies alike, all of them in various ages and requirements for their sugar baby. You hesitantly filled out your own profile to be put on the site so others could see you.

Suddenly, it seemed too much. You didn’t want to compromise yourself or your body just for money. No offence to those who do, but a pit in your stomach told you that it wouldn’t be worth it.

Before you had a chance to close the site, you had gotten a message.

Your eyes flitted to the edge of the screen, a small pop-up message showing that a ‘Jack’ had written to you. Curious despite yourself, you clicked on his profile. There was no picture, weirdly enough. You couldn’t blame him, though, as you had also chosen to refrain from using a picture. You didn’t want any random people finding you or recognising you. Your name, you could handle people knowing, but your face was uniquely yours. You supposed this Jack felt the same way, or according to his message, he did.

JACK You also hesitant of these websites?

You paused, looking at his profile again. He had the ‘Sugar Daddy’ status, but nowhere did it say he was requiring anything sexual from you. It couldn’t hurt to reply, could it, right? Your fingers typed on your keyboard before you even had the chance to think about it.

YOU Yeah, is it that obvious?

He responded immediately, and it almost made you chuckle. This guy must really want to write with you.

JACK Takes one to know one, I suppose.

YOU What? Sceptical and cynical?

JACK You could say that.

YOU What are you doing here then?

JACK My therapist said I needed a hobby.

YOU Funny.

JACK I’ve heard I have a great sense of humour.

YOU You’re not at all what I was expecting from a man on this site.

JACK What were you expecting? A creepy guy only wanting to jack off to younger men?

YOU Kind of, how do I know you’re not one of those creepy guys?

JACK For one, I am not asking for anything like that. I respect whatever your wishes are.

YOU What are you asking for then?

JACK Company I guess.

YOU What, the people in your life aren’t company enough?”

JACK What is this, a job interview?

YOU Well, kind of. Since I am the one who will get paid in this.

JACK Touché. But then shouldn’t I be the one asking the questions huh?

YOU Guess you’re right, but it’s so much more fun if I am asking them.

JACK Fun for you maybe.

YOU Exactly.

JACK Okay. To be honest, I guess I’m a bit lonely. I don’t have a lot of time for people outside of my work and when I’m working all I’m thinking about is, well, work.

YOU So you are still working? What do you do?

JACK Of course, how old do you think I am?

YOU Do you honestly want me to answer that?

JACK Now that’s just rude. And I’m a doctor. Pays pretty well you know.

YOU That’s impressive. What position?

JACK Attending physician at the ER. Not a lot of people ask for what position you work as when you say you’re a doctor. You in the medical field yourself?

YOU Hmmm, I’m not sure I should tell anything personal about myself to a stranger.

JACK I told you, man.

YOU Well maybe you have less self preservation than I do. And here I thought with age comes wisdom.

JACK Good one. Maybe I want to get to know you.

YOU I hope you know that no matter wherever this goes, we will never actually meet.

JACK Wasn’t counting on it. Like you said, I’m only a stranger. And like I said, I respect your wishes, whatever they are.

YOU And you’re willing to pay me to just talk to you? Nothing else?

JACK Yeah, nothing else. I promise.

YOU It seems too good to be true. Why?

JACK Listen kid, I respect how careful you are. The truth is I don’t have anything good to else spend it on and I like taking care of people. Probably why I’m a doctor.

YOU Sounds about right. But why me specifically? Unless you have a group of younger guys you’re entertaining on the side?

JACK Oh god no. You’re the only one.

YOU I must be special, then.

JACK Kinda. I mean you are the only one I’ve properly written to on this website. You seem interesting.

YOU If you are trying to flatter me then you’ll have to come up with a better compliment than that.

JACK If I’m the one paying you shouldn’t you be the one complimenting me?

YOU Maybe when I find something worthy to compliment.

JACK You’re funny.

YOU I try. Listen, I hate to cut this short but I gotta go to work.

JACK Wait before you go. Give me your Venmo info.

YOU Why?

JACK How else do you expect me to send the money? Now come on.

YOU Well, thank you.

JACK It’s my pleasure, kid. Until next time.

You watched with awe as you get a notification from Venmo that five hundred dollars had been deposited into your account. This guy must really want this agreement with you to spend that much only on the first conversation. You weren’t one to complain, however, as you could finally treat yourself to a good meal. Thank fuck to whoever this Jack was, and thank fuck that your friend had set you up with the site.

Over the next few days, you got to know him better as you conversed. You had told him that you worked in paediatrics as a nurse, and you learnt that he worked nights, which left you little option when to message him, mostly before your shift, when his was ending, and after yours, when he had just woken up. He was easy to talk to and you enjoyed his sarcastic humour.

And he kept his promise, never pressuring you into doing anything more. However, you had noticed that Jack would occasionally address you with something that wasn’t strictly platonic but also not forthcoming enough to be discernible as flirting. But you would be lying if you said you weren’t flirting back.

It was simple and he was easy-going, and charming. Whatever ego Jack has, he wore it real well. He was cocky but not arrogant, and a little self-deprecating. And gods did he know how to bring a stupid smile to your face. Your conversation flowed easily enough that you didn’t even have to think about what to respond to him.

You still couldn’t help but wonder why he had chosen to talk to you, out of all the other applicants, who actually were willing to do more than platonic stuff.

You chose to ask him that a week later, one night after your shift, when you had arrived home and successfully crashed on your bed.

YOU I still can’t really get over why you chose to talk to me specifically. I mean, I’m sure there are lots of other guys vying for your attention?

His reply came only a few minutes later. He had told you that he worked nights, so you guessed he was writing to you in between patients.

JACK I wouldn’t be so sure about that. And none are anywhere near as interesting as you.

YOU Still, my point stands.

JACK Are we not done with the twenty questions yet? Thought I showed I was serious about this arrangement.

YOU OK, that’s fair. I’ll stop.

JACK You are terrible at letting up control. Let me take care of you.

YOU I just feel bad because I’m getting so much from this and all you’re getting is sucky conversation from me.

JACK You better step it up then, kid. I told you I’d be expecting compliments.

YOU Wow.

JACK I’m only pulling your leg. Don’t sell yourself so short. You’re really great. I enjoy talking to you.

YOU Thank you. I also enjoy talking to you.

JACK Look at that, I knew you could take a compliment. I’m proud.

You couldn’t help the small smile that spread across your lips. Damn Jack and his easy charm.

YOU Maybe because this one was actually good.

JACK There’s more where that’s coming from.

YOU Shut up.

JACK Unfortunately I don’t know how to.

YOU Damn, guess I’m stuck with you then.

JACK Guess you are.

YOU It’s not the worst thing in the world.

JACK High praise. You really know how to warm a guy’s heart.

YOU What can I say? I’m a charmer.

JACK Oh I bet you are.

He was just so effortless in the way he spoke and complimented you that hadn’t you previously agreed to keep this professional between you two, you would have seriously thought there were something between you. The thought didn’t exactly displease you. Of course, you had no way of knowing if he even wanted more. His profile was suspiciously empty of any sexual wishes for his sugar baby and he had said he wasn’t expecting anything of the sort. Maybe he was the one who didn’t want anything non-platonic and was just acting under the guise of respecting your wishes to stay professional. Maybe you were the one who was going too far, flirting and acting this casual with him, perhaps even making him uncomfortable.

Fuck, the thought filled you with dread. Not only because you’d grown to care about Jack over the past couple of weeks enough to worry about making him feel uncomfortable, but also because this was technically supposed to be a business agreement. He was your client and you were making money from this. The agreement had been clear and you couldn’t let Jack’s personality lead you astray from that.

He had wanted company and conversation. It wasn’t his fault that it happened to make something stir within you, just by him being himself. You cursed yourself for letting yourself get in the way of yourself. Jack’s a good guy, genuinely caring and thoughtful, and he wanted to take care of you, so you couldn’t let anything ruin that what you had.

He just made it so fucking hard when he was such a gentleman.

YOU Hey, is there any possibility I could get an advance on this week?

The notification of your Venmo came before the notification of Jack’s reply and you inwardly cringed of how readily he sent you the money, without a second thought even. You knew he made more money than he had use for and was more than happy to spend it on you, but his willingness to help you still made your heart skip a beat.

