FREAKAZOID

It had thrown you. The call from Karen. 

Hers was one of those numbers sat neglected in the bottom of your contacts, an old friend that occasionally made your heart stutter as you scrolled aimlessly past it to reach another.

Not that you would’ve expected her to remain close, not after what had happened.

It had been an odd place to find a friend like Karen, while you were working for the FBI. The two seemed fundamentally opposed. You’d clocked that she was using you almost immediately, you couldn’t have stumbled into public relations for a federal agency without having your wits about you. At the time, you’d figured maybe she could be of use too, it was plain to see she held a better hand than anyone bargained for.

What you hadn’t foreseen was just how much you’d actually begin to like her. She was sharp, witty, exuded an aura of certainty that most would be envious of. You felt yourself mirrored in her teeth-baring ways, both familiar with holding your own in a room full of people who thought they held the wheel.

There was something effortlessly charming about her and her companions: Nelson and Murdock always trailing somewhere not far behind. You’d always had the sense that they didn’t quite trust you the way she did.

Your heart told you that maybe it was something you’d done, your mind told you it was Ben.

Your boyfriend, at the time, Benjamin Poindexter.

Sure, you’d known that he could be abrasive, harsh even. Most would describe him as an acquired taste. But back then he’d just been Ben. It had been difficult to bite your tongue those days, when the whispers around the back of the room rang all too clearly in your ears: He’s crazy, haven’t you heard what he did to the Albanians? Do you think he hurts her? I don’t know what she sees in him.

They couldn’t have been further from the truth. Ben had his problems: you weren’t blind to the holes in his apartment walls, speckles of shattered glass that sometimes clipped your heels when you were getting water from the tap. Yes, I saw what he did to the Albanians. No, I don’t agree, but it was him or them. No, he’s never laid a finger on me. What does she see in him? Everything.

The inner mechanisms of Ben Poindexter hadn’t been a burden to bear, but a privilege to be privy to. Difficult at times. Challenging, yes. But it was all worth it to slink into his arms at the end of a long day.

Back then, you had wanted to scream the truth from the rooftops. Would’ve pleaded with anyone that would have listened. You wanted to tell them how he always brought you coffee without asking. That your clothes were always clean, pressed, and folded before you’d even known he’d put them in the laundry. That he used to trace your skin on lazy mornings, pressing kisses down the nape of your neck, staring up at you with a reverence typically reserved for deities and fanatics.

Sure, he had his quirks. He was a tad possessive; you knew that maybe he’d been a bit too into you before you’d started dating. It wasn’t unsurprising for him to appear in front of you at any given moment, no reason why or how he should’ve known you were there. Some people would’ve found it creepy, but fuck it, you liked it. You’d run into his arms screaming gleefully every fucking time.

Instead, you’d screamed when Fisk’s men had dragged you off the street into the back of a van with a gun to your head, swallowed by darkness and nothing but the earthy taste of the salt in your tears to keep you grounded. Keep you sane. You’d stayed there while most of the action took place, only reemerging when the damage was done.

Not only was Poindexter untrustworthy. Worse, he was Daredevil. He was a murderer, simple as.

Any fantasy you’d had of the man had shattered rather quickly after that. 

Karen had been there in the wake of it all, at your side, a steady weight in what would otherwise be considered a freefall. She’d wiped your tears, sat with you and a bottle of wine of the floor of your apartment as all you could do was mourn a man who never really existed. Not in the way you thought he had. Nelson, Murdock and Page could do with some PR, you know, she’d shouldered you with a coy grin splitting ear to ear.

Somewhere down the line, Murdock had become Matt, Nelson had become Foggy, and you had become a friend. Somewhere down the line, Matt Murdock became Daredevil. Sometimes it felt religious, like atonement, the work you did with them: penance for time spent advocating for lesser men with violent minds. There were some bad days speckled in there, but most were good, laughing and throwing peanuts at Josie’s with a smile plastered on your lips.

The day Foggy Nelson died was a very bad day.

You could never have been certain of it, but you knew you’d caught his eye that night. Nothing more than a brief flicker of recognition slatted between a ski mask; but you’d be a liar if you’d said it didn’t make you feel just as wounded as poor Foggy. Then Matt had thrown Bullseye from the roof, and you’d had to lurch away from Foggy’s corpse to stop yourself desecrating it with vomit.

You had moved without thinking about. It had been nothing more than a split second, a single footstep in his direction. Ben’s direction. The ember of flame long snuffed out reigniting in the pit of your stomach, the want, the need to know that he was still breathing as his neck lay snapped at that godforsaken angle.

It had been a mistake, but it had been enough for Karen.

You’d seen it in that very moment, the flicker of betrayal in her eyes – years’ worth of retribution flattened in a single motion. She’d believed you were better, but apparently you were just as sick as before. It churned your stomach to think that maybe you’d caught that sickness from Ben Poindexter all those years ago.

Her and Matt had been civil to you at the funeral, but they had left without you, and each other. Not a nod in your direction. You knew why they couldn’t stand it; you couldn’t stand it yourself, the knowledge that his hands had ever slipped into your own, that your breath and body and mind had ever mingled with the man who had used his to rip one of their oldest friends from the world.

This was all to say that when Karen called, you came.

It was against your better judgement: she’d omitted any information about why she wanted your help, what for, only offering an address and the simple fact that she needed you there. It wasn’t going to be what it seemed, you knew that much, Karen would only have avoided telling you something that she knew would’ve prevented you from coming.

It made your chest ache, to be oh so aware of an act of manipulation and to fall into it willingly, letting guilt and shame move your body before reason could take over. If she’d called, you knew it must be desperate, and your list of friends was short enough that Karen and Matt still topped it despite not hearing a whisper from them for over two years.

It makes you jump when Matt, clad in Daredevil regalia, peels the door open before you can rap your knuckles against the wood, fucking heartbeats. You jolt even more when he lurches into a bone crushing hug, pulling your body tight against his own.

“Fuck, it’s good to see you,” the smile that quirks on his lips as he pulls back is barely there, but you don’t need to hear his heart to know its genuine. Tired. His head dips, and it all too quickly morphs into something more of a grimace, “I want you to know that this wasn’t my idea. And that I’m sorry for putting you through this.”

Your jaw hinges open slightly, questions bubbling in your throat, but Karen appears beside Matt before you can wrap your tongue around the words.

She’s quieter, more resolute, and you’re not sure if the light in her eyes is fire or warmth, “Hey, thanks for showing up.”

“Of course,” you mutter, barely audible, and a tad choked, “I put my coat on the moment I picked up the phone.”

Something of a smile ghosts her lips then, and she slots an arm around your shoulder, pulling you into the apartment, “I called you because I needed your help.”

The door swings shut behind you, and it’s at that moment that she steps to the side.

She steps to the side and you see him.

The first thing you notice is his hair: it’s cut differently to way it was when you were together, a tad more clipped and shaggier on the top, a mop of blond flecked with grey. He’s covered head-to-toe in blood and gauze, head lolled to the side at an angle all too reminiscent of a night best forgotten. He’s shirtless, body an ode to damage that can be inflicted by knives and guns and god knows what – he’s bigger than he ever was when you were together.

You’re not sure if its tears welling in your eyes or vomit in your throat as you whisper into the silence, “Fuck.”

His eyes crack open almost instantly.

And then he starts fucking laughing. It’s nothing more than a breathy chuckle to begin with, mingled in with sharp inhales, but it quickly morphs into raucous laughter, throwing his head back against the bedframe in tandem with the jangle of the handcuffs shackling him down.

Karen and Matt at least have the decency to look ashamed, averting their entire bodies from your sight. You can still make out Karen worrying her lip between her teeth, her fingers clenching and unclenching in her palm. You think you hear her murmur something along the lines of fucking psycho.

“Well,” Poindexter begins with one final sardonic huff, eyes steeling into something more resolute, “aren’t you just as beautiful as they day I met you?”

It’s white and hot and instant. “Don’t you fucking dare,” you spit, “you don’t get to talk to me like that. Not you. Anyone but fucking you.”

You feel Matt’s hand rest tenderly on your shoulder, you can practically feel all that guilt emanating off him, “I’m sorry. We shouldn’t have done this. It was a bad idea.”

The feeling in your body is horrifying, a sensation that can only be described as being sick to your very soul. If the prickling of tears behind your eyes was anything to go by, you were unravelling fast. Falling to pieces in a way that had specifically been reserved for the man now sat less than three strides away.

“How could you do this?” You spin on your heel, pushing him back with as much force as you could muster, “why would you do this to me?”

It’s Karen who flitters into your eyeline then, slotting herself between you and Poindexter, and you hate the way you want to shove her out of the way for blocking your view.

“We brought you here because we can’t trust him,” her words are a slow whisper, as if she were placating some kind of animal. “We need something that we can use to keep him in line.”

“You know, Karen,” Poindexter begins casually from behind, splitting into a grin once again, “When you’re making a grand plan to control your enemies, it helps if you don’t say it while they’re in the room.”

Karen zips around in an instant, the click of a chamber echoing in the otherwise silent apartment, “Another word and I’ll put a bullet in your fucking skull, do we understand each other?”

You don’t miss the way darkness swirls in his irises as his smirk falters into something a tad more muted, and he makes no sound other than the groan of mattress springs as he reclines against the headboard. His eyes never leave you, and if you didn’t know any better you would say he was fighting to urge to blink and miss anything.

It sickened you that you felt the same way. You could only pray that it was morbid curiosity.

An exhaustion settles itself in your bones, an uncomfortable acceptance, and you can’t be bothered to whisper, “What exactly is it that you expect me to do with this?”

“We don’t expect you to do anything,” Matt interjects, pragmatic as ever, “you being here should be enough of an incentive.”

“An incentive for what exactly?”

“An incentive for him to behave,” Karen whispers, and it hits you all at once. 

You’d practically walked into your own kidnapping. They wanted to keep you here as leverage. That nearly sends your tears spilling over, that you were here not as a friend but as a pawn in some grand design. The next question only aches deeper in your chest: How far would they go? Would they threaten to hurt you if Ben – Poindexter – failed to fall in line?

You wonder if Matt can read minds as he wraps you into a hug for the second time in half an hour, “I’m sorry that we’re meeting again like this. We won’t make you stay, but – we need this. It’s bigger than us now. Bigger than him. It’s Fisk.”

Glancing over his shoulder, you can make out Karen’s guilt riddled form, hunched over in a way ill-befitting of her nature. Her laugh is short and curt, laced with exhaustion, “Is now a bad time to add that I’ve missed you?”

Something wet and tight pulls at your throat, and you push away from Matt lightly with a tired chuckle, “Yes, Kare, now would be a bad time to tell me that.”

It’s silent for a few moments after that, you eventually slot into a chair across the room, hands clasped in front of you not unlike a prayer. Matt and Karen hover around, at least having the wherewithal to act busy while you grapple with the situation at hand. The cogs turning in your brain is grating, it makes your teeth ache.

And Poindexter. He’s shameless as ever. Not grinning any longer but making no effort to hide his stare. There’s a blankness in his expression, a dismissive lilt to his gaze that would fool you if not for the way his pupils flickered over every inch of you, head to toe. Like a predator sizing up its prey. Or someone trying to commit an image to memory.

Your harsh inhale draws a stare from everyone in the room, and you steel yourself, “I’ll stay on one condition.”

Matt’s brow quirks, “What condition?”

“Let me speak to him. Alone.”

The silence becomes instantly heavier.

“Uncuffed.”

And all of a sudden, its loud. Poindexter grins.

“Absolutely not. Are you insane?”

