Work Text:
It starts before the shift even does. You wake up already tired. Not the normal kind of tired, not the kind you can fix with coffee and motion and pretending, but something heavier. Like your bones are full of wet sand, your head packed tight with cotton, every thought just a second too slow to catch. Your throat aches when you swallow.
You lie there for a second, staring at the ceiling. Beside you, Jack shifts, barely awake. One arm is still thrown across your waist, heavy and warm, anchoring you in place.
You consider calling out. Consider saying, hey, I thnk I’m sick, to Jack when he wakes. But the thought passes just as quickly as it comes. You’ve felt worse, you’ve worked worse, you’ll be fine.
You take a deep breath. Jack’s arm is still draped over you, heavy and warm, his breathing slow and even against your back, grounding and safe. You still can’t believe this is how you get to wake up every day now and for a second, that almost feels like enough to fix it.
The quiet part of your brain that still isn’t used to this. To the way you wake up with his arm around you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. It’s about two months since you moved in and it still feels a little unreal. Not in a big, dramatic way. Just quietly. Like something soft you haven’t quite figured out how to hold yet.
You could stay. You could turn your head, nudge his shoulder, mumble hey, I don’t feel good, and he’d wake up properly. He’d look at you, really look, and that would be it. He’d say you should stay home. And you would probably listen. Which is exactly the problem, so you don’t.
A paracetamol and a glass of water will fix it, that’s what you tell yourself. You swallow past the ache in your throat, blink away the sting in your eyes, and carefully, lift his arm just enough to slip out from under it, but he stirs and you freeze.
“You up?” he mumbles, voice rough with sleep.
You tap the screen of your phone on the nightstand, the light flares too bright in your eyes, making the sting behind them a little harder.
“Mm, yeah,” you say quietly, keeping your voice even. “There’s twenty minutes until the alarm goes off, so you can sleep a little longer.”
Jack makes a quiet sound, something like a hum, but he doesn’t settle right away this time. The mattress shifts behind you. “C’mere then,” he murmurs, hand reaching blindly toward where you were, still half-asleep.
Your chest tightens. For a second you almost do it. Climb back in and let him pull you close. Let yourself be warm and still and not responsible for anything for a little while longer. But then he’d wake up properly and he’d look at you. And then he’d know, so you get up instead, out of reach.
“I’m gonna get up,” you say quietly, already moving, already putting space between you and the bed. “Early start.”
There’s a pause. Long enough that you feel it. “You sound off,” he mutters.
You force a small exhale, something like a laugh. “I’m just tired, I literally just woke up.”
“Hm,” he mumbles, seemingly accepting that in his half-wake state.
You slip out of the room, spending the next twenty minutes getting yourself together by muscle memory alone, and when Jack gets up, you’ve got yourself enough together to fake it, or at least enough that it passes, at first glance, enough that you can pass it off as just tiredness.
You sit in the passenger seat like you always do. Scrubs on, a coffee in hand you don’t feel like drinking. The world outside the windshield feels slightly too bright again, edges sharpening in a way that makes your head throb if you look too directly at anything for too long.
Jack starts the car, but he doesn’t turn the music up. He glances at you. You feel it immediately, but you keep your eyes on the road ahead anyway.
“You’re quiet,” he says.
You let out a small breath that’s meant to pass as normal, the ghost of a laugh. “Am I?”
“Yeah.”
You shift slightly in your seat, adjusting your grip on the coffee you still haven’t really drunk from. It’s warm. That’s about all it is doing for you right now.
“I’m just tired,” you say, yawning as you speak, like you can still stretch the truth into something believable. That seems to convince him, at least for now.
By the time your feet hit the hospital floor and your shift begins you have to admit to yourself that you’re worse than you first let yourself believe when you woke up. But you push through anyway. Because that’s what you do. Even when your head feels like it’s wrapped too tight. Even when your hands are just a fraction slower than they should be.
People need things, patients need things, your coworkers need things and you are very good at being the person who fills in the gaps, so you do.
