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Jack Bright was almost certain that he’s bled through the half-assed bandage job he’s done on his shoulder. He can feel the throbbing pain radiating down his arm with every exhausting step that he trudged up the stairs to his apartment.
He fumbled with the key for a few moments before he finally managed to pull the door open, kicking his shoes haphazardly by the mat and hanging his (now somewhat bloody) lab coat on the hook… he’d wash that out in the morning; he was too tired to do anything about that tonight.
Judging by the blood on his coat, he knew that his shirt had to be soaked as well, and, looking down at the ugly, dark red stain that had spread across his once-white dress shirt, he found that his guess was correct. Jack groaned in frustration — yep, that shirt was ruined.
Whatever.
Simon, who had been sitting at the kitchen counter, was currently pouring all of his focus into the psych reports scattered in front of him. The commotion Bright caused as he entered the apartment was enough to draw his attention, but he still hadn’t looked up from his work.
“I don’t wanna hear it,” Bright muttered toward the psychiatrist before he even had a chance to speak.
“Rough day, I take i— Jack, what the hell happened to you?!”
Simon’s casual statement quickly turned into an exclamation of shock and panic the moment he glanced up to see his blood-covered boyfriend.
“Simon, I said I don’t wanna hear it,” Jack groaned in response. He was not in the mood for Simon’s fussing, and wanted nothing more than to just replace the bandages, put on a clean t-shirt, and go to bed…
“Jack—!”
“Don’t worry about it…” Bright dismissed, tossing his keys and lanyard onto the table.
“Oh. Right. Yeah,” Glass replied in disbelief, his tone somehow managing to convey both sarcasm and utter panic. “There’s absolutely nothing to worry about here!”
“Simon. Really…” Bright groaned, both out of frustration and pain. “It’s fine…”
“Oh, sure looks it, Jack,” Glass replied, hastily gathering his papers into a pile and standing from his spot at the table.
Simon vanished into the bathroom and Jack could hear him rifling around through the cabinet for the first-aid kit… a lot of good that will do him, Jack thought bitterly.
“I’m too tired for this,” Jack muttered loudly. “Just let me go to bed—”
“Oh, so you can bleed to death?” Glass piped up, still digging around in the disorganized mess that was his cabinets.
“I’m not going to bleed to death.”
Jack heard Simon’s rummaging abruptly stop for a moment, and despite being in a completely separate room, Bright could practically feel the incredulous glare Simon was giving him right now. Simon muttered something under his breath and continued his search.
“…and so what if I do!?” Jack shouted back. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve bled out… and sure as hell won’t be the last!”
Simon reentered the kitchen, having finally found the first-aid kit, and still refusing to give Bright’s previous comments any form of response. He grabbed the chair that he had been sitting in and loudly dragged it across the kitchen floor — Jack wincing at the harsh sound.
“You know, Si, those downstairs neighbors are probably loving you right now…” he remarked.
“Sit.”
“…You’re being absolutely ridiculous, you know that?”
“Sit.”
“Simon, just give me the bandages, I can do this mysel—”
“Jack Bright, sit your arse down in this chair, or so help me god—!”
“Damn, Si, look at you — taking charge of me like that,” Jack teased in a purring tone, although his voice still had that sharp edge to it — once again refusing to acknowledge any of the severity of this situation. “…Keep talkin’ to me like that, and you’re gonna make me act up or someth—”
Bright had enough sense to cut his statement short when he was met with that frustrated exhaustion in Simon’s eyes… he was clearly not about to drop this that easily. Jack gave up on his inappropriate comment and shook his head.
“Si, really… the only one working themself up about this is you,” Jack hissed, but nevertheless, he finally sat down, glaring up at Simon with an expression that was still far from complacent.
Simon’s mouth was still pressed in a tight frown, but he muttered a tired “thank you…” turning and placing the plastic kit on the table, gathering the supplies he needed.
