#chronically ill reader

You’re only about three or four months into your recent move to Pittsburgh when you get sick. And you’re one of those, special, lucky people who has the immune system of an un-vaccinated Victorian orphan, so despite having several hours worth of college assignments waiting for you, you’re currently lying on your bathroom floor, face smashed against the cool tile.

It is, genuinely, the only comfortable place in your shitty apartment. (At the moment.)

You pull the thermometer out of your mouth and slowly blink at the reading:

100.2 degrees.

Like you usually are. Just barely outside the normal range. Well, normal range can eat bricks because there’s no way having a mild fever is making you feel this bad. And you’re not being dramatic. Your throat genuinely feels like it’s on fire, and every breath is laborious and agonizing. Your face and head feel like they’re about to explode, and you’re pretty sure someone or something is stabbing you over and over again in your legs and lower back (which also feel like they’re on fire.)

Time passes in a weird way on the bathroom floor. Not really slow, but the pain and discomfort of each breath keeps it from moving too quickly.

You recognize, distantly, that you’re really sick. Really sick even for you.

There usually comes a certain point in the common cold that never fails to absolutely destroy you when it faces a fork in the road: get better or get much, much worse.

It’s fairly obvious which path your immune system decided to take.

There’s a large puddle of drool wetting your cheek because swallowing hurts too bad, and it’s not like you can breathe through your nose anyway. You don’t even have the energy to be grossed out.

You never really do.

Being sick is all about distracting yourself from how much pain you’re in until the worst of it passes, but right now you’re only getting worse. You can’t keep anything down, not even water, which means you’ve just been digesting snot for the past two hours which is bound to make you throw up (again.) No matter what kind of sickness you get, you always end up throwing up.

You measure how much time has passed by how large the puddle of drool grows. When it surpasses hand-sized, you attempt to haul yourself up, maybe take some more ibuprofen (you really shouldn’t, your liver is honestly toast at this point) but upon making an effort, you find that you can’t.

It feels like executive dysfunction. You want to get up. You need to get up. You cannot get up.

You’re so tired.

Alarm bells are ringing in your head. The same alarm bells that went off the time you had walking pneumonia and genuinely came to terms with dying in your sleep. It’s a spike of panic in your chest, a small dump of adrenaline and cortisol that’s just barely enough for you to haul yourself upright.

The action takes more energy than it feels worth, and you feel like your heart is going to beat out of your chest.

You kind of feel like you’re dying. And honestly, with how bad you feel, you wouldn’t mind going to sleep and not waking up.

And that isn’t a usual thought to have when you’re sick, not to level of sheer apathy and exhaustion you’re feeling now, so you think that maybe it’s time to go to the Emergency Room.

You come to that conclusion about the same time that your roommate, who you aren’t quite friends with, comes into the bathroom and promptly screams when she finds you lying on the floor. (You don’t remember lying back down.)

“Hey,” She says, kneeling down and shaking your shoulder, “I think you need to go to the hospital.”

—

On another day, maybe when you don’t actually feel like death warmed over, you might be thankful that there is at least someone to take you to the hospital, to grab your hospital bag (you’d had to tell her where it was when you first moved in, and being a medical student herself, had understood your need for it) and to already have the route to the ED memorized. Probably because she currently works there.

“You’ll be fine,” Victoria rambles as she pulls into the parking lot with practiced ease, “I’ve worked with the night crew before, they’re great. They’ll make you feel better.”

Unlikely, you think.

Maybe you look particularly awful, or maybe it’s not that busy in the ED, or maybe you get some sort of special treatment as the roommate of a medical student, but before you know it, you’re shivering in a triage bed, still drooling uselessly into a wad of paper towels Victoria had been kind enough to shove into your hands.

It’s weird being in a hospital that doesn’t know you.

Nurses come and go, asking questions you barely answer and poking and prodding and you think, probably, that you should communicate that while on the worse end of the spectrum, this is still fairly normal for you. Being this sick from the common cold.

You think Victoria is talking to whoever is working on you, and then you’re in a wheelchair, and then they run more tests you don’t remember and then you’re in a bed.

“Dr. Abbot is gonna come see you,” Victoria tells you, looking mildly uncomfortable in a chair to your left.

She's honestly been so nice for this whole thing. Like, way too nice, considering that you guys aren't really friends (yet?)

“You should go home,” You tell her, speech really only possible because of the Toradol they gave you a few minutes ago, “You have work in the morning.”

She purses her lips and looks like she’s going to argue, so you painfully swallow and speak again.

“Go. I’ll be fine here. You said it yourself.”

It takes a few minutes to get the words out, and you have to pause more than once, which probably isn’t very reassuring, but logic seems to win out because she makes sure that you have everything you need before heading out.

And then you’re alone.

You attempt to pass the time by sleeping, to no avail. Discomfort, ever the unwanted companion, makes itself incredibly known. The Toradol helps, but since it’s basically just ibuprofen in IV form, there’s only so much it can do.

You’re just about to slip into a doze when a knock on the door frame rouses you. As the current pulls back, you have exactly one thought:

Victoria could’ve warned me that Dr. Abbot is insanely fucking hot.

“Hello there,” The man says, grabbing some hand-sanitizer which only served to extenuate the rippling muscles and veins of his forearms and biceps, “I’m Dr. Abbot. Javadi told me you weren’t feeling so good?”

Okay, focus. He can definitely see the heart-rate spike on the monitor. He’s just another doctor. You’ve had hot doctors before.

(Not like him.)

You shrug with the non-chalance of a twenty-something year old who has designated hospital clothes.

“Been better.” Kind of.

“Well, let’s see if we can’t get you better.”

He asks the same series of questions that Javadi helped you answer before since your brain still feels like it’s stuffed with cotton, but Dr. Abbot is patient and listens attentively while you stumble through answering every single one.

“Any pre-existing conditions?”

“Yes and no.”

He raises an eyebrow, finger hovering over the tablet in his other hand. “That sounds like a story.”

You wince. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be difficult.”

“You’re totally fine,” He immediately soothes before you can continue, voice rich and smooth like high-quality chocolate, “You’re actually the nicest patient we’ve had so far tonight.”

“Really?”

“Yep. No screaming, no cursing, you haven’t asked a billion and one questions or needed anyone to explain every single thing we’re doing.”

He grabs one of the spinny-stools on the other side of the room and wheels it over, sitting down with his tablet in his lap.

“Now. About those pre-existing conditions?”

You slowly and painfully explain your situation— very obviously chronically ill to pretty much everyone except the doctors you need to diagnose you.

Dr. Abbot doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t defend the doctors you’ve seen, just dutifully jots down everything you tell him.

“Any history of heart issues?”

You nod. “I went to a cardiologist last year and did a few tests. Second degree AV block, um, I think Mobitz one? And mild diastolic dysfunction.”

Another eyebrow raise. “And your cardiologist didn’t decide to move forward with any sort of treatment plans?”

“Just diet and exercise. He told me to drink more water.”

“That’s bullshit.”

Your eyes widen. “Sorry?”

He sighs, looking up from his tablet. “I apologize, that was unprofessional of me. I agree that Mobitz one is normally benign, so long as you’re asymptomatic or old. But coupled with that ‘mild’ diastolic dysfunction and the fact that, from you’ve told me, you are experiencing symptoms means it’s something that should be addressed.”

Oh.

Dr. Abbot barrels on. “I’m going to give you a referral for a cardiologist I know. She’s good.”

“Thank you so much,” You croak, barely able to believe what’s happening. "I don't know how to thank you. Um. Other than saying thank you."

He gives you a tiny grin, like this interaction is some sort of secret you're sharing. Is he not aware of the effect he has on patients? On you?

"Don't worry about it, kid. Call it duty of care."

Kid.

The way he says it doesn't make it seem condescending or pitying. It's an acknowledgment.

It makes your skin feel hot.

(That might be the mild fever.)

He breezes through the rest of the preliminary examination, questions all answered and typed into his tablet, which just leaves the physical examination.

He has gloves on, stop freaking out. And there's like, no way he isn't married, and he's literally your doctor for crying out loud. Don't make this weird.

No amount of internal begging to keep your rampant issues under control actually keeps said rampant issues under control. At the very least, you hope it isn't too noticeable when you bask in the feeling of his blissfully warm (you're already running a fever, so really, it should be uncomfortable) hand as it palpates here and there. Checking for internal bleeding, probably. Or an inflamed appendix. Or something like that.

Palpating is likely one of the least sexy touches a human being can experience, and yet, presumably due to the fact that hospitals are actually nostalgic to you and palpating is an experience you go through more often than most other people, and, you know, your issues, you genuinely manage to get a little... hot under the collar.

Like, his hands are right there. Gloved, sure, and he's not actually touching your skin, just the battered band t-shirt you've been wearing since you got sick three days ago, so again, really not hot circumstances, but his deliciously freckled and really enticingly well-muscled forearms are right fucking there.

Can Toradol make you high? Are you having an allergic reaction to the fluids? Has the common cold finally decided to snatch your soul, leaving you the shuffle miserably off this mortal coil?

He glances up at the monitor.

"Bit of a heart-rate spike there."

Oh sweet mother of Christ.

Dr. Abbot gives you a little knowing smile, which does nothing but make you want to crawl in a hole and die, and finally finishes his palpating.

"So from the look of things, you really do just have the common cold--" He winces when you groan, "I know, I know. But you do have a touch of strep-throat, which I think might be contributing to your general awfulness and malaise. Your labs came back a little all over the place, so we're going to send you home with a prescription for some broad-spectrum antibiotics. Have you ever taken Azithromycin before?"

You shake your head no.

"The coarse is only for a week, and you'll take them twice a day. As for your cold symptoms, I'd have to recommend your basic over-the-counter cold medicine and lots of rest. Sound good?"

You nod. "Thank you so much."

Another heart-rate-spiking smile. "Anytime. I hope you feel better, but come back straight back here if you feel any worse, okay?"

You agree, and offer him another thanks and pretend like you're not going to be silently wondering if this is who your roommate works with every day.

—

A few days of antibiotics later, you're staring at yourself in the mirror after a late-night everything shower, and you think you might be cursed.

"Hey Victoria?" You shout through the door to where you know she's studying in the nearby living room. "What are the normal symptoms after taking Azithromycin?"

"Uh, none?"

"Thanks!"

Motherfucker. Who the fuck is even allergic to antibiotics? They're antibiotics.

You stare at the rash-slash-hives that's developed on your arms and legs (you convinced yourself it was razor burn the first two days) and wonder how life threatening it really is. Like, what could even really happen?

You skip lotion and throw on what was supposed to be a cute-pajama set, but now the striped tank-and-shorts combo serve to be functional— no fabric touching the sensitive skin where the rash covers and for ease of access, because of course you're going to run it by Victoria before you jump to any sort of conclusions about severity and allergic reactions.

Maybe this just one of those things. Like when doctors say "Just a little pinch" or "You'll feel some pressure" and then you go on to experience a level of agony previously only experienced by mafia traitors.

Like, maybe you won't even have to go to the ER. It might be a low-level twenty-four-hour-clinic type of deal.

—

So apparently between the rash, your flu-like symptoms (you thought you were just sick) and the fact that your heart rate has been all over the place since starting the antibiotics, Victoria does, in fact, insist that you go to the ER. Again.

