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The night shift begins the way it always does at PTMC – already behind.
By the time you wander in, headphones blaring your latest obsession, backpack hanging from your shoulders, the waiting room is overflowing. Every chair is occupied, every gap of wall leant against, with the smell of blood and sweat filling the air. It’s nothing abnormal though, especially since the hospital has made staffing cuts to keep the powers above happy.
Bizarrely though, you find the busyness oddly comforting. It keeps you occupied at least. “Hey hotshot attending.” Dana calls through the central hub with glasses perched on the end of her nose and tablet in hand. “I love it when you’re early.”
“You know me.” You shrug. “Give me the bad news.”
She glances towards the waiting room. “That is the bad news.” You release a huff of a breath before heading towards the lockers.
Coming from a family of medics, it’s no surprise that you ended up here per se, but the chosen discipline came as a bit of a shock to your parents. Father a neurosurgeon and mother a gynaecologist, the idea of you wanted to do emergency medicine was always met with disapproving looks and not-so-subtle persuasion to do something else. It was one of the reasons why you had to move away, to a different state, but landing a role at the Pitt was a dream.
Even if it’s very hectic and emotional and hard on the body because it feels worthwhile, like this is where you are supposed to be. Shaking you heard, you punch in your locker combination before pulling it open. Inside there’s a spare PTMC hoodie, a couple of protein bars, and some mementos stuck to the inside of the door. Your favourite is a remarkably good scribble of Snoopy on a paper napkin from a date with- “Hey slugger.” Jack.
He inputs his own combination a few lockers down with a smirk on his face. “It’s getting real old you calling me that.”
“Hey that strike was legendary.” There’s a thud when he shoves his bag into his locker. “Should have been a baseball player not a physician.” He’s referring to the department’s day shift vs night shift charity game that you won with a homerun on the final ball. That was a good day. It’s something to smile about, which you do as you distractedly drop your bag from your shoulder to your hand, but it swings round to knock you in the side in the process. You wince before pushing it inside the locker. “Are you alright?”
But of course, he spots it. When you turn to face him, he lost any hint of jokiness and instead his hazel eyes bore into you as he looks you over. Before you can answer, before you can think of an excuse, the sound of footsteps approaching interrupts the moment. “We have multiple traumas coming in from a MVA!” Lena calls down the corridor you tear your gaze away from Jack, shut the locker door, and head back into the busyness of the ED without a handover.
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By midnight, you have stopped noticing the ache that has been sitting low in your side since before you arrived. Or perhaps you have simply learned to move around it. You keep your posture straight, your voice even, your hands steady as you examine patients and give orders and check charts between interruptions. No one looks twice at you, well, no one except Jack.
Jack always watches you. Not in a super obvious way that anyone else notices, even during the months when there was something more between you. Something reckless and warm and impossible to keep pretending was only an early-morning coffee after shift.
Back then, he watched because he couldn’t help it. He watched you in the trauma bays, quick and capable even as a second-year resident, with hands steadier than they had any right to be. The same hands that were capable of creating magic between the sheets. He watched you advocate for patients, even if it meant rubbing people up the wrong way. Something that he always rewarded you for because he found it sexy. Once, he watched you fall asleep at the desk while charting, so he draped his PTMC zip-hoodie over your shoulders.
Then he ended it. Not because he wanted to – that may have been the worst part – but because he was more senior to you and felt like he had to.
Now, you can understand that was the right thing to do, but at the time it broke your heart. Because what you had with Jack was more than morning strolls back to his with coffee, it was more than eating out at places he was sure you wouldn’t be spotted together, it was more than sex. There was genuinely something there between you, something that was hard to leave behind.
Every shift for the following few weeks felt like walking through broken glass. You tried to avoid him as much as possible which was not easy when you work in such close quarters on cases. You snapped at him once over a patient and had to experience his reluctant wrath because he had to treat you like any other resident. It made switching to the day shift easier.
It was not much more than a month later though that you were back with the Nightcrawlers, much preferring that space despite the awkwardness between you and Dr Abbot. Slowly though, the relationship rebuilt into friendship. Trust was regained and although attraction never truly disappeared, you made it work. Together. Especially after you started seeing someone else.
