Work Text:
Rome is built on ruins
And is quite breathtaking;
What makes you think
You can’t be too? (x)
There are only three people who clap when his name is called at graduation, which is actually two more than he expects. He’s seventeen and graduating high school a year ahead of all his peers, and an adolescence first filled with caretaking and silence, then with a feverish sort of focus on his medical training has left him with only distant acquaintances.
He doesn’t mind it, though. Mostly he’s excited to finally begin his full medical internship, away from the daily grind of classes he doesn’t care for and people he barely talks to.
He looks out into the small crowd and sees Abby beaming at him, which is no surprise at all. He thinks she’s been more excited for his graduation than he’s been. There’s a soft thump in his chest, though, when he sees Jake at her side, his face shining with pride. Standing on her tip toes in front of her dad is Clarke, who at barely seven years old should probably be at school right now.
She catches his eye and waves at him, a goofy flap of her hands that only children seem to be able to do. He waves back, awkward and fumbling. He likes Clarke, though he thinks maybe they’re less close than they should be for the amount of time he’s spent with the Griffin family.
He knows that must be his fault. He finds he’s best with children whose childhoods are defined by sadness, those who have had to take on loneliness as a way of life. Clarke is bright and warm and loves as fiercely as her mother does; hands out her love freely in the way that only children who have only known stability can.
Sometimes, this makes her feel unknowable to him.
Part of him wonders, too, if he’s spent so long hoarding his love, then doling it all out in bulk, that he now no longers knows how to give it out in portions without it all being used up.
A loud whoop sounds from the back corner, interrupting his long walk to the stage, and he looks over just in time to see Jake Griffin cup his hands around his mouth.
“Alright, Jackson!” Jake shouts out, a huge grin on his face. Clarke puts her fingers in her mouth and whistles loudly, while Abby raises her hands above her head and claps wildly.
He supposes he could find it embarrassing, but really he’s just glad. It makes him feel like he belongs.
He says as much later that night, after his celebratory dinner at the Griffin’s. Jake is off putting Clarke to bed while he and Abby clear up the dishes.
“I’m sorry about all the noise at your graduation. I know you hate that kind of attention.” She puts down her dish and turns to him, her smile bright with pride and affection. “But we’re just so proud of you, Jackson.”
He shrugs and looks down for a moment.
“It’s fine, Abby.” He meets her eye and offers her a small smile. When she still looks hesitant, he makes sure to take care and convince her. “I liked it, actually. It was like having a family there.”
“Jackson,” Abby says, her tone firm, expression forbidding any sort of argument. “You did have a family there. Clarke adores you and - .”
She stops at the skeptical look on Jackson’s face.
“Do you honestly think she doesn’t?”
He scrubs his hand across the back of his neck.
“We just aren’t very much alike, is all.”
The furrow between Abby’s brow deepens, her mouth pursing to the side.
“What makes you say that?”
He bites his lip and leans back against the kitchen sink.
“I never really know how to talk to her. I - she’s not like me. She’s fun and happy. She’s not - she’s not bro- .” He stops abruptly at the expression of distress on Abby’s face. “We’re just different, is all,” he finishes up instead.
Abby reaches forward and wraps her hand around his.
“Jackson, you know you aren’t broken, right?”
He opens his mouth, then shuts it again. Finds that he can’t meet Abby’s eyes.
He’s never lied to her. He doesn’t want to start now.
“Jackson?”
He finally raises his eyes to meet hers, feels an embarrassing burning sensation pricking at his eyelids that he tries to fight.
“I think I might be.” He let out a harsh breath, then shakes his head. Gives her a grin that he hopes is wry, but thinks is closer to the line of tremulous. “Sometimes, you know?”
He wants to say more. He wants to explain that sometimes he looks as his peers and doesn’t quite see friends and acquaintances or even people; instead, finds himself cataloguing all the health risks and possible diagnoses. That he walks into a room sometimes and can’t help but think through every scenario that might go wrong and all the ways he’d work to fix it. That he stays up nights memorizing list after list of symptoms and warning signs, just so he can never be caught unaware and unprepared.