JACK Of course. What gives?

YOU Just got in a bit of a bind. Needed the money quickly.

JACK Anything more I can do to help?

YOU You don’t have to do that, you know.

JACK Do what?

YOU You know, care so much.

JACK How do you mean?

YOU This is a professional relationship and you’re technically my client, Jack. Please feel no obligation to do any more than you want to.

JACK Well then, I want to. Simple as that, kid.

You rubbed a hand over the bridge of your nose, sighing in frustration. How was it that Jack managed to solve your problems that easily at the same time as he caused new ones? Because how were you supposed to maintain a professional relationship with him when he went around saying shit like that? He both infuriated and made you joyous at the same time.

Any hope of avoiding any growing feelings would have meant to avoid talking to Jack altogether, but that was impossible since your agreement meant literal conversation, and because Jack was impossible not to talk to. You kept your back and forth, messages sent between shifts and breaks, whenever you had the time over the next month. When you needed him, he was always there.

YOU Hey do you have a minute? You don’t have to pay me for it.

JACK Of course, is everything okay?

YOU Yeah, I just needed a distraction.

JACK And you came to me? I’m flattered.

YOU Shut up.

JACK Wouldn’t dream of it. Are you sure you’re alright?

YOU No. I’m not. I lost a patient at work today. A kid. I guess it just hit me heavier than I thought.

JACK Hey that’s nothing to be ashamed of. We’ve all had those days where things feel a bit too tough to handle. You just gotta remember that none of this is your fault. You did the best you could but sometimes that isn’t enough.

YOU I know you’re right but it’s hard not to feel like this one is on me.

JACK I know you are terrible at letting up control but you gotta trust me on this. All you can do is focus on the medicine. The medicine is the only thing that saves the patient. And your sanity. You are excellent and there was nothing more you could do.

YOU Thank you, Jack. It means a lot coming from you.

JACK Anytime. Remember to breathe and try to take it easy. Even nurses deserve breaks you know.

YOU And god do we need it. I’ll try, but with the way people are getting hurt I can’t see me getting a break anytime soon.

JACK I hear you there. Hey I sent a little something as a pick-me-up. Enjoy it.

YOU I told you you didn’t have to do that.

JACK And I told you that I want to take care of you. Accept it and shut up.

YOU Sir, yes, sir.

It felt good to confide in someone like this. He could relate to the feelings and trauma that came with working at a hospital; that, sure, you saved and helped a lot of people, but you weren’t magicians. There were bound to be people you couldn’t save. Every hospital worker learnt not to take it personally, 

Like Jack, you worked a lot of long shifts after each other, rarely having a free day for yourself. It didn’t exactly allow you to socialise or make friends with a lot of people outside of your work. You supposed you and Jack had that in common.

 He, however, liked to keep much busier than you. Since he worked nights, you had figured he would sleep most of the day, but no, he was just as quick to respond to your messages during the day as he was in between your shifts. You started to suspect that he didn’t sleep much, since he had also mentioned he usually tries to keep tabs on the police scanner he owned in case of any emergency. You had asked if he had anything outside of saving lives to keep him busy and he had suspiciously avoided the question with a clever quip. So, you decided not to push it, allowing him to share however much he wanted to with you.

Eventually, you exchanged numbers with him, when you felt that you were more comfortable with him. Despite yourself, you had grown to trust this man, with his easy remarks and charm, disregarding all the safety measures surrounding strangers your mum had drilled into you since an early age. Jack wasn’t just a stranger anymore, but someone who you could confide in, trust with your doubts, and who could easily cheer you up with a simple message.

JACK Buy yourself something pretty alright?

You smiled when you saw the text, currently out shopping for things you needed. However, he changed that, and you decided to go get something you wanted. A nice top that fit your torso nicely. You took a quick picture in the dressing room, showing how the shirt wrapped around you, accentuating your muscles. Your face was still hidden, however, so you figured it would be safe to send to Jack.

YOU [ATTACHMENT: 1 Photo] This pretty enough?

JACK Very.

That caused a smile to spread across your lips. You weren’t sure if he intended for it to have the effect on you that it did. It felt like he was flirting, but it could also be part of his natural charm. You didn’t want to be the guy who misinterpreted every interaction and thought he was into you when he wasn’t so you didn’t dare say anything. But you couldn’t help but play along.

Especially when you started calling, two and a half months in, and you heard his voice for the first time.

“Hey.” He said it almost like a whisper and he sounded almost out of breath, as if he was nervous? That couldn’t possibly be the case, however. You were probably just imagining it.

“Hey, Jack.”

Fuck, his voice was amazing. It was all melodic and low, sounding as if it came from deep in his chest, a light rumble to it. You couldn’t help but imagine all the things that voice could tell you.

“Feels weird actually talking now that we’ve been writing for so long, huh?” he said, and you nodded subconsciously.

“Weird is one word for it,” you agreed with a light chuckle.

“Don’t tell me you’re regretting it now,” came his quick reply.

You scoffed. “No, fuck, that’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean then?” he asked. Perhaps you were imagining it, but you thought you could hear a teasing tone to his voice, almost as if he knew exactly what you meant but wanted you to hear it for himself.

“You know, you’re just as annoying to talk to as you are in writing.” Despite your words, a small smile formed across your lips.

“So I’ve heard.”

“It’s a wonder I’m still talking to you,” you muttered.

“And every day I thank God for that.”

You tilted your head, frowning. He didn’t peg you for a religious man, but you never knew. “You’re religious, Jack?”

“Not one bit.”

“Hmm.”

“Have I told you you have a very pretty voice?” Jack asked, a sweet roll to his voice. It was the most beautiful thing you had heard and you were sure he was aware of it.

That made something in your stomach flip. Stop it, you were scolding yourself. Jack had been the one that told you that what the two of you had was strictly platonic and professional. He was respecting your wishes, and you had to respect his. Still, with the way he was speaking to you, it was difficult to keep your heart in check.

“You have not, no,” you breathed out, careful not to let your voice shake with nervousness.

“Okay.”

“Aren’t you going to?”

“Hmm, maybe.”

“God, you’re an ass,” you said, laughing lightly.

“I like to refer to it as my charm.” God, he sounded smug. Somehow that made him even more attractive.

“Hmm, don’t know if I would call it charming.” Yes, you would. But no way were you going to admit that to Jack.

“I would.”

“I know, Jack.”

You heard how he took a deep breath on the other side of the call, the silence being filled by his slow exhale, before he spoke. “You know, I do love hearing you say my name after all this time.”

You weren’t sure how to respond to that except for with a witty remark, “Sure you do,” effectively letting the matter drop.

———

Jack was a busy man.

Anyone who knew him knew that, and there weren’t a lot of people who did know him for that matter. You had been recently added to that list, with the amount of time he spent texting and calling you.

He liked to work as much as he could, usually sticking to the night shifts but occasionally taking on a double or jumping in during the day when he was needed. And even when he was free, he liked to stay at home listening to the police scanner he had or going with his buddy’s SWAT team as their field medic. He liked to do as much as he could. Robby had called it an addiction of his.

Jack knew he was right, and so was his therapist when he had told him that he needed to find something else outside of work and outside of SWAT. He also realised that he was lonely, because all the people he conversed with were tied to those two.

He knew he didn’t need a lot, but someone who he could bond with outside of it and perhaps care for. Ever since the death of his wife, he had missed having someone to take care of. He had a ton of disposable income that did nothing but collect interest in his bank account so he might as well spend that on someone, he thought. He knew that he’s not in the right place to meet someone the old fashioned way, and after seeing an advert for sugar babies, he went that route.

Jack felt hesitant to do that, though. It felt perverted to use his money to require sexual favours of a younger person, like he saw other sugar daddies and mommies do on the website he had found. Could he put in no requirements to his page? All he wanted was company and conversation to feel less lonely. That’s why he didn’t see a point in putting a photo up either. Since he didn’t want someone to talk to him merely because of his looks, but rather someone who could match him in conversation.

That’s when he found you, a younger man who seemed decent enough based on his profile, but it was hard to tell because like him, you had no profile picture. You had also specified that you would not engage in any sexual activities as your role of a sugar baby, so he thought he might as well shoot you a message. It couldn’t hurt, right?