At least this time you're lucid enough to drive yourself.

You've only just checked in, settling in the moderately-empty waiting room, cursing your existence when a familiar face walks in the front door, backpack slung over his shoulder and a cup of coffee in his hand.

It's pure coincidence that you happen to be sitting in like, the only seat in his direct eye-line as he glances down and then comes to a full-body stop. You shove down the shiver that threatens to overwhelm your body as a sharp, calculating gaze scans up and down your body before coming to rest on the visible rash on your legs.

He blows out a breath.

"Oh, kid."

Dr. Abbot leaves in the waiting room with the promise to return shortly after he clocks in and does his... whatever it is doctors do upon clocking into work. Rounds? Or is that a general medicine thing?

Before he walks through the door, he points a finger at you and says:

"Stay."

Like the loyal dog you are, you comply. First of all, where would you even go, (do patients jump ship often??) and secondly, like there is any universe in which you are arguing with that man.

YOUR DOCTOR, you mentally correct. HE'S YOUR DOCTOR. THERE ARE LITERALLY LAWS IN PLACE FOR THIS KIND OF THING. HE'S ALSO PROBABLY MARRIED. GET A GRIP.

It doesn't take him long to return to you, and like, isn't that unusual? Don't nurses and whoever usually get patients instead of like, the doctor on shift?

He gets the door for you (which is hot, even though he literally has to since it's only opened via staff-issued key-card.)

You feel kind of bad for skipping the line, cause there's other people in the waiting room, and surely some of them have more pressing medical concerns than your little rash?

You paraphrase this to Dr. Abbot as he leads you down the hallway towards one of the triage rooms, but he just snorts.

"You questioning my triage and risk assessment skills?"

Horror fills every aspect of your being.

"No no no no no, no, of course not, I didn't mean—"

Then he starts laughing.

"Relax, kid," He huffs, shoving his hands in his pockets, eyeing you from the side, "I was just poking at you. I think it's very... sweet, that you're worried about the other patients, even if it's unnecessary. I promise, if someone else had a more pressing medical concern, they would get seen first."

You deflate a little at his reassurance, though you still feel thoroughly mortified.

"Besides," He continues, pulling back a curtain and gesturing for you to take a seat in one of the large triage chairs, "You're having a fairly serious allergic reaction. I'm guessing this started after you started taking the Azithromycin?"

You nod as you situate yourself. "Yeah, sorry. Um, it started—"

He holds up a hand, and you cut yourself off.

"Respectfully," He starts, his hands clasped in front of his mouth. "What the hell are you apologizing for? And don't say being allergic to Azirthromycin."

"Um... For having to bother you again..? Right when you get on shift?"

"Kid," That shouldn't be hot, that shouldn't make your stomach flip-flop around, "Didn't I tell you to come back if you got worse?"

"Yes."

"And did you come back because you got worse?"

"...Yes?"

"Yes, you did. It was good that you came back," He says the second sentence slow and careful, like he's trying to cement it into your brain.

"It says on your intake form that you were experiencing fast and irregular heartbeats and dizziness accompanying the rash and hives, is that correct?"

"Yes. I thought I was just having a flare-up. And I kind of thought the rash and hives was just razor burn, but I don't shave my upper-arms, so."

He nods slowly. "...Right. I know that you've had a lot of unfortunate experiences with doctors and treatment in the past, but that's not going to fly with me, understand? There's a very real chance that if you'd ignored your symptoms you would've gone into anaphylactic shock. And while I trust Javadi to recognize the symptoms of a severe allergic reaction, I also know that she spends most of the day at the hospital or at lectures, meaning that if you had gone anaphylactic, there wouldn't have been anyone home to help you."

Dr. Abbot leans down when he notices you staring at your lap, sheepish, avoiding his gaze. "I don't say any of this to scare you. I just need you to understand the seriousness of your reaction."

He snatches the tablet off the cart. "You can't minimize your health issues. They're real. If you do, doctor's won't take you seriously. And you get enough of that without contributing to it or doing it yourself."

There's a few beats of silence while he types some things on the tablet and you digest his words.

"Thank you, Dr. Abbot."

He flashes you a grin, a little sharp. "Like I said before. Duty of care."

—

Victoria is happy that you had such a nice experience at the PTMC —"I told you they were great!"— and both of you are happy that the new antibiotics are working the last dredges of your cold are fading.

Since you finally feel (relatively) well, you decide to go to the coffee shop Victoria has been trying to convince you to go to for ages. Apparently, she loves their coffee so much she gets it there on hospital days and lecture days, despite it being much closer to the hospital than it is to the university. Thankfully, the apartment you share is fairly close to the hospital (a win both for your constant medical issues and for your roommates chosen career) so the coffee shop is within walking distance. Honestly, living in the city like this, there aren't a lot of things that aren't within walking (or bus, depending on the weather) distance.

You arrive to the cafe roughly around the time it opens, desperate to get as many hours studying and playing catch up as you can. Most of your professors were understanding when you explained your frequent health problems and the fact that you had to go the ER twice in the span of a week, and gave you extensions, but there's always a few no-nonsense hard-asses who think a 6,000 word paper can easily be accomplished from a hospital waiting room or bed, even when you explain how incapacitated you were. And to top it all off, in your endless wisdom, you hadn't thought to ask Dr. Abbot for a doctor's note that you could've held over the aforementioned hard-asse's head's, since they have to comply when you have actual evidence of illness, signed by a medical doctor.

So yeah. Lots of work, very little time.

You order yourself a gigantic coffee with several extra shots of espresso, heart-problems be damned, because there's no way you're accomplishing the amount of assignments you have without drugs, and since you can't do drugs, medically inadvisable amounts of caffeine is the next best thing.

Sure, the caffeine kind of makes your chest feel like it's floating, but the study work-flow you manage to accomplish is unparalleled.

With your headphones on and your eyes glued to your laptop screen your neck might as well be made of stone. Which means you don't really notice the man who's approached the table in the corner you've tucked yourself into.

"Do I even want to know how many shots you had them put in there?"

You jump, launching yourself backwards and straightening, causing your skull to crack rather unpleasantly against the wall behind you. You hiss in pain at the same time that Dr. Abbot says "Shit."

"Sorry," He rumbles, stepping forward. "Can I see?"

He really didn't have to ask. He could've just told you that he was going to look and you wouldn't kick up a fuss. You'd like it actually, if he told you what to do. What's that line from Fleabag? “I want someone to tell me what to wear every morning. I want someone to tell me what to eat. What to like, what to hate, what to rage about." Yeah. Dr. Abbot could do all of that for you.

Still technically your doctor you depraved lunatic.

You must've nodded or made a noise of affirmation or something (or maybe he got tired of waiting for you to respond) but he steps forward and. Well. Okay. You had this idea, in your head about what him 'seeing' actually entails, and conceptually, you understood that it involves him touching you, without gloves or a sterile, anti-septic wall between the two of you, but actually feeling his large, warm hands (is he always this warm, then? You remember how warm they were at the hospital) cradling the back of your head, fingers rubbing along your scalp, checking for a bump or scratch or whatever is a completely different ballpark.

If you thought the palpation was difficult to endure, it doesn't hold a goddamn candle to him leaning over you, dressed in his own clothes that smell like him, hands bare (!!) and actually touching you, skin-to-skin. There's no rumpled band tee or blue latex gloves between you now.

"No bump," He affirms after a few (unrequited and one-sided) sexually charged moments. "Sorry about that."

"No, it's not your fault. Coffee makes me jumpy."

His eyes skate down to the large, mostly empty cup next to your laptop. "And I'm sure the quantity was helpful."

You smile, more than a little embarrassed. He's charted your medical history. He knows exactly how stupid it is for you specifically to be drinking a twenty-four ounce iced cold brew with five extra shots of espresso. Realistically, that is an unhinged and borderline masochistic coffee order for a normal person.

"Enlighten me," He starts, his head tilted to the side, eyes once again looking you up and down. But this time, his gaze isn't clinical. Maybe you're imagining it, making things up to feed your delusions and issues, but right now, it's almost like he's looking at you like he's... hungry.

"Why would little-miss-mild-diastolic-dysfunction be drinking a concentrated heart attack?"

Jesus H. Christ.

"—Little-miss—“

This is genuinely becoming a very serious problem. You might have to leave Pittsburgh forever. Forget your master's program. Maybe your professors will understand that you ended up with a giant, overwhelming, unhinged, and slightly insatiable and completely inappropriate crush on the ER doctor you are definitely going to be seeing a lot of.

That's it. You can never come back to this coffee shop. Or go to the ER again. Ever. You'll just die next time you have a health problem, thanks.

Oh, fuck. How long have you been just staring at him?

He's smiling at you, all teeth and a knowing sparkle in his eyes and you know what, you actually hate him, he's such an asshole--

"You know I'm willing to bet I'd see a spike if you were still hooked up to that heart monitor."

"Oh, fuck you," You laugh, your shoulders relaxing.

"She does bite back," He says, humor clear on his features. "Was wondering if I should start concussion protocol."

You roll your eyes. "If you must know, I have a mountain of homework to do and very little time to do all of it, so."

You gesture to your coffee cup. "Caffeine it is."

"You know, as your former doctor, I'd have to advise you against finishing that. Please tell me you at least ate something with it?"

"... I had a pack of fruit snacks from the bottom of my bag?"

Dr. Abbot sighs, looks heaven-ward and mutters "kids" under his breath and, in a mirror of the week prior in the hospital room, points one finger at you and says:

"Stay."

Again. You're not sure where you would go and you are very inclined to listen. Probably too inclined to listen. Whatever.

He returns after a few minutes with a large iced water, a ham-and-swiss croissant on a plate, and another coffee, this one hot.

Then, smooth and confident, he moves your laptop back to make room, and sets the plate and water in front of you.

"Eat that," He points to the croissant, then to the water. "And drink that. All of it."

Your eyes widen. "Dr. Abbot, you didn't have to--"

"Jack."

"What?"

"We're not in the hospital. And I'm not your doctor."

Your face feels so hot. It has to be on fire. Are you on fire?

“I really can’t—“

“You can,” He assures, self-confident and jeez-us there is no way you’re not thinking about that in bed tonight. Or like, maybe forever?

You want to fight him on this, maybe push back a little, because there’s absolutely no universe in which this means what you want it to mean, but—

There’s a certain temptation to give in. Plus, who knows what other downright sinful things he’d say if you kick up more of a fuss?

“Okay,” You acquiesce (it feels a lot more like melting, though.)

Dr. Abb— Jack doesn’t say anything as you dutifully sip the water and take a bite, he just—

Watches. It’s almost worst than anything that could come out of his mouth.

“There we go,” Okay, you take it back that is a million times worse, “You’d better finish that, you hear me?”

“I will. I promise.”

Jack hums, then pulls a pen out of the pocket of his hoodie and scribbles something on a napkin. He hands it to you, then says:

“Call me.”

And then he just. Turns around, and walks out the door, coffee in hand.

What. The. Fuck.

—

Two things occur after your interaction with Jack in the cafe. Well technically, don’t occur, since the first thing is that you don’t tell your roommate that her kind-of boss maybe possibly flirted with you a teeny bit and gave you his number?

There isn’t really a way to bring that up organically, so you just. Don’t.