Jack hasn’t asked too many questions about your boyfriend. He met him once, briefly, in the ambulance bay when he brought you some food early in your shift. He remembers the firm grip of the man’s handshake, the way he answered a question directed at you before you could, the way you smiled afterwards almost automatically like it wasn’t quite real.
He filed it away but tonight he pulls it back out as he studies you. Taking in how your usual spark that’s been even more present since being promoted to attending is flailing. Taking in how tired you look. Taking in how you’re favouring your left side despite being right-handed.
It’s subtle things like a careful turn when you reach for something or a pause before you lean over a patient, and the way your breath catches once, so quietly that no one else hears it beneath the beeps of the monitors. Jack hears it though. He watches you finish intubating the patient in Trauma 2, sees how you grip the handle of the laryngoscope tighter than usual, before stepping away. “Are you alright?” He asks for the second time tonight.
“I’m fine.” You say too quickly and witness how his jaw flexes.
Jack knows you. He knows that when you are actually fine, you would make a joke about the state of the waiting room or a slightly inappropriate remark about one of your more amusing patients, maybe even roll your eyes at him for asking. Instead, you walk away. Hiding. “Hey.” He says, quieter this time making you stop. He walks around the other side of you so you’re facing each other, hazel eyes flickering down to where you have absently started to hold your side. You instantly let go. “What happened?”
“Nothing has happened.” You claim but he keeps looking at you, his potent concern impossible to miss now. “We’ve got work to do.” Jack watches you go.
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It’s 3am when things take a turn. It starts with Lena calling out about an incoming trauma – an intoxicated male falling from a balcony down three stories who’s in a bad way – and then the nurses are getting Trauma 2 prepped and ready with you and Jack waiting for the EMTs to appear with the patient. “Are you alright?” He asks again, staring at the automatic sliding doors, preparing for the worst.
“Will you stop asking me that?” Is your blunt reply, just as the patient is wheeled in on a gurney and suddenly the ED springs to life once more.
Everyone knows their role, knows what they have to do to keep this person alive and give them the best chance of a full recovery, especially with Abbot steering the ship. He’s being more vocal than usual, picking up the slack that you’re probably dropping because it's like you’ve been transported back in time. No longer an established attending but the resident that started at this hospital.
Despite this, it’s all going well, and the twenty-two-year-old being treated on the bed is breathing on his own, neck steadied, open fracture to his right tibia stabilised and ready for surgery.
You step around the organised chaos to reach for the phone on the wall to chase the OR but at the same time Mateo backs away from a supply cart. The point of his elbow catches your right side. It’s not super hard or anything, but it doesn’t need to be.
Pain flashes white-hot beneath your ribs, sudden and vicious enough that your breath stops in your throat. You turn away on instinct, one hand flying to your side as a sharp hiss escapes before you’re able to swallow it down. Mateo freezes, immediately apologising. “I’m sorry. I didn’t-”
“I’m fine Mateo.” You force out. “Please can you chase the OR?” You ask, but you’re already walking out, pulling off your gloves with a snap, feeling Jack’s stare bore into the back of your skull.
When you make it to the staff lounge, a choked sob escapes you as you double over, hands gripping the counter. Maybe you should have called in sick, maybe you should have stayed home, but that felt far too risky. And you’ve worked in pain before, why is it different this time?
The squeak of the door opening makes you abruptly stand straight wanting to mask the agony but actually makes it worse. Your expression crumples, the wind being knocked from your sails, even more so when you see who has walked in. “Show me.” Jack says seriously, expression steeled as if preparing for battle.
“Jack-”
“Show me your side.”
“It’s nothing.”
“You just nearly folded because Mateo bumped into you.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“And I don’t believe you.” The words land harshly because it’s like the trust you’ve built over the past few years is threatening to completely splinter and break. You don’t want that to happen. “Please.” He continues in a hushed tone as if people beyond the staff lounge may hear his pleas. “Don’t make me stand here and guess when you’re clearly hurting.”
But then the door opens and Ellis bursts in appearing irate. “I need an attending.” Is all she says and Jack sighs before nodding reluctantly, clearly deciding that you are in no fit state today to respond to such calls.
