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My body tenses without my permission. I try to calm it. Try to tell myself that this is Casey's life. What he does is his choice.
Inhale.
Exhale.
He's not yours, Jake. You don't get a fucking say.
It doesn't work.
"So, not only are you not going to the doctor, but you're also refusing to see the therapist?"
Any progress we may have gained is lost. In fact, it's even worse this time. Instead of a blank expression, he's glaring at me. I hate it. It makes my skin crawl. Makes me want to get on my knees and beg him for forgiveness. "I'll talk to him when I'm ready."
"The doctor?"
"No, the therapist."
"And when will you talk to the doctor?" I press.
“I’m not going to see a doctor. Like… at all. Ever. I don’t need one.”
My chest constricts with panic. “Don’t need one? Casey, you nearly fucking died!”
“Nearly, yeah, but I didn’t!”
"Well, someone else did!" I yell, my voice cracking with fear. "One of the survivors fucking died, Case. Because he wouldn't talk to anyone or see the doctor. Because we didn't know how fucking bad it was until it was too late. He died."
Casey wraps his arms around his waist, his eyes suddenly glassy. He parts his lips, but the only sound to come out of them is a shaky exhale.
“Just - I’m going to see the doctor tomorrow for my own check-up. Will you please come with me?" I beg. "We’ll do it together. Please.”
"You did your job, Jake. You saved me. You got me here. I'm not your responsibility anymore." A tear slips down his cheek. "So, why do you care so much?
“Because I care about you, Casey!” I step closer to him, my hands shaking at my sides with the urge to touch. To grab. To hold on and never let go. “I care so fucking much about you that I think I might explode.”
His pretty blue eyes widen, a soft gasp falling from his lips. "R-really?"
"I promise."
And I always keep those.
Even without saying the last part, I know he hears it. I know he knows. His shoulders drop. "Okay."
"Okay?" I ask, trying not to get my hopes up in case he doesn't mean what I think he means.
"Okay, I'll do it. I'll go with you." He shakes his head. "But I won't let him touch me. At all. I want it to be you who does all of that."
I frown. “I’m not a doctor, Case.”
“He’ll be there to help. To supervise and talk you through it. But I want it to be your hands that do… whatever needs to be done. I mean, you gave me an IV at the compound. And you watched my fever and gave me medicine and all that. And I know you’re who dealt with Carter when he got really sick. And you’re who treated Travis’s stab wound while you guys were on your way to the safehouse after the party. You’re not a doctor, but you know enough.”
There are about a dozen arguments already forming in my head, all against the idea, but I remind myself not to get greedy. He's willing to see the doctor. That's what's important. "Okay."
He smiles. It's wobbly and anxious, but I'll take it. “Thank you, Jake. Really.”
"Anything," I tell him. And I mean it. I mean it so fucking much that it's dangerous. "Always."
"Anything…" he murmurs. His eyes dart over to the bed, like he's considering something. Will he ask me to stay? Has he missed me as much as I’ve missed him? But then he shakes his head and gives me a smile that's clearly forced. "I'll see you in the morning?"
