TW: Panic attacks and PTSD

"Cut" by Plumb came on my Spotify shuffle when I was writing this and it really set the mood...

I do not want to be afraid
I do not want to die inside just to breathe in
I'm tired of feeling so numb
Relief exists I find it when
I am cut-Plumb

The ER is abuzz this afternoon. A bus crash on the I-5 has brought in over 20 patients, each with their own set of medical needs. Already, 2 are in surgery. The nurses found 4 that need a plastics consult. They split the cases between Mark, Jackson and Ben. Jackson takes his clipboard and heads for the curtain.

The man is in his 60s according to the chart. Busted up nose that they just barely managed to get the bleeding to stop. Jackson steps closer, still looking at his clipboard.

"Mr. Sturgess, hello. I'm Dr. Avery. I see here you're complaining about your nose. Can you tell me what happened?"

A familiar, strained voice echoes through the chaos of the ER around him. "I was standing up to speak with the driver when we were hit by the semi. Got knocked to the floor."

Jackson walks closer. The man's nose is a gnarly shade of black and blue. It swells up at least twice it's normal size. Jackson tenderly touches it and the man grits his teeth.

"I want to call an X-Ray," he says. "It may take a bit, given all that's going on. But from the looks of it, you may need surgery."

"Just great. How long will that keep me out of work for?"

"It's hard to say. What line of work are you in?"

"Counseling."

Jackson meets the man's bright green eyes. There are some scrapes surrounding them, as well as the rest of his face. In comparison to some of the others he's seen, the man got off lucky. Jackson tilts his head. Sturgess frowns.

"I'm sorry," Jackson says. "You just seem so familiar."

"I do a lot of work with the community," Sturgess offers. "Perhaps that's it."

"Maybe."

Jackson glances back at the clipboard. Duncan Sturgess. Classified as a caregiver. According to the nurse, Chelsea, he gave that information reluctantly.

His eyes scan down the rest of the man's body. He wears a pair of torn jeans, with burn marks from skidding across the bus. His shirt is a blue polo with white lettering in the corner.

Seattle Correction Camp

Jackson's heartbeat picks up. He once wore a similar polo, though his was in white. Campers wore white, counselors in green and the head directors, blue. His itched his collarbone and left a nasty rash behind. Especially when paired with the humiliating signs forced around his neck. The most common one reading "Bedwetter". It took a full decade before he could wear a polo again.

When he heard "bus crash", he assumed a public city one or maybe even a Greyhound on a trip.

SCC has their own busses. Jackson still remembers the ugly white paint with the name of the "camp" scrawled across the side in gaudy black font.

The first person he met while approaching the bus had deep blue eyes and a full head of blonde hair.

In 16 years, the hair has thinned out, but the eyes remain.

For a moment, Jackson smells smoke. He feels the hand colliding across his cheek. It takes all he has not to whimper in pain.

You're at the hospital. You're safe. You're not bleeding.

One look into those scary blue eyes undoes every bit of his mantra.

"Dr. Avery?" Duncan's scratchy voice breaks through. "Are you alright?"

Jackson blinks a couple of times. He tries to regulate his breathing, but can barely remember the steps Mark taught him. Instead, he turns and strides out from behind the curtain without another word. He busies to Chelsea he sees and thrusts the clipboard into her hands.

"Y…you need to get Dr. Sloan o…or Dr. Warren for this."

He doesn't wait for her to question why.

Jackson quickly pushes through the paper curtain and bustles towards the desk. Mark tilts his head and frowns. With wide eyes, Jackson says something to the nurse and then heads for the elevator. Mark is about to follow when the nurse walks in front of him.

"Excuse me, Dr. Sloan?"

Mark looks over her shoulder at Jackson, who jams the elevator repeatedly. "Not now…"

"I need you to see a patient," she says.

Mark glances down at her. He scans her name badge. Chelsea. "Can't it wait?"

"Um, no. You see, the patient was originally assigned to Dr. Avery but he says he can't do it."

"Did he say why?"

"No. He just asked that we find someone else." She hands him the chart, a frown tugging on her lips. "I've never seen him like that before."

Mark doesn't say he has, but only when something's gone terribly wrong. He glances down at the clipboard.

"Duncan Sturgess," Chelsea explains as he reads. "Busted up his nose pretty badly. Likely needs surgery."