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The next hour disappears in the way hours do at the Pitt. You bounce from patient to patient, an unresponsive diabetic with low blood sugar and then a toddler experiencing a seizure for the first time. Security applies soft restraints to a shouting man in South 18, a patient in North 3 starts vomiting blood out of nowhere, and someone starts wailing in the waiting room because they haven’t been seen in six hours. Usually, you take it all in your stride, just focussing on the work, but tonight it’s hard.
Around four am, after handing off a patient to the ICU team, you slip towards the bathroom with your shoulders drawn tight. Jack watches you go, so it’s even more noticeable to him when you’re gone for some time. Five minutes turn into eight and then twelve. Far too long.
He tells himself you might be sick, that you might be calling someone, that you might just need a moment alone after the kind of night that makes doctors wonder why they chose this profession in the first place. But he had known you for too long and he knows you don’t take long breaks, especially not when the ED is heaving like it is tonight.
You come back out fourteen minutes later, face pale beneath the harsh lighting, with a practiced smile on your face. “Everything okay?” Lena asks from behind the charge desk, not looking up the PC monitor.
“All good.” You say almost cheerfully. “How are we looking?”
“ICU have a bed free so that’s some good news.” She comments. “Who are we sending up?”
“Hmmm…” You ponder, looking up at the board. “We could flip a coin. Or get the patients to draw straws.”
“Funny.” Lena mutters, but she is smirking and you find yourself releasing a small laugh probably out of relief that things seem fleetingly normal.
You lean against the counter beside her, shifting your weight as carefully as you can. The department has settled into a temporary lull and for the first time since arriving on shift you let yourself breathe. You push the sleeves of your undershirt up your forearms, trying to cool down beneath your scrub top without thinking.
Jack looks up from the chart he had been pretending to reading, immediately spotting a bruise darkening along the inside of your right forearm. It’s not a vague, yellowed mark from knocking into a doorframe. It’s shaped like fingers.
You sense him become still, noticing his presence a second too late, and you’re straightaway tugging the sleeve back down. He puts the tablet on the charging rack. “Come with me.” It’s not an invitation, not a request, it’s an instruction, like he’s done taking no for an answer.
Jack doesn’t wait for you to agree. He turns and paces down the quieter corridor and you follow him, somewhat reluctantly, until he stops outside the family room. The one without the glass panel in the door. The room which is usually reserved for conversations no one wants to have in public, usually bad news, but right now it’s empty and very private.
He opens the door and steps aside, inviting you in. You fold your arms over your chest but do enter the room with him following close behind.
The room is too warm. There’s a round table in the middle, four mismatched chairs, a box of tissues placed neatly in the centre. A landscape print hangs crookedly on one wall near various support pamphlets in a rack. The murmurings of the department reach you only faintly through the closed door. The click of the lock makes your stomach tighten, he notices the reaction and steps away from the door, not blocking it. “You can leave whenever you want.” He reassures.
You look at him, his carefully neutral expression but you know him too well to see beneath it. You see the tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders are set, the concern creasing his brow. “You’re being dramatic.”
“I saw your arm.”
You look down at your sleeve. “It’s just a bruise.”
“It’s a handprint.” He corrects. “Tell me I’m wrong.” You open your mouth, but nothing comes out making him sigh. “Did someone hurt you?”
Your fingers curl around the cuff of your sleeve. “No.” It’s bullshit and he knows it.
Jack is quiet for a moment, but you spot how he swallows like he’s trying to maintain his composure, it’s now not only you that’s hurting. “Did your boyfriend hurt you?”
The room seems to tilt. You shake your head, faster this time, which doesn’t help the nausea rising up your throat. “It’s not like that.”
His expression changes then into something sadder because he’s heard those words before, from patients, from people who had needed help long before they were ready to ask for it. “Okay.” He agrees anyway. “Tell me what it’s like.”
“No I…” You gulp down nothing, feeling like a belt is being wrapped tight around your ribcage. “Fuck.”
“You don’t have to tell me everything. You don’t have to tell me anything tonight. But I need you to know that I see it.” He sees it. Of course he sees it. This Jack Abbot, the man who sees everything, especially concerning those he holds most dear. “And I’m not going to pretend I don’t.”