But he can’t. Finds that his throat has closed up, that his chest is caving in, that his face has gone numb. So he dips his head down and stares at his shoes instead, begins a mental inventory on what his diagnosis might be.
He feels Abby’s soft hand underneath his chin, tipping his head up to meet her gaze.
“Here’s what I know,” she says, her voice soft, the tone unyielding. “You are the best medical apprentice I’ve ever seen, and will probably end up being the best doctor the Ark has ever had.” He’s about to protest - there’s absolutely no way he’ll ever be better than her - but presses his lips together again at the look in Abby’s eyes. “And it has nothing to do with how smart you are - even though you are completely brilliant.” She stares at him intently. “It’s because you care so much about every single person you treat. And it doesn’t matter who they are, or what you know about them, or even how they’re treating you. You care about everyone just the same, and you work so hard to make sure that they’re taken care of.”
She cups his face in her hand, the movement warm and kind and so reminiscent of his mother that his vision blurs.
“I don’t think you’re broken, Jackson.” She rubs her thumb across his cheek. “I think you’ve been hurt, and I think you’re still healing. But you aren’t broken.” She tips her head down and makes sure to catch his eye. “Believe me, ok?”
He swallows thickly, then manages a small smile.
“Are you telling me as my doctor?”
She gives him a smile in return.
“I’m telling you as your friend.”
He wants to frown at the words - at the way they don’t quite encompass all that Abby means to him. Because, yes, Abby is his doctor and his friend - but she’s also his mentor and role model, his surrogate mother and savior all in one.
He wants to tell her this, but finds that the words stick in his throat. So instead he moves forward and wraps her in a tentative hug that she immediately returns. He sighs, the gesture tremulous and raw. He doesn’t know if he believes what she’s said, but it’s comforting to know that she believes it.
Maybe that can be good enough, for now.
“I love you, Jackson.” She squeezes him tightly before stepping back to look at him. “This whole family does.”
She stares at him, willing him to believe. Daring him to contradict it.
He doesn’t; finds, miraculously, that he believes it.
It’s a month after graduation and he’s packing up the last of his syringes after a morning of elementary school immunizations when he feels a gentle tap on his shoulder.
“Jackson?”
He turns around and sees Mrs. Howell standing behind him, a look of relief etched across her face. She’s holding hands with Clarke, whose face is drawn and flushed in a way that makes him frown.
“Is everything ok?”
Clarke bursts into tears.
He takes a large step forward and drops to his knees, alarmed, looking Clarke over. She lets go of Mrs. Howell’s hand immediately and slumps against him, sniffling into his shoulder. He hesitates for a moment - he’s not an especially affectionate person - before he realizes just what it is she needs from him and rests his hand on her back. He gives her a reassuring rub across her shoulders before he looks up at Mrs. Howell.
“She hasn’t been feeling well all morning,” she explains, resting her hand on Clarke’s head. “I was going to send her to medbay at lunch, but she ended up throwing up at her desk during second period.”
Clarke starts crying again in earnest at the words and he feels a great wave of pity towards her. She doesn’t cry often, but when she does, she seems to throw her all into it.
“It’s ok, Clarke,” he soothes, rubbing her back the way he’s seen Jake do sometimes. “It’s alright.”
She whimpers into his neck.
“I thought I’d be ok until lunch.” She hiccups, her voice quavering. “And now everyone’s going to make fun of me.” She lifts her head up to look at him, her big blue eyes filled with tears. “I didn’t mean to throw up, Jackson. I really didn’t.”
“I know, Clarke. I know.” He brushes a sweaty lock of hair back from her face and wipes her tears away with the back of his hand. He cups her face the way that Abby sometimes will and it seems to calm her down. “But you’ll be ok. I’ll call your mom to take you home and Mrs. Howell will make sure that no one makes fun of you, ok?”
He glances up at Mrs. Howell as he says this and waits for her answering nod before looking back down at Clarke.
“Can’t you just take me home, Jackson?” She pleads. “What if it takes mom forever to get here?”
“I don’t think - .” He begins, at the same time that Mrs. Howell says, “Of course he can, sweetie.”
He looks up at Mrs. Howell and tilts his head, a questioning look in his eyes. Of course she knows that he’s close to the Griffins, but there are still protocols about this sort of thing.