The second thing is that after an embarrassing long time about what to even name him in your phone (you settle on Dr. Jack Abbot, keeping the Dr. part as if you’re going to forget) you do not, in fact, call him. Or text him.

So yeah, actually, two things do not occur. There is no occurring. There is a severe lack of occurring.

It’s not that you don’t want to text him (you really do) you’re just not sure how to go about doing so? Like, what does that first text even look like?

‘Hey, thanks for not medically gas-lighting me, wanna get coffee? Except you probably don’t want to get coffee with me, because you’ve seen first hand how neurotic coffee makes me. So, drinks?’

No. Not happening.

You mainly just try to focus on staying busy. Which is easy, because master’s programs are so incredibly good at making sure you never have a waking moment to yourself. It’s so great. (You’re dying.)

Weeks come and go in a blur of late nights, intense study sessions, and minor breakdowns over your workload that turn into major breakdowns about your life (you are now the not-so-proud owner of homemade nose piercing, courtesy of you, Victoria, and two bottles of rosé.)

Soo the nose piercing probably wasn’t the best idea, but now you’re kind of too scared to take it out and honestly it doesn’t even hurt. Victoria made sure that everything was clean and sterile, and honestly she did an amazing job with the placement, so no complaints there.

You just now have a semi-permanent reminder of why not to get drunk when you’re having a bit of a breakdown. At least you didn’t tell Victoria about Jack. You might’ve given yourself bangs.

As it stands, though, the whole “don’t get drunk when you’re having a breakdown” apparently didn’t stick, because a dark Wednesday evening has found you at a bar Victoria told you was great, nursing a a third or fourth beer you really don’t have the money to be drinking.

(It was the cheapest thing the bar sold, anyways.)

You stare at the ring of condensation on the counter in front of you, thinking about the un-texted and un-called contact that’s currently burning a hole in your pocket. For some reason, no matter how busy you get, you never really manage to forget that it’s there.

“Call me.”

God, you think to yourself, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes, the memory of the low timber of his voice and how warm and nice it felt to be the center of his gaze; the center of his attention.

The memory makes your skin flush, so you throw back the rest of your beer so you can blame the heat on the alcohol.

It’s an unconvincing lie and a miserable action.

“Didn’t know you were old enough to drink.”

You really need to stop taking Victoria’s recommendations. Or maybe remember where she works.

You don’t bother turning to face him, because he sidles up next to you at the empty bar seat.

“I’m legal,” You mumble, the tiniest bit buzzed from the beer.

Glancing over turns out to be a mistake, because he’s wearing a button down with the sleeves rolled up, which means that the arm he has propped on the bar is exposed in all it’s deliciously muscled and freckled glory.

And he’s looking at you. Eyes a little narrowed, tiny smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

He’s a bad idea, is what he is. Just like the sparkling stud in the side of your nose. Except that tiny piece of jewelry doesn’t look nearly as fucking good as he does.

You might be a little more than buzzed, if how much you want to kiss him is anything to go off.

“You stare more than you talk,” Jack says, curling his fist to prop his head up, absentmindedly waving the bartender over. “Always looks like there’s a lot going on in that pretty head of yours.”

“Don’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Cause I’m not sure you mean them.”

The silence between you too isn’t really silence. Not with the dull sounds of bar chatter and shitty bar music and Jack telling the bartender to pour him a drink.

Whiskey, neat.

Figures.

“I would’ve told you that I meant them,” He tosses back the whiskey, almost all in one go. Leaves a tiny bit at the bottom of the glass, swirls it around before continuing. “If you’d called.”

More not-quite silence.

“I wanted to.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” You turn your body to face him, newly mirroring his position, “…I almost did. A few times.”

“Why?”

“Why didn’t I?”

“Why did you almost call?”

You swallow, nearly choking on the sudden lump in your throat. “Um.”

Very eloquent, you are. Truly, a master of poise and class.

“Need some liquid courage, sweetheart?”

“I’ve been drinking beer all night,” You say, sheepish. Sweetheart. God. It’s like he’s trying to torture you.

Is he?

“That’s not real alcohol. Come here.”

The next chain of events are much too sexually charged to happen in a cheap bar with a man who used to be your doctor.

It happens anyway.

You don’t move closer— frozen stock-still in something like apprehension or fear. But not necessarily the unpleasant kind?

The ‘Come here’ must’ve been figurative or metaphorical or something, or maybe he knows that you’re too nervous to comply (even though something in you desperately wants to) because he moves.

Jack reaches a hand up— slow enough that you could back up or push it away if you wanted to.

You don’t. You don’t want to, anyways.

His fingers ghost up your neck before settling on the edge of your jaw, his thumb pressed firm against your chin. He tilts your head back, just a slight angle, and then—

He takes his glass, the one with that little bit of whiskey in it (oh god, did he plan this? Did he leave that whiskey in there on purpose?) and raises the glass to your lips, letting the rum rest heavy against your mouth.

“You ever had whiskey before, kid?”

You shake your head no. You probably have, at some point, but relaying that would require a certain amount of effort and speaking skills— neither of which you are in current possession of.

“It’s gonna burn a little. Swallow it quick.”

What the fuck? Is—

He—

Then he tips up the glass, and you really don’t want whiskey on your face, so you part your lips enough to let the amber liquid be poured into your mouth, and he’s right, it does burn, and it kind of tastes gross.

You screw up your face at the flavor, but do your best to swallow it quickly, feeling the burn of it lick down your throat before settling like a warm, heavy weight in your stomach.

Like that was a normal thing to do, like nothing out of the ordinary just happened, he sits back onto his stool, releasing your face and resuming his position propped up on the bar.

“So. When did you almost call me?”

You don’t drink often. It’s honestly way too expensive, you despise hangovers (you have headaches and migraines all the time, why induce one?) and you don’t much care for the taste of most alcohols.

All of that to say. You are an embarrassingly easy lightweight. A cheap drunk, if you will.

“First time was two weeks ago,” You mumble, maybe not loud enough for him to hear over the shitty bar music, “Got a tea instead of a coffee to study with. Wanted to text you a picture.”

Jack has this easy, warm, but also simultaneously shit-eating expression on his face, which you take to mean that he’s aware of your incredible intolerance for alcohol.

“And what reason did you whip up in that pretty head of yours as to why you shouldn’t?”

You shrug. “Thought you wouldn’t care. Like, maybe you just want to hookup.”

“I do not want to hookup.”

“Oh.”

He motions to the bartender, who pours him more whiskey. What is it with men and whiskey?

“And the other time?”

This one you don’t really want to tell him, but with the alcohol burning away in your stomach and Jack’s equally burning stare, you give in.

“… Wanted to call you and ask you to yell at one of my professors. Cause he’s a dick and doesn’t believe in giving extensions or allowances even if you go to the hospital.”

He snorts. “And why didn’t you?”

You let your head flop onto your arm, halfway on the bar halfway off. “Didn’t wanna bother you. Seemed stupid. Plus, I managed to catch up on all my homework.”

Jack finishes the rest of his drink, then nudges your head off the bar and back onto your arm with the back of his hand. “Don’t lay on there. It’s gross.”

You whine. Your arm isn’t as comfortable as the solid bar top.

He didn’t really respond to your explanation (at least not in any normal way) so instead you decided to amuse yourself by just staring at his face. It’s a nice face.

You narrow your eyes at him. “Did you get me drunk on purpose?”

“No.”

“Then how come I’m drunk?”

“Because you’re a lightweight and whiskey has a higher alcohol content than beer.”

“Oh. Was that flirting? With the—“

You gesture vaguely to his glass and then to your lips. He just raises an eyebrow.

“Do you really need confirmation?”

“Yes.”

His face makes a funny expression. “Yes, that was flirting. The thing at the cafe was too.”

“Oh. That’s good to know. I wasn’t sure.”

“You weren’t sure?”

“Yeah,” Your neck is starting to hurt from lying there, so you prop it up with your hand. It’s only mildly more comfortable. “People don’t flirt with me very often.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“It’s true.”

“Have you ever considered that maybe they are and you just don’t notice?”

“I would notice.”

“Kid, you just asked me if hand-feeding you my whiskey was flirting.”

You shrug, jostling your head and nearly slipping. “I don’t come to bars like, ever. Maybe that’s normal bar etiquette.”

“If you don’t come to bars, then why are you here tonight?”

You arm is too tired to keep holding your head up and your vision feels like it’s processing at a lower frame rate, like an old video game, so you put your head back on the bar top. Jack does a funny little huffing noise, and sticks the palm of his hand under your head right before it lands on the table, so you’re lying on his hand instead of the bar.

“Your hand is warm.”

“Is it now?”

“Yes.”

“Good to know.”

His eyes catch on the piece of jewelry now adorning your nose.

“When’d you get that?”

“Last week. Got drunk with Victoria— uhm, Javadi.”

“I know what her first name is, thank you sweetheart.”

“Right. Anyways, she had some nose jewelry from her mom, and kept drinking rosé and crying about our workload, I mean, hers is like, definitely worse than mine, you know, medical student and all, but we were drunk and we thought why not? Like, she’s a doctor, she knows how to sterilize stuff and keep it clean. She chickened out and wouldn’t let me give her one. Which makes sense. Cause I didn’t give myself a nose piercing. I had her do it.”

“You been keeping it clean?"

“Mhm. Twice a day.”

“Good girl.”

Jack sighs a little, the thumb that’s pressed against your temple beginning to sweep back and forth.

“You don’t belong in a place like this, kid.”

“I don’t?”

“No.”

“Oh. Okay. I think I wanna go home.”

Jack just nods, still rubbing your temple. It feels too intimate for a bar, but it feels really nice, and you don’t really want him to stop.

“Do you have a ride?”

“No. Victoria went to sleep before I left. She has an early morning. She works really hard.”

He hums. “I’ll walk you home.”

“You don’t have to,” You mumble, “I know you’ve got the. The leg.”

Some sort of unreadable look flashes across his face, the kind of look you probably wouldn’t be able to decipher even if you were sober and fully in possession of all your faculties.

“I know I don’t have to. But I’d feel better if I saw you get home safely with my own two eyes.”

You huff. “This isn’t some sort of sex thing, right? Like, you get me drunk so you’ll have to take me home, and then you know where I live, and then you take me to my room and then I’m drunk so i’m easier to coerce—“

“Fuck, no. Has someone ever tried that with you?”

“No. I’ve heard about it, though.”

“Look at me,” He raises your head a little with his hand, eyes searching your face. “You ever feel uncomfortable or unsafe, in any way, call me. I don’t care what time it is or if you think you’re bothering me. You’re not. Okay?”

That’s probably too intense for… whatever thing you guys have going on. But you’re not really normal, and it just sounds so nice, having someone to call.

“Okay.”

Jack nods again. “Alright. Let’s get you home. Come on, up we go.”

He manages to get you too your feet after a minor amount of stumbling on your part —“Jesus, kid, you are a lightweight”— and keeps one stabilizing arm around your waist as he helps you home.

“Your arm feels nice.”

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

He doesn’t talk very much except little mutterings here and there.

“Careful— there’s a big crack there.”

“Don’t walk into that trash can.”

“Keep your eyes open.”

“Almost there.”

The walk back to your house isn’t far, like most of the places you go to since moving to Pittsburgh.

