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Summary
“It’ll take two seconds,” Higgins says. “I like to keep up to date with all the players, you know. I just thought, well, you moved recently. And your emergency contact.”
He pauses here, and Jamie raises an eyebrow. His emergency contact? He’d probably filled out some joke response last time, hadn’t he. Fucking Queen of England, Boris Johnson’s wife, something good.
“Oi, let’s see it then,” and Higgins passes over the paper like it’s a live bomb, and Jamie scans down to where he sees his own handwriting sitting over a few dotted lines, and, well. It sure ain’t the Queen.
or: Jamie goes through a series of unfortunate events, changes his emergency contact a few times, and considers the possibility that maybe, actually, letting other people help isn’t all bad after all.