Chapter Text
It wasn’t that bad, you kept telling yourself. Sure, you were just stabbed by a patient, but much worse things have happened to those in the mental health field.
It was one of the specialized visits you did when it happened. This specific patient has extreme narcolepsy due to genetics, and Stage 4 Bipolar disorder. So this usually left you to visit with him sporadically, and at strange times due to him canceling or not showing up to most typical appointments you do. The patient’s caretakers made sure to pay you extra, but now, sitting in the back of this ambulance, you’re wondering if that extra money was really worth it.
You’re surprised how sharp your mind is right now, regarding the situation you’re faced with, and you can clearly hear the EMTs talking and monitoring your vitals.
“Ma’am, stay awake for us, okay? We’re almost at the hospital.” You nod slowly, as well as blink slow. Truly everything around you was going slow, and you’re not sure how you feel about it. With your profession, things tend to escalate quickly, and you’re the one having to slow stuff down; it was kind of nice having things be chill for a second… as long as you take your mind off of the gaping, bleeding hole in your body.
You feel the ambulance stop and the doors open, the night sky is contrasted by the bright lights of the emergency bay. The EMTs grab your gurney and it’s a bit bumpy before you find yourself moving quickly across the concrete, and into the hospital.
“Ma’am, you’re in the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center- can you please tell us your name?” One of the men asks you as you feel the brush of wind go along your face from the speed they’re traveling at. You mumble your name out and think slightly.
Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. Where have you heard that before? You knew it was a hospital in your general area, but there was something more familiar about it than you care to admit.
Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center… PTMC…
Holy shit. This is the Pitt. Jack Abbot. You groan slightly on the gurney, which the EMTs assume is because of pain, and you are thankful for that.
Honestly, you’ve never had to worry about seeing your patients outside of work, because you lived pretty far out of the main city and none of them had super important jobs, so this… this is a first.
You rack your brain about the rules on your therapy sessions: HIPAA regulations and so on. You remember clearly that Jack had made it clear that if you saw him outside of your sessions, to act as if you didn’t know him, but that was two years ago and the two of you didn’t have the same relationship you used to.
It’s not a weird way, you swear. If you had to stand in front of the medical board and make a statement, nothing would be against code about you and Jack’s relationship, you were always pretty good with that. Although, it seemed to you it was much more than doctor and patient, and you weren’t exactly sure how comfortable you were with that.
Truthfully, if it was anyone else, you would have recommended another doctor, or distanced yourself, but there was something about him that drew you in, that made you feel comfortable, which was also a pretty strange feeling.
TWO YEARS AGO
The first time you met him, he was being transferred from another therapist across town, who was moving cross country. You liked her and she liked your style of practice, so you were her go to recommendation.
Usually, when you receive a transfer case you have to take a couple sessions to talk about the previous sessions, and get the patient to smoothly transition from one to another, sometimes it can be a struggle.
Jack, though, Jack arrived and signed every paper for his record to pass over, then sat in front of you and seemed oddly fine. You read his file quietly for a second then glance up at him.
His face is calm and collected, as you expected. His record shows signs of PTSD and phantom pains along his right leg where he had it partially amputated, assumingly, in the war.
You close the folder and smile at him.
“I’m glad we could finally schedule a meeting, I know these things can be hard to schedule due to your job. You work as a doctor, right?”
He nods and begins to speak. ‘Yes. I worked as a combat medic during Desert Storm and after I finished serving I came back here and started working at the Pitt.”
“The Pitt? Is that a practice around here?”
“It’s what we call it, but its the PTMC down the street.” He clears his throat. “If you ever find yourself there, I hope you don’t, but if you do, just act as if this,” He points between you two. “- isn’t happening. I only really go to these things because I feel like, as a medical professional, I have to, but I would rather not have this be mentioned at my place of work.”
You nod and scribble something down, “Of course, I respect all of my patients wishes and totally understand why you need that. Like you said, I doubt I’ll be making visits, but I promise I’ll act as if I don’t know you.”
PRESENT DAY
“We have a 35 year old female, sharp-force trauma to the upper abdomen. The weapon was a knife, seemingly serrated. There are multiple wounds across the stomach as well as a possible head injury from the fall that came post. The injury occurred about 15 minutes ago, we were able to stop some of the bleeding on the field, but it’s all temporary measures for now.” The EMT says, to a blurry doctor in your view.
She starts to bark out orders as you are wheeled into another room, a little hollow from the nice EMT guy’s hand being removed from your arm. You feel people around you, moving, touching you, hooking you up to systems, but it’s all a blur. You keep feeling like you’re going to fall asleep, which is probably from the blood loss. How many times did that guy say you were stabbed? Three? Shit, that seems pretty bad.
You groan slightly as they move one of your sides up to check your back; even though you are running off adrenaline and the strong pain relievers the medics gave you, that one movement you felt.
After a while of being in medical limbo, you finally hear the dark haired doctor speak.
“Ma’am? Can you speak?” She shines a bright light into your eyes and sticks something into your ears, but you think it’s stupid because you were stabbed, nothing to do with hearing.
