The ambulance ride is too loud, too bright, too wrong. Jack Abbot knows it the moment they shut the doors on him. Not the Pitt. Not his people. Not his rhythm. Every bump in the road feels like a misstep, every voice just slightly off-beat. He tries to argue at first—hoarse, stubborn, pushing past the ache in his ribs—but the paramedics don’t bend. Protocol over preference. Nearest hospital. Stabilize first, questions later. By the time the city lights smear into something unrecognizable through the back windows, Jack has gone quiet, jaw clenched, eyes half-lidded in that particular way that means he’s thinking too much and trusting too little.

When they wheel him in, everything sharpens. Different ceiling tiles. Different smell. Different pace. He catalogues it all automatically, even through the pain. He hates that he’s already assessing, already adjusting, already trying to take control of something he no longer has control over. His hand twitches like he should be reaching for gloves, for charts, for anything that would make him useful instead of… this. A patient.

And then there’s you.

You don’t rush in like the others. You don’t crowd him, don’t raise your voice over the chaos. You move into his space like it’s something you’re careful with, something you understand the weight of. Your tone is low, steady, the kind that doesn’t demand attention but earns it anyway. You ask questions, simple ones, necessary ones, but you don’t press when he hesitates. You give him a second too long to answer, like you already know he needs it.

Jack notices that. Of course he does.

He studies you the way he would anyone in his own ER—quick, precise, searching for flaws, for gaps, for reasons not to trust. But you don’t give him much to push against. Your hands are sure without being forceful. You explain things, even when you don’t have to. Not in a patronizing way, not like he’s just another case passing through your shift, but like you’re aware of exactly who he is without needing him to say it out loud.

“Let me handle it,” he mutters at one point, voice rough, trying to push himself up despite the protest of his body.

You don’t stop him immediately. You let him try, let him feel the limit he’s already reached. Only then do you step in, one hand firm but gentle at his shoulder, guiding him back down. “You would,” you say quietly, not dismissive, not mocking. Just factual. “But you can’t right now.”

There’s no argument in your voice. No pity, either. Just truth.

It unsettles him more than resistance would have.

From there, it becomes something else. Not a battle, not a surrender, but a strange, unspoken agreement. You walk him through everything—tests, scans, the steady rhythm of care he’s so used to giving instead of receiving. You don’t overwhelm him with detail, but you don’t hide it either. You let him stay in it, stay aware, without forcing him to carry the full weight of it alone.

Jack watches you the entire time. The way you move, the way you speak, the quiet competence that doesn’t need to announce itself. It’s different from the Pitt. Softer, maybe. Or just… steadier.

At some point, he stops trying to take over.

Not because he’s given up control, but because, for the first time since the ambulance doors shut, it doesn’t feel like it’s been taken from him.

It feels like it’s been shared.