A/N. Shameless fluffy(ish) Oneshot. Set after "Not Aaron." Mostly Jonny's POV. Love y'all.

Hold Me.

When Jonny was little his Mam didn't do hugs. "Don't be soft, lad" would be the chorus in the Maconie household if he craved another person's touch. His older and increasingly wayward siblings would shun him too, spooked by this dangerous affection they'd long been barricading themselves against needing. It was only as he crept closer to teenage years, and further into social obscurity, that his Mother started to creep into his bedroom at night after arguing with his father. She'd be tired, drunk and broken from her crumbling marriage, and Jonny would diligently hold her as she cried. That was probably his turning point; His introduction into kidulthood. It was maybe another year or two before he truly understood his Mam's pain. Eventually he began to learn the truth about the brittle structure of his family, how his Father would hit his Mother if he was angry, drunk, down on the horses, or if she mouthed off. Of course, she 'mouthed off' all the time, because she'd drink herself through the days. Catch 22. Through all of this, of course, their midnight routine never changed.

Jonny would rock his mother to sleep after a bad night, soothing her anguish and demonstrating his eternal, damn enduring, love for her. She would wake up before dawn and head back to his father, leaving a gaping hole in her son's bed, creating a chill that would jolt him awake and steal the remainder of his night's sleep. She would seek comfort and protection from her doting child, so unaware of how important her care was to him, too. So unaware of the pressure, the worry, the responsibility she placed upon her baby boy.

Jonny lies on his back, thinking about his youth for the first time in a long time. Half an hour ago he awoke as Jac stirred beside him, and hasn't been able to fall asleep since she wriggled from his grasp and crept out of the room. The longer it takes her to return the more irrational he becomes. At first he was sure she'd gone to the bathroom, or to fetch some water. Now he's listening intently to the silence, unable to keep track of how many times he's imagined her footsteps coming back to the room, or the front door clicking closed as she escapes. Eventually, he gives in to his childish insecurity and slips quietly from the room in her wake.

One self loathing step after another, he pads out into the hallway. Ironically it's only been a few hours since he told himself that he would take a step back, respect her space, and try to support her through whatever she's going through without the suffocating pressure he knows he's notorious for. In fact, he can't remember a relationship he's had that hasn't ended in a similar vain; too much too soon, too nice, not enough space to breathe. These little mantras from girlfriends' past had been on repeat in his mind as he'd trotted down the hospital stairway at the end of his shift, and sat down next to the huddled figure who'd clearly come here to be alone. It took a lot of restraint not to shake her by the shoulders, drag her home and force feed her a decent meal. It took a lot of strength to walk away, and to trust she'd follow eventually. Now, though, in the small hours of the morning he can do no such thing, because he needs her touch as much as she needs his help.

The hallway is dark, so dark he'd think she really had left the flat, but he can hear the drum of water from the kitchen tap against the sink. He flicks the light on and stops dead in his tracks, spotting the tumbler that's shattered across the linoleum moments before he treads on a shard. Confused and bleary eyed, he tiptoes barefoot across the room to shut the tap off before heading back into the corridor. "Jac? You okay?" He speaks just above a whisper into the darkness, noticing a thin wall of light where the bathroom door is slightly ajar. Gently he nudges it open further, squinting slightly into the bright light. His breath catches in his throat as he spots her curled up on the floor, her clothes smeared with blood, and before he can react she tugs him by the wrist and he stumbles onto his knees. She's crying, he realises as she buries her damp cheeks into his t-shirt.

"What took you so long?" She mumbles the words into his chest, and he smiles coyly into her hair in spite of his worry at finding her like this.

"You," he starts, marvelling inwardly at how well she knows him, "are never the same two days running." He has a moment to kiss her hair and forget the situation entirely until she whimpers in pain, clutching her stomach more tightly. Forcefully, and ignoring her gasps of protest, he pushes her back against the wall into a sitting position. First he presses a hand towel to her left palm, which she proffers by way of explanation for the blood; A shallow cut from the broken glass. "Any other bleeding?" He asks as he tentatively palpates her stomach, noticing the way she bites down a scream, bracing herself against the sink each time he touches her.

"No." She's breathless and pale as she speaks, but she sounds genuine.

