Work Text:
Beep beep beep beep. Beep beep beep beep.
“Jack?... Open your eyes, sweetheart. Open your eyes for me.”
Little death. ‘La petite mort’. The French use the phrase to describe the fleeting, almost weightless feeling one gets after an orgasm, but Jack thinks it's far more fitting to describe this feeling, the one he's experiencing right now.
Beep beep beep beep. Beep beep beep beep.
The distant sound of voices that he recognises, muffled as though underwater, float vaguely towards him through the ringing in his ears, but when he attempts to lift an arm to reach up for them, his limbs don't obey his brain. All he manages is a weak twitch in a hand that's almost totally numb. Somebody squeezes it gently.
“There you are, Harvard. It's alright. You're safe, but we need you to open your eyes.”
He tries- just like always, he tries- but it isn't that easy. Jack's ‘petites morts’ are far more heavy than weightless, to the point where even his eyelids feel like they're made of lead.
Beep beep beep beep. Beep beep beep beep.
Slowly, though, the sensations grow stronger. The numbness in his limbs gives way to an uncomfortable tingling, a ‘foot falling asleep’ kind of feeling that exists across his entire body. He tries to stretch his fingers, and finds that they're kind enough to comply now. He can feel where he's pressed against the floor on his side, his cheek almost flush to a cool surface, one arm at a right angle in front of him, one knee bent too- the recovery position. It's one that he knows well, as much as he wishes otherwise.
As his hearing clears, the ringing dissipating like clouds after a storm, he can make out a few things: the beeping, which he now realises is his Dexcom, and the subdued chattering nearby. Young voices. Frightened voices. Voices that belong to those who aren't used to seeing him like this, sprawled out on the floor instead of delivering revenge-plotting lectures.
So he's in his classroom. Brilliant. And yet-
“I’m right here, sweetheart. You're safe.”
A wave of relief washes over him- Lynette is here too. He becomes aware that her hand is stroking his hair soothingly, thumb brushing against his temple every so often.
The tingling, like the numbness, starts to fade, giving way to the discomfort he knew was coming since he first began waking up. It blossoms first in his extremities, his fingers and toes, then moves up his arms and legs: a dull pain throbbing, the ache worsening with every breath. His head soon begins to pound too, perhaps the most vicious agony of all.
It's this onset of pain which releases the first groan he can manage.
“I know, hon. I know. You had a hypo, alright? We've given you some glucose to get your levels back up, but like always it’ll take time for the crappy feeling to go away.”
After a few seconds, another voice pipes in too- Durbin’s.
“Is, uh- what's his blood sugar now?”
A pause as Lynette checks.
“He's still a little low, but nowhere near where he was.”
“Good… good.”
The reminder that he has an audience beyond just his girlfriend is enough for Jack, at last, to fight through the exhaustion and force his eyes open. His vision is initially blurry, but he can make out Lynette knelt in front of him, the wood of his desk behind her.
As things focus, he looks at her properly, gaze heavy-lidded and tired.
“H-hi.”
She smiles, her hand still drifting through his hair reassuringly. “Hi, Harvard… how are you feeling?”
Jack swallows thickly, shifting ever so slightly against the tile and wincing when it sends jolts of pain shooting down his spine.
“L-like my… b-body is… one b-big ache.”
Usually, when he's being particularly dramatic, Lynette rolls her eyes. She clearly sees this time, though, that he's really not feeling good, and her expression morphs instead into one of solely sympathy.
“I'm sure, sweetheart… Did you want to try sitting up? The sooner we can get you off that floor and into bed, the better.”
Jack nods, nostrils flaring, and lets her help him unceremoniously into a sitting position, ignoring how goddamn weak he must look right now in front of his students. He doesn't have the energy to care enough. He just wants to go home, take a shit ton of Tylenol, and sleep.
“Good job.” Lynette murmurs, rubbing his shoulder as he leans back against the side of his desk. “Here, take some small sips.”
A straw is pushed towards him, and he trusts her enough to follow her instructions. A sugary rush of grape juice floods onto his tongue, and he winces again at the taste, made even worse by lingering nausea.
“Yeah, I know… I couldn't find the normal stuff you like, so I had to get something from the vending machine. I won't lie to you, I was focused far more on ‘save Jack from slipping into a coma’ and less on ‘give Jack a drink that tastes great’”.
As the straw is withdrawn, he swallows again, and gives her a weak smile.
“I know… th-thanks.”
Her hand reaches up again to cup his jaw. He half-purrs at the contact, even as the shakes start to set in, but Lynette sees it.
“Durbs, could you clear out the kids? I'd like to get him into the car and home pretty soon so he can rest.”
Jack's gaze slides over to the wide-eyed principal, who immediately stands up, nodding quickly.
“Right, yes. Of course.”
He begins to instruct the students, presumably still sitting slack-jawed at their desks, but Jack is too tired to listen to any of it. The urge for sleep is growing stronger by the second, as is the urge for-
“T-tylenol.” He murmurs aloud, blinking languidly.
Lynette’s thumb grazes against his cheek before she leans forwards, pressing a kiss to his forehead.
“We'll pick up some more on the way home. Promise. Everything's under control.”
Everything's under control.
The most reassuring words he could ever hear. He sighs, letting his aching head rest against the wood, breathing in the precious air of yet another life after death.