From the very first message, Jack found himself interested in you. You matched him easily in his banter, had fun quips ready to respond to his, and he found that he had fun talking to you. Despite the unnatural arrangement of him paying you for conversation, it felt weirdly natural between the two of you.

As time went on, your messages developed from the regular get-to-know conversations to more banter and comments that bordered on flirty. Jack couldn’t ignore it, the pull he felt towards you, and he couldn’t help but indulge in it. It was just too easy to compliment you, or tease you, because your personality drew him in with something he hadn’t felt in a really long time.

He found himself telling you things he didn’t tell a lot of other people, some things even Robby didn’t know about. Jack told you about his past; his time as a war physician, his leg that had gotten amputated, his late wife. You took it all in stride and somehow it didn’t feel awkward after he’d told you, like it did with most people, but he rather felt much lighter in the chest. However, he did not tell you about his problems sleeping, at keeping the trauma at bay, because he didn’t want to worry you. In truth, he didn’t want to be a bother.

It was ironic that he wanted you to be able to rely on him, so he could take care of you, but he was afraid of being a burden to you. So, instead, he usually sent you small comments each day, updates about his shifts or his coworkers, or just little observations about you. He could talk to you for hours if you’d let him.

You had told him about starting a new job soon. You’d still be a paediatric nurse, but it was in a new hospital because your last one hadn’t treated you so well, is what you had said. You hadn’t shared which hospital it was, and Jack hadn’t pried. It wasn’t like he wasn’t curious, because he was—when it came to you, he wanted to know practically everything he could—but he didn’t want to force any information you weren’t willing to give up. And you had made it clear that you weren’t ever going to meet, so what was the point? He couldn’t pretend that he wasn’t the slightest bit of disappointed by that fact, but he refused to let it cloud his relationship with you.

It got you talking about your jobs one afternoon, almost three months in.

JACK I don’t think I could ever do pedes. I tried it during my MS days, but it’s way too boring for me.

YOU Hey, watch your words, old man.

JACK Oh I know you’re not calling me old man, kid.

YOU Keep running your mouth and I will keep calling you that.

JACK Okay, sorry. It’s way too… Advanced for me.

YOU OK, now you’re just being patronising.

JACK Alright, let’s just say it’s not for me. Don’t get me wrong, I do like kids. But there’s something about how busy the ER gets that keeps me coming back.

YOU And that’s fine. I love pedes because it’s so much calmer. The ER stresses me out. And well, kids can be really sweet. It’s just like night shifts are not for me. They sound brutal, I don’t know how you do them.

JACK My therapist thinks I find comfort in the darkness. I like nights. Don’t you?

YOU OK Batman. I like sleeping through them.

JACK I can’t argue with that.

YOU Damn right you can’t. I’m sorry, Jack, no matter how much I like you my bed will always be my #1.

His heart skipped a beat at that. You liked him, you had said. Then he shook his head, mentally berating himself. No, you had merely meant platonically that you liked him—nothing more than that. You had made it painfully clear that you wanted this relationship to stay professional, despite his unconscious attempts at flirting. He couldn’t help it! You were just too easy to compliment.

JACK That’s hurtful, you know?

YOU You can handle it.

JACK I’m not so sure, I might need some reassurance now.

YOU I think you’re being a baby. But, sure. [ATTACHMENT: 1 Photo]

What you had sent had Jack choking on a breath, his eyes flitting over the phone screen in rapid movements. He could feel the beating of his heart as he took in the view before him. What you had sent him was a picture of your chest, your skin revealed by the top buttons of your shirt being unbuttoned, and your throat adorned by a silver chain. It wasn’t even that revealing—Jack saw plenty of undressed guys at work every night—but something about the thought of you posing for him to see this made his stomach tighten.

JACK You must be an amazing nurse because I’m suddenly all better.

Maybe he had read you wrong—or, well, right. Maybe you did want something more with him, despite what you had said. Or, were you only sending that because you felt pressured by him? Oh god.

He rubbed a hand over his neck, closing his eyes. Had he been too forward, too much? Had he made you  feel so uncomfortable you felt you had to play along with him in order to still receive the money? The knot in his stomach wasn’t from happiness anymore, but now from worry. He silently cursed himself. You had made it so clear to him and still he kept walking that line between flirtatious and platonic because he couldn’t keep his damn feelings in check. Sure, he was a flirt by nature, but you managed to draw it out of him so easily, and he wanted to with you.

Jack decided to try to keep himself in check from now on, despite how difficult it would be.

———

Today was the day: the day you started at your new job.

You were slightly nervous, seeing as this hospital seemed much better than your last and you really wanted to keep this job, so you couldn’t fuck up. Despite their ER being nicknamed ‘The Pitt’, you were impressed by their stats and by the few members of staff you had met at your interview. And besides, you weren’t going to be working in the ER, but in the paediatrics department.

A message from Jack and you smiling at your phone. Somehow, he knew you would be nervous for this without even having to tell him anything. That’s how well he knew you.

JACK Hey kid, good luck today. I know you’ll knock it out of the park.

YOU Thank you, Jack.

The message ended up not being needed, since your first day went swimmingly. You decided against telling Jack that, though, because any praise or encouragement was more than welcome from him.

To be honest, anything he sent was more than welcome. Usually it was banter, a flirty comment here and there that never failed to put a smile to your face and made you question the nature of your relationship, or some updates from his work and the occasional gossip about his colleagues. Sometimes it were heavier things, like things from his past that made you frown with sympathy for him, because no one deserved to have gone through all that. But it never got heavier than that.

That’s why it came as such a surprise when he called you in the middle of the day when you were at work, his breathing uneven and words clipped with a cadence that you didn’t usually hear from him.

“Hey, I— I’m sorry, it’s… fuck!” he started, then coughed. “I’m bothering you—”

You immediately put down what you were doing, rushing to go into an empty room. “You’re not bothering me, what’s up?”

“I—I just, fuck. I can’t—” He was breathing heavier now, sounding as if he was gasping for air but unable to take any in.

“Oh shit, Jack. Jack, listen to me. Just breathe. Hey, focus on me,” you tried, calming your voice to the one you usually used for patients in distress. Jack needed you, and that was all you needed to know for you to enter a deep state of focus.

“I can’t breathe, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” you interrupted him. “Listen to me, I know you can do this. Just focus on my voice. Breathe in…and breathe out. Slowly. And again. In… and out…”

There were several minutes of silence, the only sounds being Jack’s breathing on the other side of the line. They were ragged, heavy and deep, with quiet sobs accompanying them every once in a while. You waited patiently, a steady presence for him to lean on. You only wished you could do more for him.

When the breathing had gotten quieter on his end you dared speak again. “Jack, how’re you doing?

“Uh, better. Not great.” His voice sounded like full of gravel, thick with unshed tears and sobs that he seemed to be choking down.

“Okay, that’s something,” you said. You took a breath before asking, “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

Jack sniffled. “I, uh, had a pretty bad dream. From the war.”

Ah.

“I was back there, and, um, I was getting shot at and, uh, shit, and—” His voice was getting unstable again, his words quivering as he got worked up again. You interrupted him before he had the chance to.

“Hey, it’s okay, you don’t have to explain more,” you said.

You heard a small laugh come out of him. “I just, fuck, all I could think about when I woke up was you.”

His voice sounded pained and heavy with memories of his time as a soldier and you could only imagine the trauma he carried with him from it. A stab of pain shot within you in empathy for him. A sudden urge to be there, physically, with him to be able to hug and hold him better.

“Listen, Jack, it’s OK,” you said, trying to stop any oncoming protests from him.

It didn’t work. “I’m sorry,” he breathed. “I know this is far beyond what our agreement was—”

“I don’t mind, seriously. I like being here for you.” You said the last part especially slow so that he could really understand how much you meant those words. You don’t even think you had known how much you meant them before that moment, but now you did.

“Oh, thank God.” He let out a relieved laugh, before sucking in a breath. “Don’t know what I would’ve done if you turned me down.”

A smile spread across your lips. “I would never do that.”

He cleared his throat and let out a small laugh. “I think I’m good to go now. I need to try to get some more sleep, and you should… go back to work?” His words were clipped and dismissive, as if he wasn’t telling the entire truth.

