Chapter Text
It started the same as any shift.
It always does.
You never hear anyone begin a tragedy with “I knew my life was going to be shot to hell in the blink of an eye”. It applied back then, when a barely-eighteen-year-old Jack Abbot enlisted. Fulfilling the dream of the bright-eyed suburban boy looking to be more than the average American teenager. A man of honour. He agreed to be a hero, not an example of “what could go wrong”. Yet here he was. North of forty-five, decades from a comfortable retirement, in an ER full of walking sob stories and to-be-drained pustules yet he, rather his leg, was the most pitiful thing to the eyes of those around him. Save for the hospital staff, Jack was used to getting looks from passersby. Since his honourable-discharge Jack vowed to meet the eyes of every person who deemed his leg, or lack thereof, more interesting than the person attached to it. And as a result, Jack “eye-conact” Abbot (M.D.) was born. As unsettling as it was, Jack found that it allowed him to do his job better. As the saying goes, the eyes are the windows to the soul. Especially to those who lie. Jack found that one millisecond shared between eyes told him more than any patient’s mouth could. Whether you liked it or not your eyes always expressed what you couldn’t (or wouldn’t) voice, pain. That was the first thing Jack noticed about you, your pain. Not deduced from the way you curled into yourself against the back of your hospital bed, nor the way you shook as McKay walked him toward your curtain-enclosed corner of the Pitt. But your eyes. Particularly how they refused to meet his own.
-
Two weeks post Pitt fest and a shift change later Jack Abbot was finally feeling the beginnings of the normalcy he so valiantly fought for. There was a point in time when normality meant the perpetual smell of sulfur and the lingering feeling of sand in his mouth. Gun fire sounded as often as waves lapped against a shore. Yet somehow it was always overshadowed by the cries of his brothers in arms. Now, after the traumatic hiccup of the weeks prior, Jack was once again beginning to grow accustomed to the incessant beeping of monitors. In fact, one could even say that he found it comfortable, because whoever it was, wherever the alarm was sounding from, it was one of life. Whether it be permanent or not.
So, as he forced himself to wolf down a protein bar akin to the taste of seasoned gravel (peanut-free because he’s not an idiot) he was taken aback by the arrival of Cassie McKay. Internally, he wasn’t expecting her arrival, but externally, Dr. Abbot’s posture was similar to that of a headstone. Erect, sturdy and melancholic in its nature. Its mere existence being a token of a life lost.
By McKay’s furrowed brow Jack came to the conclusion that something had gone sideways. Taking reconnaissance of the space around him Jack found no codes being called, no visibly distressed personnel (except for the one walking his way), not even a speed-walking nurse. No medical anomaly pressing enough for a rushed step. So, the situation had to be personal. Alarming yes, but critical? No.
“Hey, can steal you for a sec?”
“Why, the accountant’s assistant finally cash in on the pen?” The man couldn’t help but be hopeful.
Peering at the linoleum and shaking her head in dismay, McKay signalled to something else being wrong.
“Unfortunately, no. But I can’t say that what I came over for is that far from it.”
Furrowing his brow Jack pushed up off the counter he was brooding on, leveling his weight between his prosthetic and flesh he urged Cassie to continue with a nod of his head.
Despondently sighing, she continued.
“Jane Doe. Early to mid twenties, visible signs of abuse. Domestic… by the looks of it. No ID let alone proper clothing. Brought in by two good samaritans who found her at the edge of the I-76 toward Ohio. Heart rate 113, BP 132/80 but respiration slowed. Been so since we brought her in, but she’s stayed stable.
Taking the chart from McKay’s waiting hands Jack read through the girl’s stats as they were spoken aloud to him. Trusting Cassie but needing to verify for his own peace of mind.
“I assume you ordered a tox screen? Blood panel?”
“All came back clean except for low blood sugar. Hooked her up to an IV post-results”
“The hypoglycemia is probably attributing to her lack of consciousness but in light of her consistent vitals and current IV line she should be back to baseline and awake soon. But i’d still call both neuro and psych down for a consult -”
“- that’s the thing though. She’s awake.”
