"You wanted to see me, sir?" you say, shoving your hands in your pockets. You knew it would only be a matter of time.

"Sit down," Captain Pryce says as you start to jiggle your keys in your pocket.

You do so reluctantly, knowing this will only draw out the matter further.

"Jean, do you want to tell me what's going on with the pool MC?"

You narrow your eyes. "What do you mean?"

"You've been spotted taking it home with you for almost a week."

"Oh," you say. This isn't the worst conversation you anticipated, but the drawback is that you have not prepared an explanation for this one. "Who by?"

The captain ignores your question. "Now we did have a conversation about assigning you your own MC when you made lieutenant, and you said no. Has something changed?"

You fumble for an explanation that would sound good. You can't say you're using it to get to work and back, your reason for saying no in the first place was because you live close enough to the precinct that having an MC would be more trouble than it's worth. You can't think of a lie that sounds any less dumb than the truth. "Well, our civilian consultant, Trant Heidelstam-"

"I know who Heidelstam is."

"Of course, sir. He's been sick. I've been… looking in on him."

"Sick, eh? What's wrong with him?"

"I don't know. He doesn't know."

The captain frowns. "Is it serious?"

You shrug. "Could be."

"Arrange for the usual. Get well card, fruit basket, yadda yadda. You know what I mean," Pryce says, waving a hand.

You nod, and wait to see what else the captain has to say. Something about your report on the botched operation. A few seconds pass without either of you saying anything. "Is that all, sir?"

"Yes, dismissed," he says.

You get up and turn to leave.

"And Jean? Sign out the pool MC so that anyone who might want to use it knows they can't."

"Yes sir."

You breathe a sigh of relief as you close the door to the captain's office behind you.

You walk over to Judit's desk and clear your throat. She looks up at you. "Judit, can you help me with something?" you ask.

Judit suggests you go to the market, and leads you straight to a fruit stall whose owner prepares a basket of mixed fruit tied with a ribbon. She also helps you pick out a get well card that is appropriate and big enough for everyone at the precinct to write in much quicker than you would on your own. She also leads the way to a flower stall. When she talks to the owner to tell him what she wants, they may as well be talking a foreign language as far as you're concerned.

"Aren't flowers, you know, just for women?" you say as the owner starts to assemble a bouquet.

Judit shakes her head. "That's very sexist. Everyone can enjoy flowers," she says. "For a sick person, flowers represent hope and new life."

"Even when they're chopped off and dead?"

She rolls her eyes. "You're not supposed to think about that part."

Judit refuses to take ownership of the job of taking the card round to get signed, insisting that it is part of your job as head of the task force. You'd been hoping to avoid questions about Trant. You're not sure he'd want this kind of fuss, but Pryce asked you to do it.

You try to give short or non-committal answers to the questions people ask, but McLaine tricks you into admitting you've been going round to check on Trant every day. You wonder if it was him who reported you taking the pool MC. The whole office seems to think this is hilarious, and you earn a new nickname, Nurse Jean. No amount of shouting or making threats seems to deter this. Once again, you long for death.

After work, you dutifully sign out the motor carriage and head over to Trant's place to take him his gifts.

Trant's eyes widen when he opens his apartment door to see you laden with gifts. "From everyone at the precinct," you say, handing them over.

"Oh, these are lovely, thank you so much," Trant says, breaking into a wide smile. He inspects the fruit basket, and then the flowers. "Most of these are Insulindian, and in season too. What a lovely arrangement and array of colours."

He goes on to talk about certain flowers with their scientific names and you're immediately lost. You can however appreciate the look of sheer happiness on his face as he verbally dissects the gift. You know this is the biggest seal of approval Trant can give. You need to make a mental note to thank Judit for her help.

"Sorry, I know you didn't want to make a big deal out of this," you say when you think he is just about done.

"No no, that's all right. I imagined they would notice me missing after a while. These gifts are so thoughtful, thank you."

You nod.

"Jean, aren't you coming in?"

You think of the others taunting you. Nurse Jean. You're no nurse. The last thing you want is for rumours to start spreading about you. Nobody said anything to that effect, but you know they were thinking it. Harry even winked at you. He does that often, but there was something pointed in that wink. Although, would anyone know that you were spending so much time with Trant? You repress a shudder. They'd get the information out of you one way or another. You rose to the bait today. You have a feeling that Nurse Jean isn't going to be forgotten in a hurry. "No, I'd better get home," you say.