You frowned, but nodded. “Are you sure? Please, I don’t want you saying that just to not worry me.”

“I— thank you. But I am seriously alright,” Jack said, and you chose to believe him. “I’ll send the money later. Thank you.”

That made you pause. “Don’t you dare,” you said quickly.

“What?” came his shocked reply.

“Jack, you know I care about you,” you said, your shoulders relaxing. Did you really need to spell it out for him? “Let me be here for you, without the money.”

There was a small moment of quiet where you feared he wouldn’t respond. When he did, his voice was smaller, somehow. “Okay—I will talk to you later?”

“I can’t wait,” you chirped, smiling.

———

Jack was confused.

The way you had spoken to him and cared for him, without the expectation of money, made him feel all warm inside and as if your relationship had grown outside of your agreement. Maybe it wasn’t such a crazy thought to have. Jack found himself smiling more since he had begun talking to you and even imagining meeting you in real life, despite that you had said that would never happen on the very first day. He had to respect your wishes, because he was nothing if not a gentleman.

No longer was he only losing sleep because of the nightmares from the war, but he also found himself thinking about you. When he closed his eyes, all he could think about was how you would look and all he could hear was your voice, talking to him in that sweet way of yours. It kept him up, thinking about you, but he found that he didn’t mind one bit. Especially as it seemed that you were just as eager to talk to him as he was to talk to you.

YOU I’ve been thinking.

JACK Should I be worried?

YOU Thinking about you.

JACK Okay now that sounds more promising. Can’t say I don’t think about you either.

YOU I’m relieved to hear that. Well, I’ve been wondering what you look like.

JACK Wow is my sparkling personality not enough? You need to see my handsome face as well to satisfy your needs?

YOU I don’t know if I would describe your personality as sparkling.

JACK You didn’t deny about the handsome face part.

YOU I haven’t seen it yet so I can’t really judge, can I? That was sorta the point.

JACK No you don’t want to see this old face. Surely it’s got nothing on yours.

YOU I wouldn’t be so sure. What Jack, are you shy?

JACK I don’t get shy.

YOU Time to put your money where your mouth is, then. I’ve heard your voice and if you look anything like how you sound I’m sure I won’t be disappointed.

A warmth that had nothing with the actual temperature in his apartment spread across his body, feeling it colour his cheeks. How could you say those sort of things and not expect them to affect him? There was no way you weren’t aware at this point, but the thought that you were aware and still did it made his cheek grow even warmer. Fuck, what were you doing to him? And he hadn’t even seen you or met you! Not that he would ever do the latter thing, anyway.

JACK Jeez I knew you were a charmer but not like this.

YOU That isn’t a no.

JACK Fine. But only if you also send a photo of yourself. This is an equal partnership you know.

YOU That sounds fair, but you first since I asked first.

JACK If you insist. [ATTACHMENT: 1 Photo]

It felt as if the beating of his heart thundered in his throat as he stared at the three dots on his screen. Despite his usual confidence, Jack was scared. He knew that he was good looking, if all the comments he had received over the years was anything to go by. But he felt an unusual sense of nervousness at the thought that you would finally see what he looked like and reject him—which was ridiculous, but still he couldn’t help it. He wanted so badly for you to think he looked good, because the alternative was too scary.

YOU You have freckles.

JACK How did you know that’s exactly what I wanted to hear?

YOU Sorry, I just wasn’t expecting it. It suits you.

JACK Thanks? I hope.

YOU Yes, it’s a compliment. Thought you wanted more of them. Now take it.

JACK Wow bossy. I kind of like it.

YOU What can I say? I have many sides.

JACK I can’t wait to see them all. Now you go.

YOU Since you asked so nicely. [ATTACHMENT: 1 Photo] Can’t wait to hear all your compliments now.

Fuck, Jack thought as he stared at the photo you had sent. He felt the threads that kept him together so carefully start to unravel, because it couldn’t be, could it? But he knew he was lying to himself, trying to convince himself that what he was seeing wasn’t true. There was no doubt about it, it was you. The same nurse he had caught a glimpse of in the hallways a few days ago at the Pitt. He had thought you were handsome, his eyes following your movements, and of course Robby had teased him about it.

But now that it meant that the guy he had been talking to and grown closer with over the better part of three months, who he was effectively dreaming and thinking about every free moment he had, who could put a smile to his face much easier than anybody else he knew, and who he had made peace with never meeting, was the same guy he was looking forward to seeing on the rare chance he’d come to the ER. Which meant that you could be meeting, which he was sure you did not want. Sure, you could have been flirting with him this entire time, but you had made it painfully clear that you did not want to meet up.

YOU Jack? Hello? OK, I was only joking, you know?

Fuck, what was he supposed to do with this now? He couldn’t ignore you and he couldn’t lie about the fact that he knew you worked at the same hospital as him.

A reminder popped up on his phone that his SWAT shift was starting soon and he cursed. He didn’t have time to think through what to say to you, but figured he would respond later when he was free. Jack thought that he could use the time on his shift to figure out what to respond with.

———

Fuck.

That was the first thought that flew through your mind. 

First it had been because of finally seeing Jack’s face because, unfortunately, he was unfairly attractive despite his older age. Second, it had been because he wasn’t responding to any of your messages.

What the fuck was Jack thinking, leaving you on seen like that? You had sent your picture, just like he had, and then he didn’t respond? Did he not know the effect he had on you? This was something that could easily send you spiralling, and it would have, had you not been called in for work.

It was looking to be a busy 4th of July, but without any other plans you might as well work and earn some extra pay. If nothing else, it would also keep your mind off of Jack and his lack of reply.

You had finally seen the looks of him and he was the very picture of handsome silver fox, someone you would dream about had you met them for real. The fact that the sarcastic and funny guy you had gotten to know the last three months was someone this good looking sent your mind spiralling somewhere too far for you to reach right now.

So, you did the only thing you could: put on some gloves and got to work.

You had been right, it was a busy day. Other than the normal chaos of a holiday, it was unusually hot today and Westbridge hospital had been closed down as well, so the PTMC was taking the brunt of it. It was difficult to keep track of everything amidst the chaos. A the beginning of your shift, you had gotten a call from the ER that they had a baby Jane Doe who needed tending, and despite your dislike for the ER you had gone down to check on her every once in a while throughout the day.

However, as you went down slightly after 12 PM, you were met with a sight you had not expected. You had just checked on the baby when you went to the reception to talk to Princess. Despite not working in the ER, it was difficult not to become friends with the other nurses here, as they were more than chatty and sometimes friendly..

A team in army uniforms, ‘POLICE’ written over their chests, rushed inside from the ambulance bay with a gurney carrying another one of them between them all. A figure you recognised as Dr. Robby moved to them immediately, looking to the man who was holding the ventilator balloon to the patient.

You followed his gaze and swore your heart stopped.

He was rattling off the words, looking increasingly stressed. “Intubated neck wound, sats not great. We were diverted here.” Then he turned to the reception, and you hoped against everything that he wouldn’t notice you. Luckily, he seemed to only briefly glance up and shout, “Is there a trauma room open?”

Princess pointed to a room to the right. “Trauma 1,” she replied.

As they all went into the trauma room, you felt your breath return to somewhat normal, the initial shock settling for something else. You had to be seeing things, right? It couldn’t be him.

But however much you tried to convince yourself, you knew you were wrong. Despite only having seen one picture of him, you knew you would recognise that man anywhere. It was the same salt and pepper curls, the same faint constellation of freckles smattered over his face, and that same voice. The voice you had so often heard on your calls with him and more often than not in your dreams about him, as well. And the fact that he was dressed in a SWAT uniform. It all checked out. There was no doubt on the matter. It was Jack.

You still had to make sure, however, so you turned to Princess and cocked your head to trauma room 1. “Who the fuck is that?” you asked.

She tilted her head to the side. “Who?”

“The guy in the military uniform.”

Her answer confirmed both your worst fears and your greatest hopes. “Oh, that’s Dr. Jack Abbot. He’s the attending on the night shift.” She glanced at your face, smirking smugly. “Smoke show, right?”

