Chapter Text
You are John Doe. You started as a psychology intern at The Pitt less than two weeks ago. It is your eighth workday. It is a Wednesday.
…
Status : You are already falling apart.
[You start with less than full protagonist armor. This is the world that John lives in. Be thankful it isn't halved.]
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He looked down at his two hands, how useless they could seem, at least with him in control of them. Plenty of people could do amazing things with just their hands. He didn't think he knew how to be one of them, but… he didn't know how to be anyone else, either.
“John?”
His head snaps up, sheepishly meeting the eyes of the man he supposed was technically his mentor, now. Caleb, er, Doctor Jefferson, seemed concerned. It was way, way too early in the game for John to be making his superiors concerned about him.
“Y- yes, sorry, you were saying?”
He prompts, internally celebrating when Dr. Jefferson finally goes on explaining how to conduct oneself in the case that they have a code hula hoop on the psychiatric floor.
He's trying. Really, he is.
But he broke down and got his first credit card last semester, and there's only five hundred dollars left on the line, and, the six months no interest deal expired last month, and…
And John doesn't know how to be an adult man. He's come to accept this the way only a gen-Z, positively nihilistic leaning, man too poor to afford therapy for himself can; by embracing it.
But regardless of that acceptance, he has a continued need to function within society, going through the motions, if only for his continued survival. No, he does not consider himself suicidal.
What he considers himself, is distracted. Which is never what you want to be when you are about to be bombarded with individuals who truly may be suicidal.
He half listens to the likely vital information being imparted onto him by Dr. Jefferson, nodding at the right parts, and wondering whether the popping noise his knee makes every time he shifts to the right is noticeable.
The behavioral floor of the Pitt is outfitted in a way the tours he'd done of facilities back home weren't. They've got real money to work with, regardless of what he's heard going around about understaffing, and, apparently, an abandoned upper floor.
He admires it while his mind drifts, knows his eyebrows are too far up, eyes too wide trying to over-compensate for the dissociation. Or the blatant neurodivergency he's always both hoped his professors wouldn't notice, while also wanting some forgiveness for.
So it goes.
Jefferson is giving him that look, that says one of those two things is definitely happening, but not the one he wants. So, John manages an awkward smile and makes some kind of smart ass remark about how the color blue can be calming, what a great choice for their rooms.
Dr. Jefferson takes the attempt for what it is, amicably, despite the fact that this man clearly had no impact on whoever was interior designer the last time the hospital refreshed, and the blue is pure happenstance.
John would be pretty sure the last seven of his shifts at the Pitt were a loop of his first day, except he's working up the nerve to take up more space next to the break room vending machine every time. That would be a total deal breaker, day one.
All told, it's boring. He thought there would be more excitement, based on all the horror stories. Someone guiltless attacking him in an episode, talking down an angsty teen, crying and holding hands with someone who got kicked off their meds, and could only get them now by turning themself in for a hold.
He's heard about all these things, knows they happen, but… Right now, he's more of a paper pusher for Dr. Jefferson, when he isn't following along after the man like a lost puppy.
He's not at a total loss as to why, either. Most people in John's age range, twenty-somethings, have already had experience in this environment. Working in local wards or substance abuse programs all through undergrad.
John is not like them. He plays it safe; he does not do what he isn't told to. And he was not told he needed to be doing those things. He just saw others do it, didn't know how, didn't have the means, and did not open his mouth to start the process for something he couldn't support anyways.
Cue, today. Another mission in re-filing current patient notes so everyone is up to date.
“And, that's about all I've got for you today, John. I apologize, but we really can't do more until I test you out a little, and I just don't have the time for it today…”
Dr. Jefferson's eyes are kind, genuinely apologetic, not just saying so. He reads something into John, but he can't let procedures and the wellness of his patients slide on cutting another grown man a break.
It makes John uncomfortable, and his eyes dart to the floor, ceiling, Jefferson's facial hair, oh, look. It's the ceiling again. What a pretty water stain…
“Yeah, it's totally alright, Dr. Jefferson, I completely understand.” He's vehement, he's earnest, he's the definition of over-compensating for something.
Jefferson eyes the bobble head act he's started to get used to from John with, again, mild concern, before nodding once himself and wheeling away for the elevator.
John turns around to face the office that, let's be honest, is homey, roomy because of Jefferson’s wheelchair dimension requirements, and pleasingly scented like brand new ink.
If it was at least a beige hellscape, John could convince himself he wanted to leave and confront the myriad of stimuli the hospital has on offer to fry one's nervous system.
As it is, the further he self-isolates in Dr. Jefferson's personal office with the knick-knacks and forest green walls, the more certain he becomes one day someone will forget to check on him in here, and he'll lose time enough to end up a night shift intern on an accidental double.