Trant frowns at you over his flowers. "Are you all right?" he asks.

"Yeah. Just tired," you say. "Call me if you need anything."

"Yes. Thank you, Jean," he says as you walk away, trying to ignore the disappointment in his voice. He's just trying to be nice to you, you tell yourself as you take the elevator down. Being polite. People sound disappointed to be polite, that is a thing that people do, right? As your argument crumbles, you brush your thoughts away and light a cigarette.

The next day, you drag yourself out of bed a few hours later than usual. Mornings when you're working the night shift always leave you feeling at a lost end. You almost wish you had drunk yourself into oblivion last night so today could be taken up by a hellish hangover.

The laundry basket is overflowing. It's something to do, you suppose. You drag it across the hall through to your piece of shit washer dryer, only debatably less trouble than going to the laundrette. As you sort through the dirty clothes, you catch a whiff of Trant's fancy as shit aftershave mingled with your sweat. You feel a stirring in your groin. And pause. Your mind goes blank.

You pick up the shirt and press it to your nose, inhaling deeply. Investigating, you tell yourself. Could it be that you once fucked a guy who wore this scent? No, that can't be it. You haven't been with that many guys, and none of them were rich enough to wear that fancy shit. You inhale again with your nose pressed into the material, and you feel your cock twinge.

The kitchen blinds are still shut, you could stick your hand down your pants and take care of this. The urge hasn't struck you in a long time. This fucking job. The depression.

Fuck no. You pull the shirt away from your face. You can't do that. Sitting on the kitchen floor, having a wank over a coworker's shirt is a level of sad and pathetic you can't let yourself sink to. How would you ever be able to face Trant again without feeling suicidally ashamed?

You throw the shirt into the machine and try to focus on sorting out the other light coloured laundry. But your mind drifts to how it felt to be held in Trant's impressively muscular arms that night you crawled into his bed. He's more than capable of holding you down, making you beg, but you'd bet that he's a gentle and attentive lover. You don't want or deserve that kinda shit. Not that you're even interested in Trant in that way. Fuck, there's a whole list of reasons why that would be a bad idea.

Forcing your body and mind to cooperate, you put laundry detergent in the machine, force the door shut, and give it a kick to make it start.

God, you really need a distraction. You pace around the kitchen, and finally settle on going to the gym. Another thing you haven't done in some time. Thanks again, depression.

The gym is full of sweaty, muscular bodies pushing themselves to the limit. You keep increasing the speed of the treadmill to try to rein in your thoughts. You haven't been laid in way too long. Is that something you want to do again before you die? Maybe one for the list. Only you're not fucking telling Trant about this one.

You're too sober and intimidated by their perfect bodies to hit on anyone in the gym. But going out drinking to find someone to take home? That seems depressing now you've lost your wingman slash partner-with-benefits. And it's usually disappointing anyway. Fuck it. Scratch that one off the list. You move around the gym to different machines and activities, and try not to stare at anyone too much.

After forty five minutes, your muscles are aching and can't push yourself any more. You shower, change, and go back home to take care of the rest of the laundry. Grudgingly, you have to admit the workout made you feel better. You wish exercise did nothing at all, so you could tell the doctors who refused to suggest anything else see, see it does fuck all! It's far from a cure, but it's a brief respite from the inky pit of despair.

After Trant's clothes are washed and dried, you iron the shirt and trousers, trying not to put any weird creases in them that would betray how carelessly you do your own ironing. You wonder if Trant is just good at ironing like he is good at all manner of things, or if he pays someone to do it for him.

The shirt and trousers hang from the doorframe, willing you to go and return them. There's no reason why you shouldn't. Not that you're feeling guilty about the way you thought about him earlier. Maybe you're spending too much time with him and you need to distance yourself? But you're not doing this for you, are you?

Visiting him makes you feel bad. Not visiting him makes you feel bad, for a different reason. You try to read a newspaper while you decide what to do.