You okay? you ask, brushing past someone with a quick, practiced smile. I can grab that for you. You need me in here? You want help with that turn? I can grab that for you. It all comes out on instinct, like muscle memory. Like if you say it enough times, you can convince your body to keep up.
Jack notices anyway, of course he does. It’s not one big thing, it’s a hundred tiny ones. You don’t finish your coffee, you lean on the counter longer than usual, you blink like your eyes won’t stay open.
“Hey.”
You turn, slow. Jack’s standing a little too close, arms crossed, eyes narrowed just enough to say I’m onto you.
“You’re doing it again,” he says.
“Doing what?” you ask, already reaching for a chart.
“That thing where you pretend you’re fine.”
“I am fine.”
He doesn’t even blink. “You look like shit.”
You huff a quiet laugh. “Wow, romance isn’t dead, huh?”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.” You soften it with a small smile. “I’m okay, Jack. Just tired.”
“You said that earlier too.”
“And?”
“And you weren’t convincing then either.”
You shrug, turning away before he can read too much into your face. “Well, good thing I don’t need to convince you.”
He watches you go and he doesn’t like the way you sway just a little when you turn the corner.
You make it halfway through the shift before things start slipping. Not obviously, not enough for anyone else to step in. But enough that it feels like you’re moving through water, everything takes longer. Your hands feel slower, your thoughts come a second too late. You forget what you walked into a room for. Twice. You laugh it off, you always laugh it off.
Jack finds you braced against a sink. Head bowed, eyes closed. Breathing a little too shallow.
“Hey.”
You straighten immediately, like you’ve been caught doing something wrong. “I’m good.”
“Didn’t ask.”
You roll your eyes, but it’s weak. “You were about to.”
“Yeah,” he says. “I was.”
There’s a beat. You don’t look at him. “I’m fine,” you repeat.
He steps closer. Not touching, but close. “You don’t look fine.”
“Fluorescent lighting,” you mutter.
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m cold.”
“But you’re sweating.”
You hesitate. “It’s warm in here.”
“No it isn’t.” He exhales slowly, like he’s trying very hard not to lose patience. “You’re going home.”
“No.” It comes out sharper than you mean it to. Immediate, defensive.
Jack’s eyebrows lift slightly. “No?”
“We’re short,” you say, like that explains everything. “I’m not leaving.”
“You can barely stand.”
“I’m standing right now.”
“Barely.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“I don’t need—” you cut yourself off, jaw tightening. “I don’t need to be taken care of, okay? I just need to get through the shift.”
Jack’s expression shifts just slightly. Softer. More careful. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “You do.”
You shake your head, already backing away. “I’m good, Jack. Really.”
He doesn’t believe you. Not for a second.
You swallow, suddenly too tired to argue properly. “I can’t just leave.”
“Yes, you can.”
“But they need—”
“I need you to not pass out on the floor,” he cuts in, voice low and firm. “So yeah. You can.”
That stops you. Not the words, but the tone. You blink at him, a little dazed. He doesn’t look frustrated, he looks worried and that’s worse. Because you know how to argue with frustrated. You don’t know what to do with worried. It knocks the edge off everything you were about to say.
It’s like he’s measuring something he doesn’t want to get wrong, and your chest suddenly tightens. There’s something in that look, something steady, something a little too focused, that makes it hard to keep pretending that it’s nothing. Because you do know where that comes from. He is protective of you in a way that isn’t loud about it.
It’s not controlling, not overbearing. It’s just very certain. Like once he’s decided something matters, he doesn’t loosen his grip on it. On you. And that you can’t blame him for, not when you know what it has cost him to learn that.
Something in your chest pulls tighter at that. Your eyes flick back to his face before you can stop yourself. He is still watching you in that same steady way. Not crowding, or touching, just there, like he’s already decided he’s not leaving this alone.
“Okay, I am not feeling great,” you admit, the words coming out quieter than you mean them to. Rough around the edges. Real in a way the others weren’t.
It hangs there for a second. Jack doesn’t move. But it’s clear something in him eases, just a fraction.t.