"Okay. Try to stay awake, I'm taking you in."

"No, no, no. I can't. I can't move. In there." She points towards a cabinet he's never really used, and on exploration he discovers half a drugs cupboard inside.

"Bloody hell Jac!"

"Tramadol." She pants, and he can only oblige. He can't help wondering if any normal person would've passed out from the pain by now, and he presses a hand to her clammy, feverish forehead as he hands her the pills.

"You know that won't touch it. If the pain's this bad you need to go to the ED. Please."

"I'm fine." He tilts his head to one side and raises an eyebrow at her. "I mean, I will be fine. It passes." He sighs audibly, losing his patience.

"I really hate seeing you like this Jac."

"I know." She replies quietly. "I'm sorry. Thankyou." The last word is barely a whisper, and he leans his head against the tiles next to hers, concentrating on the rare moment of sincerity behind her eyes. She doesn't blink. "I am trying to get to the bottom of it, I promise. I just need to be working at the moment. This funding is too important to be jeopardised by something so;" She stops abruptly, and he notices the absence of her ritual condescension when talking about work.

"I understand." And he does. "What do you want me to do?" She looks at him scornfully for the question, and he knows she'd roll her eyes if she had the energy.

"Just, hold me. You idiot."

oooo

The room is a thick, inky black when Jac opens her eyes. She feels disorientated, unbalanced and confused to find herself in Jonny's bed, carefully tucked beneath the covers. It takes a moment for her last recollection to surface and she winces, inwardly replaying the moment her boyfriend found her on the bathroom floor. She stretches her arms out as far as she can but finds the bed empty, and a curious courseness about her left hand. She examines it in the dark and discovers it's been bandaged, then a couple of moments later she remembers the injury; The glass falling from her grasp as the cramps had shot across her stomach. Now it's subsided into a dull ache, a mocking echo of her earlier trauma. Finally, she wonders where he's gone, and if she should go and find him. She sits up slowly and blinks into the darkness, trying to become accustomed to the gloomy shadows. With a start she realises he's there after all, sitting by the window in a world of his own, staring, brooding.

"Jonny?" She speaks softly, the unfamiliar tone of concern laced through her voice.

"How you feeling?" He continues to stare out of the window as he speaks in a monotone, as if he's asking out of routine and duty more than anything else. She lets a weighty pause elapse before answering him.

"Fine now." Then she's not sure what else to say. She watches him as he stares into the street, wishing she could get inside his head. Eventually she decides to try, standing and letting her poker face deal with the resultant abdominal twinge. She perches on the window sill and tries to catch his eye, surprised to find herself shivering when he's the one only wearing sweat pants. "Hey," she starts, reaching forward and touching his arm, "you're freezing." He flinches slightly, almost looks pissed off. "Come to bed." It sounds like an order and she winces as she hears herself, she's never been the best at intimate conversation.

"No. I can't sleep."

"Why?" She's genuinely puzzled. Normally her presence, her allowance of his arm around her waist, is enough to send him into a coma like state of unconsciousness.

"Why? Really, Jac? Were you there tonight, or did I dream it? You scared me. You scare me, every time I see you flinch. How can you be so reckless with yourself? You're a maniac." The bitter words catch in his throat, and for the first time since she started getting the cramps she thinks she understands his motives. She never really considered there to be anybody else with any investment in her own health before. There never has been, and her decisions have always been based on her own needs; Her conscience and her instinct for self preservation.

"Right." She answers quietly, and he finally turns to face her, probably surprised this hasn't turned into a fight, perhaps he was spoiling for one.

"I'm suffocating you, aren't I?" Now she's really confused. She realises this is the first time she's seen him doubt himself, or even pause for thought before ploughing in.

"You're not." She states quickly, and she's not yet sure if it's a lie. He looks into her eyes, searching for the same confirmation to no avail, which makes her feel guilty all over again. Before he can even ask her too, she throws her arms around him and lets her chin rest comfortably on his shoulder. "I'll try not to be so, you know, about this. I'll try. I love you, remember, and I know that means stuff goes both ways." She stumbles over her words, feeling like an ineloquent oaf, but as he hugs her back she realises he probably isn't listening anyway. Just like she did earlier, he only needs to be held, no questions asked.