“No don’t do that thing where you act like you didn’t have a choice” you snap, hair sticking to the nape of your neck in swirls. He draws his head back with offence “excuse me?” His lips press together, pulling off his glasses in an agitated move and pointing them at you with accusation that made your heart thud even louder in the name of adrenaline.

You and Robby arguing was a rare sight. Discussing, yes. Disagreeing, it happens. Snapping on the worse days, but not this kind of argument where you don’t have time to pull into a secluded corner with muffled voices. You’re putting on a show in the middle of central bay but there’s such a flurry of workers, victims and god knows who else that decided to cram up behind your white walls, that people hardly notice you. His accusation doesn’t slip past his lips before you’re interrupting.

“Yes excuse you! I was in total control of the situation and you overruled me and now Whitaker’s doing heart massage instead of being out in triage!”

It smells of chlorine and plastic and blood.

He shakes his head adamantly before running a hand down his face with a disapproving sound as he looks around “I don’t have time to consider your goddamn medical pride in a mass casualty, Hastings! I overruled you, I made a decision as your attending that I deemed necessary and now you need to move on instead of feeling sorry for yourself. In case you haven’t noticed, people are dying no matter who makes the decisions right now, and if Whittaker isn’t in triage, then how about you step in and do your goddamn job” he yells, the gravel in his voice become more prominent with each bitten out sentence, his eyes diverting from you to every other dilemma that’s just waiting for his beck and call. And you understand, of course you do, cheeks flushed red with embarrassment and anger and injustice alike. Something presses behind your eyelids and your tongue.

“Yes sir” you say, nothing subservient about your tone and he knows it. But neither of you have the time nor strength to do anything other than walk off with a last look that says you’re both willing to die on your respective hills. So be it. You shoulder your way through. Seemingly everyone has been called in, Lena trying to file out and organize the people like she does the charts, her voice booming over the mass in a way you didn’t know her lungs were efficient for, ordering anyone who wasn’t close relatives or victims to get the hell out of the ER.

“I’ll take over” you said behind your teeth to Whitaker who was bent over the patient, hair amassed in one sweaty curl on his forehead. “Go back to triage, you have an overview there” you order as he looks up, sweat beading on his forehead. He nods, swallows the humid air down as you slide your hands into the chest cavity of the patient and manually start pumping her heart with your hands while Princess updates you on the victims status.

“Can we cram another patient in here?”

You look up to see Jack Abbot with one hand on the doorframe and the other on a gurney. You hadn’t seen him at all amidst this chaos, only heard his name or voice in your periphery. Something eases in his look when you meet his eyes and you nod once, sharp. He taps the gurney to signal them to wait as he steps into the room. You walk backwards while him and princess maneuvres your patient bed as far to the left as you can to make space, your hands close to cramping around the heart in your hands. He looks up through his glistening brow, grey streaked curls sticking out around his ears. “How long have you been here?” He asks as he waves in his other trauma patient, eyes assessing your victim with a narrowed focus you’re always impressed by.

“Since before electricity was invented” you mutter and he has the sparse energy to huff, a flicker of amusement in his eyes before you both snap into focus and away from the familiar banter. Seems you both needed the ten second refuge of kindness in this space of loss and fear.

“Still no rythm” princess mutters close to your ear. Jack looks up over his glasses. He came in on his day off too it seems, swat gear on, no time to change into something more practical. His mouth purses in that way it always does, a question in his eyes. You ignore it, looking back down. You know you should move to another patient. Call it. But you’d called it three times already today and each one felt like it took a part of you with. You were half a man at this point. But Robby had been right, none of this was about you. Still you appreciates that Jack chose to do nothing more than look your way. He didn’t order you to hurry up, didn’t command. He knew you were capable, and left you to make your own decision. Which in the end was what pushed you to let your aching fingers flex one last time before pulling out.

“Time of death 11.43” you said, stuffing the cavity and letting your eyes linger on her face before pulling the sheet to shield her from the fluorescent blinking. McKay was already with another gurney without a home, in the hall. You had to move. With a nod to princess, she got help from the EMT’s to roll the woman away to the morgue. With a swipe of your brow you waved in McKay and pulled of your gloves, hands molten underneath. “Need help?” You asked her, but she shook her head. “All good”

No one had time to look each other in the eye, really. “Get over here” Abbot said instead, nodding his way and you made your way around both dried and fluid pools of blood, your shoulder pressing against the military badge on his. Together you stabilized the patient, called down Garcia while you started intubation. Mateo took over and they rolled the gurney up to the OR. You winced, hand cramping, fingers twitching painfully as the muscles pulled and released from the combined heart massage and intubation. Jack frowned and grabbed your wrist, using his other hand to carefully flex your fingers backwards, gliding his thumb up your palm to stretch out the muscles. It was unusually attentive in the middle of broken bloody limbs, fixing a cramp. He looked up through his brow again, protective swat glasses low on his nose. With your free hand you took them off for him and set them aside without looking away. “Thanks” he muttered lowly, back to stretching your fingers.