“Yeah, no. No way that’s happening.”

You stand firm, planting your feet on the ground, “Those are my conditions. If not, I’m leaving. I deserve closure,” you falter, attempting to swallow the lump in your throat, “And how else will you know that I’m enough to keep him in line? If he hurts me, then you never had control over him anyway.”

The fight seems to draw out of the opposition at that point, both slinking down somewhat, air hissing out of their lungs. They really did need this. Karen’s mouth opens momentarily to argue before clamping shut again, running a hand through her hair in frustration. You let it run its course, determined to remain strong, and after pacing for a few moments, Matt finally relents.

“Five minutes.”

“Five minutes,” you nod, crossing your arms across your chest, “and your promise.”

His head quirks, “My promise to what?”

“Your promise not to listen to what we say in this room.”

Something of a smirk plays on Matt’s lips briefly, a knowing tell from years locked in an office together. He nods wordlessly, slowly approaching Poindexter with the key for the cuffs, “I don’t need to tell you what I’ll do to you if you hurt her.”

Karen, uncharacteristically quiet, only forces her pistol into your hands as she passes, her eyes meeting yours and saying more than words ever could. Be safe. Be smart.

Moments later, they’re gone. You can’t tell if you’re about to burst of deflate. Poindexter isn’t staring at you any longer, merely fiddling with his own hands in his lap, and if you didn’t know him any better, you would say he seemed almost nervous.

“So,” he begins casually, voice hoarse and low, “you and the Devil are friendly.”

You have to bark out a laugh, dragging a hand across your face, marching towards him, dragging a chair to sit dangerously close. Within touching distance. “You are fucking unbelievable. Nine fucking years, Poindexter, and that’s all you have to say to me?”

You watch as his body shifts, leaning in somewhat. You should lean back, they don’t teach you to approach dangerous things, after all. But it’s practically gravitational. Unintentional and unavoidable.

You can barely hear the words he exhales.

‘What? Speak up, Poindexter, it’s not like you’re quiet.”

“Please.”

That throws you for a loop, stuttering every thought to a resounding halt. You can’t help the way your head quirks to the side, finger tracing anxiously over the ridged handle of the pistol – a pathetic attempt to self-soothe.

“Please? Please what?”

“Please don’t call me that,” it’s only at that moment that he finally looks up, pupils so blown wide they could be black holes, “you used to call me Ben.”

You have to look away, bring your fist to your mouth and bite on it to stifle down the scream threatening to fight its way out of your chest. “You’re right. I used to call you that. I wonder what happened to change that? Huh? What about that, Ben?”

His whole being shudders as your mouth forms the final syllable, as though the unseen string holding everything in his body taut has been snapped loose in an instant. His expression is practically pained, teeth grinding down against each other.

“You have to know that’s not how I intended for that to happened.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s not how you intended it to happen,” you bite back, looking anywhere but him, “I’m sure you and most murderers don’t intend to go down for it.”

Something of a laugh trickles out his throat, but its painfully unnatural, “It doesn’t really matter what I did anymore, does it? I say it was Fisk, everyone else says I’m insane. I kill people, but here I am, hiding out in the same back alley as the Daredevil. In the end, it all means nothing.”

You recognise the shift in his disposition, the deadly slip between his actions and feelings. The grey area where his mind can’t quiet reconcile his thoughts with the way his body moves. There’s not a doubt in your mind that he believes it whole-heartedly; when it came to action, he’d never been anything other than unwavering.

It comes out in a shaky timbre, “It meant something to me, Ben. It always meant something to me.”

You see it before you feel it, the warmth of his palm against your knee. Every saint between here and heaven tells you to lurch back, to slap his hand away and press the gun to his temple without remorse. To scream and cuss him out without mercy.

You let him.

“I never meant for you to be involved,” his words are disjointed, brow furrowed, like he can’t quite make them fit in the sentence together, “I was trying to… protect you.”

That makes you recoil, jolt back as the sensation of a hot poker drives its way through your stomach. His touch remains, however, persistent in the face of all opposition. His fingers whiten against your knee in a way that you’re sure means they’ll bruise. Holding on like he’s terrified that if he lets go, you’ll cease to exist in front of him.

“Don’t put that on me,” you mumble faintly, “you can’t put that on me. You weren’t protecting me, Ben.”

The tether snaps, and he rises to his feet like a whip, practically stood between your legs, staring down, “I was trying to protect you. Fisk got into my head – I’m not too proud to admit that – but then he took you, and I couldn’t see straight. I did what I thought I had to do. And yeah, I wanted to kill Fisk, but that was just the icing on the cake.”

Your hands bat out instinctually to steady him as he falls to his knees, slotting between your legs with a practiced familiarity. The position places your hand a slither away from his jaw, hand ghosting the skin but too fearful to move any closer. He’s wrecked staring back up at you.

“They put me in the hospital, and I barely fucking remember most of it. But that woman, she offered me a way out and I had to. I needed my mind back. You have to understand– I never knew that he was your friend,” his gaze flitters to the ground in the closest thing to shame you imagine a man like him could muster, before finishing quietly, “you know the rest.”

You can only bring that hand up across your mouth in horror, attempting to swallow whatever sob is threatening to tear its way out of your body. Speechless. That’s all. You’re not sure you could wrap your mouth around the words if you tried. You must begin to lean, because you feel his palms connect with the dips of your waist to steady you and part of it makes you feel sick and the other part of you has never longed for touch more. It burns and freezes all at once, soothing every ache and rubbing salt into every wound.

“I am,” he fumbles hesitantly, words laden with uncertainty, “good now. The scales, I’m going to balance them. Retribution. I’m going to make things right.”

Your mind whirls at his words, so riddled with delusion but so deeply heartfelt that you can’t discern where the truth lies. He’s not a good person, and you’re not sure he ever can or wants to be, but there’s a resolve written in his features saved only for when he fixes on a target. 

You only notice in that moment how much older he looks, the litany of scars painted into his skin. 

“Do you believe that, Ben?” your hand finally comes up to bracket his jaw, a step between a loving touch and strangulation, but he keens into your palm nonetheless.

“Yes.”

“Okay,” it’s a breathless whisper, barely there, “okay, Ben.”

His stare is unwavering, “But… I will do… anything that you tell me to.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

If anyone had asked you, you could’ve sworn up and down that the words never left your lips. No recollection of those words ever twisting around your tongue. You can’t taste them, but you can hear them, and surely it can’t be true? It’s your voice, your cadence – but you couldn’t have said it.

But the moment you hear the final syllable, his teeth clash against yours.

Kiss me.

And he does.

It’s not sweet, or tender, or anything under the sun remotely close to the sort. It’s harsh and punishing, forcing back against you like he’d thrown a punch as opposed to pressed his lips against your own. It’s intoxicating. It makes you feel vile and dirty and just a little bit evil, but selfishly you’d let him do the prison time again if it meant that he would kiss you like that.

Your Ben had always been nervous, flighty when it came to affection; it had been on you to initiate, to remind him that you weren’t a vase about to shatter at the slightest pressure. This Ben has no such qualms, pressing forward like he’s trying to break you. Like he wants to watch the vase shatter just so he has an excuse to cut himself on the pieces.

It takes reality crashing down for you to pull back, but only just. This was so deeply wrong. 

It only takes nine words for it to feel right again.

“I never thought I’d get to do that again.”

In spite of it all, you laugh. You laugh and you have to cover your mouth to stifle the sound, fearful that if you’re any louder Matt won’t have to use his senses to hear you through the door. He chuckles too, low and throaty, reclining back on his heels with a new ease.

What the fuck was happening?

It’s sobering, as your choked giggles filter out into a breathless nothing. A reminder that Matt and Karen only sit behind the door, and that sooner rather than later they’ll come bursting through – no doubt desperate to know the nature of your conversation. 

Ben makes no move to disrupt your thoughts, instead opting to study you up close, savouring every inch his eyes will permit for as long as you will let him. 

“This isn’t over, Ben. I don’t forgive you. I don’t know how to feel about you. But they will…” you falter, “keep us apart if they find out about this.”

He only smirks lazily, “Oh yeah? What are you going to do about it?”

A thought crosses your mind, and it’s at that moment that you flick the chamber back on the gun, pressing it square into his forehead with enough force to leave a dent. You think his eyes roll back in his head – of course he likes it, the bastard.

“I don’t forgive you, Ben,” you pause, drinking in his wide-eyed amazement, “but this isn’t over.”

He only nods, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, only pushing his head harder against the muzzle.

“Karen! Daredevil!” you shout, and not a moment passes before the pair come barrelling through the door.

Their faces are riddled with surprise as they take in the sight before them. Poindexter, on his knees. You, with Karen’s gun pressed cleanly against his skull.

Matt’s moving forward in an instant, placing himself between you and Ben with that fearless vigilante attitude that suits him so. Karen instead goes to you, pulling you back and slipping the gun from your clenched fingers.

“Did he hurt you?” Matt seethes, turning to Ben, “Did you touch her?”

Ben’s always been better at steeling his expression than you, it’s a fight to maintain your composure. To stifle the grin. “Me and Dex were just making it clear where we stand with each other, isn’t that right?”

The man in question just nods wordlessly, and you wonder for a second if your friends are mistaking the awe written on his features for fear. You hope so.

Karen seems off kilter as she stares between the pair of you, ever the journalist, employing every inch of her skill to get a read of the room.

“Is he going to help? Do what we say?”

“Yes,” Ben replies gruffly with a flick of his hand, as though batting away the words, “One good deed.”

Instead of celebration, you’re met with silence. Maybe they didn’t expect that. Maybe they put you in the belly of the beast in the hopes you’d take him out. It’s a heavy quiet over the room, but you feel Karen relax against you, and Matt drops his guard, wandering slowly to perch against the window frame.

Minutes go by before anyone opens their mouths, but it’s Matt who breaks first.

“What did you talk about?”

Your eyes meet Ben’s. It’s only for a second, brief enough that you hope your friends don’t notice.

“Retribution."

my first fic in over a year. thank you Ben Poindexter we all say in unison. i really hope i did this right, i feel like everyone kind of characterises him differently but i tried my best! side note: if Karen comes across bad in this that is NOT intentional i LOVE Karen Page with my whole heart she is a complex female character

you checked your watch again. almost six. you probably should’ve been already changing into scrubs, getting to know the other doctors and nurses. instead you were rocking back and forth on your feet outside the hospital entrance. people were passing you, moving inside and outside. day shift coming in, night shift leaving. two worlds mixing together for a few hours in a day.

another few minutes pass and you dare take a step forward. thankfully people inside help you find the surgery locker rooms and before you know it, while you’re pulling up the deep purple scrub pants up, a tall woman from admin finds you. she introduces herself as gloria and she tells you how happy she is to have another trauma surgery attending. you fight rolling your eyes.

“here’s your badge,” she hands you a plastic card with your photo that says ‘trauma surgery attending’ and… oh, god.

“wait, there must have been a mistake…”

gloria looks confused and you explain that you no longer go by abbot. that those days are way behind you.

“god, i’m so sorry. they must’ve made a mistake upstairs. maybe some of your papers weren’t updated?”

sure, blame it on the doctor.

“maybe,” you just deadpan.

“well, there’s not much i can do right now, but after your shift you can fill out a request for a new badge,” she gives you that smile, only people running hospitals give.

“nevermind,” you sigh and follow her to the med/surg ward.

the lights in the break room are full on, people are eating breakfast, drinking coffee and talking, either about personal life or the crammed programme. before you even have a chance to introduce yourself, a nurse is giving you a pager and a phone labeled “the pitt”. you’re a trauma surgeon so you’ll be answering the calls coming from the er, so the general surgeons and other specialties can focus on getting the or programme moving. you’re free to call for a consult of course, but only do so when necessary, hence why you’re the trauma surgeon.