Jack watches your shoulders sag as you start to accept that this is a conversation you can no longer avoid. “He had a bad day.” The words come out so quietly they barely disturb the silence. You pull out a chair, making it scrape over the lino floor, before you take a seat, grateful to finally be off your feet.
He hums at this, taking the chair opposite yours instead of one closer, leaving the table between you and enough space that you can breathe. “Does he have a lot of bad days?”
You shrug. “Don’t we all?”
“We don’t all turn to violence on bad days.” The word sucks the oxygen from the room.
Violence. Not an argument or a misunderstanding, no claims that he didn’t mean it, but violence.
You stare at a crack in the tabletop, the pattern of the wood blurring together as your throat starts to close. “It wasn’t…” You try again, but your voice cracks around the words. “He didn’t… he doesn’t usually…” The sentence falls apart before you can finish it as your hands curl into fists in your lap.
Jack doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t fill the silence with assurances you aren’t ready to believe. He only sits there, his expression open and devastated in a way that makes it impossible to look at him for long. “He gets stressed.” You reason. “And I know how he can be when he’s stressed, so I should’ve just… I should’ve left it alone.”
“No.” He interjects firmly and it makes you flinch. The moment he sees it, something in his expression breaks. He leans back slightly, giving you even more room. “You didn’t cause this.”
Your eyes burn and on your next blink, a tear slips down your cheek before you can stop it, and then another, and it feels humiliating. “I’m fine.” You claim.
“You don’t have to be.” Jack lets the silence sit for a moment. Not because he has nothing to say, but because he understands that every question now has weight. Knowing he needs to navigate this carefully. “Where are you in pain right now?”
Your head raises so fast it almost causes whiplash. “We should get back to-”
“Sweetheart please.” The endearment is quiet, it slipping out of him without him meaning it to. It makes you still, him too, something shifts in his features like he’s preparing to apologise but he doesn’t take it back, only waits patiently for your response.
Outside the room, the department continues to run like nothing has happened. There’s charting to do, patients waiting, a dozen things you could use to escape this conversation if you could just make your legs move. “My ribs.” But instead, you come out with the truth. “My arm doesn’t hurt.”
“Okay… your ribs.” He says, almost to himself. “You were in the bathroom for a while earlier…” He starts making your shoulders draw in, wanting to become even smaller. “Are you sore anywhere else?”
Your face becomes hot and then cold as you weakly shake your head. Jack doesn’t attempt to rush you, sensing that it’s going to come out the moment your fingers twist together until your knuckles pale as you psych yourself up. “I…” Your voice fails momentarily. “It hurts.”
“Where?”
“Just…” You press your lips together, shame rising so fast it makes your eyes sting. “Down there.”
For a long second, Jack says nothing, and when he finally does speak, his voice is controlled with effort, but you can tell he’s hurting too. “Okay.”
You wipe at your face with the heel of your hand, angry at yourself for crying, angrier that you can’t stop. “I don’t want anyone to know.”
“You get to decide who knows.” He reassures before continuing with a sternness to his tone. “But you need medical care. And you deserve to have someone make sure you’re okay.”
“Sometimes…” Your voice thins until it’s almost lost beneath the hum of the vents. “He uses me for stress relief. A-And I let him.” You stammer, completely embarrassed that this conversation is even happening. “He’s not usually that rough, though.” The silence which follows is awful, all while Jack gazes back at you. He doesn’t look disgusted or angry but utterly devastated that this has been happening to someone he loves and he hadn’t realised sooner. “Sometimes it’s easier if I just… let it happen. Then he calms down, and he’s nice again, and I can pretend it’s over.”
Jack’s face tightens; grief and ire held so carefully behind his eyes that it makes your chest hurt. “You shouldn’t have to manage his moods.” He says. “You shouldn’t have to give him access to you, so he won’t hurt you.”
Another tear slips down your cheek. “But I’m his girlfriend.”
“That doesn’t mean he gets to use you.”
“He says I make him feel like I don’t want him. He says I’m always at work, always tired, and that I owe him something when I come home.”
“You don’t owe anyone your body.”