“Okay,” he says, just as quietly. No I knew it, no push. Just that. “I’ll call you a ride,” he finishes.
You blink at him, a little slow. “Yeah, okay.”
He doesn’t react right away. There’s just a small pause, like he’s letting the words settle somewhere he doesn’t rush past. Like he’s making sure you don’t take them back.
“Okay,” he says again, softer. And then. “C’mere.”
You hesitate for just a second, but you’re tired. Too tired to pretend you care about keeping that line between work and home intact. So you just step in, letting his strong arms wrap around you and let your tired aching body melt against his broad chest. He squeezes you gently, and you feel lis lips brush against the top of your head.
· · · · ·
You don’t remember the drive home. You remember your keys. You remember the door. You remember thinking I should eat something. But you don’t. All you manage is to peel off your scrubs, without bothering picking them up from the bathroom floor, and taking a quick shower, washing off the smell and feel of the hospital, putting on clean underwear and one of Jack’s old worn out t-shirts before crawling into bed.
You almost don’t even make it all the way under the duvet before sleep drags you in. It’s the heavy kind, but your body gives in before your mind does. One second you’re aware of the sheets, the faint dampness still clinging to your skin from the shower, the quiet hum of the room, and the next it all blurs at the edges.
You’re out as a light for a while after that. The door opens at some point, you don’t hear it properly, not in a way you can place. Just a shift in the air, a presence. You don’t move, but something in you registers him immediately. The way you always do.
Then the bed dips, slow and careful. Like he’s measuring the weight of it before he commits. You don’t wake properly at first, but you feel it. The shift, the familiar pull of him settling in beside you, close but not crowding.
There’s a pause. Long enough that you gain a little more of your consciousness. You feel the bed dip a little more as he shifts closer.
“Hey,” he says it quietly.
It takes a second for your body and head to catch up to that fact. Everything feels slow, heavy, like you’ve sunk too deep into the mattress to pull yourself back out of it properly. You make a small sound in response. Not words, but just enough for him to know you’re awake.
His hand finds you a moment later. Warm against your arm at first, then sliding up, slower this time, until his fingers brush your cheek. The touch is light, almost cautious, like he’s checking something he already suspects. It lingers.
Your breathing shifts. Just a little.
“Hi,” you manage, voice rough and catching on the way out.
His thumb brushes just under your eye, slow, like he’s smoothing something that isn’t really there. You feel the moment it lands for him.
“You’re warm,” he murmurs.
You try to shake your head, or maybe you just think about it. It doesn’t quite translate. Your eyes stay half-lidded, unfocused.
“M’fine,” you mumble anyway, finally opening your eyes. You blink up at him, slow, taking him in. He is so handsome, even like this. Visibly tired after a long night and with a worried crease sitting between his brows.
There’s a glass of water in his hand. He holds it out for you without a word at first, helping it into your hand. It’s cool against your fingers when he guides it in.
“Drink,” he says gently.
You try. It’s clumsy, slow, but you manage a few sips before your arm feels too heavy to keep up.
“Good,” he murmurs anyway, like that’s enough.
The glass leaves your hand, set down on the nightstand. A moment passes, then something soft lands over you. The duvet. Adjusted properly, tugged up over your shoulders like he’s making sure you can’t escape the warmth even if you tried.
“You’re staying home tomorrow,” he says.
You try to argue. Or think you do. It comes out tangled, barely formed. His hand doesn’t move.
“I mean it,” he adds, quieter but firmer in a way that doesn’t leave room for negotiation. “No shift. No discussion.”
Maybe that should bother you, but it doesn’t. Because his thumb is still brushing lightly at your temple.
“Alright,” you whisper, though it comes out more like you’re letting go of something than agreeing.
He doesn’t look satisfied in the way of someone who’s won an argument. It’s quieter than that, more like relief settling in behind his eyes.
“Yeah?” he checks, like he needs to hear it properly.
You give a small nod against the pillow. It takes effort you don’t really have, but you manage it.
