Fletch slept soundly for a solid three hours or so until the faint hum of the bathroom fan nudged its way through his slumber and stirred him into consciousness. Disorientated and stiff from the awkward position in which he had slept, he fumbled for the armrest of the sofa with one hand and eased himself upright with a soft groan.
A narrow sliver of white light from the slightly-ajar bathroom door was reaching across the room, bending upwards as it hit the foot of the bed and then illuminating the sheets, which had been thrown back. Jac must be using the bathroom for something, he mused, turning his head to glance at the source of the light and wincing at the dull pain in his neck as he did so. It was probably best not to disturb her.
He was just in the process of rearranging his bedding, as quietly as possible so as not to alert Jac to his awakeness, when a sharp intake of breath sounded from behind the bathroom door. His brow furrowed, and he released his grip on the pillow to glance round again. It sounded like she was in pain.
"Jac?" He called out cautiously.
"I'm fine," came the terse response. "Go back to sleep, Fletch."
The room lapsed into silence again and Fletch frowned before carefully disentangling his legs from the blanket and finding the carpeted floor with his feet. Focusing on remaining quiet, he stood slowly and padded around the sofa to the bathroom door. For a few moments his bleary vision was saturated by the synthetic white lights, and then slowly they adjusted to the sight before him.
Jac was stood with her back to him, facing the unreasonably large mirror that adorned the far wall of the bathroom. She was bathed in the harsh light so that her angular features were even more pronounced, and her head was turned downwards ever so slightly, baring the sweeping shadow below her right cheekbone to the mirror. Her attention was fixed upon her left side, the skin of which was exposed; she was holding up the hem of her pyjama top with her left hand whilst using the other to gently map out the new marks which adorned her body.
Just as he was taking in her pained expression, her reflected gaze met his and it was replaced by one of indignance. Her hands moved to tug the pyjama top back down, but Fletch stepped into the bathroom, putting aside the sudden sense of voyeurism he felt having caught her in such a seemingly-innocuous but equally deeply intimate act. Jac Naylor didn't do vulnerability. The marble-coldness of the floor sank into the soles of his bare feet.
"Let me see," he said then. The words felt unnaturally loud against the otherwise-total silence of the room, exaggerated in volume by the tiled walls. In the mirror, Jac pursed her lips slightly, but did not speak and instead reached again for the hem of the shirt with quivering fingers and lifted it.
Suddenly wide awake, Fletch took a few steps into the bathroom until he was stood behind her, the front of his body tingling from their proximity. Her eyes never left his, and had taken on the wary, half-guarded wideness of a feral cat; they left the mirror finally as he slowly lowered himself to his knees, only to seek out his gaze again as she twisted to look at him properly for the first time. The movement, small as it was, caused a small flicker of discomfort to ripple across her face, and Fletch instinctively reached out as if to touch the two corresponding scars.
At the last moment he drew back, conscious of her boundaries. His gaze lowered to his hands before searching hers again, requesting permission.
"Can I…" he began, but even before he started to speak Jac was nodding, lips parted. He swallowed, acknowledging her silent acceptance and focusing once more upon his trembling hands as they drew closer to her exposed body.
As the tips of his fingers made contact with the hot skin of her waist, the muscles beneath the surface tensed visibly, although he was unsure as to whether her reaction was down to the cold contrast of his skin against hers or to any pain the slight touch might have caused her. However, after a brief moment she relaxed again, and he exhaled, pausing for only a moment before commencing his gentle examination. His fingers began to trace the indent beneath her lowest rib, following the groove until it dipped and melted into the hollow of her back, where he was met by the flushed and stretched skin of the scar formed after the bullet had ripped through her body upon its exit. He ran a finger over the mark, noticing how the fine hairs dotting her back, stained white under the harsh lighting, stood on end at the faint contact.
"Does it hurt much?" he asked in an almost-whisper.
"Sometimes," came the breathy reply, and he glanced up, startled at her honesty. She was staring back at him through heavy-lidded eyes, expression unreadable. A curious and intense feeling threatening to burst from his chest, Fletch nodded and returned his attention to her back. More confident now, and assured in her acceptance of his ministrations, he braced his hands upon her hips, applying a little rotational pressure until she understood and obediently shuffled around so that the scar on her stomach was facing him and the cool air of his exhalations danced across her skin intermittently.
This scar was smaller in size, but starker in its contrast to her pale, smooth skin, and he took a moment to just stare at the wound that had almost claimed her life. He knew that her surgery had been a close call – Essie had told him as much – but he had never appreciated the gravity of her injuries quite as much as now, with the obscene bathroom light gloating at him where it bounced from the unnaturally glossy skin of the scar.