Can't even entertain the possibility of being locked in, since the place stays open twenty-four seven. It's somehow not a very comforting thought…
Better not to dwell on that, though. He pulls his headphones out of his messenger bag, already hung on the hooks by the door, along with Dr. Jefferson's, and plops them on his head. Nothing like some music to numb both physical and mental distress, and John knows better than most.
Like that time his tooth had an exposed nerve last year, and the only thing that kept him from snapping the fragile threads of his sanity was genuinely El Melouk. John in no way knows Arabic, but when that smooth voice says ‘habibi’ in his ear… Well. That's between him, his tooth, and El Melouk.
He's been in more of a Jack Stauber kick though, lately, which hopefully says nothing meaningful about said mental state.
He gets down to work, beats only mostly overwhelming his self awareness enough to rock around in place while he skims white text on black copy paper from manila envelope after manila envelope.
He actually catches where a psychiatric resident prescribed an MAOI over the patient's existing prescription of an SSRI by their primary care physician, which gives him a little boost, feeling nice and full of himself for a few moments.
The interactions between those two medications– both acting upon the serotonin neurotransmitter– can cause serotonin syndrome. He knows at least that much, though, apparently, it's more than some.
He's jamming out to his music just a little, bumbling his limbs around more than necessary to put the patient's folder front and center on Dr. Jefferson's desk. Not unlike a kindergartener trying to show off an all ‘A’ report card to their estranged father.
Or, he was trying to, looking down at that one piece of paper on a stack of others wistfully, as though Dr. Jefferson would appear right then to praise him for being the genius of their time. But he doesn't get to bask in that pipe dream for long, before someone is tap-tapping at his back.
He jumps a foot in the air and whirls around, silent, heart jumping into his throat…
Only to come face to face with a properly chagrined wet dream. Er, someone's wet dream, probably. Not… not John's. That guy has got to be at least twice his age, and… yeesh. So, maybe John's daddy issues really are that bad, these days.
Mr. Eyebrows is saying something now, funny tilt about his mouth, there, like he isn't quite sure what to make of John.
“Wha–?”
He squeaks, realizing belatedly he can't hear the man whether he's paying attention or not, not because of his sensory processing issues, but because Jack Stauber is still crooning full volume in his ears.
He tears the headphones off like they're on fire, frantically lowering the volume on his phone to soothe the constant paranoia that disconnecting the Bluetooth suddenly would result in the audio blasting through his shitty old-gen Samsung speakers.
Not looking at the man as he does so, though his ears physically prickle with the sudden humiliated flush widening the blood vessels.
“Sorry, uh, Mr…” John's eyes seek out the man's I.D. badge pinned against his scrub top pocket, before he can call him ‘Mr. Eyebrows’ out loud.
“Doctor, Dr. Abbot. Sorry. Uh, what, uhm- what was it you needed?” He swallows so hard his throat clicks, coming across as quite blunted and to the point in his internal panic.
Can't actually take his eyes off of Abbot’s now he's looked up, either, which have held steady on him through the entire implosion. Enough so he actually feels trapped into looking back, or, maybe… like he doesn't have to look away strategically, only when he's actually uncomfortable. Because Abbot will remain unphased, instead of squirming right back at John.
“Right,” Abbot clears his throat slightly, gearing up to start again, hands shoved in pockets; “You know where Jefferson keeps patient files? Guess I ain't supposed t’ look.”
John blinks at the, quite obvious, metal filing cabinet with drawers already open due to John's puttering around over there. It hits him to be curious, as well, about how exactly confidentiality handles butting up against two different specialties. Well, that's a question for later, now…
“Yeah… yeah, here. Was there– who do you need?” He tries getting a hold of himself, being helpful, rather than getting caught on the man's rough, pleasant tone of voice.
Dr. Jefferson is almost entirely paper-based in his work. He scans things in, the hospital's got enough money to have one of those machines in-house, but besides an upload, they're all here in this cabinet. It had been what drew John to Dr. Jefferson more than any actual professional or career oriented interest. John was old school like that, too, 2000's baby that he was. He toted a notebook around long after everyone in his classes had gone to apple pens and iPad screens.
“Got an Amy Kendrick, frequent flyer, might be.” Abbot nods once to himself, and John sees it out of the corner of his vision. Agreeing to himself. John does that too, sometimes.
“Alright,” He hums, already flipping through the ‘K's, trying to pay no further attention to the man's firm gaze as it wanders lazily over the room. Probably doesn't come up much, John guesses.
“So… I ain't seen you around here before.” Abbot ventures, low in a way that's just– why is that so comfortable? It should be illegal, to be made to feel like this. People wonder why he's a shut in, and then they come, making him feel feelings in his own brain? The nerve.