Bright rolled his eyes as Glass returned He was clearly trying his hardest to get a good look at the wound despite Jack being in no way helpful — he wasn’t purposely trying to make things difficult, but he certainly wasn’t making it any easier.
“Jack, would you just hold still—?”
“I am holding still—!”
“Well quit moving your shoulder th—!”
“Ow! Simon, that fucking hurts!”
“Jack, I can’t even see what I’m trying to work with—! Would you just—? Jack, just—!”
Glass exhaled a growl of frustration. Since Bright was clearly not about to make things any less difficult, he decided it was necessary to take matters in his own hands. He immediately began fumbling with the collar of Jack’s shirt, roughly undoing the top-most buttons.
Bright’s grumbling quickly turned to a shout, and now it was his turn to raise his voice in concern.
“Hey — careful! Jesus, Simon, careful!” Jack roared, jumping up from the chair, throwing one hand over his amulet and with the other he snatched Simon’s wrist, roughly yanking it away before his hand could get any closer to the pendant than it already was. “Fuck, Si —Would you just wait a fucking second?! I already feel like my shoulder’s been beaten to absolute hell, I don’t need you fucking dying on top of everything else!” he screamed.
Simon flinched backwards, clearly startled both by Jack’s outburst and the realization of how close he’d come to accidentally touching the amulet. “I- I’m—!” Glass began unsteadily. “Jack, I’m sorry…!”
Jack stayed like that for a moment, saying nothing while he waited for his heart to stop pounding — Simon still staring down at him with that deer-in-headlights expression.
Finally, he sighed, letting go of Simon’s wrist and watching as the psychiatrist immediately drew his arm back, guarding it against his chest and unconsciously rubbing at the spot where Jack’s grip had been the tightest. There was another moment where their eyes met, and both of them seemed to decide to soften their demeanor…
“I’m sorry,” Simon repeated, backing off just a bit, but still unable to stop staring at Jack’s bloodied shoulder with concern.
He really wasn’t about to let this go, was he?
Bright weighed his options. The irritation of having Glass attempt to patch up his shoulder was decidedly not even close to being greater than the utter devastation that would come with Simon inadvertently killing himself — or worse — because Jack refused cooperate and Glass once again ends up getting a little too close to his amulet…
Another sigh as Jack undid the remainder of his buttons the best as he could with his one uninjured arm, finally allowing Simon to easily reach his shoulder. He sat back down, twisting the amulet behind his back and slipping it beneath the back of his half-unbuttoned shirt — making it much less likely for Simon to come in contact with it.
“There you go,” he said, still not overly enthused with this whole ordeal, but willing to bite the bullet if it meant just getting this over with so he can go to bed. “Have at it, doc.”
Simon’s expression was much softer than it had been just minutes prior. He stepped back up to Jack, first carefully taking in the situation, and then delicately beginning to remove the old bandages.
Bright cringed a little at the way they clung to the wound. And at the growing pile of blood-soaked gauze and tape that was accumulating beside him as Glass continued to peel them away.
“Christ, Jack… this looks bad…” Simon exhaled, gently dabbing some of the excess blood away with a damp rag.
Bright only hummed in agreement. To be completely honest, even he hadn’t really seen the full extent of his injury — he saw a lot of blood and he taped himself up with gauze until he couldn’t see it anymore — problem solved!
…But now he was beginning to see the jagged gashes where claws met skin. He didn’t exactly enjoy looking at it, but he continued to stare, as it was better than having to look at the worry in Simon’s eyes.
“This... might sting a tiny bit...”
A tiny bit proved to be an understatement. Jack sucked in a sharp hiss and dug his fingers into the arm of the kitchen chair the moment the antiseptic soaked cotton touched the wound.
“Sorry...” Glass whispered, still carefully dabbing the gauze around the gashes. “So sorry... Just a little more, Jack. It’s almost done, I promise.”