You wipe at your face again, but the tears continue flowing, thick and fast. “He wasn’t supposed to hurt me.” You tell him, voice breaking. “I thought if I did what he wanted, then he wouldn’t.”
Jack leans forward slightly, but stops there, still leaving the distance between you intact. “Can I sit beside you?” He requests, not pushing but grateful when after a long moment you give the smallest nod. He the moves from one chair to the one right next to you, making you feel not quite so alone in the room. “You didn’t do anything to deserve this.”
“We were in my kitchen.” The explanation comes abruptly, knowing if you don’t start now then you will struggle to get through it. “He got home late so I cooked… thinking it might make things better.” A fractured little laugh escapes you, absent of all humour. “But he didn’t want the food. He wanted me.”
Jack doesn’t say anything, but you hear how his jaw works, like he’s holding back. You need to get it all out though before he can offer his input. “He was angry. I-I don’t even remember why anymore.” Your breath shudders. “He held my arm behind my back and forced my face down against the table. My ribs kept hitting the edge of it. On this side.” You press a trembling hand to your right ribs. “Over and over while he… while he...” You’re unable to finish the sentence.
For a moment, the only sound in the room is your uneven breathing. Then Jack finally speaks, his voice low enough that you have to lean towards him to hear it. “That was assault.”
“No.” You whisper automatically, squeezing your eyes shut. “He’s… He’s my boyfriend. I didn’t-”
“He hurt you.” He bluntly reminds. “He restrained you and forced himself on you. You were in pain, and he didn’t stop. None of that becomes okay because you’re in a relationship with him.”
Hearing someone say it out loud and not your internal monologue breaks something with you. “I should have fought him.”
Jack turns towards you, stopping short of touching you. “No.” His voice breaks slightly on the word. “You did what you needed to do to get through it. That is not the same thing as agreeing to it.” A sob catches in your throat, and you cover your face, shoulders shaking. “Can I call someone you trust?” He asks after a moment. “Or can I help you get checked out? We can do it on your terms. But I’m worried about your ribs.”
“I have no one.” The words come out flat. They’re not dramatic, not even particularly loud, just true.
He doesn’t like your friends. Whenever you tried to call relatives, he asked too many questions about what was discussed, practically wanting it to be recounted word for word. It made the idea of contacting them less appealing and they stopped trying to after a while. “You have me.” Jack reminds and your eyes lift to his.
He doesn’t say it like a promise he can’t keep. He doesn’t say it because he thinks he can fix everything just like that. He says it in a way that’s so simple that it helps you to believe him. “I-I don’t know what to do.”
“You don’t have to have all the answers tonight.” He continues calmly. “Tonight, we make sure you’re safe. We get you checked out. We figure out somewhere you can go that isn’t with him.” He pauses. “One thing at a time.”
Your fingers loosen slightly on the tabletop, not enough to make the fear disappear, but enough that Jack feels comfortable enough to offer you his hand like he always used to when you were having bad days, back when it was him that you laid your head next to. You look at it for a few beats, unsure whether to take it, and he doesn’t push, just leaves it palm up on the table.
“Can I stay with you?” You ask instead. “D-Don’t worry if it’s weird. I just… I trust you.”
For a second, he doesn’t answer. Not because he’s uncertain but because he’s making sure his voice won’t betray how much the words have affected him. “It isn’t weird.” He decides making you look up to meet his gaze. His expression is soft, but serious, the complicated history between you completely unimportant. “You can stay with me. I will make up the spare room and ensure you have whatever you need.”
“I don’t want to be a burden.”
“You’re not.” He’s swift to say. “You’re hurt. You’re scared. I want to help you.” He glances towards the door and then back to you. “We need to do this properly though. Get you checked out first and then we’ll get your things, if you want them. Or we don’t go anywhere near your apartment. Your choice. You decide every step. Okay?”
You nod once. Then, after a long pause, you place your hand in his, feeling yourself relax slightly the moment he carefully entwines your fingers. It’s not tight nor possessive, but present, making it very clear he’s not going anywhere. “Thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me.” He says. “Not for this.” Jack’s thumb stills its movements on the back of your hand, not realising he was stroking you in this way. “Are you okay with me checking you out first?”
