A/N. Hello all! Here's some more Fic. This is definitely two parts, perhaps more. (As tends to happen when I throw Sharon at Jac..) Nothing too mean this time round. Probably. As ever I love your feedback, & I'm hoping the time jumps make sense. I may label them in the next bit. XX
Sick.
Part 1.
There's something eerily comforting about waking up in a hospital bed, and she can't quite put her finger on what that is. The room is quiet, and bright, and sparsely decorated, and these are all traits which she doesn't associate with her normal surroundings at all. She's lying on her back and the ceiling is white, save for a bright light that burns the inside of her skull if she looks straight at it. Her mouth is dry and she starts to stretch her tongue, moving her lips and willing her saliva into its corners. Above her there are four drips; She can see the hanging stands and the clear plastic bags in the peripheries of her vision. It seems a bit like overkill, and it explains the reason she feels pinned down, strapped flat on her back with each limb laid out neatly. She wonders what's in the bags and squints to see, but that does nothing for her headache so she lets her gaze flick back to the ceiling.
She feels numb, like a morning after that hasn't hit yet, and she knows she's in trouble. Above all else something unusual must have happened, and any action that strays from the routine means trouble; Experience has taught her that much. Jac lifts her head from the bed with the spare strength she can muster, and a pair of hands fix themselves firmly on her shoulders and push her back down.
"Lie flat."
"No." There's a hissed sigh, and some more movement, and then the whole platform of a bed she's pinned to is tilted up a little so she can see around the room. Of course she's by no means alone, and this isn't a surprise because she's sure she hasn't been alone in a room since her Mother vanished five years ago. Her eyes settle on one of the medical personnel in the room; The Psychiatrist. The care system trains you to sniff out these particular doctors and Jac considers herself an expert in that field. "What happened?" She directs her words at the crank in question because she's certain that Psychiatrists, at least, are not allowed to lie to you.
"You collapsed."
"I fainted then."
"No, Jacqueline. You were unresponsive for quite a long time. Your body started to shut down. You're unwell."
"Hm. What's this stuff?" She tugs at the wires and tubes that she can reach, actions which are intercepted by the same handsy nurse who'd grabbed her shoulders. She wriggles away from the woman because her bust is enormous and her hands are too warm.
"Treatment for severe dehydration and an electrolyte imbalance." Jac nods, comprehending the words and thinking about her Biology revision. She feels her heart flutter in her chest, which is acknowledged by the bleep of the monitor they've attached to her. All eyes flick to the screen, and she would laugh at how comical it is that these strangers seem to care so much, but she's suddenly preoccupied by the reason she got so drunk last night. Oxford; The door that just slammed in her face. She pushes the thought to the back of her mind.
"Right. Hangover. That all?"
"No Jacqueline, that isn't all. You're being treated for an irregular heartbeat and insufficient liver function."
"Yeah, because of the electrolytes. I get it. Mega hangover." She's quite pleased with herself to be honest, easily getting her head around her medical condition despite the banging headache and furry tongue. Perhaps Oxford can just suck it and she'll be better off without them.
"It's not a mega hangover. You're suffering the effects of chronic malnutrition over a period of months, at least. Nurse Robinson will give you some water and make sure you're comfortable, then I need to speak to you about your eating habits. Do you understand?" Jac remains silent but her heartbeat peaks again, giving her away. She's exposed, and her eyes flick subconsciously to the door.
Jac braces herself against the toilet bowl with both hands, then leans forwards and hurls up her guts with satisfying force. Her stomach muscles tighten and ache, her head pounds in protest, but she closes her eyes and lets the relief wash over her body.
"Jac, is that you?" The overly invasive American drawl calls from outside the toilet cubicle and she grimaces; She doesn't fancy a conversation right now.
"What do you think?" She snaps in reply, hoping a Psych Consultant is capable of picking up on a basic hint.
"Wow it's really got you hard, huh?" Evidently she's not as perceptive as she's paid to be, Jac decides. "I've got one of Elliot's doughnuts out here if you reckon you can stomach it?" She spits into the toilet bowl and frowns. Bringing a doughnut into the Ladies suggests forethought, and Jac is in no way comfortable with the idea of being followed.
"No thanks." She mumbles decidedly. There's no response to that, but no sound of departing footsteps either, so Jac flushes the toilet and unlocks the cubicle, depriving Sharon of a smile as she joins her at the sinks.
"You okay? You look pale."
"I've just puked my guts up, what do you expect?"
"Sure." Sharon doesn't appear to have any reason to be in the toilets, as she observes Jac's hand washing and mirror checks with folded arms.
"Don't you have anything better to do? Pregnancy isn't a spectator sport, you know." Sharon looks at her shoes and opens her mouth to utter a smiley apology, but Jac misses her words as she's caught unawares by a wave of dizziness that chills her to the core and leaves her groping for the sink. She blinks into the mirror but sense is replaced by blurred objects that have no correlation to what should be there. Her heart flutters uncomfortably and the figure of the Psychiatrist in the salmon shirt bears down on her.
"Jac?" Her head smacks against the floor with gusto, leaving her shocked and dazed, unsure which way is up.
"Jac?" She still can't see straight so she admits an inward defeat, letting her eyes close and the darkness envelop her.
