Chapter Text
Jack turned over and checked his alarm clock. 1:03, which meant he’d been failing to sleep for over an hour despite feeling heavy and dizzy with exhaustion. Maybe because he felt heavy and dizzy with exhaustion. He closed his eyes again, but it was no good — his muscles were too tight and the room was too quiet, and in the dark he kept remembering how fast his heart had been beating from the moment he went to look for Robby until the moment Robby turned around and leaned toward him against the railing.
(Yeah, yeah, pot meet kettle. He wasn’t criticizing, just noting.)
So he sighed, and he turned on the bedside lamp (brighter than the roof, dimmer than the ER), and he grabbed his crutches. Out to the living room, where he turned on a couple of lamps and the police scanner for company and then stretched out lengthwise on the couch. Leaned back against the arm and adjusted the spare pillow that lived there for nights like this. Unfolded the old fleece blanket that Liz had bought him back when they were first dating and draped it over his legs and chest, tucking the near edge under his armpits.
He reached over to the pile of article printouts on the coffee table, grabbed one at random, and skimmed the first page. He wondered if Samira had read it. He even allowed himself to imagine discussing it with her for about thirty seconds. Then he reminded himself sternly that that little fantasy would definitely stay a fantasy if he didn’t get reading.
He found the pad of sticky notes and the mechanical pencil that somehow always ended up in the middle of the pile and forced his mind to focus.
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His heart was pounding, blood-soaked scrubs clinging to his skin, and he thrashed upright, trying to remember where he was. Breathe, said a voice in his head. Liz’s voice, and now he recognized the soft texture under his fingertips, at least enough to associate it with her. Breathe. Blue fleece, worn from countless trips through the laundry, but still hanging on. Pressure against his back and side, cradling him — that was the couch. He was home, in his living room. He looked down and saw that his t-shirt and boxers were sticky with sweat, not blood.
Breathe. He counted to four again and again, breathing and holding, until his hands stopped shaking enough to use his phone. No, wait, that was still in the bedroom.
He needed to move, he needed — he ran a hand through his hair, trying to think. He needed to get up and drink some water and take a shower. Maybe eat something. Check his phone.
He found his crutches and went to the kitchen first, where he downed a glass and a half of water. Then the bedroom, to check his phone, which had one new message from Emery: I will grudgingly admit the plane hasn’t crashed yet. You’re still an asshole. He grinned and texted back, Love you too. He hesitated, but with Samira’s concern fresh in his mind he sent a follow-up before he could overthink it: And your timing is impeccable, thanks.
His phone was still on silent, but it lit up with a call before he’d had a chance to put it down. “Hey,” he answered, trying not to think about how tired he sounded. “Aren’t you supposed to be saving lives?”
“Thought that might be what I’m doing now.”
“No, I’m good. Just a bad dream.”
“Bad enough to make you earnest? In writing?”
He sighed. “I’m trying something new.” Silence from Emery. “I can practically hear you thinking.” More silence, which was... not like her. “Hey,” he said more gently, “how are you holding up?”
“Bored since ortho took over the ORs and everyone’s too tired to fight me. Pelvic crush is hanging in there, though.”
Jack smiled. “Glad to hear it. Breakfast sometime soon?”
“Yeah — gimme a day or two, until we’re through the backlog from tonight? But then yeah, that’d be good.”
“You’ve got it. G’night, Em.”
“G’night, Jackass.”
He waited a second to end the call so she could hear him laughing at that. Then he dropped his phone on the bed, feeling a little lighter, and went to take that shower.