Chapter Text
The hum of the ED was the sound of life, or the sound of waiting for it. By 3:47 a.m. it had settled into a weary slow cynical rhythm. The critical storms had passed, leaving behind the debris of human misery: the chronic pains seeking a sunrise prescription, the drunk-and-disorderlies sleeping it off in South 19, and the foreign object that would, inevitably, be back within a month with a new less believable story.
Jack leaned further against the central station, the cool laminate a minor relief against the dull growing ache in his lower back. He felt… fuzzy. Not ill. Just off. Like his internal compass had been jostled a degree out of true. He scrolled through a patient’s chart he'd already reviewed twice and frowned when the words blurred together. Not literally, his vision was fine, but his concentration slid off the screen like water off glass. He blinked, refocused, and started again from the top.
Vitals are stable. Labs were still pending. Nothing new. Still, his own shoulders felt tight, an ache crawling between his joints like the onset of a flu that couldn't quite commit.
“Abbot?” He looked up to find Shen leaning against the counter beside him, coffee in hand, eyebrows raised in a telling way. Suggesting it wasn’t the first time he tried to catch Jack’s attention by name.
A beta's calm grounding presence amidst the pheromone soup of the department. Fear, stale coffee, and the underlying threads of alpha aggression and omega distress that no amount of medical grade filtration could ever fully erase.
“You’ve been staring at that chart for a while,” Shen said. “Everything good?”
“Everything’s fine.” Jack breathed out.
Shen didn’t move. “You sure? Not missing anything obvious?”
Jack shot him a confused look. “I know you’re not questioning my clinical judgment.”
“I’m questioning your vibe,” Shen said lightly. “It’s… off.”
Appearing from behind them, Ellis snorted. “I was going to say, he looks like he’s been about to bite someone for the last hour.”
Jack shifted uneasily. “It’s been a long night.”
“Has it?” Ellis asked, glancing at the clock, and calling Jack out on his own bullshit. “Because you’re the one who almost called a CBC a BMP.”
Jack opened his mouth, then closed it. The memory landed with an uncomfortable thud, him hovering over the order screen with the same off feeling, a flicker of hesitation he’d chalked up to nothing more than fatigue.
“I didn’t.” Jack said flatly.
“But you almost did,” Ellis, with her alpha sharp eyes and a sharper tongue, sniffed the air subtly. "You look like hell, Abbot. Are you sure you’re good?"
Jack scoffed, a well-practiced sound. "Thanks. Your bedside manner is always a marvel.”
"Uh-huh," Ellis eyed him carefully. "Just saying, there’s a crud brought down from the pedes floor making the rounds. Even legends get the flu."
Shen, ever the peacemaker, patted Jack's shoulder. "Seriously, you do seem a bit peaky. Want me to run a quick panel before you go?"
Jack exhaled through his nose. “I’m tired. That’s it." He scrawled his signature on the chart, just to prove a point, not sure who it was more for.
Shen raised his half drank coffee in defense. “Hey, no judgement. Just checking in.”
Jack nodded, already turning away from both of them, looking for the nearest distraction. The warmth under his skin pulsed, faint but insistent, and for a brief irrational second he was struck by the sudden urge to leave. Not clock out, just keep walking, and not bother looking back. Somewhere softer and quieter than the hard bright white sterile edges surrounding him.
The feeling passed as quickly as it came.
By the time dawn filtered pale and anemic through the ambulance bay doors, Jack had convinced himself he’d imagined the whole thing.
Robby strode in with Dana by his side, the two of them laughing at something she said, but his sharp brown eyes were already scanning the board taking the department's temperature. Jack was consolidating his patient list when Robby came up beside him to drop his bag and motorcycle jacket. Coffee thermos in hand, hair still damp from a too-quick shower, judging by the way Jack’s nose scrunched at the thicker scent coming off the alpha. Day shift morning energy clung to Robby in a way that was almost offensive after twelve hours under fluorescent lights.
“Morning,” Robby said, easy and familiar.
“Morning.” Jack replied, resisting the urge to step back as Robby slipped his glasses on, and leaned closer to see the screen over Jack’s shoulder as he continued to type.
