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Jasper shouldn't be here. He shouldn't know the place, shouldn't navigate the frustrating labyrinth of white hallways better than the ones at school, shouldn't think of wound cleaning and silicone sheets on ugly scars when the nauseating smell of sterile environment hits him. He shouldn't know where the A&E is without looking, he shouldn't remember that the first a on Vascular Surgery on the main direction sign has always been stained. He sure as heck shouldn't remember the path between buildings that optimizes both distance and time spent in the freezing cold.
Memories pour in, of the scenes he’s passed by before, of the things teens sometimes do, and he imagines himself being carried on a stretcher under a survival blanket, after a rough game, after being stupid with alcohol, or even more stupid with a car, and for a second, a really, really, fucking stupid second, he almost wishes he were one of these teens. He shouldn't be the one who has to fucking worry about the differences in triage categories, trying to remember the last words he's said to his stepfather, because they were probably not nice, because they never have nice things anymore.
Martin would probably tell him he shouldn't be angry either.
But Martin is not here, because Martin is trying to find a spot for the car God knows where around the hospital, because, who the fuck would have thought, finding somewhere to park at 10 in the fucking morning on a weekday is difficult.
The sliding doors open, slowly, too slowly, as they always do, on the usual—the fucking usual—chaos of people who can’t deal with their own pain. He doesn't care, tries not to anyway, is already looking on his left at the reception desk, trying to catch the eyes of one of the nurses.
"Jasper?"
Hardy's voice in his back is soft, concerned, but it still feels like a slap. Jasper is not ready to talk to someone he knows, someone he's supposed to be normal to. Because if he starts talking, really, he doesn't know what will come out, what will follow, but it won't be good.
He gasps when Hardy wraps his arms around him, feeling out of practice, barely remembers not to shift any of his weight on him to catch himself. Hardy still has his crutches, he can't lean on him. He never really leans on anyone anyway.
"He's alright, lad. Carl's alright."
Hardy sounds rougher than he would if Carl were, in fact, alright. But again, neither of them would have been called if that were the case.
Jasper is guided to the middle of a corridor, invisible in the middle of others' debacles. An old lady sits up when she sees Hardy’s crutches; the gestures and embarrassed face he makes are not enough to convince her. Hardy's grimace deepens as he begrudgingly sits down, putting his crutches away. Jasper leans against the wall.
“They’re doing scans, just to be on the safe side, but it’s only scratches and bruises, really. Your Da looks like he’s lost a fight against a big cat, but that’s it.”
Jasper wishes he had it in him to mumble a not my Da, but it’s part of the problem, right? It’s part of the whole not nice situation, and the not nice situation leads to being called in the middle of a class and driven to a hospital, wondering what the fuck you did wrong in the last days, last months, last years.
“They said he was in a car accident,” he says instead. Jasper has never seen it, but the way Carl talks about the vehicle, he could as well have been driving a coffin on wheels. Carl’s never been the best with cars, though. “It’s that shitty car, right?”
Hardy’s eyes shift away for a second, scanning the waiting room before answering.
“The car probably looks shitty now that it’s stuck in a trunk. But it wasn’t that bad before.”
“Did he… were there other…”
“No other people involved, as far as I know.” He sniggers. “Carl was attacked by a fucking tree.”
Jasper snorts. Can’t help it. Nearly feels guilty about it, before anger takes over again. He can’t even be mad, not ata fucking tree. He can’t even be mad at anyone other than Carl. And, fuck, is he mad. Hardy's gaze weighs on him, but he refuses to look back. Whatever the man currently sees, it’s ugly and he doesn’t want to talk about it.
“You know—” Hardy starts, his voice soft, so soft it hurts, and for a second, it feels like maybe Jasper should talk, actually. Maybe do something better than…
“James?!”
The cute woman looming over them is in full attire, blue scrubs and nurse badge, dirty blond hair, slightly disheveled as if she’s been through war, which is likely not far from the truth. Yet she still manages to look genuinely worried, ready to give time and energy, and Jasper both craves and fears her situation. Everything hurts too much, sometimes.
Hardy hasn’t even flinched.
“What are you doing here? You’re okay?”
“Aye, no worries. I’m here for my partner.”