“Yeah…” Jack said through gritted teeth. “Whatever you say, Si…”
Simon worked with diligence, cleaning the wound with a delicate touch, methodically bandaging as he went. He managed to get most of the superficial cuts to stop bleeding using butterfly bandages, but it was becoming obvious to Jack that the worst of it needed sutures…
It was clearly obvious to Simon as well, who apprehensively bit his lip, looking from the wound to meet Jack’s eyes.
Jack sighed and shook his head. “Go for it, Si…”
“I’ll be gentle.”
“Whatever.”
Jack didn’t watch as Simon threaded the needle, he didn’t watch as he carefully examined the gash… but he definitely took in another little hiss of pain as the needle pierced the skin and the first stitch was made.
“Sorry, Jack…” Simon whispered.
“To be honest,” Jack gritted out again. “That fucking antiseptic was worse.”
As Glass continued to stitch up his shoulder, Jack once again found himself unable to look away, but now for a different reason. It always sort of amazed him when Simon did stuff like this. Granted, he’s only ever really seen him do it once — Jack had accidentally gotten his palm with a kitchen knife when he was washing dishes — but still, it amazed him. Glass worked with such exactness that, if he hadn’t known any better, Jack might’ve believed that he did it on a daily basis. He could tell by the meticulousness of it that this was no doubt a skill Simon acquired in medical school and perfected in his years as a field agent.
But, what Bright perhaps found the most shocking was how gentle Simon always was with him. No matter how much of a fight Jack put up, Glass remained delicate when it came to actually working on him. He’d whisper apologies after every wince or hiss of pain. He’d put such a high level of precision and care into his actions — when most everyone else at the Foundation (Bright included) would deem it unnecessary in the long run.
If Jack couldn’t truly die, then why bother putting in so much effort to save him? Why waste the time, skills, and material on keeping him comfortable?
But Glass… he always did. He’d care for him when he was sick. He’d tend to minor injuries no differently than to major ones. He’d sit by Jack’s side for anything.
But that was just a part of Simon’s nature, he supposed — to comfort. It was why he advanced so easily in his field. It was why the word “soft” was so frequently hurled at him like an insult.
And that softness was clear with the precise way he finished the last of the stitches… the way he gently cleaned away the residual blood… the careful way he bandaged his shoulder…
“Simon…?” Jack asked, watching as Glass finished up with the final bandages.
“Hmm?”
“Why do you do this?”
“Why do I do what?”
“Care so damn much,” Jack replied with a snort, although the heavy sincerity of the question still lingered in the background.
“About?”
“Me.”
“Why do I care when the person I love is severely injured? Is that really what you’re asking me right now, Jack?”
“You know what I mean,” Bright replied, rolling his eyes, only deciding to elaborate on that further after several moments of Glass doing nothing but staring at him incredulously. “I can’t die — not really — so, like, why put in all the effort, y’know?”
“Except you can die, Jack,” Simon replied. “…As you so frequently do. The only difference is that you don’t stay dead—”
“But is that really that different?”
“Yes, Jack!” Glass replied, the disbelief audibly rising in his voice, as if Bright were missing some point that was glaringly obvious to him. “Some may argue that it’s worse!”
Jack only rolled his eyes, prompting Simon to elaborate further.
“You aren’t invulnerable, Jack,” he continued. “You aren’t immune to feeling pain — in fact, you have felt such an immense level of pain, on numerous occasions, that a person should only have the capability to feel once, if ever, in their lifetime… You’ve experienced your own death, Jack. Over and over… And perhaps you’ve just become numb to it — or you like to claim that you have — maybe everybody else in this damned Foundation has as well—”
“Because it still isn’t the same as actually dying, Simon—” Jack butted in before Glass could cut him off again.
“Fine,” he replied. “Maybe it isn’t. But why does that mean that you don’t deserve to be treated with the same level of compassion as anybody else?”
Jack bit down on his lip, refusing to meet Simon’s eyes… he hated when Glass had a point on topics like this…
“Alright,” Simon continued, keeping his voice gentle. “The other month, when I came home feeling sick — you stayed awake with me—”
“Simon, that isn’t the same thing!”