Robby’s eyes shifted from the screen to land back on Jack, and the early morning warmth in them shifted, dialing into something more concerned. "Jack, you feeling okay?”
"Everyone's a critic this morning," Jack muttered, grabbing a tablet, as he stepped away. "Come on. Let's walk and talk."
Robby quickly fell into step beside him. "Lead the way."
Their first stop was North 4. "Mrs. Gable, 78, beta, presented with weakness and dizziness," Jack said, his voice dropping into the calm clinical cadence of their handoff shorthand. "History of CHF and renal issues. Her electrolytes were a mess, hyponatremia and hypokalemia. We repleted, she's responsive, and labs are trending right." He glanced at Robby. "Just needs your blessings."
Robby gave the sweet, smiling woman a nod and a quick review of her chart. "Looks solid. You're in good hands, Mrs. Gable. Our charge nurse Dana will get you sprung here soon." As they moved away, Robby's hand came up, resting high on Jack's shoulder. The touch was familiar, but this morning it was a shock. Robby’s grip was ice cold. A sudden stark contrast to the warmth simmering uncomfortably under Jack's own skin. The chill seeped right through his scrub top.
"Good call on holding her for the full repletion. Could've bounced right back." Robby's thumb moved, a barely there stroke against the side of Jack's neck, just above his collar. It was probably an unconscious thinking gesture.
"It's almost like I know what I'm doing," Jack said, forcing a casual tone. Subtly he shifted his weight and Robby’s hand dropped away, as he led them both around to Central 11.
"Mr. Thomas, 24, alpha, ankle fracture, displaced, took a bad step off the curb walking home from the bar.” Jack continued, pulling back the curtain just enough to nod at the dozing patient. His voice was tight, focused on the facts. "Reduced and splinted. Pain controlled. Ortho's been paged, said they'll see him this morning, but you know how they are.”
Robby glanced at the vitals monitor, then back at Jack holding the x-ray. His gaze was assessing, fully engaged, but layered with that persistent personal concern that kept flicking through. "Clean reduction." He paused, his voice lowering again. "Are you sure you're okay? Your scent is a little... stressed."
Jack felt a flash of irritation. "It's in the job description." He moved away, heading for the next room, to finish their verbal handoff.
Robby followed close. "Okay, deflect, but I've seen you after plenty of night shifts. Something’s up."
They pushed through the door to an elderly woman sleeping. "Mrs. Alvarez, 82, omega, retirement community acquired pneumonia. Stable on IV antibiotics. Cultures pending. Her daughter should be in the cafeteria, very anxious, comes up to the desk every twenty minutes."
"Easy morning," Robby said. "You're leaving me a tidy ship for once."
"Don't get used to it," Jack muttered, aiming back for the station. The brief round was over. In the clutter of charts Jack reached his worn camo backpack. The ache in his lower back flaring up again, as he bent over to grab it.
Robby leaned against the counter, his earlier professional demeanor softened into something more personal, refusing to let this go it seemed. "Seriously, Jack. You feel like you're running a low-grade fever." His gaze was diagnostic as it scanned over Jack's face. "Any other symptoms? Aches? Chills? Sounding like me?”
Jack huffed a laugh, giving an inch, as the constant concern was finally wearing him down. "I’m a little achy and tired. It's probably that pedes flu strain Ellis was talking about."
"You've got the next few off, right?" Robby asked, shoulders easing a fraction, already knowing the schedule.
"Yeah, I’ve got three off. Rest and fluids. I'm not an intern. I know the drill."
"I know you know." Robby pushed off the counter, closing the distance again, but this time without touching. His scent wrapped around Jack, a comforting familiar blanket that now felt too potent. "It's just, you never say you feel off. You just power through. So when you actually admit it…" He trailed off, the unspoken worry hanging between them.
"It means I probably look as bad as I feel," Jack finished for him, attempting a wry smile. "Point taken. I'll take care of it, Robby. I promise."