She looks horrified. “Donna? What happened to—”
“Oh, no! The other partner. The cunt one.”
The woman's brows relax, and Jasper has to focus on his feet before tears visibly well up.
“Morck? Wasn’t he here…” She pauses. Time probably doesn’t have a real meaning for her anymore. “A month or so ago? Another shooting or something?”
“Yep. He’s pissed off Mother Nature this time. The eejit crashed his car.” Hardy sighs, lets a silence pass. “And you, how are the weans?”
Jasper can’t believe he goes on this tangent, but when the nurse needs to go two minutes later, she’s consulted the charts, made sure the practitioner responsible for Carl’s case will see them as soon as possible, and asked if they needed a drink, which Hardy has declined.
“You know her.” Jasper didn't mean to sound so angry.
Like father like son, and Carl is not even his father.
Hardy scoffs. No joy there. “I’ve been here a lot after being discharged. When they couldn't balance my painkillers. Had a bone fragment deciding to fuck around." He pauses to check his crutches, as if someone was ready to run away with them, gets back to Jasper. "Her name's Evelyn; I could give you the names of…” He looks around. “… everyone but the lad here, this one’s new. Good people, their lot.”
“She… looks… decent, I guess,” and it doesn’t feel right to say so about a nurse who clearly didn’t mind about Carl being here again.
But she does look like she cares. He wishes he could be like this. He wishes he could be different. He hopes he is.
“She is. She’s among the kindest. Never piss off your nurses, they're keeping you alive.”
Hardy falls silent. There’s something that Jasper should ask about. He focuses instead on other people, whispered conversations, teary eyes and exhaustion. The ballet of caretakers and people in need.
They wait. And wait, and wait. Martin finally manages to join them, leaves again to bring them disgusting coffees from the machine. Jasper shouldn’t know the exact order he needs to give to make it at least drinkable. He shouldn’t have a phone game of choice for this exact situation either. He can’t play it at home. Too many memories. But here? Memories are already here, they’re haunting and burning the skin on his thumbs.
And anger builds up and up and up while Martin and Hardy exchange stupid comments about the weather, because they have absolutely nothing in common, those two, except for Carl, and Jasper doesn't know if he has anything in common with anyone.
Carl is okay, he’s okay, he’ll be fine, he’ll just be an arsehole about it, but he’s fine, he’s fine, and Jasper. shouldn’t. be. here.
After minutes, or hours, he just leaves to pace in the sorry patches of grass outside the building. He can’t call Gemma, of course he can't call Gemma, because she, as a regular, normal, no BS student, is actually attending classes.
He’s gonna be in trouble with his school, too.
Ah. He wishes them luck to contact Carl about it.
"Hey, you okay?"
He doesn't really startle, but didn't expect Evelyn's voice behind him either. He turns to her too fast, and the whole world turns even faster before his eyes. The woman's hand is on his shoulder before he can really stagger. She pinches her lips, her gaze more intense, focusing on his pupils, trained to search for too many things that he doesn't want to show.
"Have you eaten today?"
"I'm fine," he mumbles, because he's always fine, because he can't be the one being not fine.
"Yes, of course. Does James know how fine you are? Do you want me to call him?"
"Nah, I'll—"
"You know what? Come with me. C'mon. I'll get you tea. You need tea."
"I don't—"
She doesn't let him go.
It shouldn’t work. Tepid tea in a plastic cup, too much sweetener, and a candy she finds somewhere in her scrubs, warning him not to think too much about its shelf life. She doesn't try to reassure him, doesn't try to make him laugh, but she puts a hand on his arm and squeezes lightly.
It's nothing. She’s a stranger. It shouldn't work.
But he doesn’t owe her anything. He doesn’t owe her to be fine, and for a second, the tea tastes like actual tea, not a demand to sit and forgive again.
It shouldn’t work, but it still does, and when he gets back, when Hardy shows them Akram’s latest text (Everything is good at the station. Moira has been warned. I’ll bring makrouts for the staff after work to apologise on Carl’s behalf), when Martin comments on the number of sweets that they would need for such endeavour, he’s still able to smile.
Nurses check on them. A physician finally checks on them.
He's not fine. But Carl should be. It's what matters, after all.