A/N: Happy birthday to one of the longest serving Holby fangirls I know, they'll be asking for you as a storyline consultant before long! I hope you like this wee birthday gift, Bethany. Sorry it's a tad late :)
Set around the time of their disagreement (Hard Day's Night 20x08). This one's a little far-fetched but I hope you can roll with it.
~•~•~•~
He's barely spoken to her since cancelling their trip to the zoo. In fact, she's barely seen him at all. The few times they have bumped into each other around the ward they've abided by his newly introduced 'Keeping This Professional' clause and the current atmosphere can only be described as frosty. Their foul moods haven't gone unnoticed by people and their colleagues' patience is dwindling as they tread on eggshells around the pair.
Essie had returned a couple of times since the transplant surgery to check in on the patient, but primarily to see if the two doe-eyed friends had reconciled yet. She'd cornered Fletch in his office yesterday and calmly demanded a solution to ease the mood and tension on the ward, stating that it was affecting patients' recoveries.
"The atmosphere up here is unbearable and probably the cause of Harry's raised blood pressure," she'd lectured, but in the sympathetic way that only Essie can pull off.
He'd sighed in resignation, finally removing his rose-tinted glasses and considering what his actions had resulted in for others. "What do you suggest?"
"I can hardly see Jac backing down in whatever disagreement this is. You're going to have to be the bigger person."
"There's no way I'm going to go crawling back with my tail between my legs. If she wants an apology, then she's going to be waiting a very long time."
Essie had needed to reevaluate; it's clearly more than just an upset over a misguided comment or difference in opinion.
"What exactly happened?"
He'd looked at her as he'd leant back in his office chair. "Nothing."
"Well, there's obviously something!"
"Just Jac being Jac."
"Talk it through with her," Essie had instructed, backing out of his office. "And if that doesn't work, then let her brood."
He'd smiled at her, wishing it could be that simple. No, he's had enough of chasing around after the inscrutable Clinical Lead, if she wants him then she knows where to find him.
~•~•~•~
That brings them to today. It's nearing the end of shift and Fletch requires a bunch of signatures from Darwin's top surgeon, so he marches into her office after a brief rap on the door and drops a stack of papers on her desk.
"Need those signed by the morning, thanks," he informs her, already on his way out, wanting to stay no longer than necessary.
"You can't be serious?" She exclaims. He pauses in the threshold of her office just waiting to hear what she's going to have a go at him about next. "You waltz in here and think it's acceptable to slam a load of files down on my desk and demand things of me?"
He sighs, a habit that's become exhausted in recent days. "I said thank you, what more do you want? It's not as though you're renowned for your Ps and Qs."
"Oh, for Pete's sake, Fletch," she scoffs.
"When you're done, you know where my office is." He leaves without so much as a glance in her direction.
"You wanted to keep things professional but I hardly think this is correct workplace behaviour!" She yells after him.
He can't help but think she has a point, but then he's also not going to back down until she's seen some sense.
The files are just about inside the threshold of his office when he walks into work the next day. He huffs and grumbles about the 'blinking woman testing his patience' as he picks them up and puts them on his desk. Jac had clearly dropped them onto the floor whilst passing through the ward, her only intention being to wind him up. He knows she'd argue that he'd only asked her to put them in his office, which technically she had done, so he decides not to confront her about it. He mumbles a few choice words and mocks some of the things she's said to him recently as he settles in to work at the computer.
~•~•~•~
Jac's mood is still no better than his, which is evident when she's yelling at colleagues in surgery and replacing them quicker than the rate of the tachycardic heart in her hands. Frieda continues assisting and merely watches as various other members scrub in and out upon Jac's command. She doesn't say anything, regarding her position in theatre as more valuable than whatever words of advice she could offer to her mentor. It's only when they're cleaning up in the scrub room after surgery that she broaches the sensitive subject.
"What's the problem with you and Mr Fletcher?" She asks, rinsing her hands.
Jac sighs and turns to look at her, deadpan. "It's none of your business."
"Very well. But can I suggest, for all our sakes, that you sort it out quickly."
"I'm not taking orders from you and I never will; I don't care if it's your dying wish! Now get off my case, Petrenko."
"Sort it out, or you'll have more than just Fletch as your enemy." And with those parting words, Frieda leaves.
~•~•~•~
Once again, it's nearing the end of shift before the two of them find themselves having to face one another.
"Need you to sign these off," he says, holding up some papers as he walks towards her at her desk. She says nothing, just snatches the forms from his hand and scans over the text. He stands there, looking at everything but her as he waits for her signatures. When she's done, she pushes the papers across the tabletop, not wanting to make it easy by passing them to him. Fletch slides them into his hand and walks towards the door without a word. Just before he completely disappears from sight, she caves to the feeling inside her; she's not sure what it is, or how to describe it, but it's somewhere between guilt, longing and exhaustion. But alas, she's too proud to show anything vaguely resembling that.