Mark looks back up but Jackson is gone. He sighs and refocuses his attention on the nurse. "What happened?"

"He was apart of that bus crash." She makes a face and lowers her voice. "The one on the way to the deprogramming facility."

Mark blinks as he stares at the name. Jackson's never given him the one of the director but who else could elicit such a reaction? His breathing shifts. The ER is busy enough that he could go in there and strangle the guy. Leave very little evidence. They'd suspect it was from the bus crash.

Or, it'd all blow up. Then he'd go to prison and Jackson would just be left behind.

"I need this man assigned to Dr. Warren," Mark says, snapping his head up.

Chelsea hesitates. "I'm sorry, Dr. Sloan, that's not possible."

"What? Of course it is."

"Dr. Warren is prepping for his own surgery," she explains, her voice growing soft. "It's you or Dr. Avery. We have no one else from plastics on right now."

"What about Grey or any of the other gen surgeons?"

"They have their own patients."

"Fuck," Mark mutters under his breath.

Chelsea's frown increases. "I'm sorry, Dr. Sloan."

He sighs, running his fingers through his hair. "No, it's fine." She tilts her head. There's a bit of fear in her eyes. Mark isn't used to this. Usually, the nurses are either lusting after him or they're irritated by his charming ways. He's pretty sure this one is new. "I'm serious. Everything will be fine. You go along now. I'll handle this."

She nods. "Yes, Dr. Sloan."

Mark watches as she scurries off. He takes a deep breath and stares at the curtain Jackson walked out of not long ago. Over a decade ago, he took an oath. He promised to treat patients to the best of his ability. No matter what.

He's come to realize there's very little he wouldn't do for Jackson. But that also means keeping his license.

Mark straightens his back and locks his jaw as he strides past the curtain. The older man's nose is worse than described.

Good.

"Mr. Sturgess," Mark says, keeping his voice tight. "My name is Dr. Sloan. I'll be taking over for Dr. Avery."

Duncan nods then groans a little. "My neck is killing me too."

"We did several X-Rays," Mark tells him as he walks closer. "There was no damage."

"Can I get something for the pain?"

"After the surgery."

"What exactly are you doing?"

Mark's nostrils flare. It's a simple question. One he's been trained to answer. He'd fuss the hell out Ben or Jackson if they didn't go step by step. Mark just wants this guy on anesthesia so he can work on him and move on.

How can he lay there complaining about his pain? What about what he does to those Littles on a daily basis? What about what he did to Mark's Little? Suddenly, Duncan expects everyone to bend to his will.

Mark goes through the procedure, making sure to dumb it down as much as possible and explaining it how he would one of Alex and Arizona's patients. He sees the annoyance build up in Duncan. Mark takes the smallest of victories.

"Anyway, I'll have you prepped and ready to go."

"Sounds good." Duncan pauses. "How are the rest of them?"

Mark pauses. "The rest of them?"

"The others, on the bus. Were there any casualties?"

"No."

"How severe are the injuries?"

"I can't speak for everyone. My specialty is plastics."

"I see." Duncan sighs. "Hopefully they'll all be in better shape for our next session. I know the parents are going to want refunds."

Mark purses his lips and his nostrils flare. He doesn't even bother to hide it. Duncan frowns.

"Dr. Sloan?"

"Perhaps you should focus on the fact that there are 19 other people harmed right now. 18 of them Littles. Can't you imagine how scary it has to be for them?"

"That's the purpose of the camp, Dr. Sloan."

"Camp. Right."

Duncan takes him in for a minute. "You're a caregiver."

"Lucky guess."

"And if I had to guess again, that nervous doctor that was in here earlier was classified as a Little."

Mark tenses up at the mention of Jackson. He clears his throat. It takes all he has for his fists not roll up in a ball.

"I'm not at liberty to discuss my colleague's status."

A sly smirk takes over Duncan's face. "I'll take that as a yes."

Mark clicks his tongue. He walks closer to the bed and leans down, lowering his voice just enough for only the two to hear.

"I'd wipe that smirk off your face right now," he growls. Duncan raises a brow. "I have never had the displeasure of actually meeting one of you."

"You can't speak to me this way…"

"You're lucky this is the only way I'm speaking to you," Mark interrupts. "People like you? You're scum. You think you can manipulate and take advantage of Littles?" Duncan opens his mouth. Mark holds up a hand. "Nuh uh. I'm talking. You're a sadistic man."