"It's healed up nicely," he spoke, voice taking on the clinical detachment he might assume with any patient, even as his trembling fingers betrayed him. "You did well to avoid infection."
"I'm a surgeon, Fletch," she said with a soft snort, her words an uncharacteristically gentle reminder that she was not his patient, and wouldn't stand to be treated as such.
"I know," he conceded with a small smile, "but you weren't exactly the easiest person to treat."
His words were met with a tentative smile of her own, and she moved then to ease the hem of her shirt back over her scarred back and stomach. Fletch retracted his hands and stood, suddenly aware of how close they were. He could feel the puffs of her breath against his neck as she tilted her head upwards slightly to look at him, something expectant lingering in her gaze. Neither of them said anything, however, and the intensity that had crackled almost tangibly in the short space between them began to dissipate as he glanced down self-consciously. She followed suit, shuffling slightly on the spot.
"We should get back to bed," he suggested, colour flooding his cheeks once he realised the implications of the statement. "Uh, I mean, you should get back to bed and I'll get back to the sofa."
Jac's eyes had widened somewhat at his former statement, but she masked the expression quickly as he recovered it, and took a step back, nodding. "Right, yeah. Early start. I'm sorry I woke you."
"It's alright," he said quickly, placing a hand on her arm. "Do you have enough painkillers?"
"Yes. Thank you."
He nodded, withdrawing his arm. "Okay. Well, goodnight."
"Night, Fletch."
There was an awkward moment as they both tried to exit the bathroom at the same time, and Fletch chuckled, standing back to allow her through the doorway first. She murmured a quiet thanks, and he watched as she crossed the room delicately, passing through the white beam of light to clamber back into bed. Once she had tugged the sheets back over her petite frame, Fletch fumbled for the light switch and the room was plunged into blackness once more.
Neither of them spoke about the incident the next morning, although Fletch paid close attention to her expressions as she was getting ready, noticing that she was grimacing at certain movements. When they left the honeymoon suite, she led him past the lift with a curious look in her eyes, directing them instead towards the stairwell so that he could descend to breakfast without being confronted by the haunting image of his best friend bleeding to death. Somehow, somewhere along the line, Jac had started to care about him. The thought made him strangely happy.
The conference was, predictably, about as interesting as Fletch imagined Hanssen's browsing history to be. He contributed a few times to the discussion, striking up a debate at one point with a dark-haired neurosurgeon, who had been sitting mostly in stony silence save for the occasional raising of a sculpted eyebrow or a muttered remark that didn't quite reach the ear. They threw arguments back and forth for a few minutes, until the issue of nurses' pay came up and a few other medics joined the conversation. Fletch had almost forgotten about the exchange until Jac brought it up over a drink later. They had eaten dinner and headed straight to the hotel bar, exhausted but not quite ready to retire to their room for the night.
"You held your ground well against Lomas," she remarked casually, one eyebrow arching up as she smiled at him over her glass. "She doesn't suffer fools, so the fact that she bothered to debate with you is quite impressive."
Fletch spluttered. "You know her?"
"Our paths have crossed," she said. It occurred to him then that Jac probably knew most of the medical professionals in the room, and he didn't doubt that every single one of them knew her. Working by her side day in, day out, it was easy to forget just how distinguished a surgeon she was. He smiled to himself, looking down at his glass and swilling the golden liquid.
"D'you like her?"
"She's a formidable surgeon," Jac said with a shrug. "I admire her. But on a personal level? Well, I wouldn't trust her."
He studied her as she spoke, observing the alcohol-induced flush that had begun to grace her pale face. Had he been around a drunken Jac Naylor before? Probably multiple times at Albie's, but never in such close proximity. He wondered idly what type of drunk she would be, taking another sip of whiskey to conceal the involuntary smile that crept onto his lips at the thought, then noticing that both of their glasses were almost empty.
"Another round?" Fletch suggested, the question earning him a smirk in response.
"Well, it'd be rude to say no."
He grinned at her, downing his drink before slipping from his seat and heading across the crowded room to the bar, finding a space to squeeze in between a group of women and a man, who Fletch recognised as someone who had been particularly vocal in the conference. The women were absorbed in their own conversation and barely acknowledged his presence, but the man offered up a smile, which he returned easily enough.
"Alex Lin, general surgeon at the John Radcliffe," he said by way of introduction. Fletch studied him for a moment; he was tall and dark-haired, and appeared to be a little younger, although Fletch put that down to his lack of facial hair.
"Adrian Fletcher, Director of Nursing at Holby City," he returned at last, placing his glass down. "You spoke well in there. I agreed with pretty much all of your points."
The other man grinned, sipping from his pint. "Ahh, thanks. You too. That neurosurgeon was a bit of a beast, wasn't she?"
