Chapter Text
Losing a patient never got easier. There were days when you just stood in front of the bathroom mirror, looking at your tired face under the bright lights, and wondered why you hadn't quit medicine years ago. Today was one of those days.
It was around five p.m. when Theresa’s husband finally gave the nod to withdraw life support. Your throat felt tight as you explained what would happen next. When he leaned over the bed to whisper goodbye, you had to blink hard to keep from crying. Doctors weren't supposed to cry, but it was hard.
"Thank you, doctor, for taking care of me," Theresa used to say, even on her worst mornings. She always sounded so peaceful, never angry or desperate for more time. Just quiet and incredibly polite.
At 7:32 p.m., the monitor went flat. Theresa stopped breathing.
This is part of the job, you told yourself. But that phrase felt like a total lie.
You had been her doctor for nearly three years, so she wasn't just a name on a chart. Even when she was too weak to open her eyes, she always found a way to say thank you. Her husband, Vernon, was always on the ward too, bringing cookies for the staff and making sure the nurses took breaks. Everyone loved them. They were the kind of couple that made you sad, because you doubted you’d ever find that kind of love for yourself.
It had been over ten years since you felt that kind of warmth. Over a decade of living alone in a quiet house.
You told Vernon you were sorry for his loss, keeping your voice as professional as possible, though it felt like you had a lump of lead in your throat. You left before you completely lost it. The hallway felt too bright, and the smell of bleach was making you sick. Wanting to avoid a breakdown in front of the other doctors, you ducked into the stairwell and let the heavy door slam shut.
Then, the dam broke.
You sat on the cold concrete steps and buried your face in your hands. At first, you were just shaking, but then the heavy sobbing started. You hated feeling this weak. You hated that you couldn't just grow a thick skin like the others, but you also knew that caring this much was what made you a good surgeon.
Medically speaking, Theresa wasn't a failure. The surgery went perfectly, and the tests looked good. She just never woke up. You had warned the family there was a risk, but you still felt guilty. It felt like you had let her down.
You sat in the dim stairwell for a long time, crying for a patient you couldn't save and wondering if this job was destroying you. Finally, you stood up. You needed some actual fresh air.
The roof was the only place where nobody would bother you.
Your shift was over, so your pager wouldn't go off. You walked up the last flight of stairs and pushed open the heavy metal door, which made its usual loud squeak. The cold night air hit you immediately.
The moment you stepped onto the gravel, the wind caught your breath, and the tears started coming again, even harder this time. You could barely see where you were going. You wiped your face with your sleeve, feeling angry at yourself. Then, you noticed something. The shadows nearby shifted. Someone else was up here.
You looked up, wiping your eyes, and saw Dr. Abbot.
Of course, it was him.
He was standing near the edge, looking like he had been lost in thought. He was wearing his dark blue scrubs and a jacket to block the wind. His hair was a total mess, probably because he had just come out of a crazy shift in the ER. For a second, neither of you said anything.
"Oh," you whispered, your voice completely wrecked. You looked away quickly, trying to hide your messy face. "I didn't know anyone was here. I'm sor-"
"No, it’s okay," he interrupted gently. "Stay. I was just leaving."
He sounded calm, but careful, like he was trying not to say the wrong thing.
You nodded, swallowing against the dryness in your throat. You kept rubbing your cheeks, furious that he was seeing you like this.
"Are you okay?" he asked after a long silence. He didn't sound like a doctor asking a colleague. He sounded genuinely concerned.
"No."
He didn't push it. He just nodded slowly. "Do you want to talk-"
"No," you cut in, sounding sharper than you meant to.
You could feel him watching you. He was just standing there, waiting, giving you a chance to speak if you wanted to, offering a space you hadn't asked for.
"Dr. Abbot, I’ll be fine," you said, but your voice cracked at the end, ruining the act. The wind whistled between the vents. And then-
"It’s Jack to you," he said quietly.
You looked at him through your blurry vision, too tired to understand why he was trying to be friendly now, after years of barely speaking. You turned your back on him and crossed your arms against the cold. "I really just need to be alone."
"We were married once," he reminded you after a pause. ”You can call me Jack.”
You shot a look over your shoulder, your eyes burning. "Weren't you leaving, Dr. Abbot?"
The sarcasm was a shield, and you both knew it. He let out a soft sigh, looking defeated. "Right. Okay."
Jack started walking toward the door, his boots crunching on the ground. Before he opened it, he looked back and added: "Take care."
You froze. He didn't make a big scene; he just walked away. By the time you turned around, the door was already closing. He was gone, and the roof felt even colder now.
"Take, fucking, care," you muttered to the city lights.
You took a few deep breaths, trying to calm down. You wanted to think about Theresa. You wanted to remember her and feel sad for Vernon. But you couldn't focus.
Your mind kept going back to him.
Jack Abbot, your ex-husband.
The man you’d spent years dodging in the hospital hallways, only for him to show up at your lowest moment. That was what stung the most - not his presence itself, but the fact that even now, when your life felt like it was falling apart, he still knew exactly how to get under your skin.
You didn't even hear the door open again until his voice sliced through the wind.
"You’re not going to jump or anything, right?"
He said it so flatly, almost offensively pragmatic. It sounded like he was checking a patient's medical file, not talking to someone he used to love.
You didn't even turn around at first. You just let out a dry, disbelieving laugh. "Are you fucking serious right now?"
He stayed by the door. "I’m asking a question," he said simply. "Because I've spent enough time on roofs to know that you don't leave someone alone up here when they’re in this state."
That was Jack.
Treating your sadness like a medical problem that needed fixing. Just another risk factor to handle, exactly like the way he packed up and walked out on your marriage all those years ago.