"For goodness' sake, Fletch," she calls after him. "This is beyond ridiculous."
He pauses in the threshold, surprised to be hearing these words from her, especially so soon. He'd been expecting weeks of hassle before she so much as cracked her defence.
"I agree," he responds, taking a few steps into her office.
"So?"
"So, is this you waving the white flag?"
To her ears and short temper, he had just asked if she's finally going to tell him whatever it is he wants to know and it infuriates her that he still hasn't dropped the issue. He can see the moment when anger washes over her. He's not sure what he'd said to rouse the demon within her again, but he knows that he should take cover for the tirade of abuse that's about to rain down on him.
"What?" She shouts, both stress and desperation weighting her tone. "What is it that you could possibly want from me?"
"I never said anyth-" He attempts to interject, still unsure where this replenished fury has come from.
"What do you want to know, Fletch? Why I had a meltdown? Why I'm a terrible, terrible mother who can't even make her own child laugh? Why I couldn't grieve like a normal human being for my dead sister? Why I stayed? Why I am the way I am? A bitch, a cow, a difficult and heartless woman. What do you want from me?" She pauses, as though allowing him time to respond but immediately starts up again when he open his mouth to speak. "You want answers?! Okay. Well if you've not been scared off already, then I'd put on your running shoes because you're about to sprint for the hills! My mother left when I was twelve. I stayed in care until eighteen. I saw girls as young as Emma backed into a corner by men. I saw Fran's innocence drain from her eyes. I saw it, but I did nothing. Because that would mean that I was next.
"I donated a kidney to my estranged mother, who had in fact been living with my supposedly dead grandfather and her new family for years. And still I wasn't good enough, because she ran back to them and left me without so much as a handshake! But all this time, Jasmine was the blessed daughter. She was good enough. Ah, Jasmine; what a delightfully unintentional segue," she mocks, her voice strained with exertion and emotion. She'd stood up part way through as a way to drain herself of the overspilling anger.
"Jasmine reminded me of everything I'm not, and never can be. I will never be the chosen child. Never the loved one. I will never earn the praise of a parent; my mother didn't even know my birthday! Jasmine couldn't comprehend why I loathed that woman and it was only towards the end that the wool was finally being lifted from her eyes."
"Jac…" He whispers as she pauses for breath. He doesn't want her to continue.
"No, Fletcher. You want to know things, so here they are! What else? Why don't we move onto now? My meltdown? The shooting? I'd sent you a text that day. I was going to tell you I was leaving. In fact, I'd just sent it when Fredrick had raised his gun and shot me." She barely catches the uncomfortable way his hands fidget and his face darkens upon hearing this new information. "I saw you. I saw Joseph and Jonny and Emma and Jasmine, my mother's face beside those of abusive men from my childhood. Is this what you want to know? My dying thought…" She trails off, trying to swallow the lump that's lodged in her throat. "I felt nothing for days when I woke up. Raf was dead, Ollie was on the brink. And I was the one that was lying there, conscious; awake and breathing. I stayed for you. Believe it or not, I lived for you, those first few days. You needed me when not even I needed me; I felt about ready to throw myself on the scrapheap. I'm here because I have let you in and allowed you to charm me into something vaguely resembling trust. That's the answer you so desperately wanted. Why am I here? Well, Fletcher, you. You are why. Is that good enough?
"And if we're confessing, then I took your vinyl. I took it so you'd have something to focus on. Emma ruined it and I broke it but I replaced it, because believe it or not, I felt guilt and remorse. I'm still human. I didn't want to dance with you that night because I don't know how; never done it, never needed to do it. Is that enough? What else, Fletch? What else do you want to know the answer to?"
Silence.
It tightens their connection as it drags on.
He's unsure what to say and even then he can't be certain that she'd give him chance to say it.
He wants to hug her and thank her and kiss her wounds, because right now they're gaping and raw. He wants her to be happy. He wants to make her happy. He wants to make her feel safe and loved.
There are a lot of things he wants, but he wants them for her.
He settles on trying for the easiest one first.
"Can I hug you?" He asks, barely above a whisper. His hushed tones cause her ears to ring as they adjust to the quiet.
"I don't want your pity," she replies, her own voice breaking and hoarse with emotion.
"It's not pity." He slowly approaches on her side of the desk and hesitantly holds his arms out.
It takes her a while, so long that he's about to give up, but then they're both falling forwards and into each other's embrace, desperate to have something to cling onto in the turbulence of her confessions.