Sharon shouts for assistance and gently rolls Jac onto her side. The Consultant's dealthy pallor troubles her and, leaning forward to check that she's breathing, she utilises this rare moment of Jac's unchecked vulnerability to scrutinise her features. Expensive makeup conceals dark streaks under her eyes, and the petite nature of her frame is exaggerated by the small bump that protrudes from underneath her ruched up scrub top. If Sharon didn't know better she'd imagine this body belonged to a naive teenager, unprepared physically and psychologically for the challenge ahead. She squeezes Jac's hand and pushes her hair away from her face; She's still unresponsive. Then, the medics arrive and bark orders at one another, snapping into a concerned sequence of treatment protocol, seeing straight through the figure on the floor.
After a few minutes Sharon finds herself alone again in the Ladies, sealed off from the hiatus of panic erupting out on the ward, no doubt led by the baby's father. She carefully pushes open the door to the cubicle that Jac had emerged from before, and zones in on an item that's discarded on the floor. She crouches down and grasps it between her fingertips; A plastic stirrer from the coffee shop downstairs. Sharon sighs, and hopes her overactive mind is jumping to the wrong conclusion.
It's winter, early in 2009. Jac tugs her coat tightly around her with difficulty as she leaves the hospital entrance, almost dropping her crutch in the process and seething at her own ineptness. Her eyes catch the couple as they climb out of his car, all smiles, and she almost subconsciously glares in their direction. He has Faye's handbag and his own briefcase bundled into his left hand, and he's almost bowing as he opens the passenger side door for her. He really does take that archaic, borderline misogynistic, chivalry to a new level. Jac wishes her bitter inner monologue away, to no avail of course. She heads for her own car, one infuriatingly slow step at a time, and braces herself for the pain that driving it causes her knee. Her destination is over an hour away, which is far longer than her right leg has spent braced on the gas since the bike accident, so she swallows an extra dose of Diclofenac for good measure before speeding off.
Jac pulls up in a gravel car park and surveys the building before her. Not much has changed in her decade of absence from the clinic. She cuts the engine and rips the keys from the ignition, as if unconvinced that she won't drive off again if she doesn't. It's a legitimate concern, every motorway junction en route had taken a lot of nerve to drive past without doubling back and heading home. Her body seemed to agree with her, knee aching and begging for her to slow down and make each turnoff. Jac checks her watch and clambers clumsily from the vehicle, groping for her crutch and making slower than ever progress across the gravel. Her time in the waiting room is short, and the Consultant Psychiatrist stalks out of her office in person to greet her patient.
Dr Grant had agreed to Jac's request for an appointment immediately, even prioritising her over another case, and something between concern and intrigue draws her to seek out her patient. Partly, she's unconvinced that it'll be the Jac Naylor she's expecting at all. So, when she spots the woman that she began treating for Bullimia fifteen years ago, nose in a magazine and a healthy colour in her cheeks, she drags her up out of the chair for a stiff hug before questioning the credibility of her presence here.
"Ow, careful!" Jac stumbles out of the embrace and Dr Grant lunges forward to support her, noticing the crutch for the first time.
"What happened? How are you?" Her hands are on her hips, her tone approaching Motherly. She could certainly psychoanalyse this scene without breaking a sweat.
"I had a head on collision on the bike. ACL, MCL, the whole lot are shot. As for how am I, aren't we supposed to do that bit in your office?" Jac looks wearily around the waiting room, where patients with all levels of lucidity are now looking curiously at her. Dr Grant gives her an apologetic smile, still unspeakably glad that she looks well aside from the knee, and leads her towards the consultation room.
The two women sit in silence for a few moments. It may have been a decade but they both know the routine for these sessions, and Jac stares un-shrouded at the woman opposite her, willing the first words onto her tongue. She's glad that the familiar face makes her feel as safe as it ever has done; Her subconscious is conditioned to trust Rebecca Grant with the truth.
"I may be giving off the impression that I'm pregnant."
"Why?"
"Because he's still with her. And I thought, I thought I could rattle him so he'd tell her I slept with him."
"Ah." Dr Grant doesn't need names or circumstance to punctuate this story. It's a tale of the fundamental human weaknesses that rock so many fragile minds; Love, lust and a society that champions monogamy. "And it didn't work."
"He tried to buy me off." She supplies, sounding meeker and more childish than she'd like to.
"I see. Well, if you will play with the devil, Jac.."
"Yeah. I know." She doesn't need to be told that she's her own worst enemy. She's fairly sure it'll be inscribed on her gravestone.
"So where's the problem? Why are you here to see me?" There's a pause, as Dr Grant waits for the inevitable. She waits for her patient to reveal the flare-up of a dormant issue that they both thought was dead. She doesn't enjoy this part of her job.
"Well. Everybody thinks I'm pregnant." Dr Grant brings a hand to her forehead. She doesn't see the professional surgeon sat before her, only the Motherless teenager lost in a world of angst without a rational escape route.
"You mean, you think everybody thinks you're fat."
"I am fat."
"Hey, no, you know how I feel about that word in this office."
"You said it first." They size each other up for a moment, both struck by the familiarity of their wordplay even after a decade of absence. Jac sighs and continues more gently. "I just mean, I am actually fatter. Than normal. I can still only do weights at the gym." She waves her crutch in the air to indicate the issue. "Cardio is a bit tricky. I shouldn't even really be driving." Dr Grant leans forward and takes one of her hands, a tactic to gain her full attention.
"So diet is the only control you have at the moment. That's tough, Jac, I'm glad you had the courage to come and see me. Have you been throwing up?" A curt nod is the affirmative.