“You good?” He asked, releasing your hand as the cramping stopped. He didn’t comment on it. You didn’t either. This was how you worked, often with understanding silence as you fixed things for each other like it was second nature. “Mhm” you said with a long inhale, smoothing hair from your face.

“Saw you and Robby going at it” he muttered casually, trying to inquire respectfully, always making sure you understood that you never owed him anything. Which was why he was easy to talk to.

“He’s an ass sometimes. So am I. Two fuckin assholes” you commented, mumbling more and more as you look to the back of Robby’s head somewhere down in south. Jacks eyes follow your line of sight. A heavy hand sprawls on your shoulder and squeezes briefly.

“He’s a considerably bigger asshole than you” he mutters, lips directed to your ear as he offers you a side glance, trying to ease the stiffness of your disposition. Your smile is half-hearted, mind too far off. Your eyes wander out on the mess around you, hands on your hips to gain some semblance of control.

“I’m gonna help out in triage” you say, swallowing the lump in your throat, ever present today. The woman’s face lingers on the backs of your eyelids and you start, walking off before he can say more. He gives a curious, lingering glance on your back. The distress was obvious in your posture, more so than usual, but then again; a mass casualty will do that to most.

The umpteenth hour continues into the night, and slowly but surely the heat of the masses die down, people simmering out, patients being admitted or walking or home or rolling down to the cold chapels. At 03.00 you have your certified last patient with a bitten off plastic scrap lodged in his stomach. “Check stats and bilateral flow” you call out, the words somehow effortless, on autopilot and your lungs as strident as when you clocked in. You press the ultrasound prod to the man’s stomach, eyes narrowed at the screen. It blurs slightly, but with a hard squeeze of burning eyelids, you focus back in, using your elbow to wipe sweat from your brow. Jack steps in and the status update falls from your lips without you even hearing yourself. “We need to get it out now” you mumble, seeing the laceration in his side that’s already doing internal damage, no time to wait for the OR. “Do you need me to-“ Jack offers

“I got it” there’s defensiveness in your tone that isn’t usual, everybody on edge to do their best. Especially you. Opening up the laceration, pulling out the lodged plastic carefully causes a ray of blood to spurt at your face, down your gown. Jack reaches over with a small woah, packing the wound as Perlah and him stabilize it while you take a step back to make room. A forced step back. “Jack I got this” you said, grabbing the bottom of your scrubs and wiping blood from your eyes. He didn’t listen, or didn’t hear you, moving with precision in front of you.

“Dr. Abbot step away” you said firmly and pressed your way to his side again, a wild look in your eyes. You had to save at least one more patient. Every single person in your care today had struggled tremendously. He turned to look at you fully for a beat. “Right now I’m more capable than you” he said. “You’re covered in blood- I’m not” his voice wasn’t unkind, wasn’t like Robby’s superior scolding. Still you had to swallow it down, wincing slightly as you took a defeated step back again. He wanted to say more but the time wasn’t there.

You stepped out of the room, eyes glassy and dull. “Honey go take a shower and get some new scrubs on ya” Dana said as she peered over her glasses with sympathy, tapping her clipboard. “We’ve got it under control down here.” She assured. You nodded tightly, lips pressed together as you didn’t trust your own tongue. But instead of beelining for the doctors lounges, your feet carried you out to the ambulance bay. You’d forgotten how dark it was outside, only a few stars visible in the busy city light pollution. The brick wall met your back, your knees protested as you sat down against it, head tipping back. You don’t know how much time passed before the ambulance bay doors slid open. You didn’t have the energy to crack an eye open.

“Thought we’d lost ya” Jack slides down the wall next to you, his swat vest discarded, green undershirt catching on the rough bricks. You hum dryly, finally opening your eyes. The sun is rising somewhere behind city blocks, casting a strange kind of light on his tired face. His brows scrunch, eyes darting across your face. A knuckle comes up, brushing your cheekbone so barely that you almost don’t feel it before it falls in his lap again. “You look like a warrior” he mumbles. You remember all the blood that must’ve dried in streaks on your pale skin. You feel it crease as your lips move.