"You don't know me," Duncan manages to slip in. His eyes are narrow but his body shakes a little.

"Oh, I know you better than you think."

Mark wants to curse him for all he did to Jackson. It'd be so damn easy. But that'd also put Jackson at risk. Who knows how long Duncan will have to stay in the hospital following?

"You think you're fixing people, when you're breaking them," Mark continues. "I'm the one who fixes things. And I've cleaned up more of your messes than you realize."

Duncan licks his lips. He winces when it hits a laceration on his face. "I could easily report you for this."

"Go ahead. But just know, I'm the only surgeon that can help you. The longer that nose has to wait, the worse it will get. So, what do you want? To go cry to the chief? Or for me to fix it?"

Duncan falls silent. Mark nods.

"As I thought. I'll have them prep you."

Mark walks out from behind the curtain, wiping his brow. He disappears into the bathroom. His foot collides with the sink. Fist hits the wall, once then twice. Pain shoots through his hand but it's all temporary. Unfortunately, he's going to be in top shape to perform this surgery.

First, do no harm.

The locker room is empty, which means Jackson's labored breathing echoes heavily throughout. He leans against the blue metal. His eyes are clamped shut.

How is he here? Why is he here?

Jackson wasn't supposed to see him again. That's what he's told himself for years. The scars of that place are forever written in his soul. But he doesn't have to relive it outside his nightmares.

This man can't be in his hospital. This is supposed to be his safe place

He can't be here!

"Breathe," Jackson makes out. "You…you need to breathe."

His body refuses to listen. Jackson scrubs his hand over his face and tries to get rid of the tears. Only more come in his place.

One moment, he's choking on a breath. The next, his scrubs are wet.

"No!" Jackson's cry echoes.

He bangs his head against the locker, instantly regretting it. Jackson rubs at his furiously. He kicks his legs.

Inhale.

Exhale.

You are not about to drop at work. It is too busy. You need to grow up.

Jackson repeats the mantra in his head until his breathing regulates. The tears still fall. A problem for later, he decides.

There's no time to shower, but he didn't pee that much. Jackson balls up his boxers and pants. He shoves them in a nearby trash. He cleans himself up best he can with some wet naps that are clipped to his locker. Jackson grabs his duffel of spare scrubs and clothes. He digs through it until he finds some pants. It takes a little longer to find boxers.

They're black with little ducks on them.

Jackson manages to laugh through his tears. "Mark."

He slides them up before putting on his pants. No evidence of the accident left behind.

Jackson heads for the sink and splashes some water on his face. His tired, sore eyes face the mirror. It would be so easy to let go right now. Give into the impulse racing through his veins.

"They need you," Jackson whispers. "They need you more than you need to be little."

It's a mantra Mark would kick his butt for, but he can't think about that right now. Once he's sure no one can tell he was crying, Jackson heads back onto the floor.

"We're a little backed up right now" Jackson explains to his patient, Brittany. She's in her early 20s, though according to her chart, she usually drops around 3 or 4 years old. "But there should be an OR available in a couple of hours."

Brittany's mother, Louise, takes her daughter's hand. "Can it really wait that long?"

Jackson gives her a patient smile. "Yes. It's a broken knee. So long as she keeps it elevated, there won't be further damage." He glances at Brittany. Her green eyes are wide, a small pout on her lips. He picks up the remote and flips through the channels until he reaches Nick Jr. The pout melts a little. "See, just watch your cartoons and you'll be just fine."

Jackson sees the hesitation Louise's eyes but he ignores that. Maybe this whole thing will be a wakeup call for her to realize she doesn't need to change her daughter. He promises that the nurse will check up on them and walks out from behind the curtain into the busy lobby. Mark stands there. Jackson quickly walks past him.

"Dr. Avery," Mark says, his voice authoritative.

Jackson sighs, spinning around. "Dr. Sloan," he replies pointedly. Mark arches a brow. Worry is spilled across his face. "I have surgery I need to prep for."

"Are you sure you're in the right frame of mind?"

Jackson's cheeks heat up. "I'm fine."

"Jack…" Mark trails off and clears his throat. "Dr. Avery, we need to confer in my office."

"I don't have time."

Jackson strides towards the elevator without taking a look back. If he does, he'll be forced to give into the pain in his stomach. The one that just wants a hug.