Robby held his eyes for a long moment, then nodded, accepting the promise. "Good. Text me. Even if it's just to complain. And if it gets worse—"
"I'll call." Jack slung his bag over his shoulder, the movement feeling heavier than it should. "Try to keep the place standing for when I come back."
"Only if you promise to actually rest." Robby’s smile was back, but it was softer now, tinged with that persistent concern. "Get out of here. And Jack?" He waited until Jack met his eyes again. "Feel better."
The words were simple, but the depth behind them, the quiet intensity in Robby's brown eyes sent another unwanted warm shiver through Jack. He just nodded, unable to form another quippy reply, and made his way out the back doors.
The cool air outside was a relief, as Jack sank into the driver's seat of his car, he could still feel the phantom chill of Robby's hand on his shoulder and the unsettling contrasting warmth that had surged in its wake. Flu, he reminded himself firmly, starting the engine. It's just the flu.
The silence of the brownstone was a physical presence. It didn’t just fill the space, it pressed in on Jack from the high ceilings, as he shrugged off his backpack. Keys landing in the ceramic bowl with a too-loud clatter that echoed in the emptiness.
He went through the motions. Ate the bowl of soup he’d picked up on the drive home from a local corner shop, even as the last few swallows made his stomach turn with a wave of nausea. Showered, scrubbing at his skin as he washed away the lingering patient scents, and tried to rub away that persistent internal wrongness laying underneath the surface. The hot water felt good on his aching joints, but when he stepped out, his skin was prickling with oversensitivity. He chalked it up to the steam.
Out of habit Jack turned on the police scanner, as he walked through his bedroom. The crackle of dispatcher codes, and distant impersonal drama was his chosen white noise, a buffer against the quiet that felt too much like grief. He climbed into bed, the sheets cool and crisp against his flushed skin, but sleep was a fictitious and purely elusive thing. He drifted in and out fitfully, his dreams a senseless montage of hospital rooms and the scent of teakwood.
He woke not to his alarm, but to a deep, visceral ache. The bedroom was blinding bright with a late afternoon sun, slicing through the black-out curtains he’d forgotten to close. Telling him he certainly hadn’t been asleep long enough. Jack was drenched in a cold sweat, the sheets tangled around his thighs. The nausea was no longer a suggestion, it was a threat sitting at the back of his throat. His joints, particularly the ones in his right leg, throbbed with a deep ache. And his skin… he pressed the back of his hand to his forehead. Hot. Not fever hot or the dry burn of infection.
A thought slithered, unbidden and unwelcome, into his half awake conscious mind. He shoved it aside. No, he was a doctor. He would be rational.
Jack hauled himself out of bed, the room tilting slightly, as he found steadiness on his crutches. Back in the bathroom, he went through a self-exam, his movements clinical and detached. No throat soreness. No sinus tenderness. Lungs clear to his own ears. He took his temperature. Elevated, but not dangerously so for an omega.
The puzzle pieces of a common virus refused to snap together. The symptoms were… nonspecific in a telling way. The warm, loose feeling in his lower abdomen, the heightened sensitivity to smell, and the deep non-inflammatory ache in his bones. It aligned a little too well with a pre-heat presentation. A very mild, late-onset, geriatric pre-heat, his brain supplied unhelpfully.
“Bullshit.” He said aloud to his flushed reflection. The face that stared back was lined, tired, hair more salt than pepper. It was not the face of someone about to go into a biological mating cycle. He hadn’t had a true heat in over ten years. His body had agreed with his mind, that part of his life was well over, for multiple reasons.
Denial was a powerful force especially when wielded by a stubborn physician. Maybe it’s a weird presentation. Maybe it’s early sepsis.
He couldn’t ignore the symptoms. Jack pulled out his phone and made an appointment with his PCP for later that afternoon. Somehow having an opening letting Jack avoid a trip to urgent care or the alternative. She’s an omega, older than him, and blunt. She wouldn’t sugarcoat it.
Dr. Cargile’s exam room was soothing in a way that felt alien compared to the usual chaos of the ED Jack was used to. Plants, soft lighting, the faint scent of citrus and neutral air filters. Medical Assistants laughing at something through the thin walls in the near empty waiting room. Even the door being wood and not solid glass, was a stark reminder of their differences, as it opened after a few quick knocks.