“you might be called in to help with some cases, especially if the other attendings are busy, but er and traumas are all yours,” gloria says with a smile as she introduces you to the med/surg charge nurse and leaves.

“nice to meet you, doc,” the charge nurse, maria, gives you a firm handshake and goes around the break room, introducing the people there. whole lot of specialties are mixed inside, but it seems like general surgeons take over, because, as you learn later, orthos, cardiothoracics and neurosurgeons are just too good to be there with them.

at first you’re introduced to the night shift attending, emery walsh, who’s excited to see that you’re holding onto “the pitt” phone.

“you’re never gonna forget the first time it rings, because then it never stops,” she smirks and turns around to continue her conversation about a surgery they had in the night.

“and this is dr. garcia, she was recently knighted an attending,” maria smirks as she introduces you to another colleague. dr. garcia is a bit taller than you and her thick hair is pulled up into a practical bun.

“nice to meet you.”

“you can just call me yolanda,” she shakes your extended hand and you nod, in return telling her your name.

yolanda then introduces you to the residents on day shift and a couple of med students. to say the break room is full would be an understatement of the century. you feel like you’re starting to suffocate amongst so many new faces and since you don’t really eat breakfast, there’s nothing for you to do.

maria sees you just standing around and she takes you to see the ward quickly, before the first elective operations start and before they start letting patients after surgeries home. the department is huge and full of patients. you wonder how many patients does one nurse have. you honestly admire the med/surg nurses, because from your own experience, they’re one of the most overworked nurses in the hospital. it should be illegal to have more patients than fingers, to take care of day in and day out.

“since you’ll be on the traumas, mostly, you will do post-op rounds with them, see the post-op trauma patients and then, if you’re magically still not needed in the pitt, you can watch the surgeries that are on schedule,” the nurse explains and you give her a quick thank you.

“perfect, thanks,” you give her a warm smile. 

“sure, doc. always happy to help.”

during morning rounds you stick to yolanda, the younger attending seemingly having everything under control. when you see how the residents are trying not to shake when they present a case, you smirk a little. she may be younger by a bit, but you need to be on this woman’s good side.

you’re introduced to the trauma patients from the day before. a teenager from a motorbike accident and a couple that were in a car accident. the woman flew head first through the windshield and the man’s legs got locked in under the steering wheel. someone from ortho was to check in on him later, but he’s your patient from now on until he’s released into home care.

there are also some patients in the icu as you gather from one of the residents and you make a mental note to check in on them as well during the day. when you see one of the last patients, the phone labeled “the pitt” rings and as you put it to your ear, yolanda gives you a knowing look. you excuse yourself as you take the call.

the emergency room is expecting an older patient with sudden onset abdominal pain. you tell the nurse on the phone you’ll be right down, grab your stethoscope - that a lot of people think surgeons don’t need - from the break room and take the stairs down because the personnel elevator is jammed, maria says. the only running one is the emergency one they use for patients being transported up and down on their beds or in wheelchairs. but someone’s supposedly working on it.

as you descend to the lower level of the hospital, people change from purple scrubs to black ones. you think that’s a smart choice. bodily fluids hide better in dark colors. you put the stethoscope in your scrub pocket, keeping in mind how a distressed patient might want to grab it from around your neck. it makes you sad that healthcare workers have to keep things like this in mind at all times.

just as you stepped into the emergency room, you could understand why they called it “the pitt”. you were used to working in a high stakes environment, learning to function and save lives amongst the chaos during your missions, but you were glad that as a surgeon you had the option of running to the stillness of an operating room.

“somebody called for a surgical consult?” you ask as you approach the nurses station. a charge nurse, as her badge says, with shorter blonde hair turns to you and eyes you up and down with no shame.

“you a new resident?” she asks, propping the glasses higher up her nose.

you’d be lying if you said she didn’t flatter you. you were well past your resident years and though you liked to think you looked good for your age, you weren’t trying to fool anyone.

you quickly introduced yourself. “i’m the new trauma attending,” you added.

“well, nice to meet you. i’m dana, the day shift charge nurse. i guess we’ll be seeing each other a lot, yeah?” she smirks and points you towards a trauma bay, to which paramedics are wheeling an older woman clutching her abdomen. 

“a new face? did they finally fire yolanda?” a tall, dark haired man with piercing blue eyes asks when he sees you follow after them into the trauma bay.

you smile and introduce yourself. he introduces himself as frank langdon, a senior er resident. next to him a younger resident, eyes as piercing as his, introduces herself as trinity santos.

“so what do we got?” you ask, dressing yourself up in a gown and putting gloves on.

“63 year old female, brought in by an ambulance after experiencing sudden onset pain in the right upper quadrant.”

“good morning, ma’am,” you step closer. “i’m going to palpate your stomach, tell me if something hurts.”

“vitals are good, pulse slightly elevated,” a nurse says and you hum.

you touch the woman’s belly, starting at the left side, moving to the right. and when you push down slightly, she yelps out in pain, curling her legs.

“let’s start an iv and do an ultrasound.”

“she’s got a history of high blood pressure, but other than that nothing.”

“ma’am did you eat something that might’ve upset your stomach?” langdon asks and you step back to let trinity do the ultrasound. the screen starts moving as all three of you assess what you see.

“no, i don’t think so. though i had chinese leftovers for breakfast,” the patient says just as trinity glides the probe over the woman’s gallbladder. at the contact she yelps again and the resident wants to set the probe aside and wait for the patient to calm down, but you stop her.

“there, see?” you point with a finger.

“it might’ve not been the greatest idea to eat chinese for breakfast.”

“ma’am, a gallstone is blocking your biliary duct and that’s what’s causing the pain. a small surgery will sort it all out,” you say, grabbing the phone in your pocket to call it in, so they might prepare upstairs. or prepare to manage her for long enough until there’s an opening in the programme.

“all good here?” the door to the trauma bay opens up and there’s a tall, dark haired man in a blue hoodie standing.

“yeah, we’re sending a patient up for surgery. gall stones,” trinity answers for all of you.

“oh, perfect,” he replies, crows feet forming around his eyes as he smiles. “do we know each other?”

“i don’t think so. it’s my first day. i’m the new trauma surgeon,” you introduce yourself for what feels like a thousandth time today, but if that’s what it takes to get you settled into the new environment, then so be it.

“oh, nice to meet you. my name’s michael robinavitch, but everybody just calls me robby. i’m the day shift attending.”

you take his extended hand into yours and don’t miss the way his eyes seem to sparkle when you touch him. it makes you smile a little. it’s been a while since anybody looked at you that way. out in the world, in the field, there wasn’t time for any kind of personal relationships. people were either too busy or too traumatised.

your pager goes off and you take a peak at the small screen. “they’re ready for us. we can bring her up.”

dr. robby nods, helping you with the monitors and then opens the trauma bay door for you and other staff as you push the bed outside.

“hope to see you again soon, doc,” he smiles as you brush past him.

“you’ll be tired of me by the end of shift,” you chuckle, leaving the tall man behind you. you don’t catch the way his hands fly into his hair, brushing them back nervously.

the gallbladder patient gets sorted quite quickly and she’s resting in post-op in less than two hours from admission. thankfully the pitt phone stays silent for a while and you get to check on all your patients, even paying a visit to the icu one, but it seems the icu doctors have them all under control. at least you get to introduce yourself to a bunch of new people again.

you’re hoping you didn’t jinx the pitt phone in any way, because of course the next time it rings you’re sitting down on a toilet. you finish before you even start, pulling your pants up and taking the call there in the stall. you flush the toilet nevertheless and fly down the stairs to help with a stab wound. the elevator guys are almost finished, maria promises when you run past her.

this time it’s doctor robby and a resident called samira mohan working the case. you wonder how it's possible for gang members to go around stabbing people at 9am, but then you remember that you’ve endured far crazier cases.

you have to put in sutures to make the wound in the abdomen stop bleeding, because of course they didn’t leave the knife in and you had to make sure the patient was going to make it upstairs into an or. samira asks if she can help and you let her. it’s actually nice to have some help as well as someone to teach. and before you know it, you’re calling it up, asking for a resident to be ready when you arrive with the patient.

it’s unusual how fast the first 12 hours of your shift go. you were so in between the emergency department and operating room that you made a mental note to ask the admin if it wouldn’t be more effective to have the trauma surgery team at the same floor. a little supply room with a computer and a small operating room would be enough for most urgent cases and you wouldn’t have to waste time bringing them up and down. also elective surgeries wouldn’t have to be moved down in the programme because it was interrupted constantly by the emergencies. you save these ideas for another day though. or for never actually, because you know how admin is with any sort of changes to the system in their hospital.

“i was definitely not missing garcia’s snarky remarks today,” frank langdon states as he shifts forward on his feet, arms touching his lower back, eyebrows drawing together. he’s trying to relieve the 12h tension that had built up in his body.

“oh, be careful what you wish for. you might find i’m way worse than yolanda,“ you laugh scrolling through the patient’s chart, trying to type in an update on their condition. you were deciding whether it was a surgical case that needed an intermediate attention or they could wait for upstairs to clear out a bit, before you send them up. it was definitely not critical, but without supervision they could take a turn for the worse.

it was already past 7pm when you finished the chart and packed up your stuff from around the computer. you’ve seen new, unknown faces come in and talk to the day shift staff so you just guessed hand offs are happening soon.

one doctor in particular caught your eye. he was nursing a tall cup of iced coffee, looking as unbothered as ever. nothing is getting to this man, you thought. it actually reminded you of someone from your past, but you pushed that thought away before it could have had any effect on you.

you were just standing up when the phone on the nurses station rang. dana went to pick it up but another nurse, one with red hair and a wide smile, was faster. she listened to the message from dispatch and then put the phone down.

“we have an mvc incoming, eta 2 minutes!” she shouts to get everyone’s attention. people start scurrying around, getting ready for the swarm of new patients.

“hey, doc, you might want to wait down here,” dana adds, looking at you over the rim of her eyeglasses. you just nod, putting your stethoscope in your pocket followed by the pitt phone. 

in the two minutes you have enough time to find yourself a gown. the night shift doctor lets go of his iced coffee and you send him a small smile as you reach for the same box of gloves.

“shen,” he says plainly.

you tell him your name and specialty, so he’s not confused.

“it’s nice to meet you. the night is starting off good, eh?”

“already been here for 12 hours, doctor. you can’t surprise me anymore.”

“ooh, don’t jinx it,” he smiles and you two walk over to the ambulance bay door, as you hear the sirens and the entrance is lit up in blue and red.

paramedics wheel in the first patient.

“male, late 60s. he was the driver who caused the collision. partner says he complained of a headache before he lost consciousness behind the wheel and crashed into the car in front of them. he regained consciousness on scene but now’s unresponsive. pressure is 162/103, pulse 105, sats 98 after intubation.”

“okay, let’s hook him up to the monitor asap, get a second iv going and a set of labs. ellis come here!” dr. shen shouts and before you know it, a tall, dark skinned woman is following you into the trauma bay. 

“let’s do a full neuro. this sounds like a textbook brain bleed to me,” he instructs the female doctor and you watch for a second, how they move like a well oiled machine. you follow dr. ellis to the patient’s head and see that there’s a minor laceration, probably from the impact itself.