Mrs. Howell smiles down at him in reply.
“The Griffins have you down on the emergency card, Jackson. You’re fine to check her out and take her home.”
He blinks rapidly, surprised and oddly emotional, before clearing his throat and nodding.
“Ok, Clarke, let’s get you home.” He smooths the hair back from her face, then drops his hands and stands up.
She immediately reaches out and grabs his hand, wraps it in both of hers.
He leans over and grabs her backpack, shoulders it along with his own messenger bag. He’s about to start walking towards the exit of the school when he feels her tug on his hand, turns around to see her sway wildly in place.
He frowns, then bends down to look her in the eye. Her gaze is unfocused and glassy in turns. He hesitates for a moment, then lays a hand on her shoulder.
“Clarke - is it. Would it be easier if I carried you?”
She doesn’t say anything, just nods, relief evident in her small features.
He crouches down low enough for her to loop her arms around his neck, then scoops her up in his arms as he straightens back up.
He’s a few inches shorter than Jake and nowhere near as broad, but Clarke either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care and just wraps her arms tighter around his neck. She drops her head against his shoulder and he’s suddenly alarmed by the fact that he can feel the heat radiating off her skin.
He turns towards Mrs. Howell and nods, then readjusts his arms to make sure he has a steady grip on Clarke before he walks slowly out of the school hall.
She shivers against him, somehow freezing despite the warmth of her skin. She tightens her legs around his torso as he shifts her in his arms and rubs her back gently.
“Does anything hurt, Clarke?”
She nods against him.
“Everything hurts,” she says quietly, rubbing her face into his shoulder.
He sighs and rests his cheek against her forehead, estimates that her temperature must be at least 102 and speeds up his pace.
He arrives at the Griffin home a short five minutes later and somehow manages to balance Clarke, two bags and punch in the unlock keycode without dropping anything or anyone.
He shuffles awkwardly into the living area, depositing the bags onto the chair at the far end and managing to get a thermometer out of his medkit before walking over to Clarke’s room. He sets her down gently on her bed and crouches down in front of her.
She turns her ear towards him so that he can take her temperature. The thermometer beeps a few moments later.
He looks down at the screen and grimaces.
102.7
“I want you to change into pajamas and get into bed while I call your mom and let her know what’s going on, ok?”
Clarke twists her fingers together.
“Are you going to stay out in the living room?”
He nods.
“Can I lay down out there on the couch?”
“I - uh - sure.”
Clarke looks relieved, then nods and gets up gingerly from the bed. He turns and closes the door behind him, then walks to the front room to phone Abby.
She picks up on the first ring.
“Mrs. Howell let me know about Clarke,” she says without preamble. “Is everything alright?”
“She has the flu,” he replies as he rifles through the medicine cabinet at the far end of the living room.
“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking. I got about four cases here, too.” He hears someone speaking in low tones to her in the background. “Are you ok with Clarke, or do you want me to send Jake over?”
He hears Clarke’s door open and watches as she walks out of her room and curls up into the worn cushions of the sectional in the living room. She catches his eye from across the room and smiles at him. It’s open and guileless and completely full of affection. It’s also a little bit hazy and glassy eyed, which, oddly, puts him at ease.
He may not be quite sure how to act around Clarke sometimes, but he’s completely at ease and at his best when he’s taking care of someone who’s sick.
“I’ll be fine, Abby. I’m going to give her some oseltamivir and heat up some soup for her.” He pulls the medicine from the cabinet and walks over to the kitchen. “I can stay and take care of her until Jake gets here.”
He hears a voice in the background again, more urgent this time.
“Go on, Abby. We’ll be fine.”
She sighs with relief.
“Thanks, Jackson.”
He hangs up the phone and walks back over to Clarke with the antiviral and a glass of water. She takes both from him without complaint, swallowing down the medicine and the entire glass of water before settling back into the L shape where the sofa meets the chaise lounge. He waits until she’s curled up into the couch cushions before he shakes out a blanket from the pile in the corner and drapes it over her.
She tugs the blanket up to her chin and sighs.
“This is my favorite blanket.”
