Jack Abbot can’t stand it when you get hurt. A sprain while working out, cuts and scrapes from working in the garden or cooking, bug bites, splinters - doesn’t matter. He’s all over you the second your face contorts for even a fraction of a second in pain.
You sprained your ankle one time on a walk and hobbled into the house, cursing yourself for wearing these shoes on such rocky ground for an afternoon walk. You made it far enough inside to take your shoes off, but not far enough for your slight limp to go unnoticed by him. He caught you in his path returning to the couch with a beer. “Hey honeybee, how was your wa- are you limping?” “Yeah a bit but I’m fine it just hurts.” “So, you’re not fine… pain means not fine…” “Jack I’m-“ “nuh uh," he protests, setting his beer down and motioning you to come closer. "Lemme see.”
He sits down on the little bench just inside your front door, usually reserved for packing up bags and putting shoes on before heading out, now turned into a makeshift exam table. He pats a knee, “here, up.” You love him, but you just want to sit down. “Jackkkk” you whine. He gives you one look, a stern, firm look, and you’re delicately placing your still sock-clad foot on his thigh. “There ya go. Let me take a look,” he removes his readers from their resting place atop his head, putting them on with one hand, steadying you with the other. He looks up at you over the rim of his lenses, “where does it hurt when you put weight on it?” You pointed at and rubbed on the spot, taking in a short little hiss of breath, “here.” He follows your direction, palpates and massages the area, rolls your sock down to make sure there isn’t a skin-level injury or bruising. He rolls it back up when he’s satisfied that there isn’t a wound, a handful of causes ruled out.
“Well doc? What’s the verdict?” He gives you a slightly exasperated look, “Well, might be a sprain. Could have fractured something. Lots of small bones in the foot, that can happen. Maybe we can get you an x-ray-" “Jack…” “What? I can’t know for sure unless I see.” “Can we just try a brace and if an x-ray is necessary, we’ll go? Okay?” He huffs. Actually huffs. “A brace…. Pft....” He looks up at you so incredulously. Like you have a broken leg and you’re asking for a band-aid. “A brace is the minimum we’ll do here sugar. Come on, let’s get this elevated.”
And then you’re parked on the couch, soft fluffy pillow elevating your injured foot, and here he comes with a compression sleeve, a brace, lidocaine spray, and ibuprofen. “Where’s your heating pad?” “Uh, my nightstand? Why?” “Gotta alternate ice and heat!” He calls from the kitchen, where he’s raiding the freezer for an ice pack. He rounds the corner wrapping it in a soft towel, “here, hold it on there like this,” he places the pack on the sore spot and you nearly moan. “Oh that’s nice, that’s better.” “Yeah?" he smirks, the devil... "Good. Hold it there I’ll be right back.” And he skitters off down the hall to your bedroom. You hear the rustle of drawers being pulled out and rifled through, a smile forming on your face at how quickly he comes to your aid, even over minor things. “Got it!” Bounding back down the hallway, he’s already unwrapping the cord to get the pad set up for you. He looks up at you and his steps falter as he sees how you’re barely able to contain a grin.
“What?” “Nothing, I just love you.” “I love you too. Scoot,” he motions with his hand so he can sit with you, puts the pillow in his lap and returns your foot to the spot. He holds the ice pack on for you as the heating pad warms up, rubs a calming, steady hand over your calf, and kicks back on the couch, returning to whatever he was watching and to his beer. You give him a look now bordering on incredulous, “nothing better to do than to fuss over me?” “Nah, I can fuss and watch at the same time. I'm just that good.” He turns his head to you and gives you a wink. “Feeling better?” “Yes, much, thank you Jackie.” :)