“Yep,” voice tighter now, and, no. John is no damsel attempting to attract attention by being this obvious. What he is, is an oft-rude man with no self-perception, like, at all.
Behind him, Mr. Eyebrows’ eyebrows are, in fact, slowly meeting up with his hairline the longer this interaction goes on. Been quite a while since he's encountered an awkward personality the likes of this. The only other comparison that comes to mind would be some mish-mash of Park and Santos.
Jack is clearly not trying to poke or prod, just making friendly. But he knows from experience, wind alone can sting on something too opened up. Which quite apparently, this intern of Jefferson’s is.
“Here,” the correct file is abruptly thrust towards Jack's chest, the man holding it out wielding it like a crucifix against Jack. As though it will banish him from John's sight the second it changes hands.
Jack has to tug a little to pull it out of the intern's hands, and can feel his brow furrowing as he watches the curious man. Trying to figure him out.
John can feel it too, the weight of attention, of confusion, and suddenly a cold sweat flashes down his spine. What if this doctor is important? What kind of first impression is this for John? Will he be written up?
“Sorry,” he offers again, or more like mumbles, as the startled forcefulness fades into a likely more justified apprehension. His shoulders curl in a little, hands wringing, that same imploring expression he'd worn with doctor Jefferson creeping back onto his face.
“I'm, I'm new, still, so…” John offers it up like it explains away everything. Obviously, it doesn't, but he knows at this moment that social niceties require Abbot to agree.
“Hey, no hard feelings,” Jack agrees easily, crossing his arms, file tucked under one, and getting comfortable against the doorframe. Amusement is starting to creep in alongside curiosity. ‘I'm still new.’ And Jack figures, yeah, in general.
“Jefferson never told me he was taking on an intern… So, what's your deal?”
It's not confrontational, at least John can't tell if it is. His eyes dart all around the room, as if the answer is going to pop right out of an aloe planter. Spoilers, it doesn't. Thankfully, he's been asked this in enough variations to have most of a script worked out.
“I'm a junior, uh, undergrad. A semester internship is required for psych majors, once you have enough credits.” It's true, as always, that John waited until he had no choice, to do something at the last minute. Now he's twenty-one, about to be a senior, and is only just now gaining any experience in his actual field.
“That tracks,” Jack hums, eyeing the man's fresh, baby-faced look. Nothing but peach fuzz around the upper lip, and Jack can tell it isn't because he shaves. Nothing wrong with that, he notes, probably a late bloomer, is all. They get a few every year. The first time he laid eyes on Whitaker, he could've sworn that boy was sixteen, some kind of child prodigy, like Javadi.
“Well, like you noticed already, I'm Jack Abbot,” he gestures to his badge with the file, “Night shift attending down in the ED.”
John nods along, eyes attracted back to that badge. It shows an aged photo of a much younger Jack Abbot, with fiery red curls, and far more freckles. The difference between the Abbot of then and the one in front of John now may as well be night and day. Literally, what with the silvery curls and pale complexion, it's like sun versus moon.
Jack clicks his tongue, drawing John's attention back, only to realize it's been quiet too long, Abbot seems expectant… Oh, he's supposed to be saying something. Right.
“John Doe, uh… intern.” He shrugs the title, not even realizing Jack's laid back attention is slowly calming him down, if only a smidge. Great, finally, the equilibrium between hostile and simpering. All is right again.
Jack holds a hand out then, and okay, John isn't that oblivious. He takes the man's rough, chapped hand into his own squishy, bird-boned one. Abbot leads the handshake, and John readily lets him, one firm up and down motion, then his limbs are being released back into his custody.
“Well…” Jack looks him up and down, and, suddenly, it's hot in Dr. Jefferson's office. Hot-hot. Jeez, the… the maintenance team should really get on that… John's now free hand comes up to agitatedly tug on the tiny, baby strands at the bottom of the shaved part of his hair.
“Maybe I'll see you around?”
John blinks, is he blinking too many times? He's only been in the vicinity of doctor Abbot for probably ten minutes during this interaction. It's still enough time for him to have gone from immediately aesthetically pleasing to an abstraction of features, the way John sees anyone he looks at more than once.
He wets his lips, and all he can reason to come up with is; “Probably not.”
Jack works nights in the E.D. It doesn't make any sense that they'd see each other ‘around,’ whatever that's supposed to mean.
With that last stellar navigation of this deeply complex social interaction, he turns back around to keep messing with the files in the cabinet, as is his job.
He hears Jack exhale softly through his nose, huffing at him, and then come the man's retreating footsteps.
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End Day : 01
Jack Abbot – Acquaintance
Caleb Jefferson – Mentor
You have not interacted with anyone else.