“But was I dying, Jack?” Simon asked without so much as missing a beat, his tone rising with pretend disbelief. “Was I so critically ill that someone needed to waste their time on me? It was just a stomach flu — nothing serious, there’s nothing anybody needs to do for that except wait it out… why waste the effort, taking care of someone who was just going to get better on their own in 24 hours? Hm?”
Bright had gone right back to avoiding Simon’s eyes, this time going as far as to avoid looking at him all together.
“Simon, it’s…”
Glass sighed, letting his expression soften once more, losing the sarcastic edge to his voice.
“It’s what, Jack?” he asked softly, attempting to finish the sentence that Bright had given up on. “It’s not the same thing?”
Jack’s mouth was pressed in a tight frown as he turned his eyes to the floor, still unwilling to admit his ‘defeat’.
And, with a gentle, sincere expression, Glass finished his (albeit, mostly one-sided) argument.
“I love you, Jack…” he said. “I love you… and I hate seeing you hurt…”
Bright finally opened his mouth to respond, only to shake his head and close it wordlessly when he couldn’t find the proper thing to say. There was nothing he could say to disprove that final statement, and he knew that. He could feel the beginnings of tears prickling at his eyes… and he knew he was going to have a tough time trying to pass it off as still being caused by the sting of that stupid antiseptic.
That shield he put up was cracking, and Jack hated putting the vulnerability that lied beneath it on display. So, instead, he only leaned forward, gently bunting his head against Simon’s chest, burying his face in the soft, warm fabric of his shirt.
“I know, Jack…” Simon whispered softly, running his fingers through the back of Bright’s hair.
Jack took in a bit of a stuttering breath, letting the tears finally slip from his eyes and pressing his face harder against Simon’s chest. He couldn’t explain it with words — he never properly could — why there was something about Simon Glass that just felt so… right…?
Jack had never been good with feelings. And right then, he was swept up in such a powerful wave of different emotions that, for a moment, he thought he may drown.
He had come to believe that kindness almost always came with some sort of strings attached… but not with Glass.
Never with Glass.
He felt loved — so genuinely loved — that, at times, it almost overwhelmed him because of how unused to it he was.
So Jack held onto that feeling, staying there a moment longer, breathing in Simon’s warmth and feeling that gentle rise and fall of his chest. Until finally, he managed to gather enough composure to speak.
And, naturally, in true Jack Bright fashion, he attempted to change the subject entirely — anything to deflect from the fact he’d just been crying.
“You’ve got the hands of a surgeon, you know that?” he remarked, looking back down to his shoulder, trying to pull back up his cool, detached facade… although his voice was still a little unsteady and his sentence ended with a bit of a wet sniffle. “…Or maybe a painter. Ever think you might’ve gone into the wrong profession?”
He knew Simon had to see right through this pathetic attempt at a diversion as well, but he went along with it anyway.
“Don’t think I could handle the pressure of being a surgeon,” Glass replied softly. “Stitching someone up is one thing… don’t quite think I have the stomach for cutting someone apart.”
“So you settled for just taking apart their minds, then?” Bright teased, exhaling in what was half a laugh and half a choked, hiccup-y sort of sound.
“What can I say,” he replied lightly, turning and cleaning up his supplies. “Much less blood.”
Jack exhaled another quiet laugh and Simon couldn’t help but smile, and somehow, just seeing that made Bright feel warm inside.
His mind pulling him back to that unexplainable way that Simon just made him feel right.
Because there was just something about Simon Glass.
Something about those warm grey eyes and gentle smile that made Jack feel so at home.
Something about that open, deliberate way he expressed his love that made Jack truly believe that he deserved this… That this wasn’t a mistake. That this was what it felt like to be loved on purpose.
And Jack, despite years and years of denying himself the right to feel this sort of feeling…
He loved Simon right back.