“Right. OK. Fucking great.” You nodded, absentmindedly, before turning to go back upstairs.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

You swore inwardly with every step that you took up the stairs. What were the chances, out of all the hospitals in America, or even in Pittsburgh, that Jack had to work at the very same as you? Technically, he had been working here longer than you, but that fact didn’t matter. All that mattered was that the man you had tried but effectively failed to get out of your head, was some kind of boss to you. Not directly, of course, since you answered to the paediatric department. But every once in a while, against your will, you would be called down to the ER when they were short-staffed, and that would put you under Jack.

You dragged a hand across your face, groaning. You couldn’t believe your luck, that the man you were practically dreaming about and definitely flirting with was your once-removed boss. Would you need to get HR involved? No, nothing had happened. Yet, a small part of your brain supplied helpfully. But you and Jack had agreed to never meet, so what you would do with this information now was as of yet unclear to you.

That was also when you remembered the fact that Jack had avoided answering to the photo you had sent him. You had never thought of yourself of ugly or anything of the sort, but maybe you just weren’t his type? Maybe that was the reason he hadn’t replied. The thought of then having to see him in person, knowing of all the times you had flirted with him and must have embarrassed yourself, mortified you beyond anything else. You weren’t sure if you could live with knowing the answer.

But not knowing was so much worse, you realised, and against your better judgment you stormed back down to the ER in search of him. You grabbed hold of the first nurse you saw, which happened to be Jesse.

“Hey, is Dr Abbot here?” you asked, trying to sound more cool than you felt.

He blinked at you before nodding. “I think I saw him go into Central 7.”

“Great, thanks,” you threw over your shoulder as you rushed in the direction.

Without allowing yourself a moment to hesitate, you threw open the door and pushed away the curtains. There, shirtless and tall, stood Jack Abbot in all of his glory. He had his back turned to you, showing off the broad muscles that rippled under his skin as he moved, as well as the constellations of freckles that extended across his shoulders and down his arms. God, he was in good shape, was the first thought that popped into your traitorous mind. The second being that there was a wound on his left shoulder, but that fact catalogued itself somewhere in the back of your brain in favour of the view of a shirtless Jack in front of you.

“Jack?” you said, before your brain had time to catch up with the fact that you were currently seeing him shirtless, of all things. “Oh, shit—” Here’s to first meetings, you supposed.

He turned around with a frown before his brows lifted in shock. “Yeah? Oh.”

You bit your lip, crossing your arms over your chest. Jack looked just as good from the front as he did from the back. You had to physically shake your head to rid your thoughts, focusing instead on meeting his eyes. God, he had a steady gaze, you realised. It was difficult not to feel put on the spot underneath it.

“Maybe I should be calling you Dr. Abbot, instead?” you asked, although rather unkindly.

Jack only nodded dumbly, his mouth still hanging open slightly.

You grimaced. “You know, for a man who can never seem to shut up you’re being unusually quiet.”

“Uhuh, well,” he croaked, his voice unusually unstable. Then he let a small smile lift the corner of his mouth. “I am just a bit caught off guard. What are you doing here?”

“I work here. Well, in pedes upstairs.” You gestured upwards, scoffing as if it was obvious.

“Right,” he replied, those beautiful hazel eyes narrowing at you. “What are you doing down here? Thought you said the ER stresses you out.”

“It does,” you said, frowning slightly. You were surprised he remembered that detail you had mentioned in passing. “You remember that?”

“Yeah, of course.” Something about those simple words twisted something in your stomach. The casualness that he said it with, as if it had been obvious that he would remember the small things you told him.

You cleared your throat, coming out of your thoughts to answer his earlier question. “Got an abandoned baby that I was called down to check on. The better question is what you’re doing here? As far as I’m aware, it’s not night.”

“Good solve, Sherlock.”

Even in person, Jack was quick to answer with a witty remark. Gods dammed his wit and his sarcasm and his humour. He was just as attractive in person as he was over the phone, if not more, and his intense stare made you want to avert your eyes. Was it always this intense, or did it just feel extra so under the circumstances?

“This is less than ideal,” he finally said after clearing his throat.

“Yeah,” you breathed out. You took in his shirtless torso, quickly looking away so that he wouldn’t notice your staring. “Do you want me to come back? Give you a moment?”

“No,” Jack replied with a small smile. He was sitting down now and putting forward medical supplies and bandages. “It’s okay.”

To avoid whatever that meant, you focused on the task his hands were doing, which also meant you had to keep your thoughts in check, because damn, even his hands were attractive. You cleared your throat. “What happened to you?

“Oh. Bullet grazed my vest,” he said simply, his eyes on his hands, as casual as if you had asked him about the weather.

“You got shot?”

“Shot at,” he corrected, eyes flitting up to yours. “It’s no big deal. I can take care of it myself.”

As Jack said that, you saw him reach a cotton swab with a lotion over his shoulder, struggling to get the angle right. After a few minutes of craning his neck, you sighed and stepped forward, relaxing from your tense posture.

“Let me help you,” you said, beginning to put on a pair of gloves.

His head turned in your direction as he grimaced, his hand gesturing as if to wave you away. “No, don’t worry about me, I’m fine.”

An eyebrow raised in his direction. “Now who’s the one being too stubborn to accept help. I’m a nurse, let me do my job.” You stepped around him, holding out your hand for him to give you the swab.

“A nurse in paediatrics,” Jack pointed out, but relented with a small sigh. The brief brush of your gloved fingers meeting his ungloved one caused shivers to travel up your arms, almost as if you had been shocked by electricity.

You scoffed. “That doesn’t matter. A wound is a wound.”

You began cleaning his wound, carefully inspecting him for any sign of discomfort. Instead, you only found how much more handsome he looked up close. You could see the small wrinkles on his forehead, the way his eyes stayed dutifully ahead of him, and his posture was as straight as a soldier’s. Not the only thing that remained from his war days, you thought as you sneaked a glance at his right leg. But it didn’t make him look old, no. He looked like a weathered man, with tons of stories held inside that pretty head of his.

Your thoughts went back to the conversation at hand, sighing as you swapped the cotton swab for another. “Y’know, I never pegged you for one to look down on other areas of medicine,” you mentioned.

“Sorry, I don’t,” he said, shrugging a bit as if bashful. “I’m just still surprised that I’m actually seeing you right now. That we’re finally meeting.”

You tilted your head. “You don’t sound so surprised.”

It took a second for him to answer, and it was with a grimace you could only half see has he turned his head away from you. “Well, I knew you worked here.”

You paused in your movements. What? “And you didn’t say anything? How long have you known?”

“Only found out when you sent your picture,” he admitted, craning his neck to meet your eye. “I recognised you.”

“What?”

“It’s hard to forget a face like yours.” Jack’s smirk was infectious and you had to fight your own from forming as he then shook his head. “Sorry, that was inappropriate.”

“No, um,” you cleared your throat, “what do you mean by that?”

Jack shrugged sheepishly. “Just that I noticed you, even before knowing that you are, well, you.”

“Oh,” was your only reply, continuing to clean his wound. “Well, I hope that’s a good thing.”

“Very.”

You could almost hear the smirk in his voice, that tone that you had gotten painfully familiar with over the past couple of months. And God was it a blessing to be able to see it now in person, finally witnessing how it made his eyes scrunch up in delight, wrinkles forming around them, and it made him look exactly as self assured as you had pictured during your long talks.

You ignored it in favour of putting down the cotton swab and beginning to dress his wound, clearing your throat at the same time.

“So, care to tell me the story behind this?” you asked, just to get away from his burning gaze.

Jack looked down into his lap, his smirk dropping. “Geniuses thought today was the day to rob a goods warehouse. Didn’t think about how long it would take to load the appliances. They panicked. All hell broke loose.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, applying the wound dressing. “Why do you do this?”

“My therapist said I needed a hobby,” he said as he shrugged.

You scoffed. “Thought that was the reason you reached out to me, remember?”

“I can have two hobbies.”

Your hands smoothed out the dressing before you removed the gloves and stepped around Jack, shaking your head. “Not if one is putting you under active fire.”

“Careful, it almost sounds like you care.”

When you looked at him you saw a tiny smirk playing on the edge of his lips. You averted your eyes from them, raising an eyebrow and humming a reply. As you turned around to walk away, Jack’s hand shot out to grab your wrist.