“what do you guys have here?”

you’re halfway to inspecting the patient’s pupils, when you hear that voice. you stop dead in your tracks and almost don’t notice how dr. ellis pushes you gently out of the way, using her own pen light and opening the man’s eyes one by one.

you know that voice. though you’re trying to convince yourself otherwise in that moment. the gentle rasp in his voice. the concentration audible. the order that he brought with him anywhere he went. you saw peripherally how dr. shen straightened his back, before you turned your head.

and there he was. jack fucking abbot. in all his glory. dressed in a gown similar to yours, hands rubbing the antiseptic into his skin. his hazel eyes met yours. and you thought you would crumble.

“right pupil’s blown,“ dr. ellis’ voice interrupts the trail of your thoughts.

“alright, let’s get him started on mannitol and hyperventilate,” jack steps into action, calm and collected.

you’d like to think you’re calm and collected, but you’re breaking down. at least on the inside. your chest is tight, all the blood in your body has gone to your head now, ears ringing. but you scramble up the remains of your professionalism and focus on the patient.

“call neuro they need to get here, stat.”

“i did doctor, but the neurosurgeon on call is in the or. they say it’s gonna be ten minutes at least,” as the nurse finishes her sentence, the monitors go off and the patient starts seizing.

“he doesn’t have ten minutes. he could herniate at any time,” you say with a stern voice and hold down his shoulders, trying to prevent the patient from hurting himself any more.

“give him 4mg ativan,” jack barks an order and steps closer to the bed. closer to you.

“his intracranial pressure must be through the roof,” dr. shen says and orders more diuretics to be given.

“we don’t know that without an evd. without that neurologist. call them again and tell them that in ten minutes they can might as well be signing a death certificate,” jack turns to the nurse, voice low and urgent.

the ativan works, for now. but there’s a risk of another seizure coming soon after the first one. you must think quickly.

“he’s gonna seize again. we need to relieve the pressure,” you say, looking at jack.

“that’s risky business.”

“since when do you not like risky?” you bite back, a little more intensely than you anticipated.

“the best they can give us is a resident right now,” the nurse announces when she puts down the phone.

“fuck,” jack lets out a breath, shoulder slouching. he’s thinking. but you don’t have time to think.

“let’s prep for a burr hole,” you say, trying to hide the shake of your voice. everybody’s looking at you like you’re a little crazy. “i’m the next best thing you have to a neurosurgeon.”

“have you ever done this?” jack turns to you as the others drape the patient.

“more times than i’d have liked. never killed anyone, thankfully.”

he lets out an unimpressed chuckle. “okay. let’s do it and hope he doesn’t sue your ass later.”

everybody gets a sterile gown and the nurse pours iodine down the side of the patient’s head. it’s a small miracle the patient doesn’t seize in the small time it takes you to prep him. his blood pressure had gone down a little, but there’s nothing to be happy about yet.

first you make a small incision and as the nurse hands you the drill, you take a breath. it’s okay, you’ve done this about a million times with far simpler instruments. and sometimes while being shot at. you can do this now, under the eyes of your ex. your husband.

you start gently drilling into the patient's head. apart from the drill and the for now steady monitors, everybody’s dead silent. you wait for the gentle pop and then you instruct ellis on checking the pupils again. 

“pupils look good. now equal and reactive,” dr. ellis says and you can hear her smile, though you can’t see it through the mask. fluid mixed with blood starts pooling around the hole and you take a piece of gauze to cover it. it’s a neurosurgeon’s problem now.

soon after the neurosurgeon arrives and scolds you for doing the burr holes, but thanks you for saving the man’s life, you’re exiting the trauma bay as if someone lit it on fire. you tear the gown away from your body, throwing it in the first trash can you can find along with your gloves. you hope jack isn’t trailing after you and thank god he isn’t because the way your legs feel like jelly, you probably couldn’t withstand a conversation with him about anything.

you’re late for evening hand offs at the med/surg ward, but when you explain what you’ve been doing, they let it go. you greet dr. walsh back and after hand off you ask her if you can talk.

“what’s up? how’s your first day going?”

“it’s intense,” you let out a huff.

“more than medecins sans frontieres? that’s what you did before right?”

“i’d say a different kind of intense. you didn’t have much time for personal drama out there in the desert,” you explain, not wanting to go too deep into the details.

“okay, i understand. so what did you want from me?”

“as there’s no elective surgeries through the night, would you mind splitting the er calls?” you ask, voice hopeful. emery draws her eyebrows together, looking you up and down.

“did something happen? do i need to go yell at robinavitch?”

the image of this short yet fierce woman yelling at dr. robby makes you smirk and you shake your head. you definitely don’t need your colleagues saving your ass from the mean girls. you just don’t want to spend the whole night down there. with jack.

“no, no. he was fine, actually. i’m just beat from the day.”

“i get it. i’ll do it for you because it’s your first day and night here. but i’m not touching that phone any more after tonight.”

you get it. you’re the trauma surgeon. you’re supposed to answer the er calls. that’s literally why you were hired. you thank her, profusely and she tells you to go take a nap in the doctor’s lounge. she even told you where the clean, least used blankets were.

you manage to get a whole 30 minutes of sleep before the fucking pitt phone rings again and you go down, telling walsh you’ll take the first one.

thankfully jack’s still working the mvc patients and you get called down for a quick consult by a resident. you sort out the patient and disappear from the seventh ring of hell before jack has a chance to see you. in the elevator you’re mentally slapping yourself. that’s real adult behaviour, what you’re doing. why can’t you just act professionally like you did with that man with a brain bleed.

you wish you weren’t working any more cases with jack through the night. and though you’re feeling lucky, at 4am it breaks and you have to work together with jack and walsh to take care of another multiple vehicle collision. you exchange only the necessary amount of words, keeping it as professional as you can, to not endanger your patients, but you’re either boiling on the inside or wanting to run away. how’s it possible that seeing him makes your chest hurt with heartbreak and want to curl up on yourself but also put your fist to his face. 6am can’t come quick enough.

after you operate on the 4am mvc patients together with specialists from ortho and cardiothoracics, you fall down on the couch in the doctor's lounge and fall into a deep slumber. the pitt phone doesn’t ring again, until you’re putting it in the hands of your colleague who’s come to take over in the morning.

you have zero energy left to change from your scrubs, so you just put on your outside shoes, a jacket, grab your bag and drag your feet out the hospital. the crisp morning air greets you. it definitely rained through the night as you’re met with puddles and air smelling like a garden that’s just been watered. you have to stop for a moment, take a deep breath in and out, before you start walking to the parking lot.

“wait!”

that voice. that fucking voice. it almost makes you freeze for a second time in a day, but this time you don’t let it. you whip your head around and see jack walking towards you, equally as drained. there’s a slight limp in his walk and you wonder if he maybe got hurt during the shift or it’s just his old man joints speaking up.

“what do you want?” you snap. it comes out harsher than expected and you let out a sigh, massaging your temples with your fingers. you let jack approach, but he’s smart enough to stop at a reasonable distance. maybe he can sense that you want to punch him in the face.

“can we talk?”

“i’ve been here for 24 hours and got 2 hours sleep. i’d rather not.”

you’re halfway to turning back and leaving for your car, when he talks again.

“it’ll just be a minute.”

you don’t have enough energy to fight him on this and you know him well enough to know that he won’t back down just like that. and you realise the talk is inevitable. you can’t work in the same place, going around each other like you’re strangers.

when jack realises you’ve stopped and you’re not running away, he takes a step closer.

“h-how are you here?” he asks, voice almost breaking.

you shift on your feet. the way his eyes glisten, as if he was about to cry, makes your chest tight for a hundredth time today. you look to your feet, debating what to answer.

“took a flight from new york,” you opt for raw honesty. if he wants to talk, you’ll talk.

“all those years… you were in new york?” he asks, and you hear the slight break in his voice. you want to feel bad, but what you feel… what he feels, it’s probably nothing compared to how he left you feeling. you don’t want to be cruel, but he needed the taste of his own medicine.

“more or less. i was all around the world actually. got inspired by someone i knew a long time ago. and i must give it to you, it’s a great way to deal with your problems. just leaving everything behind and going off to a third world country,” you say, irony lacing your voice. 

you hope he sees the hurt in your voice, your eyes. damn, you hope he feels the hurt, that he hurts himself. maybe then he can finally understand how he left you behind.

he slouches. his usual straight up posture curling in on itself. he doesn’t reply straight away, shifting the weight to the other leg. you almost don’t catch the painful expression in his face from where you’re standing.

“i’m so sorry.”

is all comes out of his mouth after a moment.

“yeah, me too. but it’s too late jack,” you reply, head shaking. you attempt to end the conversation for the second time, but jack’s intent on getting through with this.

“will you let me explain?”

“what’s there to explain, huh?” 

you desperately want to leave because you can feel the tears starting to pool in the corners of your eyes. you fold your arms at your chest, trying to shield yourself from whatever jack has to say. you hate how you started all confident and now you feel smaller and smaller with every word said.

“i’ve made a mistake. several, actually. i know that now.”

“well, good for you then,” you reply, unimpressed. you’re not gonna clap for him just because he’s realised he’d made a mistake. it’d actually surprise you if he hadn’t acknowledged his mistakes. you remembered jack as someone who wasn’t too scared of taking accountability. but after all those years, it was a little bit too late.

you know jack has probably more to say, but nevertheless you attempt to leave for the third time. you move towards the parking lot and jack actually lets you take a few strides, before he moves and speaks up again.

“wait, hold up.”

but you’re tired of listening to him telling you to wait, and stop and let him talk more and more and more.

“really, jack. i’m tired. i just want to go home and fall asleep in a hot bath. i don’t have the energy to listen to any more of your excuses.” 

“i’m not here to make excuses. i want to explain what happened.”

“there’s nothing to explain. you just disappeared,” you scoff. your words hurt jack, you see how his body reacts.

“i know,” he lowers his voice, arms shifting to prop the backpack higher up on his shoulder.

“and now you’re suddenly here and we’re supposed to do what? work traumas together like nothing happened?”

“i don’t expect that.”

“then what do you expect?” you unlace your hands, throwing them in the air. your eyebrows are drawn together, any sign of tears long gone. 

“honestly? nothing. i know i handled things badly.”

“that’s one way of putting it,” you say with a whole lot of sarcasm.

“i’m not asking for forgiveness.”

“good, because you’re not getting it.”

“i know, i just… don’t want us to act like complete strangers, like what we had didn’t matter.”

“that’s the problem, jack. it mattered, it matters…”

you speak before you think. and jack catches what you’ve said immediately. he draws his eyebrows together in a thought. you close your eyes, hands rubbing them.

“i can’t do this right now.”

“i know.”

“stop saying that,” you plead.

he’s so infuriating. the way he’s so above everything. how calm he seems despite all the stuff you said, everything you held against him. 

“i’ve been in therapy. ever since coming back.” 

that explains it. can you be envious of someone who’s grabbed the reins and fixed their life? even if that meant hurting you along the way?

“you think that fixes it?”

“no, but it explains a lot of things. a lot of things i didn’t understand before.”

you nod, giving up on running away.

“i just… need space. i mean it.”

“okay.”

“and i’m not promising anything.”

“okay.”

“stop with that.”

“okay.”

you have to fight a chuckle. it’s the sleep deprivation, shock of seeing him again. you don’t want to laugh but his little ‘okays’ make you want to punch him maybe a little less.

you don’t say anything more. he neither. you just stand there, in the cold morning air, looking at each other. you bite your lower lip and turn around to walk away. he’s not gonna stop you now.