You keep thinking of the guys laughing and calling you Nurse Jean. Surely it can't be that odd to go round and check on a sick colleague? You'd hope if you were sick that someone would do the same for you. It's an farfetched hope that someone would give enough of a shit about you, but all the same it is a normal thing to do. But trying to explain that to the animals at the precinct?

Time slips through your fingers, and before you realise it you have less than an hour until your shift. No time to visit now. You'll be at the precinct all night, so you should probably at least let Trant know in case he needs you. There's nothing weird about that, you're just being practical.

"Trant Heidelstam speaking."

The fact that Trant doesn't know it is you this time hits you in the lungs. Why would he? You're sure he must receive calls from lots of other people. "Hi. It's just me."

"Jean!" his voice changes from businesslike to delighted in a split second. You wonder how much effort it takes for him to pretend to be this happy to see or hear from you.

"I was just calling to check on you."

"I'm fine. I'm feeling… okay. You can tell the others at the precinct that I appreciate the flowers and fruit, and that the heartfelt and humorous messages in the card cheered me up immensely."

"I'll tell them," you say. You didn't read the messages, dreading to think what they might have written. Although now you're wondering if you should have checked for Nurse Jean content. "I'm working the night shift today, so I can't come to visit. Call the station if you need me."

"Thank you," he says. "How are you, Jean? Forgive me for not asking sooner. I was giving you space to tell me in your own time, or not, if you choose. I don't want you to think I don't care."

His words make your chest feel tight. It's too much. It would be easier if he didn't care. Or didn't pretend to care. Whichever it is. "I'm fine, don't worry," you say.

"Do you have someone to talk to? You really should talk to someone. It doesn't have to be a professional, just someone you trust."

You don't say anything. The tightness in your chest increases.

"You know, you can always talk to me. If you want to. I'll just listen, if that's what you want. I can also offer empathy or help you to talk through your options, if you like. Please, don't suffer alone."

"I'm fine, Trant," you say, then feel like you need to give examples of how fine you are. "I went to the gym today. I did laundry."

"That's good. I wish I could go to the gym, although I do tend to do most of my exercise at home."

"Your stick fighting?"

"Yes, Lo Manthang stick fighting. I hope I am able to return to training soon. There are studies that show fitness starts to decline after a week of inactivity," he says, sadness audible in his voice. You regret mentioning the gym now. "I'm starting to feel better, as a matter of fact. At least I think so. I need to be better, I have to go and pick up Mikael tomorrow."

"You sure you're up to that? You shouldn't be on the road if you feel faint or tired."

"I know that. But I promised Elise that I would collect him tomorrow."

Fuck. There's distancing yourself, and then there's just being an asshole. You sigh. "What time?"

"I usually head over some time after four thirty, after school has finished and they have had time to pack his bag."

"I'll drive you there. I'm on the night shift again tomorrow, so I can swing by before then."

"Really? Well, if you're sure. Thank you, Jean."

"It's no problem," you say, and glance at your watch. "I have to go."

"Okay. See you tomorrow."

"Yeah," you say, hanging up the telephone.

The night shift drags. You and Judit sit opposite each other at the communications desk, waiting for the phone to ring. Judit yawns.

"I can never sleep the day before going on night shift either," you say.

"You can't? I would like the chance to sleep in the day," she says. "When you have two kids and a husband you don't get that luxury."

"Hey. I did laundry."

Judit covers a smirk with her hand. "I did laundry, I did the dishes twice, cleaned and tidied, made lunches for everyone, and made dinner that I won't even get to eat because I put mine in a box and forgot to bring it!"

"Oh, boo hoo," you say.

She glowers at you. You wonder what you need to say to make her hit you. It'd probably make both of you feel better.

Instead, you say, "Wanna order kebabs?"

She smiles. "Let's do it. It's your turn to buy."

The telephone rings as soon as you start to eat. You pick up the receiver with a greasy hand, listen for a few seconds, then slam it down. "Fucking punk pranksters," you grumble.

After you finish eating, you both try to get on with some paperwork. But it's hard to get into the right headspace when it's late and the precinct is empty and most of the lights are off.

"Trant liked his gifts," you say.

"Oh, I'm glad."

"Thanks for your help on that one, I really have no fucking clue about these things."