“Don’t feel like one” you say, voice dry and garbled. He hums, still studying you and you look away, starring at the asphalt marred with tire tracks and bathed in purple morning hues.

He tips his head forwards slightly. “Robbys doing a farwell circle in there if you want to join” he says, clasping his hands and resting them on his knees. You shake your head. “He’s mad at me” you sigh, flicking dirt off your shoe.

Jack shakes his head too “No he’s not. Don’t let it get to you.”

Hot tears gather behind your eyelids and you despise it, squeezing your eyes tight and pressing the pad of your thumb and forefinger against them to try and stop the waterworks. Jacks lips tug downwards, surprised by how deep his discomfort is at watching you tremble. Automatically he reaches for you, but pauses mindfully, knowing how sensitive you could get in these situations;

“Can i touch you?” His voice it hoarse. You nod, eyes still closed and shoulders hunched. He reaches over your shoulders and gently push you into his side until your head falls to the crook of his neck, and his chin can rest on your head. He exhales deeply, hoping to render your nervous system to his, to let you borrow some of the ease to your frayed ends. You allow yourself to slump, feel the heat from the skin of his neck. “So many died today” you mumble, feeling him nod. “And most of them were my patients” you add quietly and it cut through you to say it out loud. You sit up before he can hold onto you “I need to look through all of the cases again- make sure I didn’t miss something, because if-“

“-hey hey hey,” he says and sits up with you. He often finds himself copying your movements, for some strange reason. “None of it was your fault” he assures and you turn your head back to look at him with a desperate and incredulous look.

“How do you know? A million things could’ve made it my fault. I was tired, stressed, things went fast-”

“-I looked.” He uttered, looking away briefly to the sole ambulance in the bay before looking back, like he was shy to admit it. Your face twisted in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“I looked through all your cases today. Dana told me it’d been rough for you and I knew you’d blame yourself and spend the rest of the night going over all the journals. So I checked it all out. You did everything perfectly, on every single case. Even bold moves that were right despite things not panning out.” He said, feeling heat in his cheeks and ears to confess his own meticulous work that he had no obligation to do. You’re still for a while, the furrow of your forehead smoothing out.

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me” you say with surprise more than anything else. You squashed the urge to check for yourself, choosing to put your faith in his words. There’s a stunted silence where Jack feels the back of his neck burn and something exposing itself between his ribs that he has no control of. Suddenly you twist your body backwards, reaching for something under a broken off brick, your leg kicking out. He has to catch it with one hand, “You’re gonna knock out all my teeth” he huffs, holding onto your ankle.

“Sorry” you come back upright, huffing hair from your face as you open a busted pack of cigs. He gives you an incredulous look, brow raised and head pulled back with that scolding assessment. You give him a glare “-give me a break. Dana and I hide these for emergencies only. I don’t smoke” you say as you place a long, thin cigarette between your lips, cupping your hand around the end of it as you light it up.

He hums “this tops any moment you’ve ever lied to me” he says, having half a mind to snag it from you. You shrug, squinting as you put the pack back in its hiding place.

“If you tell anyone, Dana will hide them somewhere else and won’t ever trust me with ‘em again” you say before watching his lip tug upwards. You realise your mistake and point the toxic thing at him. “It’s my one guilty pleasure after killing five people, don’t take it from me” you say.

His face falls again. “Don’t say it like that” he looks out at the morning traffic that’s slowly coming to life in the metropolis. You suck in hard, eyes up. The tears seem to be ever present, lingering and ready to run any minute. He purses his lips; he really should take that thing from your hand and squash it under his shoe. He’s your attending, this is a teaching hospital. An attending who should get up and go back inside. An attending who doesn’t move an inch.

“How do you do it?” You ask with a bitter taste in your mouth. He sighs, rubbing s hand over the bottom half of his face to buy himself a second. He stored every hard death somewhere, and sometimes it felt like it got easier; sometimes it didn’t and felt like the first time seeing life leave someone’s eyes all over again. He shook his head in thought.

“You have to remember the good things” he said but it sounded wrong out in the air between you, and your flat hum was confirmation of that. “I don’t know it-“ he runs a hand over his face again, shoulders sagging “you really do have to remember the wins. Remember the reasons you do this, the fact that you tried more than anyone else.” He says, more earnest. You nod slowly. He slaps his thighs, groans as he gets up wrongly on his prosthetic, still offers a hand. You finally twist the cig into the ground, marking a spot of your existence there before accepting his hand. He squeezes it before letting go, “Get cleaned up. Look a mess” he says. You huff dryly and shoulder past him with a grumble.