“i’ll see you around,” you hear from distance and the corners of your mouth twitch as you approach your car.

the fate has been graceful. during the next few weeks you don’t work many 24 hour shifts or night shifts so you don’t see jack that much. it’s not like you don’t see him at all, but you get small, digestible doses of him.

after one particularly hard 12 hour shift, you enter the med/surg break room, plopping down on the chair, throwing the never-stops-ringing pitt phone on the table, finding your cup of coffee from the morning that had gone stale and cold by now.

“i need a tequila.”

garcia is raiding the cupboards for some sort of snack, just finishing a 5 hour surgery herself. 

“i could’ve sworn this was full yesterday,” she grabs an empty hershey’s packet and throws it in the trash.

“wait, i might have one in my pocket,” you say, angling your hips up to reach into your pants pocket. you fish out a half melted plastic covered chocolate and hand it to her. she’s reluctant at first, but takes it from you.

“don’t you need a tequila?” you ask, hopeful.

“every fucking day,” she says with mouth full of chocolate, eyes closing with pleasure.

you wouldn’t say you and yolanda were friends. you were friendly, yes, but you’ve never talked outside of work or anything. so you just hope you’re not overstepping and won’t end up rejected like a teen asking someone to go to prom with them.

“do you want to go after work?”

she thinks for a second and you’re surprised when she says yes. and when she proposes to go to the bar closest to the hospital. it’s quite nice, she says.

so after shift, dressed in mundane clothes you emerge from the hospital together. yolanda has her hair down and you’re surprised how long it actually is. you’re used to her having it up in a tight bun, for practical and hygienic purposes. you can’t really wear your hair down in the or.

“i know a guy here. he’ll give us first responders discount,” yolanda says as she pushes the door that says pull and then finally pulls it. it opens into a small bar that's not too packed. lights are soft and dim and you find two stools right at the bar. she calls over the bartender, orders two shots for you and tells the bartender to keep them coming.

“we’re not exactly first responders,” you say as you sit down.

“we spend enough time down there we could qualify,” she shrugs her shoulders, throwing her bag on the bar stool next to her.

“touche.”

it doesn’t take long and two shot glasses appear in front of you. you clink them together, trying not to spill any of the liquid courage and you both down it. you try not to make a face, but the alcohol’s stronger than you expect. yolanda doesn’t even squirm. barely touching the glasses down on the bar, the bartender pulls the tequila bottle from behind him and pours you another.

you make small talk and find that it’s not too hard to talk to yolanda. she seems quite serious and harsh at work, but it’s like she’s a different person now. you don’t expect it, but three shots in, when you have to order a coke so you don’t throw up from the pure alcohol, she starts telling you about a situationship.

she doesn’t really hide the fact that she’s been sleeping with a resident, an emergency room resident nonetheless. it doesn’t take long for you to figure out she’s talking about santos, but again, yolanda isn’t really hiding that.

“okay, but listen, if she says she doesn’t want anything serious but gets upset when i don’t text her for twelve hours, what exactly am i supposed to do?” she scoffs, hands gesturing.

you take a sip from the coke. “for starters, maybe don’t sleep with a resident? that could help.”

she rolls her eyes, pushing a strand of curly hair behind her ear, as she beckons the bartender for another round of shots. at this rate you’ll be leaving the bar on all fours, as you’ve always been kind of a lightweight, but you take it. the alcohol has taken an edge off of everything. the surroundings aren’t as distracting and the conversation is flowing nicely.

“like you’ve never done the same thing.”

“never,” you purse your lips together. yolanda deadpans.

“sure, whatever you say.”

“i mean it. i’ve never slept with a resident.” 

you know how it sounds. and yolanda isn’t dumb, she catches on right away. you don’t mind. this situation with jack, it’s been kind of weighing on you and because you haven’t found many friends since coming back, you don’t mind sharing something with garcia. not after the countless rounds of tequila.

“okay, not a resident. attending then?”

you don’t elaborate, looking down into your glass.

“oh my god! it was an attending,” she smiles widely in triumph. you feel the points of your ears go warm and you hope she doesn’t see it. blame it on the alcohol, if anything.

“well, he wasn’t my attending.”

“is that what you tell yourself to feel better?” she teases.

the bartender pours you another round, but you don’t drink it right away. you don’t really do nothing, just stir the remaining of the soft drink in your other glass. 

“what happened?” yolanda asks, sensing the sudden shift in your behaviour.

“it’s, uh… complicated.”

“sure, what workplace relationship isn’t.”

“we were together for a… long time.”

“how long?”

“married long,” you give her a small smile. or more like a grimace.

“oh shit,” she says, nodding her head. then she grabs the shot glass and you follow her, downing the tequila. it doesn’t burn your throat anymore. 

“i guess my resident problems aren’t all that serious after all. so what’d he do?”

“he kept leaving.”

“cheating?”

“no, never that. he wouldn’t do that,” you shake your head. jack was a lot of things. but not a cheater. well, if you don’t count him loving his work more than anyone, as cheating.

“okay…” yolanda draws out, sounding not too impressed.

“he just… he always had somewhere else to be.”

“sounds like a loser.”

she’s got no filter. you’ve learned that by now. and you could understand that what you were saying sounded crazy, but some part of you wanted to defend jack’s actions. yes, you were mad about how he left and all. but it wasn’t like he was a bad person.

“that’s what’s so infuriating. he wasn’t… isn’t a loser. he was in the military, a medic. how can you be mad at someone who just wants to help people out there in the world?”

“okay, i’m sorry, but why do you defend him?” she asks, leaning on the bar, propping her chin up with the back of her hand. her eyes never leave you.

“uhm, maybe because we had a chance to talk… lately.”

“wait, like, here? in pittsburgh?”

“like, in the hospital.”

this sentence prompts yolanda to order more tequila and you don’t protest, though you’re not sure what more you can handle. you order another coke with it.

“so he works in ptmc? what specialty?”

“guess,” you smirk, tequila taking over, your head becoming a little fuzzy.

“not your attending, so he’s not in surgery. married to his work. emotionally unavailable. army medic… wait, hold on,” she draws her eyebrows together and you see the wheels turning in her head. you’re not dumb, she surely knows jack. from your experience, usually everyone knows the emergency room staff, because they’re always in need of a consult. 

“were you married to abbot?”

you hoped it would take her a little longer than that. maybe you underestimated her guessing skills.

“still am, theoretically. neither of us ever filed for divorce.”

you don’t think her eyes can go any wider. you sip on the coke, letting her process all the information, but she snaps back quick, though a little confused still.

“what? why? how?” garcia’s dropping all the right questions one after the other.

“i don’t know, really,” you draw your eyebrows together, thinking. “like i said, it’s complicated. he’d leave for months, come back, leave again. everytime i thought maybe now he’d stay. turns out i was more naive than anyone would’ve thought.”

you really don’t know why you didn’t get divorced. you could’ve easily send jack the signed divorce papers and you know he’d probably sign them, in his own time though, and send them back. it probably would’ve been easier that way, for both of you. making you free to do what you want with the sudden free time. but you were so angry with him at first and then got all caught up with moving to new york and getting signed up for your first medecines sans frontiers mission, that you hadn’t given the divorce any thought. jack obviously hadn’t either.

“i don’t think it’s naive to want the person you married to stay. i mean, that’s why people do get married in the first place, no? to be with each other forever,” yolanda says, extending her hand and gently touching your knee in silent comfort. you give her a weak smile.

the tequila took an edge off everything, but it also made you unnecessarily emotional. her gesture almost brings tears to your eyes. it’s different, talking about this with jack and with a stranger, basically.

“well, i thought so.”

“so, then, you got tired of waiting?”

“eventually i realised he was not coming back. and if he was, it would be to pack clean underwear and leave again.”

yolanda shifts in her seat, but doesn’t prompt the bartender to bring more booze. you’re thankful, because you think she’d need to keep you upright after one more round. you finish the sugary drink and slouch a bit more, elbows digging into your knees.

“it’s… interesting. i mean, this is a slightly different abbot that i know.”

“good for you, i guess,” you scoff and yolanda shakes her head.

“no, i didn’t mean it like that. it’s just that people can be different with different people. different at different times.”

you tilt your head to the side. gently, or you’d risk falling to that exact side.

“he’s good with patients. staff like him even though there’s that gloomy vibe to him. but, hell, after everything with the deployment and him getting injured in combat, i'm surprised he even works where he works.”

the world around you stops.

your heart stops. the sounds, music, people conversing in the background. it’s all hazy and you’re processing garcia’s words.

you slowly shift your gaze from your legs to her. she’s waiting for your reaction, quite not understanding why’d you go silent.

“wha-... what did you just say?”

your voice comes all shaky and your hands get clammy.

“that i’m surprised…”

“no, no. before that. about him getting injured?” you have to make sure you articulate properly, the shock and tequila making every word harder and harder to pronounce.

“yeah, he lost his leg in combat.”

it’s like a slap in the face.

but you don’t suddenly sober up. you wish.

the world starts moving again. but it feels like it’s going the other way. against you. like you’re trying to catch up, but can’t. still too in shock from the new information.

your stomach grumbles and you have to put your hand against the bar top to steady yourself.

“wait, you didn’t… shit, i thought you knew,” yolanda exhales through her nose, rubbing at her temples. the smile on her face fades and it’s like she doesn’t know what to do with her hands either.

you just shake your head, debating whether you’re going to throw up right now or in the comfort of your new apartment.

you felt like the worst person ever, replayed the conversation you had a few weeks back. he didn’t say anything. you knew there was something different about him, but all you could see was the jack that left you behind. you didn’t even stop to think there was something different. that he could possibly change. or experience something like losing his leg.

the tequila was not sitting in your stomach right.

you held it against him. that he left you. all alone.

and there he was. after all those years, trying to make amends. make amends with a woman who got tired of waiting and left. and then he came back with a life altering injury. and the house was empty. you, nowhere to be found. no note. nothing.

you thought you were being the bigger person for letting him talk to you in that parking lot. for letting him come up with apologies and explanations that you weren’t very willing to listen to.

you were sick with yourself.

your body was quicker than your mind. your legs dragging you to the restrooms, opening the first available stall, falling on your knees and bending over the toilet. you didn’t even hear yolanda trail after you. you just felt her grab at your hair, keeping it away from your face.

when you finished heaving you stood up, grabbing onto the stall walls. you thanked her, and she just nodded, handing you a bottle of water she probably grabbed from the bar on her way after you.

you take a sip, worried your stomach might not agree.

“i’m really sorry. i genuinely thought you knew,” she says, voice softer.

“no.”

“sorry. he should’ve been the one to tell you. not me.”

“it’s okay.”

after your conversation with garcia you can’t stop overthinking every second of your life since leaving pittsburgh. and then since coming back. you genuinely thought you had your life under control and can’t believe one conversation just kicked that to the curb.

you tried your best to not let it affect your work, but seeing jack when you worked nights made your heart ache. in the worst way possible. and if he suspected something, he was too good at hiding it.

to say guilt was eating you alive was an understatement of the century.

you were standing by the computer near nurses station, biting down on a pen, mind spiralling, not being able to focus on the chart opened before you.

“you okay dude?” garcia asks. she’s finishing up her shift, while you’re staying for another twelve hours, yet again. these 24h shifts are gonna be the death of you.

“uhm, yeah.”

“did he do something? ” she asks and follows your line of sight. jack’s talking to an intern, probably explaining some kind of procedure or care plan for a patient they have. he’s favouring his left leg, leaning on it heavily. you see it now. now that you know.

“no. i did,” you exhale through your nose, letting go of the build up tension.

