Chapter 25
Jackson
Fractured clavicle. It’s obvious from the second the EMT pulls aside Ben’s collar and presses two fingers to the jut of bone beneath the already bruising skin.
Maybe ribs, too. Hard to say. Ben had gone quiet, tight all over, as soon as they touched him, more from resignation than pain, like he already knew. Like he didn’t want to make a fuss.
Now Ben’s gone, out of reach, wheeled somewhere into the fluorescent belly of the hospital to be imaged, assessed, tucked behind curtains in rooms with too many wires and not enough privacy. Somewhere even his father’s considerable influence can’t follow for the moment.
Jackson sees how much that rankles Ben Jr., Mr. Whitaker, senior Ben, Dad, whatever name fits a man who looks like he might personally demolish the wing with his name on it any minute now.
It’s there in the way his jaw is clamped.
His restless glance endlessly flicks toward the swinging doors at the slightest movement.
He stares at the wall clock over and over, as if angry it’s not moving faster.
It’s the same panic he’s seen in Ben, but in a more expensive suit.
Jackson sits beside him. It felt wrong not to, once the nurse disappeared with Ben. Once there was nothing to do but wait.
Jackson doesn’t belong here. He knows that. He’s not family. He’s not anything, technically. Just a guy who followed a story straight into something deeper than he expected. He can’t think of another place that would make sense right now.
“I’m going to get us some coffee,” Ben’s father says, standing abruptly, the first words he’s spoken in over an hour. “What do you take?”
Jackson glances over, a little startled. “Black’s fine.”
Mr. Whitaker gives him a dry, assessing glance. “Son, I’ve had more bad hospital coffee than I care to admit. You sure I can’t talk you into a little cream and sugar?” There’s a note there, gruff, but not unkind.
“Dealer’s choice,” Jackson says after a beat. “Just no powdered creamer. I have standards.”
“I’ll see what I can find.”
He disappears down the corridor, heading toward the vending machines or maybe just into the illusion of usefulness.
When he comes back, it’s with two paper cups and a metaphorical olive branch. Jackson accepts both with a quiet thanks and takes a sip that immediately confirms his low expectations. It’s awful, even with the cream, but he drinks it anyway.
Mr. Whitaker lowers himself into the chair again. “It’s not the first time he’s been hurt,” he says, after a moment.
Jackson turns to look at him.
“He broke his arm falling off the breakwall when he was eight. Trying to rescue a seagull, of all things. Damn bird wasn’t even injured; it flew straight at him the second he got close. Scared the hell out of him.” His voice goes quieter. “I watched it happen. Couldn’t stop it.”
Just like that, the executive polish slips. There’s no CEO sitting beside Jackson now. Just a father, worn and weathered at the edges.
“I told him to be brave. That I needed him to be strong.” He doesn’t look at Jackson as he speaks, just stares toward the double doors. “He didn’t cry. Not even when they reset the bone.”
Jackson swallows.
“I used to be proud of that.” The words fall out flat.
“I keep thinking about how his mother used to tell me to slow down. To see him. Not just push him forward. Just… be with him.” A soft, humorless laugh escapes him.
“She was right. She was always right about that sort of thing. I let it get too far. I let him push himself too hard. I thought it would protect him.”
Jackson’s first instinct is to snap something cutting. He bites it down. Tries, for Ben, to meet this moment the way Ben would. “He didn’t want to let you down.”
Mr. Whitaker flinches like the words hit something soft. “He hasn’t,” he says hoarsely. “He never has. Not once.”
Jackson nods, looking down at the coffee cooling in his hands. “Wouldn’t hurt to tell him that.”
That hangs in the air until the nurse steps in and calls Mr. Whitaker’s name.
Jackson rises halfway, uncertain, but Mr. Whitaker glances back and gives a nod. Come on. You too.
Ben’s already dressed when they find him, or mostly.
He’s frowning down at what’s left of his cut-open shirt, trying to line up the buttons one-handed.
He’s off by at least two. One side of the collar is sticking straight up, the other trapped under the sling.
The hem’s half-tucked. He looks irritated and pathetic and so wonderfully, reassuringly okay that Jackson’s knees go a little loose just seeing him.
“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 humiliate you, personally,” Jackson offers, stopping just inside the doorway.
“I specifically asked for, like, a single ounce of dignity.”