“Listen,” he started, letting go of your hand. You already missed the warmth from his skin. “I wanted to say sorry.”

“For what?” Your voice was carefully devoid of any emotion that he had managed to stir up in you.

“For not answering, earlier.”

You merely hummed as a reply.

His eyes looked up to you, now shadowed by a hint of guilt and sadness, not unlike the eyes of a puppy. It made something twist inside you, a twinge of guilt suddenly shooting inside you from the knowledge that you were the cause of it. “It wasn’t cool of me, I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“You didn’t worry me,” you said, way too quickly.

He ignored your words, still keeping that damned eye contact. “I should have just responded right away, but I wasn’t sure what to say. Or do. You said you didn’t want to meet, so…” He chuckled, sounding a bit unsure of his own words.

You tilted your head to the side, crossing your arms over your chest. “So, what, you figured you would keep it secret that we worked in the same hospital? Just so we’d never meet.”

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” Jack explained, a pleading tone now sneaking into his voice.

You sighed, rubbing a hand over your face. “Jack, I’ve told you. You could never make me uncomfortable.”

Something in his eyes lit into a spark. “Really?”

“Please,” you chuckled, glancing to the side with a hint of a smile. “The fact that you were ever worried… is kind of attractive.”

The words were out of your mouth before you could stop them. You closed your eyes in frustration and berated yourself. It was one thing to flirt over text, because that gave you plausible deniability. But admitting he was attractive after he had effectively ignored you for the better part of the day after had had finally seen your face, was something else. If he really wasn’t interested and you hadn’t chased him away yet, you would surely have done it now.

However, when you looked back to Jack, meeting his gaze, all you could see was the mirth in his eyes.

“You think so?” he asked, and that smug smirk was back on his face.

Your eyes narrowed at him, taking in the way he was leaning slightly forward and looking up into your eyes, all open and honest. There was something in the way he was looking at you that made your stomach twist, but not in a bad way, as if he knew something you didn’t. You didn’t know what, but it felt like the air had suddenly gotten heavier in the room, your shoulders tensing and lips pressing together.

That smug smile on his face made you roll your eyes. “Fuck off, you know you’re good-looking.”

Jack’s head tilted to the side, but his eyes never left yours. “Hmm, is that so? And do you find me that? Good looking?”

He was enjoying this more than he should. “Perhaps,” you said and shrugged, despite yourself. “Although I must say your picture does not quite make you justice.”

“Now, that’s a compliment.” His smile had widened, reaching his eyes as well and the sight was almost too much for you.

“I do know how to give compliments, y’know,” you said with a scoff.

“Would love to hear more of them,” Jack replied with small nod.

You gave him a meaningful glare. “Don’t know if your ego could take it.”

At that, his smile widened into a grin. “I can take more than you think.”

Your narrowed eyes met his smug ones and you had to fight the urge not to smile. He really had a reply to everything, this man. Then your eyes flitted down to his body, noticing the army pants he still wore, remembering how good he had looked in his SWAT uniform earlier.

“In that case,” you started, “you fill out that uniform quite well.”

“You should see me as a flight attendant,” Jack said. He didn’t miss a beat, his eyes still trained on you, eyes flitting all over your face.

“Mmm, bet.” When you noticed he wasn’t saying anything else, but merely staring at your face, you spoke again.“Jack.”

He nodded. “Mhm.”

“You’re staring.”

“I’m just looking,” he said, but he was definitely staring.

You lifted an eyebrow at him, taking in the way he was staring at you. More than once, you had noticed how his eyes flitted down to your lips and that made your stomach fill with warmth. “No, you’re looking at me as if…”

“As if what?” he asked, head tilted but that smile on his face that told you he knew exactly what you meant.

“No, forget it,” you countered, ever so stubborn.

Jack stood up, now looking at you from your eye-level. “Tell me.”

You tried to discern whatever he was trying to say behind those eyes, but all you could see was a hint of teasing and hopefulness in them, as if wanted you to say exactly what you were thinking. Could he really want the same thing as you, even after all this time?

You furrowed your brows but finally said what was on your mind. “As if you wanna kiss me.”

“Would that be so bad?” His smile formed into something kinder, softer, as he took a step closer. 

You shook your head before your mouth had a chance to catch up. “No, not really.”

“In that case, may I?” he asked, as one hand reached out to caress your cheek, the other landing on your small back. Your arms uncrossed themselves to grab his arms and the nape of his neck. You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you at his question—the fact that he even had to ask.

“We’re at work,” you whispered, despite wanting to relent and press into him with all that you had.

Jack closed his eyes in frustration, forehead pressed against yours. He was so close, yet so far away…

“Fuck,” he muttered. Despite all his feelings for you and the desire to do nothing else than press you up against a wall right there and then, he still had some sort of decorum and professionalism in him. But when he gazed at you, looking so handsome in his arms, his resolve started to dissolve bit by bit. “I’m not on the clock, though.”

“But I am.”

Jack bit his lip as he looked away, swiftly stepping out of your grasp and going over to close the door of the room before he pulled the curtain closed as well. Then he stepped closer to you, the question written in his eyes as clear as days. You couldn’t help but grin at him, at the slight flustered breath as he leaned in closer.

“You’re such a dork. C’mere.” You saw his eyes soften as they traveled down to your lips.

“Thank god,” was all he said as he leaned in and met your lips with his.

Jack’s skin was warm as he pressed closer to you, his lips moving against yours with a hunger and firmness you weren’t expecting. The way he moved his hands over your body made you groan into his lips which only made him grasp you harder. He felt heavenly against you, the way his warmth seeped into yours.

You grasped the nape of his neck, deepening the kiss by pushing against him. It was hard to ignore his shirtless torso as well, so you made sure to run your hand down his back, noticing the shivers that erupted in your fingers’ wake. He let out a low moan at that and you made sure to file that information away for future use. When you pulled away, his full blown pupils were staring into yours with smirk on his lips.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he breathed, his lips venturing further south as he placed small kisses against your chin, your throat, down to your collarbone.

You let out something that was a mix between a laugh and a moan. “I think that broke the rules of our agreement.”

“Fuck the agreement,” Jack said as he met your eye properly. “I want you, with or without it.”

Your smile turned crooked. “Does this mean you’ll stop paying me?”

“No, you should be prepared to be spoiled even more,” he replied, his own smirk widening.

“You don’t have to, Jack,” you said, meeting his gaze with a meaningful glare.

Jack merely stepped even closer, incasing you in his strong arms, his lips lowering to your ear as he whispered, “I want to.” And looking into those eyes of his, you think you finally believed him when he said that.

Someone has torn you open. No, torn is not the right word. Torn implies a sort of violence, mindless and agonizing. This was not that. This was not gore, not the splatter of blood. It is not an incessant, constant dripping sound of red falling atop tiles. A small sort of blip, or a plink, or something akin to a faucet left to battle the cold. So that the pipes do not freeze. So that they do not burst open with gaping, screaming mouths. No, no, not a sort of tearing or pulling, no tugging, no sort of strength was used. No brute force. You were not ripped wide apart. Yes, your ribcage was splayed for the world to see, broken on impact, though that was not their doing. Not fully, anyways. This was precise. It was beautiful, really. Technical. Skillful. It was inspiring. The kind of abuse mentors wait their entire careers to mend, hone in all their knowledge, their hope, into saving. A mental feat for your fellow doctors, for nurses and surgeons, for everyone who worked to save you. The kind of handiwork that made even God Himself jealous, as if they were defying him, as if they were mocking him, for He is a creator, after all. And yet, in that operating room, beneath those blinding lights, lying on that table, with their hands inside of you, they forgot themselves. Forgot their place as man. As mortals.

They played a dangerous game, one you’re not sure is worth participating in, nevermind winning. 

Hours they spent reconstructing, placing the pieces back together. Some parts were not broken or ruined, but obliterated. Shredded. They did the best they could. You shouldn’t have been alive let alone conscious. Kissed by metal, by death, the accident was brutal. Some dead on impact, others, like you, miraculously breathing, hearts beating faintly. Defiantly. In and out. Moments, it felt like a split second. Paramedics you recognized, who recognized you back. Your badge is still attached to your scrubs. Bloodied, smeared, their eyes wide. You would have cracked a joke, eased the tension, but it took so much effort to move, to speak. Adrenaline pumping through your veins, spilling out onto the concrete, into the glass of your shattered windshield. Atop a stretcher, neck and back secured, an animal cries out in desperation. It is high, it is gurgled, it is a voice you should recognize as your own.