“what?” she asks, not quite comprehending what you’re on about.

you were a little worried that after the bar incident, she might stop talking to you, either because of how you completely lost yourself or because she regretted being the one to tell you the big news.

“i just… don’t understand how he’s so okay. after what happened. after i left him.”

“you mean, after he left you?” she scoffs, lifting an eyebrow.

“yeah, but i didn’t come back after an injury like his, finding no one’s home,” you grit through your teeth in an attempt to keep your conversations somehow quiet. it was a small miracle that the hospital staff still didn’t suspect anything.

“do you listen to yourself?”

you turn your head to her, eyebrows drawn together in question.

“yes, it’s incredibly sad that he had to go through all that. but he was the one who left in the first place,” garcia says, not hiding the fact that she’s really not on your side. neither on jack’s though. maybe you need that kind of insight into your life. or you’d be falling further down that spiral right now.

“it still doesn’t make me feel better. just imagine it…”

“and imagine being left by the person you loved the most over and over again. wait… you don’t have to, because he actually did leave you.”

her words are like a cold shower.

“you make him sound way worse than he actually is.”

“when are you gonna stop defending him? i mean, yeah, he’d changed, but that doesn’t erase what he’d done to you.”

“maybe you’re right,” you say, clicking the pen close and putting it away into your pocket. you straighten yourself up, eyes moving back to the computer.

“i’m always right,” she smirks, closes the chart and puts the ipad away. saying a quick bye, she strides towards the elevator and before you know it, you’re left alone again. alone with your thoughts. it’s not the safest place to be left alone, you think. so you try to find yourself more work to keep you distracted.

thankfully the people of pittsburgh always have something in their pocket. mainly during the night hours. you sort through multiple car accidents, people getting hurt by kitchen utensils and doing adrenaline sports in the middle of the night.

your back is aching by the time you scrub out of the last surgery, your hands crying for help as you force the soap and antiseptic into your skin. when you approach the nurses station, you see jack again. working with him, you managed well enough to suppress the quilt that was eating you from the inside out. but now, in the rare moment of peace, you had to try twice as hard to keep it down. he wasn’t a saint, you kept telling yourself. you were hurt too.

he’s leaning on the higher end of the tables, mimicking the movements you just did in the scrub room, to ease the tension in your back. neither of you are getting any younger and these jobs are incredibly demanding.

the intern from before approaches him again. he straightens up, hands rubbing his lower back. they talk for a moment and then they start walking away. you see it, it’s subtle but it’s there. how he has to push from the counter to take the first step, left leg leading. the slight wobble on his right side. it must be terrible, twelve hours being on your feet in his condition. you’d be surprised if he wasn’t limping after working the night in the er.

you don’t know how to approach him, knowing what you know without him actually telling you. it’s probably not a secret, as if anything could be down there, but you don’t want to pry. and he didn’t talk to you outside work either. he’s respecting your space, just like you’d asked him. it infuriates you a little, that he actually listened. because the old jack didn’t. he didn’t listen to your pleas and left. just like many times before.

you don’t scramble enough courage to talk to him until you see him leaving a little past 7am, slowly making his way out, backpack thrown over a shoulder, being stopped by staff to ask questions.

you basically run for your own bag upstairs, already having handed off your patients to the day shift attending. you take the stairs down by two, hoping to catch him in the parking lot. apparently leaving the er takes a lot of time and he’s almost in his car, when you run out, still dressed in the purple scrubs.

“jack, wait!”

he stops, the car keys in his hands. he turns around and you see the way his face scrunches with discomfort. you should’ve probably let him sit down in the car before shouting at him.

“hey, what’s up?” he asks, voice unusually soft. around the er, he’s all serious, voice stern, guiding everyone. but you know he has a soft side to him. a vulnerable one. but he only ever let you see it.

“i just…” your voice cracks and you’re not really sure how to continue. jack senses there’s something going on. his face goes into full on investigative mode, looking you up and down, trying to figure out what’s wrong.

“i know. about the injury.” 

you opt for the truth. it’s not like you can make it any better or easier with going all around it and never speaking about it. your eyes trail, unwillingly, to his legs. it doesn’t take him long to realise what you’re talking about.

“oh.”

that’s all he’s got to say.

“why didn’t you tell me before? when we talked,” you ask, hands clutching your bag nervously.

“i don’t know, it just didn’t seem important then,” he shrugs his shoulders.

“what do you mean not important. jack, you…” lost a leg.

the words die in your throat. like you’re scared of them. maybe you are a little. like speaking them aloud would make it all true. that he’s been hurt and you’ve left. hurt as well. two people, each hurting in their own way.

he doesn’t say anything, just watches you intensely as ever. as if he was afraid himself. to say something that would make you run away or bite back again. he was glad for the peace that seemed to have set between the two of you after your last conversation. ruining it all by making you feel guilty because of his leg didn’t seem worth it.

“i’m sorry. that you had to go through all that… alone,” you let out a long exhale and look down to your feet. 

“it’s okay,” he replies. you look up. there’s that gentle smile on his face. the one you used to know so well. “it was naive of me to think you’d stay, after what i put you through.”

his words make your chest tighten. how’s he so different? so adult. he’s been an adult before, why couldn’t he act like it. that’s what makes your heart ache the most.

“still, no one deserves to be alone after something like that.”

“hey, don’t do that,” he steps closer, hand almost reaching out to touch you, but it’s like there’s something holding him back. like he’s afraid he’s gonna ruin the effort he put into getting you to talk to him.

“what?” you ask, trying so hard not to cry. you’ve never been this emotional. it’s as if returning back and meeting jack again opened this well of suppressed emotions deep down in you and it was all coming up right now.

“place the blame on yourself. this… what happened to me, isn’t a get out of jail free card.”

it makes you chuckle. the joke makes the conversation a little lighter.

jack has to shift his weight again, propping the backpack higher on his shoulder. there’s an almost inaudible hiss that he lets out.

“you’re hurting,” you say as a matter of fact, straightening yourself up.

“i’m fine,” he says in that annoying dismissive tone. you know he’s not. he knows he’s not.

“liar. gimme your keys,” you extend your hand towards him with a stern look on your face.

“what?” he asks confused, juggling the keys in his hand.

“c’mon. i’m driving,” you demand, standing firmly in your place, moving your fingers to show him you need the car keys.

“you don’t have to…”

“i know i don’t.”

he’s still debating the idea in his head. you can see the wheels turning. but you don’t back away.

“please, just let me do this without arguing,” you plead, softening your voice.

he doesn’t fight any longer. with a loud exhale he drops the keys in the palm of your hand and gives you a small smile. you smile back, triumphantly. it reminded you of the old times with jack. he hated arguing even back then and almost always let you get away with what you wanted.

you unlock the car and drop your bag on the back seat, next to jack’s. he then proceeds to open the driver’s door for you, even through your protests. you sit down and adjust the seat while jack gets into the passenger’s seat. when he’s in the car, you see how his hand goes to his right leg, rubbing the pain away.

“alright. where to?” you ask as you start the car and put it into drive.

jack tells you the address. you’re glad you’re standing on the breaks or you might’ve ended in the car in front of you.

he must be kidding.

“what?” you slowly turn your head towards him. he thinks for a moment before replying.

“i couldn’t sell it.”

simple as that.

and you can understand it. at least some of it. 

you choose not to continue this conversation in the car because you’re scared you might crash in the midst of all the explaining. 

the drive is silent. but not the embarrassing kind of silence. more like you’re expecting something bad to happen as you drive by the streets and houses you used to know. it’s all so familiar and strange at the same time.

the outside didn’t change much. there’s been a wheelchair ramp added to make it more accessible, but other than that everything’s the same. the lawn is still taken care of, like it used to be and there’s still the christmas elf statue left from many christmases before, both of you being too lazy to put it away. you said it was guarding your house all year long. you smile at the memory as you unbuckle the seatbelt and hop out of the car.

jack unlocks the front door with what you think is the same key as you remember. you could definitely find your own copy somewhere in your new apartment and let yourself in. he didn’t even change the locks. as if he’s been waiting for you to barge through that door all these years. it just deepens the pit in your stomach.

inside is still the same as well. there’s less of you, of course, but everything else stayed the same. you think you caught a glimpse of your old, green rainboots near the shoerack, but you don’t focus on that as you follow jack into the kitchen.

“do you want coffee?” he asks, one arm bracing on the counter top as he reaches for the coffee blend.

“why don’t you sit. i can make us coffee,” you say. you’re not particularly craving coffee, but you’d take anything to keep your hand busy.

jack lets you take the tin box from his hands and he continues to sit down. even the coffee machine is still the same. you reach for the upper cupboard and… bingo, the espresso cups are still there. your hand stops mid air when you see the hand painted couple of cups you and jack got on your vacation around europe.

your breath hitches and you move around the priced possession to grab the basic, ikea ones. the espresso machine purrs silently as it brews the coffee. it takes only about a minute when you put down one of the miniature cups in front of jack. he thanks you in a soft voice and you sit down next to him.

you catch how one of his hands move to where you guess the prosthetic connects with his body and he rubs the spot.

“how bad is it?”

“pretty bad,” he admits and you see it in his face, that he isn’t used to it. admitting he’s in pain. letting anyone help him with it.

“can i see?”

“you don’t have to.”

he’s giving you one more chance to run away. to leave him again. because this would be a lot on anyone, he wouldn’t put it past you to leave.

“i know,” you reply without thinking. 

“i’ve got some supplies in the bedroom,” jack says, finishing his coffee and standing up, bracing his arms on the table.

you want to reach out to help him, but he lifts up his hands, murmuring it’s fine as he leads you to the what used to be guest bedroom. the bed is made, neatly, as ever. but it doesn’t have much character apart from a small bookshelf with a bunch of medical books. there’s also the door to the en suite bathroom and a wheelchair folded beside it but still within the reach from the bed.

you instruct jack to sit down and to tell you where the supplies are. when you come back, he’s got the right pant rolled up, moving to take off the prosthetic. you try not to stare too much, as you fumble with the small bag of medical supplies and sit down next to him.

“so, uhm, you moved bedrooms?”

poor attempt at small talk.

“i don’t do well with stairs.”

fuck.

“right. sorry,” you let out a sigh, rubbing at your temples. jack just gives you a smile.

“it’s fine,” he says, laying the prosthetic down.

you look at him once more and when he nods, you take a look at the stump, touching the skin gently. it doesn’t look bad, but there are some warning signs that hit your eye. if he doesn’t slow down a bit, he might be looking at a terrible pressure wound from where the prosthetic is pressing on the skin.

“you’ve been overcompensating the other side. your hip must be killing you too,” you say.

jack rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed. “a little bit.”

“little bit? you’re impossible.”

“some things never change i guess,” he replies as you shuffle through the supply bag, looking at what he’s got inside. a cooling gel, antibiotic ointment, some basic supplies for taking care of pressure wounds. you ask him what he usually does after shift and then do it for him.

“i can refer you to a good pt. they can usually give you an appointment fast with a surgeon’s note,” you smirk and jack just rolls his eyes.

“i already have a pt.”

“when’s the last time you saw them?”

jack doesn’t reply instantly. and you don’t pry it out of him.

“you seem like you know what you’re doing,” he says after you’re done.

“i’ve had a lot of practice. unfortunately.”

“hm. where were you, actually?”

you told jack that you’ve been all around the world, but never explicitly what you’ve been doing. he’s not dumb, he might’ve figured it out.

“africa, at first. for almost two years. then the middle east. i’ve lost count of how many amputations i did out there.”

“that must’ve been tough.”