“That’s wild,” Jackson says. “Because I specifically 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 both deep concern and impeccable credit history in 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 like me?”
“Because you are a competence iceberg,” Jackson leans in and kisses him gently on the forehead. He’d kiss every inch of him 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.”
Jackson slows the chair near an intersection of hallways; a flickering vending machine hums beside a water fountain.
“Ben. You walked into a room to confront a man you knew was dangerous, got thrown to the floor hard enough to break your collarbone, and still tried to apologize to your guests afterward. You broke this whole thing wide open.”
“You gonna run a picture of me like this?”
Jackson grins. “Could get some sympathy clicks but I was actually thinking of one of your gym selfies. People will want to know the regimen.”
Ben snorts softly, and it’s one of the best sounds Jackson’s heard all night.
Jackson’s tone shifts, just slightly, as he keeps walking. “I do have to cover Kent. The key parts, anyway. But the company should come out okay. Bad apple and all that. Hard to deny in this case.”
Ben is quiet long enough that Jackson wonders if the meds pulled him under. Then: “I want you to keep digging on MarineSelect. What we saw at Scrimshaw Cove… that can’t keep happening. If you can stop it, and I can help, you’ve got me.”
Jackson breathes a little easier. “Yeah?”
Ben nods. “Whatever you need.”
Jackson smiles. “Perfect. You can start by being my quote.”
Ben makes a doubtful noise.
“You know,” Jackson continues, “for explaining what we saw that night. Also confirming that I’m a world-class kisser. Just for credibility.”
“Jackson.”
“You don’t have to say who you were making out with. People might question my journalistic objectivity. But you should get the kiss into the record. And that it was really sexy. And you loved it and the mysterious stranger doing the kissing.”
Ben tilts his head slightly. “I’m literally in a wheelchair, high on codeine. I’m not making any official statements about my feelings until I’m no longer legally stoned.”
Jackson grins. “Fair. I’ll circle back.”
There’s a pause, soft, settled. The kind Jackson almost never gets after a story. They coast the last stretch of hallway in silence. The doors ahead ease open with a soft mechanical whoosh, letting in a current of cold air.
Ben shifts again, breathes out a sigh. “Next year,” he mutters, “I’m doing a cake in the break-room. No speeches. No shellfish. No scandals. Just a sheet cake. From the grocery store.”
Jackson presses his hand to the back of the chair, leans in just a little. “You’d still overthink the frosting,” he says gently.
A pause.
“I really would,” Ben admits, and it’s miserable and endearing all at once.
Jackson laughs, quiet and helpless, and rests his forehead briefly against the back of Ben’s head.
“I’ll bring candles,” he whispers. “And a fire extinguisher. Just in case.”
“Deal,” Ben murmurs sleepily.
Jackson straightens just as headlights bloom across the curb, the senior Whitaker, right on cue. Time to roll.
If Jackson lets the chair move a little slower, just to stretch these last quiet seconds, well, only the disinfectant and the buzzing lights are here to notice.
Back at his apartment, Jackson writes the bulk of the article.
Kent. The party. What can be confirmed, what needs to wait. He hammers it out in one sitting.
He rereads it once. Doesn’t change a thing.
Jackson powers off the laptop and stares at the dark screen for a moment, not looking at his reflection exactly, but something near it. The night has gone quiet around him, just the fridge humming, the radiator clanking. Too late for traffic. Too early for birds.
He doesn’t tarry over the routine. Undershirt off, teeth clean, lights off. Smokey joins him on the bed, all paws and purr, curling against his side.
Jackson lies still, letting the night rewind itself in fragments.
Not back to the chaos or the fight or the crowd, but to the press of Ben next to him on the piano bench, the hush between steps as they danced, the feeling of Ben’s weight leaning into him.
Those moments of fragile gravity; the feeling that maybe not everything Jackson touches has to fall apart.
He thinks about Boston, but only for a second. Not rewriting the ending. Not wondering what he should’ve done differently. The guilt lands smaller now, somehow. There’s space enough for some acceptance to take up residence. Room enough to remember that not every mistake becomes a pattern.
He shifts onto his side with a breath that actually goes somewhere. No old headlines in his brain. No shame chewing behind his ribs.
Sleep finds him easy, and the first time in a long time, it is a rest that feels earned.