The question holds more than it should. Not just whether he can examine your ribs, it’s about whether you can bear to be seen at all when feeling so vulnerable. Jack waits, still holding your hand loosely, making it easy for you to pull away if you wanted to. But you don’t want to. “Okay.”
“Okay. We’ll go slowly. You tell me to stop, and I stop. You don’t have to explain anything you don’t want to.” You swallow and nod again. “I’m going to find a room. We’ll check your ribs, make sure you’re breathing okay, make sure there isn’t anything we’re missing.” He hesitates, careful with the next part. “Someone else should be present during the examination-”
“No.”
“You don’t want Lena?” He asks gently. “I could call Dana, ask if she wouldn’t mind coming early?”
You shake your head, pulling your hand back into your lap. “I don’t want anyone else to see me like this.”
There’s no judgment in his expression, only understanding. “Okay. If that’s what you want.”
“It is.”
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It’s twenty or so minutes later that you’re walking into an empty South 16, trying to ignore the stares from your colleagues when Abbot leads you inside. The door is shut behind you, the sound something you’re used to but, in this scenario, it feels daunting. “Are you okay?” He checks in but all you can do is nod.
The exam bed is covered in crisp paper that crinkles too loudly when you sit down. Jack pulls the rolling stool over but stops a few feet away before taking a seat. “I’m going to ask permission every time I need to touch you. If you want me to stop, you tell me and we will stop. If you need a break, we take a break. Okay?”
How cautious he’s being brings fresh tears to your eyes. “Okay.”
“Can I look at your arm?” You hold it out, sleeve still pulled down over the bruise. Jack waits for you to push it up yourself.
The marks are dark, the shape of fingers clear and ugly against your skin, from where your arm was yanked and held backwards painfully. Jack sucks in a breath, this difficult for him too, as he tries to look with a clinical gaze and nothing else. “Can I touch here?” He asks and you nod. His fingers are impossibly light as he carefully checks for tenderness, swelling, the range of motion in your wrist and elbow. “Does that hurt?”
“No.”
“And here?”
“No.”
He guides your arm gently through a few movements, but when he raises it a little high, a sharp involuntary breath catches in your throat. Jack stops immediately. “Shoulder?”
“Just a little. It’s fine.”
Jack checks your shoulder as carefully as he can without pushing you past what you could tolerate. Nothing feels out of place but there’s a clear tenderness there where your arm was forced too far behind you. “Probably a strain. We’ll keep an eye on it.” Then his hands fall back into his lap. “Are you okay for me to check your ribs now?”
“Sure.” You shrug, even though your stomach tightens at the thought of it.
“Can you lift your scrub top a little? Only as much as you’re comfortable with.” Your fingers hesitate at the hem. Then, slowly, you raise the fabric enough for him to see your right side, making the room so quiet that you would be able to hear a pin drop.
The bruising stretches along your lower ribs, dark and spotted beneath the harsh examination light. There are marks in several stages of colour, some fresh and deep, others already fading at the edges. The outline of the injury makes what caused it painfully obvious. “Shit sweetheart.” He mutters and you look down at his hand instead of his face.
“I know it looks bad.” You tell him, finding your voice because you want to be able to reassure him. “But I can breathe. I’m okay.”
When you find the courage to meet his gaze again, his eyes are wet as he wills himself not to cry. “I’m sorry.” He says, the words sounding fractured as they leave his throat. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I know.” His voice is rough. “But someone hurt you like this and you were pretending everything was okay and that kills me baby.” You have no answer for that. Jack inhales slowly, trying to gather himself. “Can I examine your ribs?”
“Yes.”
He starts far from the worst of the bruising, using the pads of his fingers, pressing gently along each rib and watching your face more than your body. “Tell me if it hurts or if you feel short of breath.” You nod.
There is obvious tenderness. A flinch when he reaches the ninth and tenth ribs, a sharp inhale when he presses near the edge of the bruising, but there’s no deformity and no focal point of pain that makes him immediately worry about a fracture. He listens to your lungs next, warming the stethoscope between his hands before he places it against your back. “Deep breath for me.” He says and you follow along.