“Yeah,” you manage again, softer this time.
A pause follows, the kind where nothing is asked of you. His hand stays where it is, thumb still moving slowly at your temple, like he’s keeping you anchored there on purpose.
“You scared me a bit today,” he admits after a moment, voice low.
That lands somewhere deep, dull and heavy. You frown slightly, but it’s not sharp anymore. Nothing in you really has the energy for sharp.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to.”
“I know,” he says immediately, not an ounce of blame in it. “And I’ve got you,” he says after a moment, like he needs you to hear it clearly.
“Yeah,” you mumble. “I know.” The words come out small, worn down at the edges, like you don’t have the strength left to shape them properly.
But he hears you anyway. Your eyes flicker open a little more. He looks at you like he’s not doing anything else in the world right now. Like everything else has already been set aside somewhere far away and out of reach. There’s still that crease between his brows, the one that hasn’t fully smoothed out yet. Tiredness clings to him too, heavy in his shoulders, but he’s here anyway. Fully here, like he’s chosen it.
You give him a tired smile. His expression softens immediately at the sight of it, like something in him unclenches without him meaning it to. He leans down, kissing your forehead, slow and careful, like he’s making sure you feel it rather than just receive it.
When he pulls back, his hand is still at your temple, thumb moving again like he never stopped.
“I hope it’s just a bug,” you mumble, the words coming out softer than you mean them to.
“Probably the flu,” he says quietly.
“Yeah, probably…” you mumble. “Or pregnant…” you add, only half joking.
He pauses, looks down at you. His head tilts a fraction, like his brain needs a second to decide whether you’re joking. “What?”
You give a weak shrug. “My period is late, but it’s probably nothing.”
He goes very still. Not in a dramatic way, but in a, processing information too important to misread, kind of way. Then his hand, which had been resting at your hairline, pauses completely.
“Right…” he says carefully. Just that. Like he’s stepping around something fragile.
Your eyes are half-closed, but you can still feel the shift in him, the way his attention sharpens fully now, no more tired softness at the edges.
“When did you last…” he starts, then stops himself, rephrases. “How late?”
You try to think. It takes longer than it should. “I don’t know,” you admit. “A bit.”
He goes still for a moment.Then he exhales through his nose, slow, controlled, like he’s trying very hard not to spiral in two directions at once. Not tense, not panicked, just focused, like his brain has quietly switched tracks.
“Okay,” he says again, calmer. His hand stays at your temple, but the motion slows a little, steadier now. More grounding than fussy.
You let out a quiet, tired breath, already half slipping back under.
He watches you for a second longer, then shifts just enough to reach the glass again, nudging it closer within reach without pushing it into your hand this time.
“You think you can drink a bit more before going back to sleep? You’re dehydrated,” he says.
You make a small sound that might be an agreement.
“We, uh… We can talk more about this tomorrow. No stress tonight.” he adds after a beat, softer.
He says it like it’s just another practical step. Not a crisis, not a spiral. Just something to check off.
His thumb resumes its slow, absent motion at your temple, and his other hand stays resting near you, close enough that you can feel he’s still there without him needing to hold on tighter.
“You don’t have to think about it now,” he murmurs.
Your eyes are already heavy again.
“It’s probably nothing… my period I mean. Probably just stress,” you mumble.
He hums quietly, not committing to the reassurance or pushing against it.
“Yeah,” he says after a beat, careful and even. “Could be that.”
His thumb keeps moving at your temple, steady enough that your breathing starts to match it without you noticing. A pause settles between you.
Then quieter. “Either way, we’ll sort it out tomorrow,” he says. “We’ll just see how you feel after some sleep.”
The glass is still where he left it, close enough that you could reach it if you wanted to, but he doesn’t prompt you again.
Instead, he adjusts the duvet slightly, tucking it a bit higher over your shoulder, careful not to jostle you too much.
“There’s nothing you need to do right now,” he adds gently. “Just sleep.” His voice drops a little softer at the end. “I’ve got you.”