Page 50 of Baby, It's Cod Outside
“They’re insisting I leave in a wheelchair,” Ben announces sourly, without looking up. “Like I’m ninety.”
“Or like it’s routine hospital policy not designed to humiliateyou, personally,” Jackson offers, stopping just inside the doorway.
“I specifically asked for, like, a single ounce of dignity.”
“That’s wild,” Jackson says. “BecauseIspecifically asked to push you down the hallway making race car noises.”
Ben chuckles, then flinches, his free hand pressing to his ribs. “No. Don’t make me laugh.”
Before Jackson can double down, Mr. Whitaker steps in. His first order of business is realigning Ben’s buttons, working around the sling with surprising gentleness. Then he turns to the nurse with a tone that somehow communicates bothdeep concernandimpeccable credit historyin the same breath. No dramatics, just a steady stream of practical questions that Jackson hasn’t even thought to ask: dosage schedule, red flags to look for, follow-up appointments, what level of pain is normal.
This isn’t the first time he’s sat beside someone he loves while medical staff spoke in clipped, clinical terms.
Mr. Whitaker tucks the papers away and straightens. “I’ll bring the car around.” Then, to Jackson: “Don’t let him walk. I mean it.”
“Yes, sir,” Jackson says, solemnly deputized.
Ben rolls his eyes dramatically, but his father reaches out anyway, one large, calloused hand smoothing the back of Ben’s hair in a gesture so fatherly it warms Jackson’s heart a few more degrees. Then he’s out the door.
“Since when are you on his side?” Ben scowls.
“Since he brought me sub-par coffee and fixed your buttons,” Jackson says. “Frankly, I’ve always had a thing for competence.”
Ben stares at Jackson. Eyes a little glassy, pupils a little wide, clearly riding the pain meds. “Then why do you likeme?”
“Because you are a competence iceberg,” Jackson leans in and kisses him gently on the forehead. He’d kiss every inch ofhim if it wouldn’t jostle something sore; he wants to kiss Ben into sleep, into stillness. “Ninety percent is just hidden under mild to moderate panic.”
Jackson walks over to the wheelchair and gives it a showy spin. “Now come on, Fish Prince. Your carriage awaits.”
“Ugh,” Ben says as Jackson helps him up. “This is so undignified.”
Jackson braces the chair with his knee, steadying Ben by the good elbow and the small of his back, where it’ll hurt the least. Ben lets out a hiss as he settles in. “Ouch.”
“I know.” Jackson kisses his hair, directly into the crown this time. Ben leans into it ever so slightly in response, a small press into the touch.
They’re quiet for a few seconds, the two of them tucked in the stillness of the hospital after midnight. Then Jackson bumps the chair into motion, maneuvering him carefully through the door, watching the sling, watching the angles.
“So. Tonight was… a lot,” Ben says.
“You mean the part where your coworker tried to rearrange my face and you heroically, and very stupidly, might I add, threw yourself in the way?” Jackson steers around a laundry cart. “Or the part where your dad and I reached an informal custody agreement in the waiting room?”
“God, I don’t need two of you,” Ben grumbles.
“Too late. We’re taking you out for frozen yogurt once you heal. We’re very proud of our brave little guy.”
Ben groans. “You’re genuinely awful.”
“I strive for consistency.”
After a moment, Ben says, quietly, “I didn’t mean for you to get caught up in all this.”
“Too late,” Jackson says, voice soft. “I’m very caught.”
Ben shifts in the chair, spine curling slightly like he wants to turn around.
“I’m still figuring out how to write it,” Jackson says. “So far it’s between‘Reporter Risks Life, Limb, and Beautifully Tailored Suit to Save Undervalued Seafood Heir’and‘Local Journalist Heroically Battles Corruption, Feelings.’”
Ben’s voice floats back, “Just don’t make me sound pathetic.”