“Yeah, I - I know.” The last sound of the word lilts up in surprise. Because he actually had known it was her favorite, even though he’d grabbed it almost without thinking. It’s an old fleece blanket, worn around the edges with a ridiculous and loud pattern of orange and purple. He can recall at least a dozen times when Clarke had fallen asleep on the couch out here wrapped up in it as he had studied at the kitchen table.
She smiles sleepily up at him, and he can’t help but reach down and smooth back the hair from her face.
“Don’t fall asleep yet, ok? I’m going to make you some soup.” He holds up his hand to keep her from saying anything. “You need to eat the whole bowl and drink a glass of water before you fall asleep. You’ll feel better when you wake up if you do.” She pouts, so he relents a bit. “Plus, I’ll put in extra mushrooms for you. I know they’re your favorite.”
She looks up at him, considering, before she nods.
“Don’t forget the extra carrots, too. We just got more yesterday.”
“Why carrots?” He asks, because he can’t recall her ever being particularly fond of them.
She tilts her head at him, her brows furrowed.
“Because they’re your favorite,” she points out, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.
He smiles, then turns towards the kitchen. As he gathers up all the necessary items, he thinks of all the things he’s unceremoniously, unknowingly learned about Clarke Griffin: her favorite book (Charlie and the Chocolate Factory), her favorite animal (a manatee), her favorite color (the orange in a sunset). As he chops the vegetables and heats the water, he lists off the names of her stuffed animals (Geoffry, the one-eyed dog; Buster, the fraying rabbit; Donatello, the raggedy turtle). As he stirs the soup and watches it simmer, he finds himself thinking of every drawing she’s ever give him, ever science quiz she’s proudly shown him, every project she’s asked for his help in.
The oven beeps loudly, abruptly pulling him from his train of thought.
He shuts off the stove and ladles soup into two mismatched bowls. Walks slowly over to her and waits for her to sit up before setting a bowl of soup into her lap.
She tilts her head down at the soup, then plucks the spoon from her bowl and switches it with the one in his.
He stares at her.
“What - what was that for?”
She gestures to the spoon she switched into his bowl.
“I can’t use that spoon because it’s yours, Jackson,” she says, a disbelieving tone to her voice that conveys her confusion at having to state something she so clearly thinks is obvious.
He looks down at the spoon that back up at her. Whatever it is, it is definitely not obvious to him.
“What do you mean?”
She squints at his bowl then looks at him.
“That’s the spoon you always use when you come over.”
He holds the spoon up between them and huffs a small laugh. She’s right. The spoon has a twisted, extra-long handle that ends with a metal whorl, which makes it ideal for stirring sugar into the cup of tea he always has when he’s here.
“So it is.” He smiles at her, then holds the spoon out. “But that doesn’t make it mine, Clarke. You can use it.”
She shakes her head, pushing his hand away from her.
“I’ve always called it the Jackson spoon,” she says, so serious that he almost wants to laugh.
“Always, huh?” He scoots back onto the couch and looks down at her, a ghost of a grin on his lips. “What about before I started coming over here?”
She shrugs.
“I don’t really remember anything from before you started coming over here,” she says before slurping up her first bit of soup.
He looks down at her, pensive, turning her words over in his mind; is suddenly, acutely aware of just how intertwined their lives are. How intertwined they’ve always been.
He thinks back to his conversation with Abby, back to his assertion and his fear about the gulf between him and Clarke. Wonders how much of it he’d created out of worry and thoughts of rejection.
As he looks at the spoon in his hands, the blanket around Clarke’s shoulders, the soup that fills both their bowls he thinks -
Perhaps they are different. And perhaps he is broken in a way that (he hopes) she’ll never be.
But what is also true is this: Clarke doesn’t care about either of those things. Just like her mother, she loves him anyway, fits him into her life despite it all.
He will never again have his father to tuck him in at night, or his mother to sweep his hair back and tell him she’s proud.
But he can still share soup with a seven year old who knows his favorite spoon and doesn’t remember a world without him. He can still find hope in the affection in Abby’s eyes, the pride in Jake’s smile.
He feels Clarke settle against him; finds himself feeling content and warm and loved.
Finds, even, that he thinks he might deserve it.