No longer unaware, he was now simply confused. Confused as to why he was being cornered by the R2 if her patient was responsive. It's not like the veteran could give McKay better answers than the girl herself. Further pressing the seemingly permanent dip in his brow Jack explained his confusion.
“So why the hell do you need me? She can’t remember? Neuro and psych still stand.”
“There’s no indication that she can’t remember.”
“Can’t speak?”
“There is no indication of that either -”
“Then I see no indication that you need me.”
Its not that Jack didn’t care. Far from it, only those who cared too much were fit for his job. But he always prided himself on knowing where he was needed. Better suited to be elbows deep in a chest cavity than empathizing with a woman who seemed to want nothing to do with anyone, let alone him.
If life taught him anything it was that you can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.
Moving to side step her superior to postpone his departure, McKay lowered her town but held her volume. Continuing to advocate for the unassuming girl in the cot down the hall.
“She won’t even look me in the eye, Dr. Abbot. Not me, Princess, psych, neuro or even Dana. Flinches anytime someone even twitches in her direction. Tried to pull out her IV the second she did come to and was only stopped by 2 mg of Ativan. She’s currently restrained, against my own wishes. Ahmed even came in, tried to give the ‘tough love’ but the girl's eyes were glued to the ceiling. Just staring into the light. If her retinas are still intact, I was hoping you could take a look at her. Well, maybe through her.”
“And how would I be able to do that?”
“I mean… it's kinda your thing.”
Cocking his head and strapping his arms to his chest, straining the sleeves of his scrub top, Jack now looked to be even further from McKay’s train of thought than he began.
“What’s my thing?”
“You know… the eye contact.” The R2 widening her eyes for emphasis. “The intensity. Stops anyone in their tracks.”
Now rolling his, supposedly intense, eyes Jack dropped his biceps back to his sides. Throat tightening at the idea of trying to force vulnerability, let alone vulnerability with what sounded like the most exposed person in the hospital.
“So what, you want my eyes to bore her into submission?”
“...I - I just want you to try.”
Shuttering a deep exhale through his nose and nodding at his colleague Jack submitted to what would become one of the most formative moments of his life.
Meeting you.
-
It wasn’t strange for you to be quiet. You were raised only to speak if spoken to. And after leaving behind traces of your innocence every mile passed on the I-80, you had nothing left to give. You learned that your silence kept the last of your purity. For if you were to speak it would ruin the image of you in his head. He was older than you. Old enough to have an air of authority around him but young enough to not appear entirely impure in his advances. You’d only met in the later weeks of April. Come June, he told you you had to flee. That your love was questionable at best to those around you. That they wouldn’t understand. ‘They’ being anyone who had tried to steer you away from this fate. But in your reality, your clandestine meeting was God's will. It had to be. For what else would you have suffered so much for?
Come September he had turned on you like the leaves. Hence how you ended up here. Battered. Bruised. Wrists wrapped in bracelets of black and blue that would soon fade to an acrid gold. You didn't ask for this. For him maybe, but to end up alone, in the hospital light, no. You’d made a fool of yourself loving like you did. Where the body you’d lay next to molded you into an image. One of purity that only he could defile. Left useless once he’d succeeded, until the liquor lulled him into loving you again.
You didn’t even know you were in Pennsylvania until you’d heard the radio static in the car. The couple who’d found you unknown of your intermittent consciousness.
Two women driving toward a blissful weekend away. Instead, finding you. Barefoot, bareboned as it felt, and barely held together by ripped silk. All of which painted a vivid picture of the time and setting between your and his last encounter.
Exhaustion poured from every joint, even your eyes shone a picture of surrender before they were overtaken by darkness.