“yes. it was. guess i wanted to see what the appeal was,” you can’t help but take a dig at him. jack takes it like a champ, not giving you any reaction. “but then i stayed for them. for the people. and…”

you fold your hands in your lap, eyes following them. it’s hard to say those words, but jack deserves them. it’s been a long time coming.

“and suddenly i understood. how could you leave them? with danger and war surrounding them, with all the pain they had to go through…”

“that’s still not good enough of an excuse,” he says, shuffling to the edge of the bed with a skilled set of movements. he lets his left leg fall to the floor, his body suddenly being so close to you, your shoulders almost touching. he carefully put his hand on your thigh, right above your knee. the touch is so soft as if he was afraid he’s gonna get burned. but he didn’t flinch. neither did you.

it felt like you were about to have the same conversation all over again. you pack up all his stuff back, busying your hands so you’re not rubbing them together in your lap nervously. as you look around and see the photos and pictures on the wall, you quickly change the theme.

“you, uh, really kept everything,” you exhaled and pointed to the small painting you remember choosing at a local art show, to decorate the guest room with so it wouldn’t be just a bed and a bedside table.

“i tried packing it all up, once. made it about ten minutes.”

“should’ve sold the house.”

the words come out of your mouth faster than you could think about what they meant. before your brain catches up. just like that. you told him to sell your house. the one you two chose and lived in together. the one that still held every little memory and detail of your past shared life. you could see the twitch in his face. and you regretted saying it. hell, you still had the old house key without even knowing whether jack kept the house or not.

“probably.”

he hides the pain in his eyes. but it’s too late to take the words back. so he just gives you a small, broken smile.

“why didn’t you?” you ask, thinking there’s nothing more hurtful you could probably say by now.

“i, uh, don’t know. maybe i kept believing you might walk through that door once again.”

straight to the chest. he hits back. no mercy. and just like that, you feel like crying and curling up on the floor again. for like a thousandth time in the hour or so you’ve been in the house. you should probably consider therapy as well.

“jack… you can’t say stuff like that,” you stand up from the bed and his hand falls from your thigh into his lap. you rub your temples with your fingers, back turned to jack.

“why?” 

you turn around, looking at him. it doesn’t feel right, standing there, above him, while he’s all… vulnerable and all. but the bed is lava. you can’t sit next to him and have this conversation. you have to pace around, hands in your hair or on your face, self-regulating so as to not fall apart from the overload of emotions.

“because i don’t know what to do with that.”

your eyebrows are drawn together as you’re trying to process everything. could it be that… no, it definitely couldn’t.

you feel like you’re on a bad trip. 

head spinning.

ears ringing.

“you don’t have to do anything,” he says, hands rubbing together. you know that if he could, he'd stand up and hold you, ground you. so you wouldn’t fall into that spiral again. and you hated to admit how much you needed that right now.

“i was so angry at you.”

you stop moving, hands falling to your hips, eyes locked on jack.

“i know.”

“i thought you chose everything else first.”

“sometimes i did. but not because i didn’t love you.”

everything comes to a halt. world stops spinning, your mind stops spiralling. and you collapse. on the bed. next to jack. you hunch over, supporting your head in your hands, covering your face. your eyes are welling with tears and you try your best to keep them away from spilling over. now you really don’t know what to do with jack’s words.

he just sits there, in silence. keeps his hands to himself, shuffling on the bed a little, to keep his balance. and then, he freezes. because you’re leaning in. your head softly touching his shoulder. he’s like a statue. worried that even a small movement would send you running. it’s only when he hears your soft breaths, chest moving in rhythm with his, that he relaxes a little, his own head leaning on yours. and when you don’t flinch away, he lets out a long exhale.

few moments later, when your breaths become too regular and jack looks down at your face, he finds you with eyes closed, sleeping.

he chuckles silently, because of course you’d fall asleep in any position after working 24 hour shift. he manages to gently lay you down, legs still off the bed. he thinks for a second how he could put you into a more comfortable position, but the act of putting you down seemed to wake you.

“no, no. stay. it’s been a long night,” he says softly as you start sitting up. half asleep, you don’t seem to want to argue anymore so you just kick off your shoes and turn your back to him as you lay down on the left side of the bed.

he isn’t sure if he should stay. he’d sleep on the couch, as a gentleman, but honestly, he doesn’t want to. his body is aching and he’s been excited to get to bed since around 2am. so he moves the blanket between you two, creating a border. it’s the least he can do. then he lays down next to your sleeping figure. but sleep evades him. considering how exhausted he was, it’s strange. but he knows it’s because of you. he should’ve taken the couch.

the sun wakes you up before your body does. it’s strange. as if your body’s protective walls and mechanisms completely turned off. you’re on your side and you turn on your back, hands coming to your eyes, rubbing them. they’re still heavy and puffy from sleeping. you take the environment in. just then you realise where you are and it’s as if those mechanisms start working again. your mind panics for a moment as you look around.

the guest room. jack is sleeping next to you, one arm over his stomach, still dressed in the same clothes. his chest is rising slowly and regularly. you sit up slowly, trying not to move the mattress too much, so as to not disturb jack.

you don’t even know what you’re doing. it’s like your body took over every action. you’re usually not the one bailing. well, not in this relationship. if you can still say there’s a relationship between you and jack, apart from the professional one.

you pad softly around the bed, grabbing your shoes that are just thrown near the bed, where jack’s sleeping. as you duck down to pick them up and leave, a soft voice stops you.

“you’re leaving.”

not a question. not an accusation. just plain facts.

you straighten your back, holding the shoes in your hands, unable to scratch the back of your neck nervously.

“i, uh, need to…”

“you can stay. if you want,” he says, sleep lacing his voice, as he pulls the blanket higher and turns to his side. he closes his eyes again and you wait for a moment. maybe if you stand here long enough, he’ll fall back asleep and you’ll run then.

but something about the way he said those words. as if it was nothing. a friend offering a friend a place to crash. and your mind somehow calmed down. you relaxed your shoulders, still debating whether you should just go or stay. both choices felt incredibly wrong and right at the same time.

but then you hands let go of the shoes and your legs brought you back to the left side of the bed. you laid back down, turning sideways, looking at jack’s back as sleep overcame you once again.

returning to work after learning about jack’s injury, your old house, the never ending conversations about your past and present, felt incredibly overwhelming. it was at times like these you wished you chose a different specialty. locking yourself away in a pathology lab or being in work for 8 hours as a dermatology attending sounded way better than facing this man almost every day.

you allowed your walls to come down a little, which hasn’t happened in a long time. and it scared you. that jack still had that power. of getting through to you, when you promised yourself you wouldn’t let him. when you specifically built those walls because of him.

you hadn’t talked much that morning, or evening actually, when you woke up next to each other. it only so happened that after the well-deserved sleep, you woke up with your arm thrown over jack’s abdomen, his arm under your neck. obviously both of you moved away quickly, embarrassed, faces heating up. but you didn’t talk about it further.

you helped him make dinner and another batch of coffee. you ate, made small talk. and it felt strangely normal, despite the embarrassment you both felt from moments before. he then offered to drive you back to the hospital. neither of you were working that night, but you did leave your car in the parking lot in the morning. you were considering declining, needing some time by yourself but the walk to the hospital was too far. so you accepted.

the drive was silent, only the songs playing from the radio filling up the space between you and jack. it was as if neither of you knew where to start the conversation. or what it even should be about. but you didn’t mind the silence. and you knew jack well enough to know that he didn’t mind either. and that he probably wasn’t overthinking every decision made right now. you had enough decency to at least not bite your nails in front of him.

“see you around,” he says as you step out of his truck, your bag propped on your shoulder. you almost want to laugh. because of course you will, you work together.

“right. bye,” you reply and roll your eyes. you see the way jack smiles as he drives off.

you search your bag for your car keys.

“see you around, huh?”

you turn around at the familiar voice.

yolanda is standing behind you, giant smirk plastered on her face. she has her hair let down and you see she’s wearing normal clothes.

of course jack would drive you to the hospital parking lot exactly at shift change.

“we work together,” you roll your eyes again. but this time at yolanda. she doesn’t even try to hide the amusement.

“and apparently it’s going very well.”

“that… was not what you think.”

“right,” she says, drawing out the i. you should probably shut up, before you dig yourself a bigger hole. you see the wheels turning in her head already and there’s nothing you can do.

“i just… helped him with his, uhm, leg. he was in pain.”

“you don’t have to explain yourself to me. just, be careful,” she replies, holding her hands up in a defensive gesture.

“it was nothing,” you scoff, playing with the car keys in your hand.

“he didn’t look like he got the memo.”

her words punch you in the gut. so maybe it wasn’t just you. to see the subtle signs in jack. but you still didn’t want to admit it. that it could be possible.

“you know what, you’re right. i don’t have to explain anything. i’m beat, i gotta go,” you say with a stern voice and turn around. you find your car before garcia even have a chance to respond and get in.

you need to go home, shower and collect your thoughts. before you spiral again.

next shift, he’s there. acting as if nothing has happened. and you’re trying your best to do the same. be nonchalant. be a man, they always act like nothing ever happened.

you’re sitting down at one of the computer, desperately trying to think of some medical words to put down in the patients chart, but your eyes keep wandering off to the trauma bay. the ambulance brought in a patient seconds ago and jack’s already in there, commanding the room calmly. everybody knows their place. or so it seems.

you hear the monitors go off in the trauma bay. your eyebrows are drawn together in curiosity. from what you’ve overheard this was not a critical patient. they were supposed to be sorted out quite quickly and moved on from the trauma bay onto the next level of care.

“we need a surgeon!” dennis whitaker, an intern, comes running out of the trauma bay, looking like a spooked puppy. you’ve really only seen him during the day shift, but you suppose interns must pick up some night shifts as well.

you quickly stand up from your chair, following after him into the trauma bay. the calm was now exchanged by a slight chaos. a nurse is already waiting for you with a gown and gloves and you thank her silently, before walking over to the table.

“what do you have?” you ask, looking at each, dennis, a by standing med student by the name james ogilvie, and jack. he’s currently holding an ultrasound probe to the patient’s belly, looking at the pool of black inside their abdomen.

“ehm, a suspected bowel perf…”

you gotta hand it to him, whitaker’s got balls.

“i thought this was just a stomach ache,” you said, putting your hands on the patient’s abdomen. it was stiff as a board, and what jack was ewing was probably a pool of blood or a bowel content being flooded into the abdominal cavity.

“well, we did also, but then ogilvie…”

“hey, it’s not my fault-...” ogilvie starts defending himself, but jack cuts them both off before they start fighting.

“gentlemen. it doesn’t matter now. we take care of the patient now.”

you order another line, a course of antibiotics and pain medication for the patient. but their heart rate is through the roof and blood pressure is tanking.

“we need to do something now, he can’t wait for an or,” you say after your assessment and you’re right. the patient is not looking good.

“let’s prep for a lap,” you decide. everyone moves like a well oiled machine, prepping the patient and the staff for the unexpected operation in the trauma bay.

“scrub them in,” you nod your head to the intern and the student. “they might as well hold retractors and suction.”

jack just smiles and nods. the prep is quick, jack intubates the patient with skill and precision and handles the meds orders. meanwhile you’re grabbing the scalpel from the nurse, waiting for whitaker to finish pouring iodine on the patient’s stomach.

“the light, please.”

jack moves around the table, grabbing the light and angling it just right. as if he read your mind. knew exactly what you needed from him.

“thanks.”