-

The shower does little to wash away the mental drag you feel, but it’s efficient at washing off the blood. You scrub your skin raw, wring your hair dry. A message from Robby. You ignore it, choosing peace as you drag your own clothes back in place. He manages to find you still, before you can sign out. The ER has died down significantly.

“I uh- wrote a recommendation of you to ER medicine. If you wanna get into that” he said, scratching his neck and forcing himself to keep eye contact with you. Your brows raised; clearly this was his way of apologising but it was a pretty good guilt offer and you nodded gratefully.

“Thank you. I’m seriously considering it” you said and he nodded, head cocked, “we could use you down here. Permanently.”

You huff a weak smile. He opens his mouth to say more “I don’t want to talk about today.” You interrupt with a hand mid-air and he closed his lips quick and nods in understanding. You steer for the door.

Outside Abbot and Matteo lean against a pillar. Your eyes drag down to the six pack of cheep beer dangling off two of jack’s fingers. He looks up when he sees you, lifting the beers with a nod to the park. You chew on the inside of your cheek, mulling it over because your bed and a long cry was really calling to you. Jack had the urge to fight for you staying but bit down on his tongue. Santos, Ellis and Whittaker came out behind you.

Ellis’ hand finds your neck “You’re having a beer” she decided and you shrug, following along the group. “Whatever you say goes I guess” you mumble, and she snickers triumphantly. Jack sits on the bench, the glow of the streetlamp on its last leg before they turn off and the sun replaces their light.

You take the beers from his hand “get that leg off” you mumble and open them up, handing everyone a can.

“Beer at 5.30, in the morning, not what I thought I signed up for. But I’m not complaining” santos said before cracking hers open. Ellis chuckled, “welcome to the Pitt”

Jack propped his prosthetic against the bench and accepted your beer with a small thanks, purposely scooting a little to the side. You sit down, tugging your knees to your chest with an exhale. “You look like shit” Santos says after her first sip, the quiet apparently not what she was on board with.

Jack gave her a disapproving look, brows low “how about you play the quiet game until you finish that beer” he says flatly. She rolls her eyes, turning to Whittaker who’s mid gulp and therefore can’t stop her stream of words his way.

Jack leans in, still looking forwards “I think you look great.” You tuck your chin back and tip your head as you look at him, incredulous. He shrugs and takes a steady sip, keeping his eyes on you. “How’re you holding up?”

“Robby wrote me a recommendation for emergency medicine.” You said.

Something twitched in jacks face, his finger toying with the metal cap “I could’ve done that if you’d asked” he said, aiming for a flat voice but something else fissured through the cracks. It amused you, slightly.

“I know. Two attending recs wouldn’t hurt” you said, with a head tilt. He looked up, the bratty expression softening from his features.

“Don’t be so offended, I didn’t ask Robby. He just felt bad.” Jack hummed, taking a sip.

“You planning on staying around?” He forced his voice to be neutral, lifting his chin and kicking his foot out in front of him. You take a look at the group, at everyone’s red rimmed eyes- everyone who should be home and sleeping but somehow all your individual choices had led you to be here at this hour instead.

“If it’s possible” you say with fondness. His shoulders sink a fraction, that same place under his ribs throbbing softly.

“Could join the night crawlers for good” he suggested. You took your bottom lip between your teeth

“you recruiting me already?” Your chin rests on your knee. He holds his beer to his mouth, pressing the coolness there.

“Don’t let it get to your head” he rumbles. His free hand slings over the back of the bench. The conversation migrates to one big group circle. It’s easy, it’s about anything else than the hospital, a pretend game where you don’t mention what’s burning in the back of your head, the losses and wins of the days all alike. Instead you talk about new movies, stupid bets, the news, your families. Eventually the talk falls back to today’s events, though; it always circled back around, when someone couldn’t keep it on the backburner any longer.

“Hey didn’t all your patients like die today?” Santos says, trying to be humorous in a show of sympathy, and perhaps also letting the second beer loosen her tongue. Your chest tightens inexplicably.

“Help me with my leg?” Abbot says quickly before you muster up a proper response or reaction. His fingertips brush your arm. “Sure” you mumble, standing up.

You both know he doesn’t need help to put on the damn prosthetic, he’s been doing it on his own for years, every day. Still you crouch down, and he lets you despite the dignity in him that the situation chips at. He doesn’t care. He tried meeting your eyes but you stay firmly on his leg before standing up, tossing your can in the trash.

“See you guys” you sigh, rubbing your eyes and waving half heartedly with the other. Whittaker mutters something to Santos, slapping her arm. Abbot givers her a warning look too before he strides up to your side.