Luckily for him, Mark goes into surgery not long after. Chelsea tells him that he took on Duncan's case. Jackson can't find it in him to be upset. Someone has to work on him. Jackson sure as hell wasn't going to. He trusts that Mark will do his job. Even he isn't stupid enough to do something to risk his license.

Eventually, an OR opens up. Brittany is busy being prepped while Jackson does the same. He's alone in his gear, when Mark appears in the pre-op room. His caregiver holds a mask over his face.

"Not now," Jackson says, his voice muffled through his own surgical mouth covering.

"We need to talk about this."

"I have a patient." Jackson steps forward. Mark nearly grabs him but thinks better of it. "Seriously. Move."

"Are you in the proper place to do this surgery?"

Despite them being alone, he feels the heat come to his cheeks. "Yes," he grits through his teeth. "I would never operate if I thought I was going to drop."

"Good to know, but that's not all I meant."

"I can't talk about this right now."

"We need to…"

"No!" Jackson snaps. He tilts his head back. "I can't! I can't talk about this! Because if I do, I'm going to break down and I am not about to cry in this damn pre-op room. All I want right now is a hug, but I can't have one because I'm already prepped."

Even with the mask, Mark's face falls. Jackson powers on.

"And even if I wasn't, the minute you touch me, I'm going to burst into tears. But I can't have that right now. Because I have to be a surgeon. I have to think of my patients. I can't think of that horrible man or that place. I have to care for a girl who just narrowly escaped the same hell that I went through! I mean, why couldn't I have gotten so lucky and had my bus crash, right?"

"Don't say that," Mark whispers.

Jackson shakes his head. "I can't. I can't do this right now. Right now, I'm not your Little. And you're not my caregiver. I'm just a damn surgeon."

He clears his throat. It takes everything in him to shake off the outburst. He nods to the door.

"Can you open it?"

Mark only stares at him for a moment before taking a step forward and pushing it open. Jackson mutters his thanks and walks in without a second glance.

Mark sits on the single cot in the on-call room. He stares at the wall across from him and tries to ignore the anxiety bubbling within. The door opens. For a moment, he's about to get up and let someone actually sleep, when he sees Derek. His best friend shuts the door behind him.

"Duncan Sturgess was complaining to his nurses about his unprofessional surgeon."

Mark hums. "Did he file a formal complaint?"

"No. Chelsea offered to help him fill one out but he said it's not worth it. Especially as he came out of the surgery with flying colors. He just complained about your bedside manner."

"Gonna yell at me?"

"Nope. Because in spite of your arrogance and stupidity, I know you'd never act like that for no good reason." Derek folds his arms over his chest. "What was the reason?"

"He works for that camp."

"I know."

"Jackson went to that camp."

Derek's body language softens. Mark scrubs his hand over his face.

"It's not my place to tell you what happened, but it was bad."

"Did Jackson see him?"

Mark nods. "But he won't talk about it. He rushed into surgery."

"Are you sure he's in the right place to do it?"

"Yes. I wouldn't have let him go in otherwise." Mark exhales. "I feel so powerless right now."

Derek nods. "Welcome to fatherhood."

Mark ducks his head. "I'm not a father. Well, not like that."

"Mark."

"He calls me "his Mark". That's all it is."

"Okay."

Mark sees the disbelief in Derek's eyes. He sighs and drops back on the bed.

"This is all your fault," he mumbles.

Derek laughs. "My fault? How?"

"You just had to adopt a Little of your own. Make me think I could do all this."

"You can do it, Mark." Derek walks over and pats his thigh. Mark curls his lips. "You can. This is just sadly a part of it all. Waiting for them to come to you. And Jackson will."

"What if he doesn't? What if he shuts down?"

"He won't. Now, c'mon."

Mark arches a brow. "What?"

"You're going to watch Jackson do his surgery."

"He'd be mad if he knew."

"Then don't touch the intercom." Mark props himself up on his elbows. "I do it all the time with Alex when I'm worried about him. Trust me, he won't know. C'mon. I thought you used to do this."

"Yeah, back when he was a resident. That was different."

"It's not. Let's go. It'll make you feel better."

Mark sighs. He pushes himself off the bed and follows Derek out of the room.

Next time, Jackson will finally get his hug. I promise. And Mark will baby the hell out of him for the next week.

Let me know what you think! As always, feel free to leave prompts or ask me questions! I am on Tumblr and love communicating on there, as well as in the comments!