The ache pulls at your side, but your lungs sound clear, your breathing is even, and there are no signs that anything has been damaged beneath the bruises. Jack slides back at last, appearing relieved. “I don’t think anything is broken and your breathing is good. But your ribs are badly bruised so you’re going to hurt for a while.”
You lower your scrub top, arms folding instinctively across your middle. “An X-Ray would be a good idea if the pain gets any worse or it gets hard to breathe.” He continues. “But right now, I think you’re okay.”
Okay. The word feels strange with all things considered but you are able to take some comfort in it.
Jack’s gaze drops briefly his hands then, when he looks back up his expression is reluctant. “There’s one more thing I need to ask about.” You become still which he notices immediately. “You can say no.” He’s quick to add. “It doesn’t need to be me who checks this.” Your fingers tighten around the edge of the exam table. “Given what you have told me, and the pain you mentioned earlier… do you think it would be worth checking for… vaginal trauma?”
“I…” Words fail you because the question makes this all even more real.
“The day shift will be clocking in soon.” He murmurs. “How about McKay or Mohan? You know them. Either of them could help, and I can stay nearby if you want.”
You shake your head before he finishes. “I don’t need an examination.”
Jack’s expression remains calm, but attentive. “Okay.”
“I-I did it myself. Before I came in.” You continue, staring down at a stain on your scrub pants. “Using lights and mirrors. I-I have a minor tear.”
Jack tenses momentarily before he regains enough composure to nod slowly. “Thank you for telling me.”
“It’s not… not that bad.”
“Doesn’t make it painless though, does it?” He asks softly making you sniff. “It still needs care.”
You fold your arms tighter around yourself. “I don’t want Samira or Cassie looking at me.”
“That’s okay. No-one is going to make you.” He reassures. “We will focus on making sure you’re comfortable. Start you on a course of antibiotics. But if it doesn’t get better, if you’re in worse pain, bleeding heavily, have continue trouble urinating it would be a good idea for someone to check you out. Someone you choose.”
The word choose settles something in you because it is your choice. You have a right to choose what happens to you. Life doesn’t have to be like this anymore.
Jack rises from the stool, pushing it back to by the wall. “For now though, you’re done working. You’re not going back out there today.”
You give a weak, automatic protest. “Jack-”
“You’ve carried enough with you on shift tonight. Please take a step back.” You look down at your hands. The thought of leaving the hospital feels impossible, the thought of going home feeling even worse. Jack seems to read both things on your face. “You don’t have to go home. Not to him. Not ever again.” It feels surreal to hear out loud. “Will he be home?”
“Right now?” Your voice is thin. “Yes. But he’ll go to work soon.”
Jack nods once, already thinking through the morning. “Then we can go and get your stuff together.”
The words hit wrong; they’re like a knife digging into your chest. “It’s my apartment.” You start to cry again. “It’s mine.” You repeat. “I found it. I signed the lease. I picked the stupid paint colour in the kitchen, and I bought that couch from a thrift store with my first paycheck on an attending salary. It’s mine.”
“I know.” He moves closer, but halts a careful distance away, close enough that you can see the hurt in his face and far enough that you do not have to brace yourself. “I know it is.”
You wipe at your cheeks angrily. “Then why do I have to leave?”
“You don’t.” He corrects. “Not forever.” Your eyes find his which are pleading at you to believe him. “This is just for now. Until we work out next steps and you’re safe. Until you’ve had time to decide what you want, with people around you who aren’t going to make you afraid in your own home.”
South 16 blurs at the edges of your vision. “I don’t want him to take it from me.”
“He doesn’t get to take it from you.” He says firmly. “It is your home. It’s your name on the lease. Leaving for a few days while we work things out doesn’t mean you’re giving any of that up.” Jack waits and then slowly holds out his hand to you, offering some physical comfort. “We will go to yours when he’s at work. Get what you need. Do it safely.”
You stare at his hand for a long moment before placing yours in it, releasing a breath, very glad to him in your life.
Jack’s fingers tighten around yours once before he lets go. “You stay here. I’m going to hand over to Robby, and then we’ll go to mine. Okay?”
The plan is simple and that makes it easier to hold onto. “Okay.” He smiles before turning towards the door. “Jack.” He stops immediately and looks back. You have become pale again, hands roughly gripping the paper on the bed below you, eyes fixed somewhere near his shoulder instead of his face. “Can you… Can you get me a morning-after pill?”