Liliana was a woman who had earned every silver strand in the black curly bun pulled tight at the crown of her head. She was an omega, but she carried herself with the quiet authority of someone who had long ago made peace with every part of who she was. When she looked at Jack, it was with the unflinching gaze of someone who had seen him at his worst. After the amputation, and then the funeral, while refusing to let him hide behind his own walls.
“Jack,” She closed the door and regarded him, a single curl brushed against her temple, escaping the otherwise neat bun. “You never make last-minute appointments. Talk.”
He laid it out like a patient presentation with nothing but the facts. The onset, the symptoms, and his own self-exam findings. He omitted the part about Robby’s hand on his neck making his knees weak. It didn’t feel clinically relevant.
Liliana listened, asked a few sharp questions, then performed her own similar physical exam on him. Her hands were cool and efficient under the gloves. When she checked his scent glands, just under his jaw, Jack flinched against the pressure.
“Tender?” she asked, not unkindly, just softening her touch as she assessed.
“Sensitive,” he corrected, through gritted teeth.
Liliana stepped back, snapping her gloves off, and wiping her hands with sanitizer. “Well. It’s not the flu.”
“I gathered that much.” Jack deadpanned.
“Clinical presentation, given your history and age, is highly suggestive of a spontaneous heat cycle.”
Jack had been braced for it. It still felt like a gut punch. “Liliana, come on. I’m fifty. My heats were sporadic at best after the amputation, and they vanished once my mate got sick. It’s been more than a decade.”
“Biology doesn’t always follow the rules, Jack, you know this.” Liliana said, her voice gentler now. “What you’re describing fits a pattern I’ve seen before in patients with a similar history. The body, sometimes, makes a… last bid.”
Jack stared at her, the term dropped into the quiet room like a stone, as he finished the diagnosis. “You think it’s a sunset heat.”
She nodded. “It’s a poetic term for a biological process. Hormone levels can surge unexpectedly as the reproductive system winds down. It can be triggered by a perceived period of safety, or…”
“Or a compatible mate.” Jack finished flatly.
“It’s a possibility. We’ll have the blood results back tomorrow to check your hormonal panels, but I’d be very surprised if they’re not elevated.” She turned to her laptop. “You have a few options. You can ride it out. Naturally, it’s better for your endocrine system, preferably with a partner. Or, there are suppressants.” She typed quickly over the keys. “This is a script for a high-dose inhibitor to consider. It will blunt the worst of the symptoms, but I will remind you its side effects are rough. Headaches, vertigo, bloating, emotional lability and it will throw your hormones into the dirt for months afterwards.”
Liliana sent the script through and turned to face Jack again.
“Think about it while we wait for the labs, but Jack?” She waited until he met her eyes before continuing. “However this happened, a sunset heat… it’s as much a mental game as a physical one. Your body is telling you something. However inconvenient and unwelcome it feels.”
Liliana paused, her gaze knowing. “How have you been otherwise? Sleeping regularly? Your PTSD? Managing your stress levels?”
Jack knew what she was really asking. Are you in a place, emotionally, where your subconscious might feel safe enough to want this? “I still see my therapist every week. I’ve been good at managing up until yesterday.”
“I’d suggest you bring this up with him. Sooner rather than later.” Liliana stood, signaling the end of the appointment. “Go home. Rest. I’ll email you the moment the labs are in. And Jack… be kind to yourself. This isn’t a failure. It’s just biology.”
Jack left her office feeling stranded. The solid ground of his denial had crumbled and he was falling into a new reality he had no idea how to navigate. He wasn’t a young omega anymore. He was a scarred, content middle-aged widower, with a missing leg. While his body had apparently decided to stage a mutiny.
He drove home in a daze, the prescription burning a hole in his head. The ‘flu’ was no longer a viable fiction to cling onto. He was heading into a heat. A sunset heat. The body’s last desperate ask of physical companionship.
And he had absolutely no idea what to do about it.