Chapter Text
Jack’s brain felt like it was vibrating behind his eyes. His skin was tight across his forehead, throbbing in his temples, sweat dripping into his eyes.
He had just spent the last thirty minutes running a code on a twenty-two-year-old in a motorcycle crash. No helmet.
Jack ripped his gown off his body and threw it into the biohazard bin angrily. His fingers twitched by his sides as he dug around for his phone.
He shakily typed out: Robby, I’m having a bad day.
Suddenly, Lena called his name, his head snapped up, and he pocketed his phone without hitting send.
“Jack, seven-year-old in North 7! Head laceration,” she said sharply. He grabbed the tablet from her and used his back to push open the door.
A young boy with curly hair sat on the bed, his small hands tightly gripping his mother’s shirt.
“Hi, ummm…” Jack flipped the tablet around. “Andrew. My name is Dr. Abbot.”
The boy meekly hid his face behind his mother.
“So, you fell? Off your bike?” Jack lowered the stool and wheeled himself closer.
Before the boy could respond, the mother interjected. “We’ve been waiting a very long time, Dr. Abbot. Can you just stitch him up and send us on our way?”
Jack put away his reading glasses. He moved towards the bed with a pair of gloves in hand. He slowly moved his hands towards Andrew’s hair, noticing the way the boy flinched back.
“It’s okay, I just want to look.”
The boy fidgeted, but his mother roughly pulled him closer to Jack.
“You fell off the bike, Andrew?”
“Yes.” The mother rolled her eyes.
“How long ago?” The blood was tacky in his hairline.
“Three hours by now.”
“You were riding your bike at night? Did you wear a helmet?”
“He’s a kid. Kids get bumps and bruises. He was playing.”
Jack ran his eyes over the small child’s body. No scrapes. No road rash. Everything you’d expect from a bike fall.
“Loss of consciousness? Blurry vision?”
The boy wouldn’t meet his eyes.
Something ferocious flared deep in Jack’s gut. Something angry and twisted.
He backed up, more so stumbled away from the bed. He blinked heavily, his eyes lidded.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Jack pulled his gloves off. Distantly, he could hear the mother continuing to complain about the wait. His vision blinked in and out of focus.
Pope, now is not a good time.
Let me take care of this.
No. This is work. This is my job. This is—this is—
He rubbed at his brow. His hand was shaking.
“…this whole healthcare system is fucked. You doctors don’t even—Dr. Abbot?”
The mother had subtly moved her son behind her.
Pope flared indignantly behind his eyes.
She doesn’t trust us.
You, she doesn’t trust you.
Let me talk to her. Let me—
No—
He felt his chest heave heavily. Painfully. He blinked his eyes until the linoleum floor came into focus.
Finally, he turned his head to the mother and son. The mother looked conspicuously at the doctor. He stood taller, shoulders squared, glared at her from under his brow. He took up more space than before.
“What kind of hospital is this?” the mother demanded, going to stand up to him.
He lifted his chin defiantly. “Sit down. I’ll find you someone.”
He slammed open the door and stalked out. Lena looked up surprised by the interruption at the nurse station. “Dr. Abbot, do you feel okay?”
“Robby,” he scoffed. “Call Robby.”
+
Robby’s hair was still wet. He was wearing a faded and ripped university sweatshirt.
“Where is he?”
“Staff room.” Lena nodded towards the door. Security stood outside.
“He hurt someone?”
She hesitated half a second. “No. Scared a patient’s mother. Henderson smoothed it over.”
Robby nodded at the guard, who stepped to the side easily. Robby turned the handle.
He knew it was Pope immediately. Pope had many distinctive traits. He was neat, to a fault. Controlling. Heavy-footed, short-tempered, sad-eyed.
But most distinctive, he sat bolt upright. His muscles were taut. It looked uncomfortable, probably because it was.
Pope never relaxed. He was always on high alert.
“Pope,” Robby clipped.
Pope’s eyes met his, and Robby knew. He knew Jack was scared, somewhere lost deep underneath the layers.
“Robby,” Pope said, standing stiffly, his knees clicking. “So nice of you to dress up.”
“How’s Jack?”
“He’s fine,” Pope said. “He’s resting.”
“Can I talk to him?”
Pope’s jaw tightened. “No.”
Robby followed him to Jack’s truck. Pope threw him the keys without even looking up.
Robby’s knuckles were white from gripping the steering wheel so hard.
Jack had been doing well for a long time. His D.I.D. had been well managed for years. It was the combination of extensive therapy, some failed medication combinations, and lots of patience.
Robby had never seen Jack switch at work. But he had heard stories from the early days before Robby was chief. There were gaps of employment. Short-term disability. Long-term disability. Sabbatical. Part-time. Per diem.
Pope hit the dash suddenly with his hand. Robby startled slightly. He was stopped at a green light.
He slowly moved the truck forward, his foot shaking on the gas pedal.
“What happened?”
“Don’t know.” Pope opened Jack’s phone. Face ID was a game changer for the system. Back in the day, Pope would switch the passcode on Jack, effectively locking him out.
He flipped to the unsent text to Robby.
“I think he was having a bad day.” Pope’s hand tightened around the phone, clicking it shut.
Robby nodded noncommittally.
+
Robby wasn’t even through the front door before Pope pushed past him and into the kitchen. The sink immediately turned on, the water running loudly.
Robby knew Pope would never feel clean. He’d wash his hands raw until Robby pulled him away.
He decided to let it go on for a couple of minutes. Keep Pope on his good side for as long as he could.
Instead, Robby quickly went into their bathroom and ripped open the cabinet drawer. He dug around the junk until his hands wrapped around the handles of their scissors. Quickly, he shoved them in his back pocket. He took the razor heads and put them in his sweatshirt pocket. He’d have to move the knives later.
Finally, he closed their bedroom door and made a quick call to Jack’s therapist.
“He’s out until tomorrow, sweetheart,” the answering service responded.
“Okay, just please give him this message. And have him call me as soon as possible.”
Eventually, Robby returned to the kitchen, where Pope was still scrubbing at his nails and hands.
The skin around Pope’s knuckles was already pink and split in places. Thin red crescents marked the beds of his fingernails.
Robby reached around him and turned off the faucet. Pope’s eyes glowered at him.
“I’m not done.”
“I say you are.” Robby held out a towel and sighed when Pope threw it on the ground. He turned the sink back on.
Robby turned it off, this time keeping his hand on top of the handle. “Enough, Pope.”
Pope backed away, shook his wet hands, and ran them through his hair. He pulled his shirt over his head.
“I’m dirty. We’re showering.”
“Fifteen minutes and then I’m shutting the water off,” Robby called after him.
He got a middle finger in response.