“Thank you” you mutter, yawning. He hums in response

“she’s mouthy.” He says with narrowed eyes somewhere behind you.

“She’s learning” you correct, kicking a rock. “She wants friends”

“She has a funny way of making them.” He adds, walking with you down the road despite his apartment being the other way.

“Like you’re so predictable yourself” you say, watching the sun finally say hello over the lowest buildings. It’s golden, just grazing the edges of jacks tired curls. His lip tugs upwards, eyes following the pavement along with yours, hands hidden in his pockets.

You loop yours into the empty space between his elbow and ribs and he lets you, with a soft side glance as to not scare off the touch. He should reject it, but decides to revel in it as his own guilty pleasure, his reward for a hellish shift. You seem to give it a second before you let your arm relax around his when he doesn’t retreat. “You aren’t either” he says through a breath, causing you to crack an eye his way. He meets it the same way. “How so?”

He pushes his lips to the side in thought, eyes drifting off. He wants to say a lot of things about how unpredictable his nervous system is around you, his no man’s land. He swallows it down.

“Didn’t take you for a filthy smoker, for example” he says dryly. Your eyes roll, making a tsk sound with your tongue and tugging on his arm so his shoulder dips against yours

“there are way worse habits I could’ve picked up. I don’t drink-“ his brow raises and a side eye burns from your face and down to the hand that held a beer a couple minutes ago “-that often” you add defensively. “And I’m not going to at all these next months. I have to apply for a residency. I have to focus” you say with determination and a youthful hope that strikes him.

You’re young, way young compared to his old ass, not even in residency yet, and here he is locking arms with you instead of writing you a professional recommendation. But at the Pitt you were pretty much installed as an ER resident already, they gave you the responsibility and independency amounting to one, at least. No one hovered over your decisions like they used to. But in technicality you weren’t quite there yet.

You stop in your tracks, in front of the steps to a brownstone apartment building where you live. It snaps him from his inner works as his arm slips from yours. The sun is starting to warm up, stabil and almost down to your eyes. The sky is brighter, the city is bustling more and more with the diverse population of Pittsburg waking up, the rare crowd just now going home. A breeze blows a stray strand into your eyes and you snatch it away with a finger, looking at the flush of jacks cheeks. You’re so tired, so sad but so happy that he’s here, that you didn’t go home and let the bed swallow you up. It’s a strange euphoria when the sun rises after you feel like it might never, like the horrible night will drag on and take you with it. Here people are, to-go cups in their hands, phones at their ears, children in the car. Life goes on.

He’s about to pull away, the knot in his stomach, the stupid realisation that keeps catching up to him about how hypocritical and wrong he’s being tearing at his nerves, fraying the ends and pushing on his chest. Pushing him away. But you’re too caught up in the moment, in the way he carried you through the aftermath of today.

You seize his wrist gently to anchor yourself, raising yourself to your toes and pressing your lips against his, feeling the tickle of his grey stubble on your pale skin. You give it a second, but his lips don’t seem to move at all and with a heartbeat so violent it hurts you move back, heels in the ground with wide eyes. He swallows thickly, opening his mouth but nothing comes out because it’s all he’s wanted and all he shouldn’t, his foot moving back until it hits a mailbox. Everything’s a flame inside of him, his hands fisted so hard in his pockets that it ached up his tendons. “I’m so sorry Jack I thought-“

“It’s okay-“ he assures, his voice barely coming out, which you obviously mistake for discomfort. Which is was, but not at all in the way you clearly figured with the way your lips quiver. He has to look away “it’s okay I promise it’s just- it’s not a good idea to- I didn’t-“ he says, trying his best to convey but he’s never felt so useless before, so teenage.

“Forget I did that. Please. Don’t tell anyone. I’m- I’ll go now. I’ll see you. Sorry, I’m really sorry” your hands fumble as you open the door, keys rattling in your hands. He doesn’t stop you, cursing under his breath as he forces one shoe in front of the other, not daring to look back. He knows how unfair he’s being, taking without giving. He’s been selfish for it, letting himself wallow in your laughs and touches, your refuge in the storm, and now retreating like a coward. He should have drawn a line the second the two of you started knowing each other a little better than the rest, purposeful or not. He didn’t mind teaching, but it wasn’t usual for him to take a liking to any new people the way he did you. You found a rythm fast, learned each others habits in a symbiose others noticed but didn’t comment on. He shouldn’t remember what syrup you like or what book you read, the nervous tick when you have to deliver hard news.

He should’ve let himself forget, but he opened up a space for it that he regrets now, trying to wire it shut.

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