Emergency Medical Dad

XXXIII: present, peter's wedding day

"Baby," I use it on Connor and it works but he just goes tense, letting out another microscopic shiver.

"I'm so fucking sick-" it's barely a mumble into my leg, "of this."

"Oh, Jorgen," I run my fingers through his hair and try to rub his back at the same time, I don't know what I can say, I don't know what's right to say but he seems to involuntarily relax when my hands hit his skin and he's got his face pressed into the hook of my thigh by my waist so I assume just touching him is alright.

"I'm a fucking wreck, Jessie," he whispers, letting me brush his hair back further. "I hate it, I hate this."

"Jorgen, shh, shh," I cradle his head in my hand, tucking it further into me. "You're okay, it's alright, shh, shh."

A strangled whimper escapes his lips, eyes smashed shut, body twitching, cringing, curling, reacting to the pain.

His chest shakes with a breath in and he falls against me, back relaxing out of it's arch, hands trembling.

"I fucking hate this."

"I know, baby, I know," I stroke the side of his hair, trying to come up with a way I can help. "I'll be over soon, it's okay." I don't even know what it is, but I hope it'll be over for him soon.

Then I realize something with his head pressed into the crease of my thigh to my body.

He's crying.

He's crying and he's trying to stifle it into my leg but he's shaking and his hands are clung to me, he's looking for something with me, he's looking for me to comfort him.

I don't know what to do with him, I knew what to do with my friends in high school when they got like this but not him, not Jorgen.

I wiggle his hair tie out of his hair and reach down to uncuff his sleeves, hoping that less restriction in his clothes will calm him down just a little but it just makes it worse, he just shudders a little harder and lets out an awful choking noise.

He's shaking like a leaf, hands trembling and clinging to me like I'm the last stable thing in his entire life, like I'm the thing that can stand him back on his feet.

He's wrapped around me like a vice. A shaky, unstable, sobbing vice.

"Jess," he chokes out into the fabric on my dress, strangled and breathy.

"Just breathe, okay, you'll be okay, it'll be okay," I rub my hand down his broad back and then back up in the same way I do with Connor to make him think about his breathing, to focus on slowing it down. The way Jorgen is coughing and choking is telling me he is definitely not breathing right.

"Shh," down his back, "it's okay," up his back, "it's just us, nobody else is here," down his back, "breathe, okay, breathe."

His body starts to relax, his legs shifting to a more comfortable position, pushed out away from us, his broad back and shoulders going soft for the first time since he's been home, his hands releasing their death grip on my dress, shaky fingers smoothing out the fabric.

He, after another moment or two, untucks his face from the crook of my hip, red swollen eyes looking absently down at the tile, one arm around my waist, the other draped across the floor.

He stares, blankly, lost and half gone. I keep stroking his back, reaching up to brush his cheekbone at one point, but it doesn't break him out, it doesn't make him blink and look up at me, it doesn't make him change his position.

I don't say anything, I don't want to spook him.

He shuts his eyes rather suddenly, squeezing them shut as hard as he can, a grimace flickering across his features. His body quivers and I watch him swallow, hard, then two words: "unintentional slamfire."