Tasting metal, copper. The change you had in your cupholder must’ve been on the highway, cast far enough away so that you would never find it. Someone might, though. Pick up a lucky penny, a tooth thrown from its socket. A molar, you think, hoping there’s no gap in your smile. Their words are frantic, rushed, but unintelligible. You would know, though, you would understand. You want to beg them to slow down, to assess the damage as they have done, but your jaw stays locked shut. Set in place. Heavy, made of stone. It’s a language you have mastered, one you taste every time you step through those emergency room doors. They speak fast, frantic, and you wish to cling to the terms, the numbers, the data you are made up of. Their tones sound scared.

Perhaps it really is that bad. Perhaps it’s because you’re one of their own. You pray for the latter. 

A blink, a moment of quiet, before the sirens roar through your cracked skull, threatening to split it into shards. Picture it, a knife of bone stabbed into them, into their place of worship. Your brain is defenseless, without a shield, without something to cradle it. It might help with the swelling. You beg them to turn it down, turn it off, your hand grabbing at their wrist, squeezing tight. No sound comes out, nothing you can hear, nothing you can make out over the screeching song. They mistake it for fear, for panic, easing your worries with a false sense of confidence. A positivity that turns your stomach. A grin that bares all their teeth. It’s the eyes, though. They never lie. When you meet them, they are already mourning, preparing the body for burial. Stop it! You want to scream, for even in this state, you know how awful this must look. How undeniably bad the outcome will be if they do not hurry.

If you are going to slip away, the least they could do is let you go peacefully. Shut down the alarm. Let your own wet, labored gasps lull you to sleep. That is what is right, that is what is humane. Instead, the ambulance shakes and stumbles, racing to the finish line. Someone sits on their horn, the noise piercing, forcing a murmur from your throat. It’s not the accident that will kill you, it’s the sound. You reach up, your sleeves torn and tattered, trying to put your hands, childishly, over your ears. A whine escapes you. Mistaken for pain, for discomfort, they drip something into your IV. Just when you think it’s going to burst something inside of you, just when it builds and blares, you are rocked into a moment of silence. A cold, deep sleep you welcome, you love, hoping this will be the end. This is your reward. Your final destination. 

It’s the overhead lights that burn your eyes. Blinding, sterile. Do all hospitals use the same fluorescents? Or just the one you work at? You recognize the cracks in the ceiling, the water stains that mysteriously resemble countries. One shaped like Italy, the one beside it, Vietnam. Beside them is Russia. Not the time, you remind yourself, realizing how fast you’re being pushed. Their faces painted with worry, with a false sense of security. You know them. You name them, fighting against the brace around your neck. Late, you think,  you were late for work. 

That’s all. 

Would have missed the changing of the guards, the pleasantries exchanged, the charts handed over. Would have missed it. But the ambulance was quick, and you made it just in time. Everyone was here to see the wreckage, to get a look, their collective stomachs dropping upon realizing the mess before them was a coworker, a friend. Dana at your side, her hand soft in yours, her mouth moving softly. In what? Prayer? No, not scripture. Not that kind of faith. Her eyes move from you to the paramedics, taking in their every word. The gurney rattles, sending shocks down your spine. That’s a good sign, you think, it means you haven’t lost feeling. Robby looks sick, his eyes glazed over momentarily. What was he seeing? Who had he replaced you with? John had gone pale, his face losing all color. Ghostly. You want to pinch some life back into his cheeks, reach out and touch him. Check his pulse. Something has truly scared him. You want to laugh. Laugh a sort of belly laugh, the kind that leaves your sides aching, tears streaming down your cheeks. You were running late, that was all. You’d be here any moment. Earn yourself a stern look, a jab, a wise-crack from the night shift. You’re making the day shift look bad, someone might say, and you could not disagree. It was only a joke. Harmless.

There was nothing harmless about this. 

Just give me a minute, you open your mouth to say, but you cannot get a word in. Transferring you to a bed where needles start to poke down your skeleton, your chest caving in, a fire burning through your middle. Just give me a minute, you need to explain, I was looking for my keys. Forgot them on the dryer. Searching for a clean shirt, the clock ticking. Only a few minutes. You’d walk through those doors disheveled, tired, but ready. Prepared. You’d sit up, wipe the blood from your clothes, shake the rubble from your hair. You’d tell them it was all a big misunderstanding. There were real victims coming in, needing doctors. You saw it on the way here. Seven or eight cars. Some crushed. Others merely dented. You could help. You had to prep. It was scrapes, you think, a couple bruises. Maybe a broken bone. A bandaid, that’s all. 

Instead, friends rush to your side, each of them grayer than the last. Word got out. Fighting for a place in your room. There is the low murmur of an argument. The air is tense and smells like death, like a wound. Who will treat you? Who is the most qualified? Who has the most at stake? Dana disappears, so does Robby. You call out for them, your tongue heavy in your mouth. It makes it so hard to form sentences, to form sounds, to get their names just right. It comes out as a cry. A wail. Startled, for a heartbeat everyone freezes, remembering there is a living body before them . Remembering it will expire without help. Yolanda wears a stern expression. You don’t know if she’d been called down or was already, unfortunately, in the ER. Her voice slices through the room ordering every non-essential person out. The buzzing of blood in veins and hearts trapped beneath breastbones quiets. She speaks to you as an equal and for a moment you are grateful. She does not see you as a ruin, as a set of organs to be donated, but a peer, a colleague. The words are jumbled, muffled, your ears ringing. Tears well up in your eyes, blurring the world around you. Without your sight, you cannot read her lips.

You cannot negotiate the diagnosis. 

The bed starts to move, pushed through the emergency room. Nausea threatens the back of your throat. You know, rather than feel, it’s your organs that will come up, not stomach acid. Your heart, your lungs, your liver, what’s left of them. Everyone stands back, patients momentarily forgotten, charts discarded, work on the backburner. A parade, you think, the sick kind that leaves people with nightmares. You know he’s there before you see him, your Jack-Jack. His face eclipses the bright lights, the bags under his eyes even heavier than normal. Etched deeper. He grabs your hand, keeping pace with Yolanda and her team. His voice sounds harsh, demanding, but the painkillers have left your head full of cotton. A fuzzy sort of feeling you can nest into. He’s speaking to you, now, but your eyelids are heavy, weights tied to your eyelashes. Moved to the closest operating room. They work furiously. He never lets go, never budges from your side. It’s nice, you think, it’s nice that he’s here. Maybe the ambulance wasn’t the place to go. Maybe here, on the table, where you can be dissected and studied, is where you’ll sleep. 

You won’t feel a thing. 

But you do, you feel everything, and it is excruciating. Not then, not during the surgery. The work they did, the chore of placing the pieces back together, was an artform. It was beautiful. A masterpiece, someone called you, but six months later, staring at your body in the mirror, all you see is rot. Decay. Someone who shouldn’t have lived. Sometimes you catch yourself thinking you really have died. Not during surgery, not in the ambulance. No, you never made it that far. In the wreckage, in your car, held together by your seatbelt and the steering wheel. You can’t avoid that section of road, but you try, because you worry you’ll find your own name, your own face, at the crash site. Pictures and flowers, stuffed animals and candles. The kinds of things people leave at a memorial. A holy place. You worry you don’t really exist at all. That your friends got the news that morning, leaving your white coat and stethoscope on the pavement, unknowingly marking your grave. You never made it out of that car, that seat, cradled by the twisted metal. 

You imagine that when you’re trying to fall asleep at night. Something about it is comforting. 