"You're welcome, Jean," she says, looking a little surprised. "How is he doing?"

You give a half-shrug.

"You're worried about him."

You give her a look. How did she know? You barely even reacted. You shake your head. "He's rich. He's got some doctor running tests. He'll be fine."

"It's okay to care, Jean. Don't let those emotionally constipated little boys make you think it makes you some kind of wimp."

There's something deeply intimate about the night shift. Sitting there in the dark, just the two of you. Makes people say things they wouldn't do normally, open up, spill their guts. God knows it did when it was you and Harry. Usually Harry started talking and wouldn't stop. You're not going to fall into that trap.

"Spoken like a true spy for those little boys," you say.

Judit tuts and shakes her head.

Neither of you initiate anything other than completely necessary conversation for the rest of the shift.

Fatigue hits you as the sun rises while you drive home. You're thankful the journey is short, otherwise you might be in trouble. You drag off your clothes and leave them in a pile, then climb into bed and pass out. The noise and the sun coming through the curtains wakes you after a few hours. You toss and turn for a while, knowing you'll be completely fucked if you don't at least try to get some more sleep.

You manage to sleep until early afternoon. After making yourself some food, you head over to Trant's place, remembering to take the clothes he lent to you along.

Trant smiles and invites you inside. The air is knocked out of your lungs by the smell of his aftershave. Guilt. It must be the guilt of sniffing his shirt and thinking those things about him, even though you didn't actually do anything. You didn't realise quite how much you liked that smell until now. And oh god you're terrified. Terrified of your body reacting the way it did in your kitchen. What if he notices? Shit, you need to pull yourself together.

You try to distract yourself. You focus on the fact that you've never seen Trant with more than a couple of days' of stubble, no matter what. Whereas even a minor setback can lead you to growing a full and unruly beard.

"Jean?"

You realise you've been standing in the hall, staring at him for some time. Trant is leaning against the wall. "I brought back your clothes. Where should I put them?"

"I'll show you," he says, leading you to his bedroom. It's then that you realise you should have just given them to him to put away himself. You hang up the shirt and trousers next to many more expensive shirts, trousers and suits. Trant takes the socks and underclothes from you, sparing you from rummaging around in his drawers.

You linger awkwardly by the window, and try to think of something to say. You fail.

When Trant turns to you, he's not smiling. In fact, he looks like he might be about to cry. You've seen Harry in that state enough times to know. But you're yet to discover what the right thing to say is. All you know is everything you've ever tried has been wrong.

You raise your eyebrows at him. He takes this as a cue to step towards you. And another. He curls his arms around you and he rests his head on your shoulder. You feel heat rise to your face and something hurts inside your chest. It's difficult to breathe. You put your arms around him, and he immediately sags against you. He's heavy, and you have to widen your stance to hold him. He sniffles on your shoulder. The pain in your chest intensifies. You pull him closer and stroke his back, and you can't help but feel his muscles through his shirt. You try not to think about how intoxicating his aftershave smells on him.

Eventually, he releases you but stays close. "Sorry," he says. His dark blue eyes are still watery. You feel his breath, warm on your cheek. "Thank you for offering to drive me to go and get Mikael. I really thought I could do it myself, but I was wrong." His voice rises and comes close to breaking.

You want to say something. It's fine, Trant. Don't worry about it. But you're still trying to hide the fact that you can't catch your breath. Trant is so close, and fuck, that does something to you. You feel wretched. You want to console him, but you're shit at that. Plus you're distracted because for some fucking reason you decide that now of all times you're going to viscerally appreciate how god damned hot he is. Oh. Oh god.

Thankfully Trant is too distracted by his own concerns to notice any weird behaviour from you. He sits down on the bed and looks down at the floor. "I'm so embarrassed. I thought I was feeling better, so I thought I would run through a few Lo Manthang stick fighting routines. I only managed to do ten minutes and I had to stop."

"Being told to rest fucking sucks, but you really should," you say, impressed with yourself for saying a whole sentence.

"I know," he says, looking up at you.

You really want to go and hug him again. But you can't tell if he wants you to, or if you just selfishly want to touch him again. It's best not to take the risk. You put your hands in your pockets. "Let's go get Mikael, yeah?"