“I can get up there myself,” You say, motioning to the stairs that lie in front of you and lead up to you and Victoria’s apartment, “Thank you, though. I’ll text you in the morning. I promise.”

Jack let’s go of you and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Don’t forget to drink water before you go to bed. At least a full glass.”

You clasp your hands behind your back. “Goodnight, Jack.”

“Goodnight, kid.”

—

Two days later finds you sitting at your tiny table, phone sitting face-up, Jack’s contact open and painfully empty.

You forgot to text him in the morning, because your hangover was fucking awful (You can’t even think about whiskey without getting nauseous again) and then you had school and… well. Now it’s been two days, and you still need to text him.

Victoria walks past you, two steaming mugs of coffee in her hands. She sets one down in front of you and sits down at the table.

“Still haven’t texted him?”

Apparently, Victoria had set an alarm on her phone to check if you’d made it home okay and ended up seeing you and Jack outside the apartment. She’d had the kindness to wait until the next morning before asking:

“So, you and Dr. Abbot?”

Vomiting had saved you from answering immediately, though you did end up telling everything that had happened after you finished worshiping the porcelain altar. Talking and throwing up don’t mix.

“No,” You answer her miserably. “I just don’t know what to say.”

“I mean, it’s pretty obvious that he’s into you. Based on,” She winces, “Past evidence. I doubt a text is going to put him off. Probably?”

“I told him I’d text him yesterday morning.”

“In your defense, you spent pretty much all day yesterday dying, so. I’m sure he figured that might happen.”

You take a generous gulp of coffee. “Should I just say hi?”

“I’m really not the person you should be asking for romantic advice.”

You take her by the shoulders. “You’re all I have, Victoria.”

“Um,” She sets her mug down. “Maybe something like, hello? Say sorry for not texting?”

You hum, typing out the sentiment, then slide the phone over to her. “Does that sound awkward?”

“Again. I really do not think you want to ask me.”

You chew on your lip, drink the last of your coffee in one go, totally burn the shit out of your tongue, then send the text.

You promptly stand, your chair screeching loudly as it nearly tips over, and run over to your fridge.

“Fuck. Do we have any of that rosé left?”

“It’s seven in the morning?”

“Desperate times, Victoria.”

She leans over, glancing at your phone, then gasps. “He’s typing!”

“Already?!” You screech, running back over to the table and hunching over your phone. Sure enough, the little bubble is on your screen, little dots jumping.

“What’s he saying?”

“I don’t know! You read it!”

Victoria snatches your phone and stares at it with the same amount of focus that you’ve previously only seen when she’s an hour deep into some medical textbook.

“Oh my god.”

“What? What?!”

She shoves the phone into your face.

Don’t worry about it, kid. Thought you might be hungover. You could always make it up to me, though.

“Oh my god,” You repeat. “Is it weird that I think it’s hot when he calls me kid?”

“Like, in the grand scheme of things? No. But probably.”

You pick absentmindedly at your hangnails. “I’m gonna text him back."

You type out a quick message and hit send before you can chicken out.

How am I supposed to make it up to you?

The dots reappear for a few seconds.

Let me take you on a real date.

You slam your hands (and phone) onto the table and whip your head to Victoria.

“He wants to take me on a date!”

The apartment becomes filled with the shrill squeals and screams of hysterical joy.

“Say yes!” Victoria screams. “You have to say yes. Please. For both of our sakes.”

“Shouldn’t I play hard to get? Don’t guys like that?”

“I don’t know. Haven’t you like, already unintentionally done that? Plus, Abbot is a pretty straightforward guy.”

“You’re right.”

When are you free next?

Tomorrow. You?

I have class until 3 :/

I’ll pick you up at 5.

You squeal again, practically jumping out of your seat and running to your room, throwing yourself on your bed.

Victoria follows a few minutes after, though in a much calmer manner.

“I can’t believe this is happening. You’re going on a date with my boss—“

“Oh my god, don’t say it like that.”

“So we’re ignoring the age gap?”

“No.”

“No judgement here, I know some people think experience is quite the kink—“

“Shut up—“

She laughs, leaving your room but leaving your phone on the nightstand by your bed.

You’re actually going to do it. You’re going on a date. With Jack Abbot. He wants to go on a date with you.

You only manage to stop screaming into your pillow when the downstairs neighbors shout for you to stop.

—

5 pm the next day arrives in a whirlwind of panic, about two million outfit changes, desperate makeup application, and way too much deliberation over what panties to wear for somebody who never has sex on the first date. Or like, ever, really.

By the time Jack has arrived (bearing a bouquet of flowers. Not roses, not the cheap dyed ones, but the kind of selection that takes time to make and time to choose) you’ve worked yourself into a frenzy about possibly being both under and over-dressed at the same time.

All Jack says, however, when meet him downstairs is a sort of winded:

“You look beautiful.”

And then you’re off.

The date itself is actually relaxing and easy, like being in Jack’s presence usually is. He asks about your schoolwork and classes and actually listens when you tell him what you’re studying. He doesn’t belittle your major or make himself seem self-important, like his job and career are better than yours. He actually says that he’s impressed that you manage to balance your health and workload so well, to which you respond by pointing at your nose stud and say “Not all that well.” which makes you both laugh.

He glares at you when you even glance at the check, which kind of makes you want to punch him and kiss him senseless.

He walks you home and, when you hesitate to initiate, pushes you against your apartment door and kisses you so hard your lips are tingling when he whispers a breathless:

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

After that, Victoria bans you from speaking about anything beyond talking or hanging out that happens on your dates, because: “I still have to look him in the eye at work, and I really don’t want to hear about how good my boss’s tongue feels in your mouth.”

You can’t exactly blame her for that.

One date becomes two which becomes three, then four, and then you start staying over at his place a couple times a week because it’s way nicer than yours anyway.

One of the adjustments of your boyfriend (can you call him that? Are you guys dating? Or just going on dates?) being a doctor, and also apparently caring about you as a human being on a fundamental level, is that he actually worries about your health. Like, always.

“Put the ibuprofen bottle down, you’ve already had five today.”

“Are you tracking my medication usage?”

“Yes. Who else is going to stop you from giving yourself liver failure?”

Or:

“What’s your heart rate average been today?”

“…One-forty?”

“So do you think having an energy drink for breakfast is a good idea?”

“…”

“That’s what I thought.”

In some ways, it’s annoying. But in a lot of other, overpowering ways, it’s so… relaxing, to have someone around to think of you. You don’t really understand why or how he gets fulfillment out of helping you manage your life day-to-day, but he does, and does anything else really matter?

There are, of course, hiccups. There is the awkward moment where a two-week long flare sends you to the PTMC because you faint at school and school protocol requires they dial 911, and then even after the paramedics arrive and you explain to them that your body just hates you, your heart rate won't lower from the low 120's so then they insist they take you to the hospital, where Dr. Robby gets to meet you for the first time. And the entire day shift. It's about as awkward as it sounds.

Sometimes Jack has bad pain days too. He gets a little waspish, a little snappy, because being the man that he is (and just a man, at the end of the day) he doesn't like acknowledging that not having a leg means he has limitations. But just like he doesn't pity you or make you feel incapable when you hate your body or get sick for the thirty-millionth time, you do your best to make sure he knows that you get it, and he's still the ridiculously hot doctor you wanted to bang even with a 100.4 degree fever.

"It was actually 101.4," He likes to correct from the bathtub, steam curling around his neck and shoulders. "Your heart rate would spike every time you looked at me."

You bear through the reminders of your own awkwardness for his sake. Plus, it's hard to hate him for it, especially when he's always coming up with new and inventive ways to thank you for taking care of him (even though you insist he doesn't have to, because he's literally been taking care of you since the day you met.)

And, you know. There are worse ways to spend one's time.

And being a doctor is more important than anything else you can do with your body. It's the only thing that matters right now because you've invested so much time into it. It was your dream, even when your friend quietly asked, all those years ago, if you'd be up for standing and being on your feet twelve to fourteen hours a day. Sometimes sixteen.

You were so unfairly angry at her for asking the question. For forcing you to stop and think about your body's limits, how present they were even then, when you were freshly drinking age and should've, by all accounts, been able to take advantage of how quickly a young body can bounce back.

But you've never been able to bounce back. You suffer regardless of what you're doing. But you wanted to be a doctor. You'll hurt no matter what.

But you can concede now, thirteen hours into your shift, that it's probably scary to see someone your age fall over nothing. You truly don't mean to fall—no one ever does. You have your compression socks on, and you'd tied your sneakers extra tight, and maybe that's what did it, you don't know. Usually, after three hours, the pain evens out and becomes a sharp, constant pinch in your legs and shoulders. The ER moves so fast and the pain doesn't go away, no, but you get distracted. And some days, the pain turns numb, and the numbness is worse, because you can't rely on what you can't feel.

That is what happened now, you realize, as you stare at the white and blue speckled floor. The ER floor always reminded you of an Easter egg. This close, you can see the crust of dirt that won't come off no matter how many times the custodians clean. You'd hate to find out what else sticks to the floor.

Your palms burn, your arms ache from the impact, and your knees are indignant about moving. Someone picks you up from the floor, hands under your arms.

"I'm fine," you say, even though the pain has wrung your personality out of your body. You're not yourself when you're in this much pain; you're just a body, a pile of limbs, desperately trying to figure out how to keep moving them in a way that won't tip anyone off to how much pain you live in.

"Hey, hey. You alright?" Dana asks as she hoists you up, stronger than she looks. You've seen her throw a punch; you'd hate to face her in a dark alley.

"I tripped," you say automatically. "I'm fine." You laugh because it really is stupid that you fell from nothing. But Dana won't find it funny, so you have to lie a little.

It's not working. You can see that in the way her brows pinch as she reads your face, finds things you didn't know you were revealing.

And then Robby appears next to her, and it all really goes to shit from there.

"What happened?" he asks, sharp brown eyes taking in your body language and Dana's.

"She fell," Dana says before you can lie again.

The problem with people caring about you is that it can be used against you. Robby knows exactly what it means that you fell. He'd wrestled it out of you one night months ago when you'd almost collapsed from dehydration. Robby had all the grace of a steamroller when he interrogated you about your pain. The truth had come out in a desperate attempt to stop the humiliation of someone witnessing how broken your body is.

"I didn't—"

"Staff room, now." Robby's shaking his head and waving his hands before you can speak. "You're done. Sit the rest of the shift out."

"That's not fair!" you say, even though your body rejoices at the prospect of sitting for an hour. You would've killed a man six hours ago to be able to sit for a minute.

Robby's face clouds over, just a little. He's been sharper lately, less gentle and more efficient. He doesn’t have it in him to temper his thorny kindness; he acts on instinct, gives orders he knows to be right, and moves on.

"I can finish my shift," you say, fear climbing your throat like acid at what the other staff will think. An hour is a long time for a doctor to be off during their shift. If anyone else close to your age had fallen—Whitaker, Mohan, Santos—Robby would give them ten minutes max, and only to check them for a head injury.

Robby closes his eyes, clearly already tired of this conversation, which makes you feel worse. "I am not having this argument with you. Sit out or I'll ask Ahmad to escort you."

The idea of having to be dragged to the staff room is mortifying, and you know Robby knows that. He links his hands behind his neck, stretching. And yet, you know that Robby's not nearly in as much pain as you. Isn't that a kick in the shins?