His arms wrap around her shoulders and he holds her there until she suddenly grips onto his back. One of his hands comes to cup her head and he nuzzles his face into her fiery hair, breathing her in and absorbing her warmth. Several moments pass before he feels a dampness seeping through his shirt and onto his collarbone, and he silently thanks whoever's listening for the relief that her tears are bringing to them both. He rests his cheek on the top of her head and tightens his hold, gently swaying them to and fro as tear after tear sinks into red cotton.
His heart had felt like a deadweight in his chest when he was listening to the narration of her past. But as he stands there, Jac pressing herself so tightly against him as though she wants to hide within his skin, his heart begins to lighten and thrum inside his chest. He finds his fingers mindlessly carding through her hair and twirling the wispy ends between his fingertips. The room is silent except for their gentle breathing and if he couldn't feel the damp cotton against his skin then he'd have been concerned by Jac's stillness.
He needs to say something, but what? What on earth could he possibly say that would be appropriate after that? The hand that was stroking her hair is now rubbing soothing circles between her shoulder blades and it startles him a little when her lungs inflate with a shuddering breath, her torso briefly trembling against his own.
"It's alright," he whispers, chastly pressing his lips to the side of her head. Her fingers momentarily squeeze into his back in response. "I'm sorry, Jac." There isn't any signal that she'd heard him this time. "What do you want me to do?"
As selfish as it makes him feel, he's hoping she knows what he should do, because he doesn't. There's another long moment before she slowly disentangles herself, both of them feeling the loss of warmth.
"Go home and forget about it," her voice manages to croak out.
She stands before him, dark-eyed and still a little teary, her shoulders sagged without her usual determined hold over a room. He can see her defenses rising and knows that he can't let that happen again.
"Please let me stay." Her eyes finally lift to look at him and that's when he notices the regret swimming amongst the pools of emotion that are threatening to overspill. Her puzzled gaze has him taking her hands and ducking to be at her eye-level. "I'm here, Jac. I'm not going anywhere."
Due to the dimmed light, it's only now that she notices the dark splotch on his shirt. She reaches out to touch it, feeling the dampness of her tears, and he swears the pads of her fingers have just sent a current right through him.
"Sorry," she murmurs, nodding at the wet fabric as she retracts her hand.
He's surprised that she's referencing it at all.
"Don't worry 'bout it," he smiles gently. When neither of them say anything further, they remain planted in place, studying one another.
"This may not be the best timing," he begins anxiously and holds out a hand, palm open and upwards. "But we all need to know how to dance." She looks at him incredulously, a little of the renowned Jac Naylor shining through. "It's cheesy, but in all honesty, I don't care." And I need an excuse to hold you again, he adds silently. "But we'll save the Macarena for another day."
His injection of humour to lighten the moment isn't missed and she appreciates his attempt, a wavering smile telling him so. She finds herself tempted by his outstretched hand, needing the contact and warmth of his touch. When he sees that she's not completely opposed to the idea, he reaches for her hand and places it in his own; not yet closing his fingers around hers, allowing her the opportunity to step away.
When she doesn't move, he carefully curls their hands together and raises them. He nods at the arch they've created and she silently, despite being drained and terribly unconvinced, walks under so that it resembles a slow-motion twirl beneath their hands. He then shuffles away so that their connected arms are extended before tugging her towards him. It's disjointed and languid and done with the finesse of a drunk sailor at sea, but it's intimate, even peaceful.
He taps his shoulder, signalling where she should put her hands, and then places his own on her waist.
"I lied," Jac murmurs. "I got dragged around a dance floor doing a Swedish jig at Derwood's abortive wedding."
He chuckles at that image.
They sway gently to a silent symphony, both lost in their own thoughts and barely acknowledging what it is they're doing nor how long they're doing it for. The natural to and fro motion is soothing Jac, her earlier emotion draining from her body and seeping through the soles of her feet. As they stand there in such close proximity, with their torsos brushing, he can't help but study her face; their height difference allowing him the discretion of tracing her features with the reassurance that she won't know unless she were to glance up.
He logs each freckle into his mind and finds himself wanting to kiss the delicate skin around her eyes, the faint creases holding tales he hopes he'll one day get to hear.
He wants to discuss the things she'd said, but he knows that that feeling won't be mutual. He leans back to look her in the eyes and she holds his gaze.
"I want to talk about what you said, so should you ever reach a point where you're willing and ready to, then I'll be here."
She looks away, unable to promise that it will ever happen, but he already knows that and he's accepted it. He places a kiss on her forehead and wraps his arms around her again, enveloping her in a hug.
Adrian Fletcher deserves more than she could ever give him, but she silently vows to try.
~•~•~•~
A/N: As I said, far-fetched but I kind of like the intimacy of it. Understand it's not everyone's cup o' tea! Let me know what you think :)