“no worries,” he just waves his hand, circling back to the patient’s head.

you smell it as soon as you cut through the peritoneum. the sharp and acidic smell of the bowel contents is unmistakable. you tell the nurse to prep a lavage as you work on the perforation. thankfully it’s not too big and whitaker and ogilvie are trying hard to help you any way they can. you give them careful instructions, so no more mistakes are made.

the beeping of the machines and humming of the ventilator are the only sounds filling the room. and then your phone joins in. you’d love to just cancel the call and work in silence again, but you can’t, because you’re elbows deep in shit. literally. 

it stops after a moment. and then rings again. 

“jesus christ,” you mutter into your mask, threading the needle through the tissue of the bowel. whitaker is suctioning everything around your hands and ogilvie is holding onto the retractors, hard. he doesn’t show it, but you know his hands are hurting.

when the phone rings a third time, you hand the nurse the instrument a little harder than you intend.

“if it’s fucking…”

you don’t finish your sentence, because your voice catches in your throat. your whole body goes rigid. and you feel your heart in your throat.

“i got it,” a silent, raspy voice says, dangerously close to your ear.

a warm set of hands, that feels way too familiar, is moving over your hips, under the sterile gown, grabbing the ringing phone from your scrub pocket and turning it off. jack then puts it next to the computer and walks over to the ventilator again, as if nothing happened.

you’re looking at him in complete shock, frozen over the patient’s open belly.

you don’t know how much time passes. you only know that the nurse is asking you if you’re going to lavage the abdominal cavity.

“what?” you snap back, turning your head to her.

“the lavage?”

“uhm. yeah, let’s do it.”

the silence is filled with the sound of suction and it draws you back to reality. you check the site for any remains of fluid that isn’t supposed to be there and you close the patient up. ordering more iv antibiotics, pain meds and frequent checks, you pull off your gown and gloves and walk out of the trauma bay before jack says anything. again. you’re running. because you can feel him chipping away at your protective walls. and you’re not sure how to feel about that.

“the vitals look good for now. finish in here and bring the patient up to post op,” dr. abbot instructs dennis. he just nods and pulls off his gown as well. abbot leaves the trauma bay and dennis can hear the med student behind him exhale.

“that was a close call,” dennis says to the other man.

“yeah. they work good together,” ogilvie points to the nurses station.

“what?” dennis asks, a little clueless. he turns his head and sees you and jack talking at the nurses station. you’re looking down into an ipad, but that doesn’t seem to bother abbot at all. he’s standing a little too close to you, and his lips are moving, but dennis cannot decipher what he’s saying.

“i mean, she says light, he’s right there. then the phone. it’s like they know each other pretty well.”

dennis thinks for a moment. he usually isn’t interested in staff rumours. but after taking a second look at you and jack, he might just ask trinity in the morning if she hasn’t heard anything.

“yeah. maybe a little too well.”

…

you don’t realise jack’s following after you until you’re standing at the nursing station, hand running through your hair. you bring up the patient’s chart on a nearby computer, thinking about how to start typing out the trauma bay procedure that should’ve really taken place in an or. 

“the patient was lucky you were nearby,” he speaks up first, when he sees your fingers hover over the keyboard mindlessly.

“so what happened in there?” you ask, turning you body sideways to look at him.

“a minor mishap from a student.”

“minor? the patient’s bowel had blown out into their abdomen.”

“and i told him what he did was wrong and he’s hopefully gonna learn from that.”

you squint your eyes at him. he’s so calm it’s almost unbelievable.

“the old you would bite his head clean off.”

jack chuckles. “yeah, probably.”

“maybe people can change, after all,” you say, the corners of your lips turning upwards. you don’t even realise you’re smiling. it’s jack, his eyes follow your lips and you quickly realise, turning back to the computer, ending your conversation right there.

by the end of the night, or rather start of the new day, you’ve fixed a perforated bowel, had to step into an ortho case because the resident was clueless, fixed an animal bite and had to go elbows deep into someone’s chest cavity. as if deep diving into someone’s abdomen wasn’t enough for one night.

right now you’re considering using laparoscopic instruments on the vending machine that’s refusing to dispense your morning dose of sugar and chocolate. it doesn’t budge no matter how much you punch the glass, looking desperately at the snickers halfway on it’s way down.

“fuuuck,” you draw out, leaning against the cold glass, giving up. you would drive your fist through, if you didn’t need your hands for your job.

“need a hand?”

you lift your eyes up from the linoleum. jack’s standing nearby, looking quite amused, his muscular arms crossed at his chest. of course you need a hand, one that’s about three feet long to go and grab your snickers. but you’re too much of a feminist to go asking for help. you’d quite literally rather starve.

“it’s fine, i’ll go look for something in the breakroom.”

“if you want to eat the crumbs after the donuts someone brought, be my guest.”

“there were donuts?”

“yeah, i think patient’s family brought it over.”

“damn. that’s what i get for screwing around in people’s guts,” you throw your hand in the air, frustrated.

“just, let me…” he steps in and gently moves your body to the side, to look at the vending machine. you almost freeze again at the touch of his arms to your body, but this time you control yourself a little better.

“oh, i see. this fucker’s been jammed forever, next time choose a different row,” he explains.

you run a hand through your hand again. of course you chose the jammed one. of course. and before you know it, jack’s taking out his wallet, grabbing some coins and punching in different numbers.

“jack, no, you don’t need…”

the vending machine whirrs and you see the snickers bar move towards the glass and fall down. the relief that washes over you is indescribable. you’d probably be close to losing it if another chocolate bar got jammed in there. and you’d hate jack losing his money on you, even if it wasn’t any vast amount.

as you reach down to grab the candy, jack seems to have the same idea and your hands touch as you both reach for the bin down below. you don’t yank your hand away this time, but he’s faster, as always, and grabs the snickers from the bin for you.

“here.”

it’s as if he’s doing it on purpose. because of course your hands are touching again when you take the bar from him. you gaze up and he’s looking right at you. it’s so him, the eye contact. and you don’t look away this time, because you know it. you know him. your body does. and it isn’t sending warning signals anymore. or they’re just really tuned down.

“thanks,” you manage to reply. jack just smiles, letting go of the candy.

“well if you’re done yearning, i’d like a little chat with her.”

both you and jack whip your heads to the side, finding very amused garcia standing right there. now the horror takes over as you stuff the snickers down your pocket. but jack isn’t too shaken up by this situation.

“sure,” he murmurs and leaves with a smirk on his face.

you turn to yolanda, mortified.

“what the hell was that?”

“i don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“the hell you don’t. you guys were seconds from eating off your faces,” she smirks, walking to the elevator. you quickly look around, checking that nobody needs you right now and you follow her. the pitt phone is sitting on your pocket, but you’re hoping it’s gonna remain silent.

“oh, shut up. he was just helping me with the vending machine.”

“so very damsel in distress from you. i might use it sometimes too.”

“you could never be a damsel in distress,” you say with a chuckle and open the snickers as the elevator door closes behind you.

“touche,” yolanda replies. her phone beeps and she looks at the screen, rolling her eyes.

“what’s up?”

“just my eager student. he managed to convince me to come an hour early so we could go over the surgical cases on the floor.”

“wow, that’s a first. this place really changes people, i guess,” you say, licking the melting chocolate off your fingers. “wait, is it that late already?”

“you wanted to say soon? and yes, it’s only 6 and i’m already here. if admin wasn’t up my ass about teaching more and being more approachable, i’d still be in bed,” she gives you the signature ironic smile and you smile as well, understanding of her behaviour.

“but let’s get back to you and abbot,” she says as you both exit the elevator on the med/surg floor.

“yeah, no, thanks,” you try dodging, but you know yolanda can be very persistent.

“you guys were like groping each other. so, you getting back together?”

“what?!” you whip your head around, looking at her, eyes bulging out of your face.

“why are you looking at me like that? is that so crazy to think?”

“well, first of all, we weren’t groping each other. he just bought me a candy bar. second of all… i don’t know,” you deflate. you honestly don’t know. 

it probably isn’t so crazy to think a person you married is in love with you. your head just cannot get past the whys and hows. and past the fact, that you’d spent so much time repairing what he broke, that you don’t want to admit there could be any feelings left or beginning to build up again. it was just not a possibility right now.

“i saw the way he looks at you. how he was looking at you for the past two weeks. and i’ll say what i’d said before. i don’t think he’s over it. over you.”

you look at her, fear creeping up your spine. it’s honestly scary.

“you can’t just say that.”

“dude, it’s the truth. and you know you’ll get nothing less from me,” she says as a matter of fact. you want to run and hide. but you’re a big girl. and maybe it’s time to finally face it all. you can’t be the runner now.

“it’s just… scary,” you admit.

“i understand. but why don’t you just tell abbot? he will understand too. i mean, ever since he’s been to therapy, he’s all about communication and understanding emotions and all that shit.”

she looks at you and you see her eyes soften with genuinity. like she’s worried about you a little.

“like i said… it’s scary.”

“okay. but for what it’s worth, i don’t think you need to be scared of talking to the one person you love,” she says and in that exact moment her phone rings. she picks it up, excuses herself and leaves you alone, in the med/surg breakroom.

love, not loved.

present tense.

she probably figured it sooner than you have. sooner than you have even admitted it to yourself. you scoff and throw the empty candy bar packaging into the nearest bin.

you survive hand offs, meet yolanda’s student who’s already been making a name for himself by making some interesting remarks while visiting post op patients and then grab all your stuff from your locker and leave.

the elevator ride seems to take 12 another hours and you lean your back on the elevator wall, trying hard not to fall asleep. when you step out, you meet a familiar figure.

“hi,” jack says as if you hadn’t seen each other just an hour ago.

“you’re off?”

“yeah, robby’s come in early so i’m leaving.”

“so, you’re going home?” you ask, not really knowing yourself where you’re going with this.

“yeah,” he says, looking over to you, as you fall into step next to each other, reaching the parking lot.

“gonna shower, probably make some breakfast. i bought too many eggs again,” he continues, still checking on you, as if he expected you to just say bye and run off. but you’re trying your best not to do that.

you both maneuver the parking lot, trying to remember where you parked the day before. you yawn as you fish through your bag for your car keys.

“have you eaten anything? i mean, aside from the vending machine candy.”

you stop, bringing your arm out of the bag pocket. it’s been a busy day. you’ve eaten a half of the infamous cafeteria sandwich before being dragged to another trauma and then, well… then the snickers bar.

“i’ll just order something when I wake up.”

“it’s not good to go to sleep with an empty stomach.”

he didn’t exactly say it, but it feels like an offer. and thought you’re scared of admitting there might be some feelings still between you two, you’re afraid you’re gonna agree.

“it’s not empty. i just had the chocolate.”

“can you not fight with me, for once?” he pleads and you deflate. you look down to your shoes, a little embarrassed.

“c’mon, i’ll make you a proper breakfast,” he says as a matter of fact and starts walking. you are left standing there, surprised at his stern voice. he was so soft with you, until now. so you quickly follow after him.

“but i want bacon as well.”

“okay,” he just replies, unlocking the truck.

“and none of that grilled mushroom stuff.”

jack stops in his tracks, looking at you as if you’ve just kicked a puppy. 

“i always thought you liked the mushrooms.”

“oops. there’s obviously a lot we have to talk about,” you say, smiling innocently.

“obviously.”

you get in the car. as the door closes, leaving everything outside, and it’s just you and jack in, you feel like you need to say this.

“this doesn’t mean anything. i mean, i don’t know if i’m ready this being… anything.”

“okay.”

“i’m not saying that i won’t be ready, like, ever… it’s just i need to take it slow. we need to take it slow.”

“okay,” he says, turning the key in the ignition.

“can you stop being so agreeable?”