You had become accustomed to waking up to a nightmare. However, as pristine and sterile the one around you appeared to be, you couldn’t seem to shake it. This was your reality. A hospital. Away from the source of your pain, what should have been your comfort. Afraid to be touched, even in the most clinical of ways. Found limp in the backseat of a hatchback you were brought into PTMH by a brunette woman with kindness leaking from every orifice. Still you couldn’t shake the impression that whoever was near wanted under your skin. To dig in and rip him from you. They wouldn’t understand it. I barely understand it. After a minimum of ten failed attempts to catch your attention and inquire about the how and why you ended up here, she excused herself, and you resigned yourself to looking for faces in the artificial light above your hospital bed.
Nothing changed when the curtain was pulled back. When a man you’d come to know as Dr. Abbot stumbled through the emotional-shrapnel you had surrounded yourself with.
-
The first thing Jack noticed about you was the light. In particular, the glare off of the tears bleeding from the corners of your eyes. Face of stone, sure in your decision to take in the glaring lights above, you didn’t move. Just let the emotion run from your body onto the cheap, standard-issued cotton blend beneath you.
“What are you on?”
He was never one to mince words. He also wasn’t one to run on assumptions but he knew the statistics.
But nothing. No response. No flinch.
“Your tox screen was clear. But just because you have nothing in your system doesn’t mean you didn’t before you came in.”
Then, he grabbed your wrist. More specifically, the restraint engulfing it. Unbuckling your binds before you could even cower. All without even sparing the appendages a glance,
“My name is Dr. Abbot.”
Dr. Abbot was who had released you from your confinement. Your second break for freedom of today
.
You said nothing at first. Only the flex of your wrists alerted either of you to a physical change of state.
Without acknowledging his last question, understanding that his attempt to offend you into explanation failed, he shot for honesty.
“Are you in pain?”
All you could do was squeeze your eyes. Simultaneously cutting off and accelerating the flow of emotion down your cheeks.
“You’re hurt. That much is obvious, but I don’t think it is as obvious to you that you shouldn't be.
Physically, aside from the external wounds which seem manageable, you’re fine. However, based on your vow of silence we don’t know who you are. The Police will be called - “
That got your attention. Your eyes shifted downward. They were yet to meet his own but it was a start. Choosing to have a staring contest instead with the grime caked under your finger nails.
Your entire shift in demeanour accredited to the word police. The way your shoulders tensed told Jack that this wasn’t a common discomfort to the police, nor the paranoia you’d been exhibiting since your arrival in the Pitt, but fear. An anxiety inducing unknown at the mere mention of the forces that could lead you home.
Home. It seemed like a futile word to describe wherever the hell you came from because it was clear to anyone who bothered to look that you’d clearly run from it.
Your feet were still bleeding. Multiple gashes spanning an inch or so each and bleeding enough to deduce that you would need stitches.
He told you as much. Angling his head to try and catch your eye, he noticed something new. Most likely what had garnered so much concern from McKay. Pale shades of purple and yellow crawling up the inside of your thighs. Softly tugging at the blanket resting just above your knees, careful not to touch you. But it wasn’t enough. Too close and too fast you grasped his hand in your own. Clearly not strong enough to halt his movements he stalled on his own. His hand was solid on its own. Steady. Rough but cared for, like he held life in them on the daily. Which he did. That's when you finally looked up. Barely registering what you had done until you’d locked eyes with him. Green. With flecks of brown scattered throughout like a forest floor.
He’d pushed you past comfort and yet he found it in himself to look hopeful. Like defending yourself was progress. Maybe it was. You’d never stopped anyone before. Truly wanting anything your lover gave you. Even if the filled space between your hips left your chest hollow.
“I’m sorry.”
Neither of you knew what the apology was for. In hindsight it was for everything. For his fingers skating too close to your raw skin, for the fact that you’d found yourself in this situation in the first place.
Something inside you shifted at that. The notion that the state you were in wasn’t punishment, but misfortune. As much as you would love to believe that your life had been unjust, you were taught young that your path had been set in stone long before your conception. To consciously stray from such divine intervention, born of love or not, it was an affront.
“They rejected my advice and paid no attention when I corrected them. Therefore, they must eat the bitter fruit of living their own way, choking on their own schemes.”