"Robby, please," you say, and you try to step closer to him to meet his eyes, but it hurts to do even that. Bruises are forming, and the pain has tripled from your fall. You fail to hide your wince. Robby notices. Of course he does.

"No," he says, cold and final. "You're done. You think I'm gonna risk you falling again?"

"I tripped," you say again, and Robby inhales, furious and tense, so Dana steps in.

"Alright, alright." She easily steps between you two, putting a hand on Robby's chest and another on your shoulder. "Take a breath. C'mon, honey, let's get you some heat for the muscles. I got her, chief."

Dana tries to take your arm so you can lean your weight on her, but you jerk away.

"Please let me walk by myself," you say lowly, your eyes burning hot. "Please, Dana."

"You're the boss," she says quietly, and it nearly cracks you open. You're not the boss. You haven't been the boss of your own body in a long time.

You just manage to push yourself enough to get to the staff room without additional incidents. You sit on the couch and prop your legs up so your blood circulates back up your body. Dana had grabbed a couple heat packs from the nurses' station and she activates them now and places them on your thighs, where the pain stretches your skin tight and throbs.

The circulation is necessary, but the sudden shift in position is almost as bad as being on your feet. You dig your fingers into the back of the couch. You won't cry. Won't burden anybody more than you already have.

"And here's a Gatorade," Dana says, handing you a bottle. Light blue, your favorite. "Gotta get those electrolytes up."

"I could've finished the shift," you say.

Dana doesn't reply to that, which is probably for the best. If it were Robby, he'd argue, and that'd be miserable. But Dana's always been good at giving you dignity. She may not know pain in the same way you do, but she understands enough to realize that sometimes an argument is all the power you have.

"I'll check on you in a bit," she says, patting your neck. "Recline, so you don't strain your neck more."

And you know she'll stay until you do it, so you lean back, granting your shoulders relief. It's in this position that you finally feel the full strain of today's shift, and all the shifts before it. The pain isn't just in your legs, but your neck, your shoulders, your abs. All of your body's energy goes into keeping you upright. How did you make it through thirteen hours?

Dana leaves, turning off the lights as she goes. The door opens and the noise and chaos of the ER enters just for a moment, reminding you of what you're missing, before the door shuts. Your senses are dulled when you're in this much pain. Lights are aggravating, as is noise, but when it counts—like with a patient—you can miss stuff. You have missed stuff.

That's really why Robby got so angry. You know it. You're a liability. It's bad enough you can't function the way someone your age should. Now you're falling during shifts.

You were terrified of this happening. You haven't fallen during a shift until now, and although you don't know for sure, you have a sneaking suspicion that it'll keep happening. No amount of rest will allow you to heal and catch up. This job doesn't let you do that. You're in your fourth year of your residency, and your body is failing you.

You close your eyes and lean your head against your arm. As your adrenaline falls, and the pain intensifies and makes your muscles spasm, you start to cry. How are you going to do this?

The pain will never improve. Maybe it can be managed, but eventually, your body will break down. You can't even imagine doing this job when you're Robby or Dana's age.

The door opens. There's no clock, so you have no idea how much time has passed, but when you see Jack, you can guess that it's been at least forty-five minutes. He always comes in a little early for the night shift.

You rub your salt-tracked cheeks, hoping he won't notice. Maybe Jack won't see you at all.

He almost never comes into the staff room. Always brings coffee from home instead of drinking the sludge the hospital provides. He's here for you.

"He called you?" you ask, angry all over again. How fucking dare Robby.

"I actually work here, believe it or not," Jack says mildly. "You may have seen me putting bandaids on kids' knees. Real low-stakes stuff."

You aren't in the mood to joke, to let Jack's easy companionship engulf you. You haven't worked the night shift in a year, but that doesn't stop you from feeling pleased when you see him during the handoff and he takes a minute to talk to you, ask how you're doing. You like Jack a lot.

It's just now occurring to you that maybe he's noticed your pain too. Maybe that's why he takes time to talk to you.

You know either Dana or Robby told him you’re in here. You detest it. Jack is easily fifteen years older, if not more, and it's absolutely humiliating that the three most senior staff in the ER have to look out for you and your stupid broken body.

Jack comes to the couch. He pats your leg. "Scoot."

It startles you that he makes you move so he can sit on the couch with you. Anyone else would politely sit at the table and not make you move an inch.

But Jack sits and brings your legs down on his like you're in your living room. He props them so they're still higher than your heart. It's unfamiliar but not unwelcome.

He sips coffee from his thermos. He's warm. You watch him, waiting. Jack has never spoken to you about your pain. You assumed it was because you never worked enough night shifts for it to be a conversation. Even so, you would've hidden it for as long as you could.

Deep down, you know Jack would've spotted it faster than Robby had.

You let your head loll to one side. Jack seems content to let you hang in the silence. He's always struck you as the kind of guy who simply doesn't speak if he has nothing to say. It makes others uncomfortable, but you welcome it. When you're always in pain, being around someone who doesn't expect you to speak is a different kind of relief.

You suspect that's why he and Robby have been friends for so long.

"These are nice," Jack says, patting your exposed compression sock on your right leg. You wore the ones with koi fish.

"There was a sale online. Five for thirty-two."

He whistles. "A steal. These are the good kind."

You tilt your head. "You wear compression socks?"

He nods. "Just one. Not always, but it helps my other leg stay warm and keep the blood flowing when I'm wearing the prosthesis. It's not necessary but it makes me more comfortable."

He pulls his scrub leg up to show you a plain black compression sock.

"No prints?" you ask.

He laughs. "Wasn't really thinking about it when I bought them, no."

"The website I buy mine from has ones with German Shepherds on them. I think you'd like those."

"I do love a good Shepherd."

More silence. Then:

"Did you take anything? Tylenol?"

You shrug.

"That means no," he says.

"I'll be fine. I'll take some at home."

Jack looks at you like he can see down to your soul. You squirm.

"No one will judge you for it," he says.

"I can't take just one for it to do anything," you mumble. "I have to take four or five."

You're careful not to take any medication at work, even Tylenol. You don't want people thinking you need it to function.

You don't even like taking it at home. You might tonight because the pain is worse than usual, and it's compounded with bruises from your fall. But normally, you don't. You fear that if you start, you'll never be able to go without.

"So take four or five," he says. "Do you need it every day? You probably shouldn't take Tylenol every day, but there's other stuff."

You hesitate. "The pain isn't that bad every day."

"But you're in pain daily?"

"It's manageable."

"People your age are not in daily pain."

You look away. Your eyes sting. "I know."

Jack rubs and squeezes your shin. "I'm not saying it to make you feel bad. I think sometimes you forget."

"I don't," you say, voice cracking. "I know my body shouldn't feel this way. But I can keep going. I will."

"I don't think you can keep going like this," Jack says gently, and it doesn't hurt less to hear, but you're grateful that he's not yelling it.

"Robby told me off," you say, stomach spasming at the memory.

"I heard."

You look at Jack, tears in your eyes. "It was humiliating, Jack. Doesn't he know I don't want to be this way? I would be in pain for an hour longer if it meant he didn't tell me off in front of the whole fucking hospital."

"I know," he says. "I'll talk to him. He handled it poorly."

You sob. It's an accident. You didn't feel it coming, but it came out because it had to. Jack's eyebrows dip. His frown deepens.

"I don't want to live like this," you say, and he nods. He knows. You know he does. "I don't want to be young and in pain. It's not fair."

"I know," he says, and he carefully moves your legs aside so he can pull you against his shoulder. You cry into his neck. He smells like Old Spice. Jack rubs your back. "I know, I know. It's not fair."

"D-do you know how embarrassing it is that someone almost twice my age has to tell me to sit and rest? Or help me up because I fell?"

You feel Jack's hum in his chest. "I do. Felt it many times after the amputation."

You scowl into his scrubs. "That's different. You needed help."

Jack pulls you away so he can look at you. "How is it different? You need help too."

"You lost your leg. People understand."

He shakes his head. "Not everybody. And it doesn't make people's pity any easier to swallow, even if they mean well. It was the hardest after I got discharged. I wanted to do so much more, and I had to find a way to slow down, 'cause my body was revolting against me."

He's got you tucked against him, arm around your back, hand on your opposite arm.

"I'm trying," you say, desperate for someone to see. "I'm trying so hard, Jack."

"You are," he says, so tender, so much like a good doctor. "But maybe you need to find a different way to try. 'Cause this isn't working. And it's not sustainable."

You know what that means. You saw a doctor only once, hoping maybe they'd find some reason for why you're like this. Why you just can't seem to be your age the way everyone else is. But the doctor had simply told you that you'd probably need some kind of mobility aid. That even if you could push through the pain now, it wouldn't always be that way.

You'd never gone back after that appointment.

"Has anybody talked to you about aids?"

"You mean how I need them? Yes. One doctor. The others told me I needed to lose weight or it was my period. Like somehow getting pregnant will cure me."

"The fuck? Who's the joker that told you that? Gimme their name, I'll report 'em to the board."

You smile. It's nice to be cared for in this way. To have your pain acknowledged but for it not to be the only thing that defines you.

"I'll look them up later." You sigh, cheek against Jack's scrub top. "Do you think Robby would notice if I went back out? I have an elderly woman waiting on a CT."

"I'd notice."

"So? I could outrun you."

"Oh, really?" Jack moves you away a little so he can meet your eye. His eyes glitter with amusement. "You haven't even touched your Gatorade. I'll take my chances."

You let yourself think too long about Jack Abbot tackling you. If you weren't already bruised, you'd seriously consider it.

"I want to be a doctor," you say, suddenly sad all over again.

"You are a doctor."

You look at him. He looks right back. He's not lying, but you still find his words ridiculous.

"You know what I mean," you say.

"Do I? People practice medicine in all sorts of ways. If there's anything you should've learned in all your years here, it's that there isn't one way to heal yourself or your patients."

You've never told anyone your deepest fear, but you think Jack can handle it.

"What if I stop being able to walk or stand?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it, but I feel like I should remind you that you're talking to the one-legged guy. So I'm a little biased."

It's easier to confess in the dark, to let Jack hold you for a little longer. "I don't want to be useless."

Jack pulls you back into his chest, patting your koi fish socks. "You aren't. Now take a little nap, and then I'll call you an Uber. My treat."

"Jack, c'mon. The Ubers are always your treat."

He's already slid his glasses onto his face. They rest at the tip of his nose as he taps at his phone with his index finger, the screen an unreasonable distance away. You hate how endearing you find it.

"So buy me some socks in return. Want some Uber Eats too?"

"No."

You open your mouth to retaliate when the curtain to the room rips open. Towering behind the asshole in front of you stands a silver fox. Screw a knight in shiny armor; you’ve got a silver fox in scrubs. His arms are crossed, flexing his biceps, and he has a scowl on his face as he fixes an icy glare on Student Doctor Howards. “Out,” he barks.

“She-” the kid starts, but the attending cuts him off. “If you looked at her chart,” he says with a collected cruelty, “you would have seen the list of medically confirmed health conditions. And if you read her notes, you would have realized that she fainted in chairs - which is why she got back here sooner than the standard weight time.”

Your mouth drops. “I think I’m in love,” you say aloud. 