"I've had worse," Fletch said ruefully, glancing across to where Jac sat briefly, twisting the stem of her empty wine glass idly between her fingers. Alex followed his gaze.
"Is that Jac Naylor? What's she doing here? Wasn't she shot just a few months back?"
"She's recovered, not that it's any of your business," came the defensive reply, a little too quickly. The surgeon raised an eyebrow but said nothing and Fletch silently berated himself for his response. "Sorry. The shooting… well, it's still a sore spot for a lot of us."
"Of course," Alex said smoothly. "I'm sorry."
Fletch relaxed, dipping his head in silent acknowledgement of the apology. He was just searching for something to say when he was interrupted by the attention of the bartender, and turned from Alex to lean over the bar and give his order.
"Hi, a large pinot grigio and a straight scotch please."
"Straight?" Came the amused quip beside him. "That's a shame."
"Sorry?" Fletch frowned, entering his PIN into the card reader whilst the bartender sorted out the drinks.
Alex laughed. "I was hitting on you, mate. But I can see now that you don't swing that way." He cast a pointed look at Jac. Fletch felt blood rush to his cheeks at both assumptions.
"Oh! Well, I mean I've never really given it much thought…" That was a lie; he had thought about his sexuality a lot when he and Raf had started living together but had put it firmly to the back of his mind for the sake of the kids. And whilst Alex was undeniably attractive, with his angular features and dark eyes, Fletch lacked the emotional energy to begin thinking along those lines again. Besides, he had Jac to consider… not that he knew what the hell was going on there. She had seemed so keen to keep him at a safe distance, and yet had been so vulnerable with him the night before. That brought him onto Alex's second assumption- "And Jac and I aren't… we're not…"
"Sure," came the knowing response. "You two have a good night, yeah? And hey, if you ever give the issue a bit more thought…" he took one of the cardboard coasters from the surface of the bar and scribbled a series of numbers down with a pen from his pocket. "Give me a call."
Fletch offered up an embarrassed smile as Alex tucked the coaster into his jacket pocket. Before he had time to respond, however, a bang echoed around the room. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Jac leap to her feet and press herself against the wall behind her chair, the colour draining from her face. He scanned the room quickly until he found the source of the noise – a red-faced man who had just knocked over a barstool.
"I've got to go," he said quickly to Alex to excuse himself. "It was nice to meet you."
Any reply the man might have given was lost as Fletch pushed his way past the crowd at the bar, holding the drinks carefully to avoid spillage. The rest of his attention was focused on getting to the redhead at the far end of the room, who was sinking shakily into her chair again as he reached her.
"Jac, you okay?" he asked gently, placing the drinks down and reaching out to touch her arm. She flinched away instinctively, but relaxed as she looked up to meet his concerned gaze, and nodded. He pressed his lips together in a small smile, and briefly squeezed her arm before releasing it and moving to the other side of the table to sit down.
"The noise, it uh, it just startled me," she said, cheeks pink.
"Some guy at the bar knocked his stool over," he explained.
Jac took a large sip from the wine he had brought over. When she placed the glass down, she raised a hand to dry her lips. Fletch followed the movement with his eyes. "Who was that man you were talking to?" she asked.
"A general surgeon from the John Radcliffe," he replied, before adding wryly, "he knew your name."
She cast him a smug smile. "I should hope so. What did you talk about?"
Fletch felt a blush rise in his cheeks again. "He, uh, he gave me his number. Wanted to know if I was that way inclined."
Jac's eyebrows shot up. "Wow." She opened her mouth to speak again, then must have thought better of it for she closed it again abruptly and glanced down at her glass.
"What is it?" he prompted.
"I- uh, I just wondered if you were that way inclined."
He chuckled. "Now why would you want to know that?"
"Professional interest," she suggested mildly, although a look of abject mortification was creeping onto her face with every second. "Only it's been a while since you've… you know, dated a woman."
"I'm not gay, Jac."
"Right," she said, flustered. "Well, that's… good to know."
"Is it?" He raised his eyebrows.
"Yes," she said abruptly and met his gaze, doe-eyed. Fletch stared back, his lips parting in an uncertain smile. It turned out alcohol only intensified Jac Naylor's ability to confound him.
"Right."
They lapsed into silence, Fletch downing the rest of his drink whilst Jac tapped at the edge of the table, clearly lost in thought. As he placed down his glass she seized the opportunity to move on from the awkward turn their conversation had taken.
"Another round? I'll get this one."
Fletch assented and watched, bemused, as she darted from the table and melted into the throng surrounding the bar. He wondered privately, as the last glimpse of red hair slipped into concealment behind a wall of people, if he would ever be able to understand her.
All he knew was that he really wanted to.