Chapter Text
Summer 2017
Eric Bittle was mostly fairly certain that this would be his last concussion. He was no longer playing a Division I sport, no longer going to college parties and getting drunk off his ass, and no longer sleeping in a twin bed he was liable to fall out of if he so much as sneezed.
Eric Bittle was really, really hoping that this would be his last concussion because he did not have a neurologist in Providence and was very done with the 50-minute train ride to Mass General.
But mostly, Eric Bittle wanted to make absolutely certain that this was his last concussion because he had a very caring and anxious fiance who was worrying his pretty little head off.
"Honey, just toss me the bottles, I can figure it out," he said, his face firmly under a throw pillow from the couch.
"Bits, you can't open your eyes. Amitriptyline or sumatriptan?" Jack called from the bathroom. Bitty imagined what he looked like, holding pill bottles in shaking hands. Exactly the reason why he just wanted Jack here where he could, well not see him, but keep him grounded.
"Bold of you to assume I can't tell my medications apart by holding them,” Bitty mumbled under his breath. Louder, he said, “Sumatriptan, please." He heard the shaking of bottles and then some soft footfalls around their apartment. He heard Jack kneel down next to his head, so he pushed the throw pillow away and wrenched open his eyes.
“Hi, sweetpea,” he said, reaching out to cup Jack’s cheek in his hand, warm and solid and prickly with stubble.
“Close your eyes,” Jack replied, pressing a pill into his hand. If you weren’t an expert, you wouldn’t have noticed the smile, but it was there. Luckily, Bitty was a world-renowned Jack Zimmermann expert.
“I don’t think you understand. Your face is too pretty not to look at,” he said, running his thumb over Jack's cheekbone. He tossed the pill into his mouth and swallowed it dry. Jack made a little disgruntled noise that was really much cuter than it deserved to be.
“I did bring you water for that. Which you should be drinking anyway." Bitty grumbled but took the glass and sipped at it.
"Happy?" He asked, squinting in the low light of the space. He did his very best to look annoyed, but the aura meant he couldn't feel half his face, so he wasn't sure if he succeeded.
"Very," Jack replied, pressing a tender kiss to his forehead. "Do you need anything else, or do you just need to nap?"
"Mmm, is nap with my head in your lap an option?" Jack laughed quietly. He nudged Bitty over so there was space on the couch. They got settled. Bitty let his eyes close and prayed the drugs would start working soon. And they did, taking the biting edge off of the pain. It wasn’t gone, it never was, but it was better.
Jack ran his hand smoothly up and down his back, slow and soothing, and Bitty wanted so badly to give in to the sleep, but there was something he meant to say and he couldn't get his hands around it. He made a noise from the back of his throat, frustrated. It was so frustrating to lose his words in the fog.
"You alright, bud?" Jack asked, kind and caring and scared. Scared. Yes! That was it, that's what he wanted to say.
"You worry about me too much. I'm fine, I don't want to make you sad." Jack's hands stilled for a second.
"It doesn't make me sad to take care of you," Jack said, his voice measured. Bitty tried to interject, but he kept going. "I don't like that you're in pain. I want to make it better. But I can't fix everything, so I just try my best. Taking care of you makes me feel better."
Oh Lord, this boy.
"I love you," he paused, "you'd tell me if I was making you sad or scared?" There was more he wanted to say, but he couldn’t find it. He reached for Jack’s hand, twining their fingers together.
"Always. I got your back, Bittle. And I love you too."