For one brief second, something crosses his expression coming from agonising anger, but none of it is aimed at you. It’s aimed at the man who has caused all this. “Of course.” He replies with absolutely no judgment. “I’ve got my phone on me so message or call if you need anything.”
The door clicks shut behind Jack and for the first time all shift, you’re surrounded by complete silence, and much to your surprise, it’s not stifling, if anything it allows you to breathe. You ease yourself back against the pillow, immediately regretting it as your side protests – but you’ve treated worse which should be reassuring, but it isn’t.
You've discharged patients with more impressive bruising. Reassured parents after trauma. You know exactly what your injuries are and you also know they aren’t the worst injuries abuse can leave behind. That’s the thought that finally breaks something inside you because until tonight, until Jack uttered the word “violence”, you had never let yourself put you own name down beside the many patients you’ve treated.
You have sat with women who apologised for “walking into a door”. You have asked patients if they feel safe at home. You have documented injuries with clinical precision while praying they would come back when ready. You know about the statistics, the cycle, how difficult it is to leave, and somehow didn’t recognise it in yourself.
It feels shameful, even though you would never want anyone to feel that way if they were in your position.
At least you’re not handling it all alone now though. Jack may be past history, but he’s past history that you don’t regret, even if it hurt a lot when it was over. He’s also the one person you have complete faith in. He’s kind and straight-talking and caring and honourable. There’s probably no-one else on this earth you would have been so open with because he doesn’t make you feel small. If anything, he makes you feel safe.
Staying with him for… however long hardly solves everything. There’s going to be some tough conversations and decisions but at least you won’t be harmed. That would seem like the bare minimum to most, but right now it’s your ideal of salvation.
The door is pushed open as Jack returns looking more tired than he did when he left but still he has a smile on his face. “Handover done.” He announces simply. “Oh and that balcony fall patient, he pulled through surgery.”
“That’s good.” You say genuinely but you’re too bone tired to even consider smiling. “Did you say anything to Robby?”
“Just that you weren’t feeling one hundred percent so I’m going to take you home.” He has already got not only his rucksack but yours to, having clearly remembered your locker combination from when you were dating. You push that thought aside. “Are you ready to go?”
You look out into the corridor. The night shift is ending, the sun will be rising outside, and although nothing about your life feels particularly recognisable anymore, one thing you are sure about as you prepare to step out with Jack by your side, is that you’re no longer facing life alone. “No.” You utter as you shakily get to your feet.
You look down at the floor, then release breathy laugh. Not because anything is funny, but because if you don’t laugh then you might start crying again. Jack smiles sympathetically. “Nervous?” You nod once, the confession feeling strangely freeing.
Jack glances down the corridor towards the central hub where Lena are Dana are sharing a joke and doing little to mask their laughter. The normality of it is soothing. Life always has a way of continuing even when it feels tricky and he has to have confidence that you will get through this. That he can do something to minimise your pain.
“I would hold your hand...” He admits quietly and when your eyes lift to his, you spy the tiny smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth. “But people may talk.”
A genuine laugh escapes you this time, despite everything. “You're unbelievable.”
“I know.”
“I can’t believe you’re still worrying about gossip.”
“Old habits.”
You look at him for a long moment, hand absently stroking your bruised arm through your undershirt. “You know... I don't think anyone would care anymore.”
“Maybe.” He shrugs before continuing. “But you’ve got enough to carry today. You don't need whispers following you out of here as well.” The honesty makes your eyes sting, but you know he’s right. “So instead...” He reaches into his pockets and pulls out the keys to his truck, placing them gently in your hand. “Hold these.” The metal feels cool against your palm. It’s a small thing but it somehow feels grounding. “Ready?”
“Yeah. Jack-”
“Don’t thank me again. Please.” He stresses the last word, and you nod, understanding why he wouldn’t want to be thanked, before you head out together.
Jack doesn’t walk in front of you nor does he walk behind you. He falls into step beside you as the two of you leave South 16 together, close that if your hand brushes his by accident, searching for comfort, neither of you have to move away.