You nod slightly and groan a bit before muttering a pretty pathetic, “Yeah…”
Your eyes focus a little more to ingest the area around you, the fluorescent lights making you squint more than you usually would. The doctor sees your eyes opening wider and nods, looking back down at a chart.
“We were able to stop any major bleeding, and successfully stitch together two of the four stab wounds on your abdomen, the other two were left due to their depth. It’ll be better for their healing.” The doctor starts to say. You don’t even know her name, but you nod along trying to be an attentive listener.
“You’ll probably have to stay here for a couple of nights, is there anyone I can contact for you?” She asks.
You shake your head stiffly. All of your family was out of state, far, and you had no partner or children to be with you during your stay. It was just you, and you were fine with that. The doctor hums and writes something down.
“Well, if you think of anyone just grab a nurse and they’ll be able to assist you. Once again, I’m Dr. Samira Mohan if you need anything.” She marks more things on her chart and walks out of the room, leaving you just to lay there. What the hell was going on?
You decide to go to sleep, because what else were you going to do?
It was pretty peaceful, until you’re woken up by some fast paced beeping next to you. You groan as your eyes open, but realize there’s more effort involved this time around. Your eyes dart around the room as you see the dark haired doctor, Dr. Mohan rush in, along with nurses and other people.
“Mean arterial and pulse pressures dropping! Heart rate tachy-” One of the nurses spews out, Dr. Mohan grunts.
“Someone grab Abbot, her puncture wounds have reopened.” You feel a pressure on your abdomen and know she’s pushing so that you don’t bleed out here on the bed. Your brain is probably trying to send out alarm signals for hearing the name Abbot, but you’re too damn tired to even focus on that. Soon enough, you see black and know, you’ve passed out.
Once you finally come back to, you’ve been moved into another room, with more equipment. You’re still flat on your back, but you feel oddly aware of everything around you. You see a couple nurses walk in and smile as you open your eyes wider.
“Hi..” You say hoarsely. You like to be nice when you can, especially to healthcare workers.
“Hi.” The nurse says back as she checks your vitals. “Glad to see you’re doing a little better.” She checks up on your IV then turns as another doctor enters the room, a very familiar face.
“Good evening, ma’am, I’m Doctor Jack Abbot, I’ll be taking over for Dr. Mohan, as her shift ended while you were out.” He gives you a nod, not a smile, which you clock immediately. Time to assume the position of Don't-Know-Your-Patient. You groan slightly.
“Is it possible for me to sit up?”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to lay back for a while to let the stitches on your stomach heal. I was able to repair the ones that broke open earlier, but other than that, it could have been much worse and you’re on track to get out of here in a day or so.” He looks for my response.
“Thanks, Doc. It’s good to meet you…” You mutter out and close your eyes for a second.
“Dr. Mohan said you didn’t have anyone to call?” He says and you open your eyes again and shake your head.
“No, I’m all good. Don’t have any family close enough.”
He nods and writes something down in his chart, then clears his throat again.
Well… ma’am. These nurses are clocking out soon, but they’ll help you with anything you need right now.” He stands there for a second, awkwardly looking at you, then turns on his heel and walks away.
The two nurses start talking to each other in another language, not exactly sure which one, but it sounds vaguely familiar.
“Excuse me?” You hate to interrupt.
They both look over at you, expecting eyes.
“Can one of you tell me the time?”
“Of course.” One of the nurses says, checking her watch. “10:30 PM.”
You groan a little. “Can one of you contact my office and tell them I’m in the hospital and won’t be available for my appointments tomorrow?”
“What’s your office name?”
You tell them the name of your practice and one of the nurses steps out and makes the phone call, surprised to hear you are a therapist. The other one stays back and continues to chat with you.
“A therapist, huh? Must be an interesting job. Guess we should be calling you Doctor as well.”
You shake your head softly.
“There’s no need. And… yeah. It’s interesting. It’s how I got here.” You reference your stomach slightly. “Perks of the job I guess.” A horrible joke, but the nurse gives you a pity laugh.
“Oh, I can understand that stuff- we deal with a lot of disturbed people here, but there has to be someone out there who can take care of them.” She smiles. “I’m Perlah, by the way. And like Doctor Abbot said, I’ll be leaving here soon, but the night-shift nurses are almost as nice.”
The other nurse comes in and Perlah turns to her. “You able to get a call in, Princess?”
“No, but I left a voicemail explaining the whole thing, plus the contact to Abbot if needed.” Princess looks over at you. “Need anything else?”
“No… you guys have a good night.”
They both look at each other, then grab your chart and walk out, closing the door and dimming the lights.
OUT IN THE BULLPEN
As Perlah and Princess walk out of the room, they give each other a look and head back to the nurses station to start packing up their things. They talk to each other in Tagalog as they do so.
“Her name is so familiar. Plus the practice name too.” Princess says, grabbing her jacket and putting it on. Perlah smiles and nods.
“Of course it sounds familiar, she was the one who recently wrote an academic paper on how COVID affected people’s psyche. It went viral on social media not too long ago. Remember when Abbot sent it to people?” She grabs her backpack and starts packing it.