Your savior shifts his eyes to meet yours, and if you weren’t already lightheaded from the pain and fatigue, you would be now. “Out,” he orders again. You barely notice the student doctor leave.

“Asshole.” The doctor slides the curtain shut and sits in the sliding chair across from your bed.

My thoughts exactly. You wiggle into a more comfortable position for your aching limbs. “How long was I out for?”

He checks his watch. “Five minutes. It wasn’t serious.”

You sigh in relief. 

“I’m Dr. Abbot,” he introduces, and you smile, giving your name back although he probably already knows it.

“I didn’t want to come,” you explain. “I’m used to it at this point.”

He tilts his head. “Used to what?”

“My body shutting down on me.”

Dr. Abbot nods solemnly as you continue. “The pain got really bad yesterday, but I just pushed through. But then I started passing out, and that only happens when things are really bad. My roommate Keira drove me here; she panics easily.”

“Is she in the waiting room?” he asks. 

You shake your head. “She had work. I wasn’t going to get her fired because of a little fatigue.”

He nods in thought. “I’ll push some fluids. Where does it hurt?”

You let out a dry laugh. “Everywhere.”

He nods again. “Did you take any pain relievers?”

“Like eight hours ago. I don’t really like taking that many pills.”

“‘I’ll go get some morphine.”

When he gets back and gives you your fluids, you relax in relief. “Thank you. This is the worst flare I’ve had in a while.”

Dr. Abbot offers a small smile of understanding. “I know what it’s like.” He pulls up his pants leg, revealing a metal leg. 

“I’m sorry,” you offer. “I’m sure it hurts…in more ways than one.”

He lets the pants fall back down. “I’m sorry too. Especially about Dr. Howards. Trust me, he’ll be restricted to surface wounds from now on.”

You quirk an eyebrow. “Is that a punishment?”

He grins. “Totally. He’ll be bored within an hour.”

You grin back. You didn’t want him to leave. Just as he starts to go, you speak up. “If you ever want to give your leg a breather,” you say, and he turns back to face you, “maybe we could go sit for a coffee sometime?” 

He takes a moment to respond, and you’re terrified you’ve made a mistake. Just as you’re about to apologize, a lazy grin spreads across his face. “I’ll go, but only if I’m the only one who has any coffee. Caffeine isn’t good for inflammation.”

“My star,” he said softly. He closed the door gently and padded over to where you were seated. “Is it another migraine?”

You nodded, eyes still hidden behind your hands. “I’m sorry,” you said, your voice trembling and low. “I can’t go today, you should go without me.”

Xavier shook his head and placed his arm gently around your shoulders. “I’m not going without you,” he said firmly.

Finally, you turned to look at him, barely able to make out his features in the darkness of the room. “No!” you snapped. “I’m always ruining our plans, I always have these damn migraines. This is the third time this month alone we haven’t been able to do something because of me.” Your voice was rising with frustration and you clutched your head as your own volume became too much.

Xavier froze as he considered his options before speaking. “I was tired anyway today, why don’t we just take a nap?” he offered. “I can get you some tablets and an icepack for your head and we can cuddle up together. Does that sound okay, sweetheart?” His voice was gentle and he moved his hands to start massaging your temples.

“I know you’re acting like you don’t mind, but I’m just so mad, I’m mad at my body for not being able to function the way I need it to, I’m mad at my head for not being able to handle a little light and noise, and…” Your voice faltered for a moment. “And I’m mad at you for being so kind about it. You don’t deserve a partner like me.”

“I don’t think I deserve you either. I don’t think I deserve anyone as kind and gentle. Someone who loves so fully, someone who always does everything they can for anyone. I don’t deserve someone as amazing as you, and I am so incredibly lucky to have you. On your best days, on your worst days, and every day in between. There’s no one I would rather be with.” Xavier spoke with such passion that your eyes started to water. “So please, let me help you today.”

As the tears prickled in the corner of your eyes, you nodded and Xavier scooped you into his arms, holding you close to his chest. He laid you gently in bed and tucked you into the blankets.

“I’m sorry for snapping at you,” you said, wiping the tears from your eyes. “I get so overwhelmed when I’m feeling like this.”

“You don’t need to apologize, I’m here to help, always,” he said, holding your hand tightly. “I’m going to get you some medication and that icepack,” he said, leaving the room. When he returned he had a large cup of ice water, migraine tablets, an icepack and another blanket from the living room.

He helped you sit up to take the tablets, and then got into the bed with you. You curled against him, using his head as a pillow and he slung his arm over your side, pulling you even closer.

“Thank you,” you whispered and you felt his head nod in agreement.

“Rest,” he commanded. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ🖤ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Zayne:

You held your phone tightly as you read the message you had written and rewritten half a dozen or so times already. I’m sorry, I can’t make it tonight. It was only seven words but they felt like admitting defeat. Again.

You were going to meet Zayne for dinner. Something so normal. Something that didn’t involve a doctor’s visit or pain management. A night where you could just be with Zayne, not as his patient, but as his partner. You had been looking forward to it all week, but your body had other plans. The exhaustion and pain made standing up an impossible task.

Your finger hovered over the send button for a moment longer and you finally pressed it. After a moment, it was marked as sent. You sighed in frustration and threw your phone across the room, knowing you didn’t have the energy to pick it up to see what Zayne would say in response.

Lately every time you felt like you could do something, every time you felt like you could have an inkling of stability, your body took it away from you and you were tired of it. Zayne deserved better than this, he deserved more than last-minute cancelled plans, or even worse, all the times you stood him up because you were too exhausted to let him know.

You slumped further into the couch and felt the tears trickle down your face. You sat there crying for what could have been minutes, could have been hours, as you listened to notifications ping on your phone.

A knock on your door startled you, and you looked over to see Zayne letting himself in. “Hey,” he said as he took in the sight before him, noticing your phone feet away on the floor. “You didn’t think a text would stop me from seeing you, right?”

Color rose to your cheeks and you shook your head. “I should’ve known better,” you mumbled. Then you noticed the faint smell of your favorite takeout and saw the bags in Zayne’s hands.

“But I thought,” you continued, “I thought you’d be sick of me canceling. Sick of this,” you said feebly, as you gestured with your hands at your weakened body. “I cancel all the time, Zayne. It feels like I can’t keep a promise anymore.”

He set the bags down on the table and made his way over to where you were seated. He crouched in front of you and took your hands gently. “I don’t care what we are doing or where you are,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “I care about you. Your body is fighting harder than most, and that’s nothing to be ashamed of. You should be proud of how strong you are.” His voice was firm but still managed to be gentle. He squeezed your hands tightly. “I don’t care if we’re out on the town or if we’re eating takeout on the couch. I just want you to take care of yourself, and I want to be here to support you.”

A lump formed in your throat and it made it difficult to speak. The tightness in your chest started to ease as you realized he wasn’t disappointed in you the way you feared he was. He wasn’t frustrated the same way you were.

Zayne squeezed your hands one more time before standing back up. “Now, you need to eat. Your blood sugar being low isn’t helping your condition and your body needs the energy. I ordered enough food for you to have options.”

You let out a shaky laugh and smiled. “You always know how to comfort me and lecture me at the same time.”

“Occupational hazard,” he said with a soft grin. “Now let me make you a plate and we can watch one of those ridiculous movies you love.”

You smiled as you watched him pile your plate with greens and proteins and sweets, enough for two people and for the first time in a long time, you felt like you would make it through.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ🖤ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Rafayel:

Rafayel was supposed to take you to a charity gala tonight where a couple of his pieces were going to be auctioned off. You had ordered a new dress and were so excited to wear it out. You had gotten to his studio early to get ready. You were seated on his floor in front of a massive full-body mirror as you finished your makeup. You stood up and your vision blanked. You didn’t fall hard, but as quickly as you stood, you were back on the ground.

“Cutie!” Rafayel called as he ran over to you. “Are you okay?” he asked, kneeling in front of you.

You brushed your thighs off as you pulled yourself into a more upright position. “Yeah,” you said, your voice shaking. “I just stood up too fast.”

“Let me help you,” he said, his voice strong as he stood up and held out a hand to you. You took his hand gingerly and accepted his help as he pulled you upright. You stood for a moment before taking a step and everything seemed okay, until stars formed in your vision again.

“Rafa—” you started to call his name, but before you finished your vision went fully dark and you felt your body rushing toward the ground again.

When you finally blinked your eyes back open, you noticed you were not on the cold, hard studio floor you had been anticipating. Instead, you were lying on the velvet chaise you had spent hours on, watching Rafayel paint. You blinked a couple more times, adjusting to the light.

“Are you okay?” Rafayel asked, his voice laced with concern.

“How long was I out for?” you asked, ignoring his question.

He glanced at his watch. “Two minutes and thirty-four seconds.”

You nodded; that wasn’t too bad. “You should leave for the gala. I can call a cab to take me home.” You tried your best to hide it, but your voice was laced with disappointment.

“You think I would let you take a cab home right now?” Rafayel asked, his voice incredulous. “What if you have another fainting episode in the cab? You think I would let some dirty old cabbie have his way with you?”

“I just don’t want you to miss another event because of me!” you shouted, trying to sit upright, but your head started swimming again. You threw your head back against the chaise in frustration. “I’m so tired of being the reason you can’t go out! I’m sick of you having to take care of me! God! I’m just so sick of all of this!” Your voice was loud and filled with rage.

“Cutie,” Rafayel warned, “stop it. Stop talking like that! You think I wanted to spend my evening schmoozing with hoity-toity rich people who can’t even appreciate my art? No. I want to spend my evening with you.”

“But why? I can’t even sit up without feeling like I’m going to pass out. Why would anyone want to spend time with that?” Your voice cracked as the tears started to well in the corners of your eyes. Your mascara began to run.

“Because… because I love you. Because I can’t imagine being with anyone else. You are my muse, my love, my everything. I can’t make art without you, I can’t exist without you, I… I would perish.” Rafayel confessed, his voice soft.

“I… I’m sorry I shouted at you,” you apologized, and Rafayel grinned.

“All is forgiven, cutie. As long as you are the one to tell Thomas we’re not going to make it. He never gets mad at you and he’s always mad at me,” Rafayel said, his playful demeanor returning. “And tonight you can relax and watch me paint, or snore on my couch. I don’t care. I’m just happy to be with you tonight, tomorrow, and forever.”

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ🖤ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Sylus:

You were exhausted, but you kept trying to push through. Sylus had been helping you exercise. Your doctor had recommended building your strength to help your illness, and Sylus so conveniently had a private gym in each of his safe houses.

Your body felt like it was seconds away from giving out, but you raised your fists again, ready to punch the bag. Suddenly, arms wrapped around you and you were pulled into Sylus’s firm chest.

“I think that’s enough for today, Kitten,” his voice was husky.

You tried to pull out of his grasp. “No! I can keep going,” you insisted, your voice adamant, but your whole body was beginning to shake and he pulled you even tighter to him.

“Sweetie, the point of training is to make you stronger, not work you until the point of collapse,” his voice full of reassurance as he kissed the top of your head gently.

“But it’s been what, five? Six minutes? It’s pitiful,” you scoffed. “You train for hours at a time and I can’t even go for ten minutes! I’m a horrid excuse for a human being.”

