Jack could see the way you carried yourself. The way you made yourself small when you didn't need to be. The way you talked quickly in order to avoid being interrupted, like you were used to being an afterthought. And he couldn't help but listen when you'd cut yourself off the moment you sensed disinterest - or what you perceived as such.

He watched. But he never said much to you. Not at first.

He was one of the night shift guys for a reason. He didn't play the social games and jump through the hoops that were daily occurences for the day shift. Not well, anyway. He didn't necessarily know how to deal with the quiet ache behind your smile. You were always smiling. But it didn't always reach your eyes.

He didn't actually speak to you for the first time until months after your starting shift.

He could sense that it had been a rough one for you - at that point he'd been at the Pitt for an hour, which meant you should have been at home, snug in bed. Instead you were sitting in his spot on the roof.

He didn't speak to you much, then, either. Just listened. Let you talk without cutting yourself off. At the end of it, he sent you home.

And then the contact became more frequent. He'd brush at your cheek with two fingers, just enough to squish your cheek and make your eye wink. It always seemed to make you smile, and mean it. So he kept doing it.

He didn't talk a lot when he was with you. He didn't have to, not really. He was a good listener. And sometimes that was all it took.

You were a good kid. One of the rookies at the Pitt. Half his age. Pretty, too. He found himself wondering how anybody could go without wanting to know what was going on in that busy little mind of yours. But apparently it had been often - you still hesitated to talk about yourself, and flat out refused to talk to him when he was busy.

Being interrupted made you quiet. So achingly quiet. He'd done it by accident. But he'd found a way around it. He'd leave his dog tags, the ones he still wore around his neck, always - with you.

He'd tell you, "I'll have to come get these from you, and I'll remember what you were saying. Hold onto them for me."

That seemed to make you feel better.

One evening, Jack came to pick you up from your shift. Rough stubble graced his cheeks - he was so ready for his day off. "Hey, you. Got my tags?" It was easy, with you. He liked it.