“Yes, I remember that. It was so weird, he was so insistent that we read it, maybe he knew the doctor that was involved in the research. Maybe someone from school?” Princess shrugs and so does Perlah. They both walk out of the hospital, ready to sleep and come back and do it all again.
JACK ABBOT
When Jack heard about a stab wound in the ED, he assumed it was some junkie over stupid gang brawls, or maybe some kids. What he did not expect was his full blown therapist to be laying in a gurney, four stab wounds in her abdomen, and fully passed out. Samira had done all she could on the shallow inflictions, but Jack knew more and had more experience working with these kinds of things, so he stepped in and finished up the job before she went home. Now, he’s standing in the room his doctor is laying down in, unconscious, and wonders what could’ve happened to her. There were two options. She was jumped and robbed on the street outside of her practice (he had looked before, seen they were dangerous, and warned her to be careful around there) or she had an appointment with a mentally unstable patient who had brought a weapon along to the session. Either one places an unfamiliar pang in his heart, and he wasn’t sure if this was a normal feeling, or if something about this woman laying there made him feel that way.
He continues to stand there a couple more seconds, watching, until Emery Walsh shocks him out of his state.
“Can I get a consult in room 2?” She asks, glancing at the woman in the bed. “You know her?”
He shakes his head.
“No. I just had some difficulty with it. And yeah, lead the way.” He glances back over his shoulder, feeling a little bad that he couldn’t speak to you normally, but he remembered you not wanting him to speak to you outside of your sessions.
ONE YEAR AND 9 MONTHS AGO
It was a couple months into the sessions he had with you, and Jack was starting to get more comfortable. His last therapist, bless her heart, was too fluffy with some of his problems, and at times he felt like he was getting babied by her when he really just wanted a straight up answer. That’s why this new doctor was great. She was no nonsense, but funny enough that he didn’t want to get hit by a city bus after every time he went to see her. He sometimes noticed that during their meetings, he would want to know more about her, not about himself, and that freaked him out. This was therapy. It was supposed to be about him, but when they would have the meaningless conversations at the beginning about how his week was, or what he’s been up to, he’s been fighting the urge asking her those same questions. One session, he tested the waters.
“Good morning Jack, how’s your week been?” You ask.
“It’s been alright. Tiring, but that's how it usually is.”
“Any patients that have stuck with you?”
“Not too many. Honestly, I’m grateful for it.” He pauses slightly. “How was your week?”
He notices the way you pause, staring down at your clipboard. As if you weren’t ready for him to actually ask a question back. Your eyes lock onto his and give him a soft smile.
“It’s been pretty good. I went to see a movie with a friend yesterday.”
“What movie?” He asks, following up. You look at him once more and he’s trying not to shut himself up. He knows the way you’re looking at him, the way that says “You know you’re not supposed to do this”, but he can’t help but try and push your limits slightly.
You say the name of whatever meaningless movie you went to see, he couldn’t care less. He just wanted to know more about you, which seems totally irrational and made him feel like a crazy person.
The two of you continue to chat for a while, until you stop talking for a second, then look up at him. “Let’s talk about this.”
“Talk about what?” He says, leaning back.
“About the fact that you’ve now been talking to me for 15 minutes, about something about as meaningless as that chair you’re sitting on.”
He doesn’t think that’s fair to the chair, but brushes past it as you continue talking.
“Are you avoiding talking to me? About what we were speaking about in the last session?”
You, of course, were referring to his immense bomb-drop of being suicidal at the last minute of the session. Suicidal wasn’t the word he used to describe it, but you and him both knew that’s what he meant.
“Let’s make this clear. I am your doctor. You know more than most what that means within relationship to a patient, and I know you appreciate a more direct form of communication rather than not.” You set your pen down. “When we’re in this room, it is my job to help you. So, while in this room and let’s say outside this room, that is what we will do, okay?”
He nods, not because he wants to, but because he knows he is supposed to. And he knows that to play the game, you have to follow the rules, and if he wanted to continue these sessions (which he looked forward to) he would have to understand your boundaries.
“So, instead of talking about my life, let’s pick up where we left off, hm?”
You continue on with the session.
Escapism. He can’t help but think that’s why he wanted to speak with you that day. Not because you interest him, not because he wants to get to know you, but to avoid talking about something that plagues him every day. Yeah. That’s it.
Now, as he’s giving his consult to the patient in Room 2 for Walsh, he can’t help but wonder if that was really the case. You being here has caused a large disruption in his day, so his mind keeps wandering back to you. Did he really have to pretend like he didn’t know you? Maybe. You did say that you wanted to keep things strictly professional between him, but wasn’t this also a professional environment? It was confusing enough, his relationship with you: the conflicting doctor-patient feelings. But now the roles were switched. He was the doctor, you were the patient. Does it make this any different? He would bring it up in therapy, but then he would have to go through your lectures again, which he hates because he is 48 years old and doesn’t like to be lectured all that much over things he can prevent. So he decides that he won’t dwell on it. He decides to treat you as any other patient he’s just met, and not some woman that he’s spent the last two years getting to know and spilling his darkest secrets to. Just a normal night at the ED. Yeah.