You thrashed against Sylus’s arms, and although you didn’t have much strength, the sudden movement caught him off guard and you broke out of his arms, whirling around to face him before collapsing down to your knees. Before you knew it, Sylus sat right in front of you on the gym floor, maintaining eye contact.

“It’s just so frustrating feeling like this all the time. My muscles hurt, my joints hurt, my bones ache constantly! I don’t remember what it’s like to not be in pain,” you spoke rapidly, your words starting to blend together. “I hate that when we go to the shopping district, you always have to carry me home. I hate how going up just one flight of stairs leaves me winded. I hate watching all the things you can do, all the things everyone can do that I just can’t! I hate my body!” Your voice started to shake and your whole body trembled with frustration.

“Have I ever made you feel like I mind carrying you through town? I love getting to hold you close, I love getting to show off to everyone that you are mine,” Sylus spoke softly as he brushed the hair away from your face. “And I know you don’t see it, but you are getting so much stronger. When we first started training, it would only be a couple of minutes before you had to break. Now it’s over double that. And even when your physical strength lets you down, you are still the strongest person I know. You never stop pushing through, even though you have so many more barriers than everyone else. You keep moving forward when so many others would have stopped.”

Sylus said all of this without breaking eye contact and he watched as the anger in your eyes softened.

He reached out, cupping your cheek in his palm, his thumb brushing away a single tear that had run down your face. “Strength isn’t about how long you stand, Kitten. It’s about getting up every time your body tries to keep you down. And you do that. Every single day.”

You let out a shaky breath and sighed. “You always know what to say.”

He smiled faintly. “I understand your soul, sweetie.” Then, softer, “Come on. Let’s cool down, we can stretch, and I’ll have the chef make you something to eat. We’ll try again tomorrow. Together.”

You let him help you off the floor and a smile ghosted your lips. You felt just a little stronger, just a little more confident, as you let him guide you out of the gym.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ🖤ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Caleb:

Growing up with Caleb, he always knew what to look for. How to tell when you were having a flare-up, always knew when you weren’t at 100%, and today was no different.

You had plans to watch the Sky Haven Annual Air Show together, but the moment he came in to pick you up, he noticed you were off. The cadence in your walk was different, your skin had a slight pallor, and you spoke with a slightly different rhythm.

“Change of plans!” Caleb announced as he walked in. “We’re going to rent that new movie you’ve been talking about and I’ll order delivery from that new cafe you wanted to try, you know, the one with the apple tarts shaped like apples and the best melon pan according to the reviews.”

You stared at him, dumbfounded. He knew you were going to cancel your plans before you even had a chance to say something. “Caleb, stop it,” you demanded. “I am not going to ruin our plans again! Why don’t you call up Gideon? I’m sure he would love to see the show.” Your voice was insistent but somehow defeated, too.

“Pipsqueak, I don’t want to go on a date with Gideon! I want to go on a date with you! I don’t care if it’s here or in Sky Haven, or anywhere else,” Caleb said, his eyes softening as he met yours.

“No!” you said, your voice louder than intended. “Even if you don’t care, I do! I have been looking forward to this stupid air show for weeks. I have been working so hard to not overdo it so I could be ready for today. I’ve followed my nutrition plan to a tee, I’ve kept up with my daily stretches, and I’ve been taking my medication. It’s not fair that I’ve done everything right and this is how I am rewarded.”

Caleb took a step closer, holding his hands up in surrender. “I get it, pips. You’ve done everything right your whole life and it isn’t fair that this is how your body reacts. If I could, I would take all of your pain, all of your nausea, everything away. If I could be the one feeling like that instead of you, you know I would do that for you, but I can’t.” His voice was gentle, full of love for you. “I can’t do that, but what I can do is be here with you. I can love you and hold you. Make sure you always have something to eat, someone to talk to, someone to let out your frustrations on. Whatever you need, I will always be that for you. I always have been.”

“But it isn’t fair,” you argued. “You give so much to me, all the time, and all I do is take your time only to cancel plans. I make promises I end up breaking. It’s always been the same since we were little. I’ve canceled hundreds of dates, maybe thousands of plans, and eventually it’s going to be one too many. It has to be. So let’s just stop now while we’re ahead.”

He let out a loud sigh and shook his head. “You’ve been stuck with me for this long already, don’t think you can get rid of me that easily,” he teased.

You stood there for a moment, considering what he said, thinking about all of the time you had been together. “You’re sure you don’t mind missing the show today?” you said hesitantly. “I really wouldn’t mind watching that movie and trying the cafe.” This admission of yours plastered a wide grin on Caleb’s face.

“There is nothing I would enjoy more than spending the day with you.”

“And if I fall asleep while watching the movie, you won’t be mad if you have to explain everything I missed to me?” you asked.

“I could never be mad at you for getting rest. It would be my honor to fill you in on anything you missed.”

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ🖤ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

John comes in to find you sprawled on the floor a foot from the entry and just knows.

"Done too much again, hm, sweetheart? Let's get you into bed." He carefully scoops you into his arms and cradles you against his chest, always so tender with you.

"I just wanted to get the mail." You sob, clutching the front of his shirt. It shouldn't have been 'too much.' You'd only wanted to complete a mundane task, but even that proved too much when you'd collapsed before you even reached the door. "It's not fair."

"I know. It's not fair." He agrees, smoothing a hand along the back of your head. "S'not fair at all."

The routine is painfully familiar by now: He tucks you under the weighted blanket, holds your water bottle while you drink, and then insists that you nap while he gets dinner in the oven. He eats with you in silence so as not to overwhelm your foggy brain.

John sometimes worries that you'll get bored with nothing to do all day but rest. He'll never ever interrupt your quiet time but when you're feeling up to it, he enjoys reading to you. There's never any pressure to keep up with the plot. Simply the sound of his voice is enough to bring you comfort, and some nights it's the only way you can get to sleep.

Kyle will get you settled in the bath, ensuring that the water isn't too hot or it will mess with your heart rate and blood pressure. Gaz is so gentle with you as he washes your hair. He's had you shower with him before so that he knows exactly how to take care of you when you aren't able to to do it yourself. No matter how particular you are about your hygiene, he's got it down to an art.

"This is so embarrassing." You sigh, words slurring while you try not to cry.

"Shh, it's not embarrassing, lovie. It's okay to need some help, and I'm always going to be here to take care of you."

After that he'll get you into a pair of his sweatpants, an oversized shirt, and tour compression socks before settling you in bed, where he does your hair up into a protective style—if needed. He'll lay with you for a bit, just thumbing away your tears tenderly when they fall. When he feels he's able to leave you, he'll shut off all the lights and ensure you've got everything you could need within reach. Once he's made you as comfortable as you can be, he's laying back down beside you to hold your hand.

"I'll help you through this, okay? Just rest up, now. We'll have you back on your feet again."

He knows you may not be able to answer him, and you know he doesn't expect a reply. When you're asleep (or at least relaxing with a mask over your eyes), he'll finally let himself cry. It's silent. Still. He never wants you to know how much it pains him to see you like this. He never wants you to feel guilty about that, but he just wishes there was more he could do for you.

Johnny tries his hardest to help you stay positive when things get bad.

"Poor, bonnie." He laments from by your side, keeping your legs elevated with a pillow on his lap. "My poor, wee, bon. So strong. Quite the fighter."

You scoff weakly. Nothing about your condition made you feel strong.

"I mean it." He continues. "Yer tougher than nails. Most people can't even fathom what ye live with each day. Ye ought to give yourself more credit for gettin' through it. And ye will get through it. Ye have before, you'll bounce back again."

He's a big fan of making you list three things that made you happy at the end of each day, hoping to remind you that not everything is terrible. That there are still glimmers of light in your world. If you can handle the screen and low volume of the TV, he'll snuggle up with you and whatever comforts you need to watch some funny videos. Johnny is a firm believer that laughter is one of the best medicines, and you have to admit that it does makes you feel a little lighter.

Salty snacks, electrolyte drinks, ear plugs and eye masks are always on hand. The first time you told him that your body required lots of sodium to help with water retention, he came back from the shops with an honest to god salt lick. For guinea pigs.

Ghost gets scared and shuts down whenever he finds you in a crash. He's so unsure of what to do; unsure if you want to be left alone or if he should help somehow. But how does he help without making it worse? Poor guy is terrified of doing something wrong and he refuses to talk to you about what you need. Instead he's scoured the internet forums and government health data bases for what works best in a flare up.

He'll swear up and down that he's not cut out for proper dating, but the way he takes care of you says otherwise. This man keeps a diary of all your symptoms: Water intake, diet, sleep, energy levels, everything. It's all going into his notebook so he can keep track of what you might need most urgently. Your mental health is a bit of a different story since he himself is emotinally unavailable, but he's read that changes of scenery will do you good. So when you're bedbound, there's always a vase of supermarket flowers on your dresser in an attempt to brighten your mood a bit.

Simon will have you on a strict pain med schedule. He's wordlessly refilling your water, bringing you salts, and keeping you under the heated blanket like it was his sworn duty. He takes your health so seriously it's almost comical. When your muscles get too weak and sore to move, he'll look up "how to give a massage" on youtube and follow along.

"I'm sorry." You whisper, seeing how distraught he gets. "I'm sorry you have to take care of me."

"M'not." Is all he says, but you can tell by the tone of his grunt that he means it. "Just keep lookin' at the flowers."

When I say that Nikolai takes care of everything, I mean everything. Cooking, cleaning, chores, everything. Your job is to rest. His is to look after his malenʹkij angel. No matter how limited your diet may be, he's always able to serve you food that tastes good and leaves you feeling full. He insists on feeding you himself, even when you do have the strength to bring the fork to your mouth. Why would you need to waste your precious energy when he's right there?

He'll keep you all cozy in his bed 24/7, having insisted you stay at his place during a health flare where he can keep an eye on you. He carries you to the bathroom whenever you need to go (he's not letting you try to walk on your own) and like Kyle, is content to help you bathe. Nikolai even brushes your teeth for you when your arms are too heavy to lift. He pinches your chin so delicately and makes certain to do a good, thorough job. As much as you're grateful for him, you hate that your illness makes you so dependant and he knows it.

He'll just hold you while you try not to cry, creating as much safety and love in your little world as he can.

"Hush now, hush... I have you, malen'kaya. Vse normalʹno. Ja vsegda budu zdesʹ. You're no burden, I will always take care of you."

Masterlist

Inside the precinct, the fluorescent lights buzz like angry wasps. The weapons locker room smells like gun oil and stale air, the scent clinging to the floor like an afterthought. You're wedged between a shelf of ammo boxes and the cold metal wall, your knee screaming at you with every shift of weight. The pain digs in sharply and deeply, worse today than usual. Stress can cause it to flare; your doctor always reminds you.

Footsteps echo down the hallway outside- heavy, purposeful. Not the stumbling shuffle of those… things. Someone alive. Someone who could be armed, fuck. The door creaks open, and suddenly there’s a gun barrel leveled at your face. Behind it, blue eyes narrow. "Jesus Christ," the cop, Leon, whose badge reflects his name, exhales sharply. "You planning on shooting me with that?" he asks, nodding at the pistol limp in your hand.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. "Only if you make me," you mutter, but your grip on the gun doesn’t tighten. It can’t. Your fingers ache too much. Leon holsters his own weapon slowly, eyes flicking from your face to your braced leg. "Yeah," he says after a beat. "You look like hell.”