You can feel the metal beneath your skin. It whines when the weather is poor, when sheets of rain and round flakes fall. You move cautiously. The stitches have all healed, but the scar tissue is tough, tight, and it feels as if the wrong move might split you open. It wasn’t easy getting here. Inpatient, outpatient, PT, OT, corrective surgeries. Monitored so closely by those who loved you, who could not shake the feeling that you could be taken from them at any moment. Infections, fevers, the kind of delirium that made it all seem like a dream. Visitors every day, every hour. Some of their breaks, their lunches reheated. Others sneaking away when things were quiet, taking it upon themselves to bring gifts, things to pass the time, anything to take your mind off things. Your room piled with chairs, though they were not opposed to standing. Checking fluids, medications, pain relievers. Always fretting, antsy, ready to grab the defibrillators. They let you sleep, placing extra blankets over your body, sitting quietly, taking a moment to relax, to breathe. 

Even when you were allowed to go home, you were never alone. Weeks worth of meals prepared and dropped off with sweet notes and instructions you hung on the fridge. Babysitting, you called it. Jack-Jack and McKay and Jesse and Parker all taking turns spending their time off with you. Not just them, but everyone. Robby falling asleep in the middle of your movie. Samira baking enough treats to fatten you up. New people, too. Interns and med students were forced to help with laundry, vacuuming, the kinds of things they neglected in their own lives. They swore up and down they didn’t mind. Victoria making hospital corners on your bed, picking your brain about all the ways to butter up residents and doctors. Santos and Whitaker bickering with one another on whose turn it was to clean the bathroom. They were sweet, each of them, and you thanked them profusely, offering meals and a place to sleep when they grew too tired, too worn, from taking care of things. Dana took you to and from appointments until, finally, you were strong enough to drive yourself. 

A miraculous recovery, everyone stated, eventually deemed competent enough to go back to work. Initially eager for this, the moment they signed off on it a pitt of dread opened in your middle. An abyss where your intestines should be. You could throw things down, wait to hear it hit the bottom, but the sound never came. Sleepless nights leading up to it. You left early, drove slowly, carefully, and still you spent nearly an hour in the parking lot. In your new car that was not broken, the air freshener was too sweet, too pungent. In your new body that pulled and tugged and hurt in ways you were still getting used to. You could stay here, you thought, hide until your shift was over. No, it’ll worry everyone. Drag yourself into the cold air, the snow turned to muddy slush. Snake through the crowd of people waiting to be treated. Behind you, the ambulance blasts, the red lights mimicking bloodsplatter. You forget to breathe for a moment before reminding yourself it is not here for you, rather someone else in an unfortunate situation. 

Welcomed back with hugs, light and soft. With smiles and shoulder squeezes. Too many eyes watching. Too much awareness. How you must look (tired), how you must seem (uneasy). Still unsteady with your limp. On probation, you call it, though it makes it seem like a bad thing. Truthfully, you are grateful. Someone to shadow while you get your bearings. Placed into the kiddie pool before being thrown into the ocean. The hours are solid on your skeleton, but it’s a familiar kind of ache instead of the foreign affliction you call your new normal. Skipping your lunch break, instead hiding in the supply closet where no conversation can be made. The sirens still startle you, something you cannot shake. The concern of others, while warming, feels unnecessary. You tire quickly of the same questions, the same distress, weary from comforting others. For a few minutes you can sit amongst the IV fluids, the face masks and extra needles, and take in the quiet. Outside the thick door there are footsteps, there are cries and screams and fits, but in here you are safe. In here, you are cocooned. 

You don’t remember who you saw, their stories, only that you were thankful your shift was almost over. Taking light cases, the easy ones Robby decides are digestible. A sliced open finger. A case of the flu or dehydration. A cracked skull. You felt better, stronger, even Myrna thought so, expressing it so proudly it makes your face hot. You never left Robby’s side, trailing behind him where he spoke confidently, treating every case as if it were life-threatening, asking the right questions, quizzing you on things that seemed remedial. It wasn’t easy. You felt out of practice, rusty, but he assured you it would all come back. It was only day one. It wasn’t until the end, when the night shift started to trickle in, were you reminded what you had been fearing. What had shook you awake from violent, gory nightmares. What gnawed at you, taking up space in the back of your mind. What you could not escape in a place like this. 

You hear them before you see them. The screaming. The sobbing. The smell. Ambulances pile on top of one another, people rushed through the door. Already, paramedics are speaking, practically shouting, wasting as little time as possible. Robby leaves you to wrap a sprained ankle, following the crowd towards destruction. You keep yourself composed long enough to help, to send them on their way, before something in you starts to crack. Fracturing in half, you hold yourself together with shaking hands. When you look down, though, all you can see is the accident. A heart pumping blood, red spurting through cracked ribs. Your organs falling out from beneath your shirt, landing at your feet with a wet squelch. The stitches are loose and messy, done haphazardly. They’re not strong enough to keep you together. Some begin to split open, leaking what’s left of you onto the tiles. Someone bumps into you, taking your attention away, but when you look back, you’re fine. Not bleeding out in front of everyone, but healed in one piece. 

Still, the scene, the commotion, the panic, it’s all too much. You struggle to catch your breath. Find a way out, your instincts scream at you, and you cannot think about anything else. Run! Trapped by the uproar, stuck behind McKay who takes a patient from the wreckage. You spin, turning away from the supply closet to the nearest stairwell, but you hit someone’s steady spine, their patient being rushed to the OR. You try not to look, but it’s too late: they’re missing their front teeth. You taste metal on your tongue. You try not to gag, swallowing a mouthful of iron. Fists balled at your side, eyes taken off the bloodbath before you to the ceiling. Italy. Vietnam. Russia. The stains have darkened, their outlines blurring, the countries you name by heart are running into one another. It’s a mass, a blob, a body on concrete. You can feel the brace around your neck squeezing tight, choking you, but when you reach up, there is only skin.

As fast as you can, you flee. Dragging your corpse past the pain, the carnage, until you’ve reached the roof. You don’t even realize where you’ve gone, where you’ve chosen, until the air fills your lungs with frost. Until the wind kisses your cheeks, blowing hair from your face, cooling down the heat you didn’t realize was pooling through your veins. Until the tears that fall down your cheeks turn to icicles. Panting, crying, trying to catch your breath, but it’s too much. Hunched over, hands on knees, your back tense and pulsing. The needles are back, stabbing at you, tingling. Their words ringing in your ears. A pile up. The highway. DOA. Crushed femur. You can hear the tires screech, the metal twist, the glittering shards to glass falling around you, slicing into your forearms when you brace for impact. You pull at the phantom seatbelt feeling it tighten around you, but there’s nothing there, only the fabric of your scrubs. They feel wet, but you know better. It’s not with blood, it’s with sweat. The taste of vomit dribbles down your chin before you recognize you’ve thrown up. Shivering, sick, you cannot move. You cannot face what plays out beneath you. You can feel it still. It radiates through the floors, the walls, shaking you deep within the marrow of your bones. 

It tastes like fear. 

You don’t know how long you wait, how long you spend up there. The sky has not changed. The stars poke holes in the black, cloudless fabric. The cold leaves your skin prickling and crawling. Exhaustion settles over you like a blanket, thick and heavy. You should have gone to the supply closet, it would have been warmer. You can’t feel it anymore, the tension, the anxiety, but you’re too ashamed to face them. Too cowardice, you think, spitting again in the snow, trying to get rid of the sour taste in your mouth. Too pathetic. The sirens are long gone. Wait for them to leave, to forget about you, stay here until you freeze. Anything’s better than facing it. The blood on the floor. The gowns are covered in red. Bones protruding from bodies. Sticking out, broken and shattered. Brainmatter. Butchery. Huddled in the cold, knees to chest, you count the seconds, losing track and starting over. Rocking back and forth. For warmth, but also comfort. Something controllable in the chaos. 

The hinges on the door whine open, but the wind is loud and howling. You don’t notice until he’s crouching in front of you. He breathes a sigh of relief, his breath clouding in front of him. His teeth begin to chatter as he speaks. It’s not what you want to hear. It was too soon. . . Robby looking for you. . . feel so guilty. . . our fault. . . therapy. . . leave of absence. . . It’s not how you want to be seen, as a fragile thing that needs coddling. As someone who can’t handle what you used to love, what made you into the doctor you were. Their creation turning against them. Monstrous, you think, the face you see in the mirror unrecognizable. Plastics made sure you resembled yourself, but it isn’t that. The person you used to be doesn’t stare back at you.