The fluorescent light catches the sweat on his brow as he crouches beside you, close enough that you smell the scent of smoke and iron clinging to his jacket. "Leg’s fucked?" he asks, blunt. You huff a laugh filled with half pain, half disbelief, but before you can answer, the distant screech of something inhuman echoes down the hall. Leon’s jaw clenches. "We need to move."

His hand wraps around your forearm, firm but careful, and for a second, you just stare at the contrast, his fingers, steady and warm, against your shaking ones. Then he pulls you up, and the world tilts. Pain lances up your thigh like a live wire, and you bite back a whimper. "Easy," Leon murmurs, shifting his grip to your waist. "I got you.”

The self-deprecating protest slips out before you can stop it: "I’m too heavy." His grip tightens just a fraction—not enough to bruise, but enough to ground you. "No, you’re not," he says, voice low. 

You take a step-just one, and your knee buckles. You don’t hit the ground; Leon’s arm snakes around your torso, hauling you back against him. His heartbeat thuds against your shoulder blade, fast but steady. "Don’t fight the pain," he orders, voice rough. "Use me as a crutch." The command sends a shiver down your spine, damn, for such a pretty, young face, he’s bossy.

The hallway stretches ahead, flickering lights illuminating streaks of blackened blood on the tiles. Leon moves with you, step by agonizing step, his body shielding yours from the open doors lining the corridor. Every shuffle sends pain ricocheting through you, but his voice cuts through it: "Look at me. Not at the floor, just me."

And you do. His eyes are impossibly blue in the dim light, pupils blown wide with adrenaline. You focus on the heat of his palm pressed into your hip, the way his thumb rubs absent circles into your skin because your pink sweater has ridden up, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. The next step comes easier. "There you go," he murmurs, lips almost touching your pierced ear. "That’s it."

The screech comes again, closer this time, wet and guttural. Leon flinches, and his fingers dig into your side, and you realize, he’s scared too. "Left turn ahead," he says, steering you toward a hallway’s corner. "Thirty seconds, then we run." You nod, but your breath hitches when his free hand slides up to cradle the back of your neck. Your head must be jostling too much. "Thirty seconds," he repeats, softer. "And then you scream if you have to. I’ll carry you."

You swallow hard, pulse hammering where his fingertips press into your throat. The air smells like copper and damp concrete, but beneath it, beneath the rot, you catch the faintest hint of his cologne. Something reckless coils in your gut. "Promise?" you ask, half-teasing, half-serious. Leon’s mouth twitches. "Try me," he dares, just as something heavy slams into the door down the hall.

Time fractures. Leon’s grip turns ironclad, yanking you forward as the thing howls behind you. Your knee screams, but his arm locks around your waist, lifting you just enough that your toes skim the ground. You don’t even have time to scream.

Because what the actual fuck is that thing?

"Run," he shouts—not a request, again. And you do the best you can to, clinging to him like a lifeline as the world dissolves into chaos and heat and his ragged breaths against your curls plastered to your cheek from sweat.

The doorway swallows you both, cramped and reeking of mildew. Leon slams you against the wall, not roughly, but with precision, his body a barricade between you and the horror shambling past. His thigh presses against your aching leg, but the pain barely registers now. In another circumstance, you’d blush at how protective he’s being. But this isn’t another circumstance, and tonight, the dead somehow walk.

Silence stretches, taut as a wire. Then, distant, the creature’s footsteps fade. Leon exhales, forehead dropping to yours for a heartbeat. "Told you I’d carry you," he murmurs, and the smirk in his voice is nothing but boyish charm. You shove at his chest, weakly, but he catches your wrist, moving it back to your side. "Uh-uh, pretty girl," he chides, nose tip almost brushing yours. "Say thank you first."

You want to snap something sharp, about his ego, his timing, but instead, breathless, you blurt: "Thanks." His grin falters. For a second, he just stares, blue eyes wide like he’s never been genuinely thanked before. Then he clears his throat, releasing your wrist. "Yeah," he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. "Don’t mention it."

The main hall looms ahead, its grand staircase littered with debris. Leon hauls you up the steps, one arm hooked under your knees. The wound on your leg throbs, blood soaking through the makeshift bandage. "Gotta clean that," he says, nodding toward the officer’s desk. You hiss as he lowers you onto its surface, but his hands are steady when he rolls up your pant leg. "Hold still," he warns, threading a needle from a scavenged first-aid kit.

When did he find that? Man, the pain is getting to you.

The needle bites, but his fingers, calloused but careful, press a damp cloth to the wound first. "Breathe through it," he reminds you, and you do, staring at the way his lashes catch the flickering light. The stitches pull tight, but his thumb brushes your calf after each one, a silent apology. Outside, something wails. Leon doesn’t flinch. "Almost done," he promises, voice low. "Then we get the hell out of here."

The parking garage yawns beneath the precinct, its concrete ribs dripping with condensation. Leon shoulders your weight effortlessly now, his steps deliberate as he navigates the wrecked patrol cars. You limp beside him, but his grip on your waist never falters. "Here," he murmurs, guiding you behind an overturned van. The engine block still radiates residual heat, and you sag against it, exhaling sharply as your leg protests. Leon crouches, rifling through a discarded duffel. "Ammo," he mutters, tossing you a fresh magazine. "And this." A protein bar lands in your lap, its wrapper smeared with grime. “It’ll do for now,” he grumbles, looking for supplies in the overturned van. 

You tear into it, the taste like sawdust and salt, but Leon’s watching the ramp leading upstairs, his jaw tight. "We can’t stay," he says finally, turning back to you. His gaze drops to your leg, then flicks up, assessing. "But we can’t run either. Not yet." You nod, swallowing the last bite. "So we steal a car," you offer, nodding toward the rows of vehicles. Leon’s mouth quirks. "You? Hotwire a cruiser?" He leans in, shaking his head in amusement. “With your whole frilly thing you got going on?”

You want to take offense, but he’s right; you don’t even know where to start. 

The garage groans around you, pipes shuddering overhead. Leon’s hand finds yours, squeezing once before he stands. "Rest five more minutes," he orders, but his thumb traces over your manicured nails, gentle, lingering. Then he’s moving, checking the nearest sedan’s doors with quiet efficiency. You watch him, the way his shoulders tense at every distant sound, the way he glances back at you like he’s counting the seconds you're out of safety’s reach. The van’s metal digs into your back, but for the first time since the world ended, the pain feels secondary. Maybe the end of the world isn’t so bad.

"You’re weirdly good at this," you blurt, wincing at your own phrasing. Leon pauses mid-crouch by the sedan’s window, eyebrows lifting. "At what? Grand theft auto?" You snort, shifting your weight. "At surviving. At-" you gesture vaguely at the makeshift splint on your leg and the stitches he did earlier, "knowing what to do." He exhales sharply, almost a laugh, but his eyes darken. "First day on the job," he admits, voice rough. "Guess the academy covered more than just traffic stops."

Something in his tone makes your chest ache. You picture him—rookie badge gleaming, crisp uniform, stepping into this nightmare. "And you just… stayed?" you press, softer now. Leon’s jaw works. He doesn’t look at you when he answers. "Heard the call about civilians trapped in the east wing." The sedan door clicks open under his hands. "Didn’t realize the only ‘civilians’ left meant one smartass girl with a death wish."

You’re halfway through a retort when the air shifts behind him, too fast, too silent. Your throat locks. Leon reads your widening eyes a second too late. A massive hand clamps around his shoulder, yanking him backward into a hulking silhouette. "Leon-!" His name tears from your lips as some large, dark, tall creature- you think it’s a creature- lifts him clean off the ground like he weighs nothing, those dead eyes fixed on you over Leon’s thrashing form.

Your fingers scramble over cracked concrete, closing around a rusted pipe. Pain screams up your leg as you lunge forward, swinging wildly. The metal connects with a sickening crack against the thing’s skull. It staggers, just enough, and Leon wrenches free, gasping for air. "Flashbang! Move!" he barks, already pulling the pin from his belt. You barely cover your eyes before the world whites out in a deafening roar. Your ears ring, and the horrifying noise echoes off the corners of your brain.

Blinded, you feel his hand seize yours, dragging you as you stumble toward the garage exit. "Move!" Leon shouts over the ringing in your ears. Behind you, the creature bellows, but the sound is drowned by the screech of door hinges as Leon kicks open a fire door. Sunlight stabs your vision. 

The street is a graveyard of overturned cars and shattered glass, but Leon doesn’t slow, steering you toward a storefront with its sign hanging crooked—"The Kendo Gun Shop," the faded letters read. The door gives way with a splintering crack under his boot. Inside, dust motes swirl in the dim light, settling on glass display cases still crammed with handguns and hunting knives. Finally, some good fortune for both of you.

Leon braces you against the counter, his breath ragged. Then, unexpectedly, he laughs, sharp and startled. "You clocked that bastard with a pipe," he says, shaking his head. His thumb swipes blood from your cheekbone. "Thought you were just some stranded civvie with a smart mouth." His grin is all teeth, dangerous and bright. "Didn’t realize you packed a punch too."

You flex your aching fingers, glancing at the pipe still clutched in your grip. "Surprise," you deadpan. His chuckle fades into something quieter, appreciative. "Yeah," he murmurs, nudging a box of 9mm rounds toward you with his boot. "Pleasant one."

Leon moves through the store like a stormfront, methodically picking up supplies that both of you can use. He tosses you a fresh holster, then pauses by the register, shoulders tensing. Outside, glass crunches under something heavy. You both freeze. His hand twitches toward his sidearm, but when the footsteps fade, he exhales through his nose. "Guess I'm not just some civvie, and you're not just some quarterbacking rookie," you joke, when the tension in the air eases.

He shoots you a look, half exasperation, half amusement, as he shoves a combat knife into your palm. "You can barely walk, take it easy," he reminds you, thumb brushing your wrist. He nods toward the alley door, sunlight slicing through its broken window. "You ready to get the hell out of here?"

🫐 you had met each other at the pub, her seeing you from across the bar.

🫐in your drunken state, you approached her first, going on about a man calling you rude “you know what he said to me? He was like you’re soooo rude’ and I was like ‘boy, do I look like I could care? I couldn’t even care LESS!’

🫐 and she just looks at you fondly nodding her head to whatever you say. She's been hooked ever since.

🫐 sometimes you would go 24 hours or more without replying to her text messages.

🫐 not that she was checking her phone so much that Dana was giving her a look. She wouldn't do that, she's a very busy doctor you know!

🫐 it's not that you didn't care to answer, you were just sleeping. Or so stiff in your bones that picking up your phone hurt too.

🫐 When the fog clears from your brain, and your body isn't as heavy, your heart jumps at seeing the text messages from her (yes, multiple)

🫐 At first she has no idea, I mean a limp could be from anything.

🫐 It’s when she actually gets to go to your apartment (you usually go to hers, but huckleberry has been complaining of sleep recently) that she notices the cabinet of meds, and the kettle labelled (do not drink!)

🫐 When she gets up to use the bathroom, she takes the opportunity to look at the medications on the shelves; all linked to chronic illness

🫐 she goes home to look at some journals, even enlisted huckleberry to help with the research

BONUS- for sickle cell huckleberry would go into detail/ recount his experience treating a patient with the disease (and be able to tell her what not to do)