Din Djarin doesn't remember the last time he felt the sun.
Sure, he can feel it through the suit in a way. It burns through the leather of his gloves, seeps between the gaps in his armor and leaves his skin damp beneath it. Heat latches onto beskar and builds on its surface until it's hot to the touch.
No, he doesn't remember the last time he felt it on his skin. The last time his eyes had to blink to adjust to its glare. The last time he basked in its glow and was completely vulnerable to its power.
He can almost take himself there, pull from memories of his childhood when he would lay against lush grass and soak in it's wonder. He can never quite capture it though, something is always missing. The warmth.
Nothing can manufacture it.
Not lowering the polarization on his visor. Not the relief that comes everytime he takes off his chest plate. Even in the rare moments without armor, when he turns the heat all the way up in the fresher and stands beneath it's wash until his skin burns. it still doesn't feel the same.
When he was a younger man, when he was most dedicated to his creed, he didn't think about it.
No, there was nothing he missed that couldn't be outweighed by a simple, self righteous reminder that this is the way.
The he met you, and for the first time he doesn't even know how many years, Din Djarin felt he Sun.
He met you almost a full orbit ago, a perfectly unremarkable engineer in need of a job. One Peli had vouched for over comms. Promising that while she wasn't around to help with his usual repairs, she trusted you enough to handle them.
'Handle you,' were her exact words. She'd laughed at the end, as if there was joke he wasn't privy too. He hadn't though much of it until he actually met you.
Until he landed in your port and watched as a pair of overalls and grease stains rolled out from beneath a speeder that's probably older than you are.
Until you approached him without hesitation, wiping grime from your palm before offering it in a fearless handshake.
Until you tilted your chin up and smiled.
Until you made eye contact without even trying, and Din finally felt it wash over him again.
That warmth.
It settles under his armor like a second skin, grows hotter when you kneel down to the kids height and coo something sweet.
Slowly, it festers.
A burning that covers every inch of his skin until it eventually becomes part of him. An ache in his stomach each time he finds you and the kid asleep in the copilots chair, big green ears fanned over your chest and both of your mouths open in a matching snore.
A sting in his chest when he catches your silhouette in the fresher door, frosted glass teasing him with curves he knows better than to covet.
A tightness in his pants when you use his blaster, a quick and precise hit after you realized someone was following the three of you on Canto Bight. You'd grabbed it from his hip without asking, stopped in your tracks and turned your body just enough to fire one devastating shot.
That last one haunts him often.
At night, when he's resting in the cockpit and you and the kid are downstairs. When his eyelids drift down and block his visor, so often he see it again. The scene replaying itself over and over.
So used to doing shooting Din can't seem to figure out what he's supposed yo do when someone shoots for him.
The next time he holds his blaster, he sees your hand around it, how you had to choke up towards the barrel to reach the trigger. He stares uselessly at it in his palm while his mind fills in the gaps. Quick math on how your hands would together clouding his better thoughts.
Din doesn't know why he asked you to travel with him. Sure, he can rattle of all the practical reasons until his modulator gives out. But none of them are enough, none of them erase the years of refusal and isolation. No matter how hard he tries, he can't find a reason why he needs you.
When he crawls down the ladder, finds you asleep on his cot with his son on your chest, he gets his answer.
just saw a tiktok abt this guy who carries a picture of his gf while he's deployed, so now it's got me thinking abt jack who kept a picture of mrs. abbot in his hat while he was away. even after she passed, and he retired, he still kept it. whether in his pocket or wallet. pretty much anywhere he could see it. it was now sun damaged and bent, and there's a tiny rip in the corner, but he's not able to function without it on his person.
jack never thought that he would fall in love again. he'd been on a few dates here and there, even the occasional one night stand. but the ladies were never right for him. until he met you, the new transfer on the night shift.
fast forward a few months, and the two of you are now dating. there's now a picture of you in his wallet. it was a taken the day you two became an official couple. he took you shopping, to your favorite restaurant, and then finished the day with ice cream in the park. the picture is you smiling with a twinkle in your eyes. you know, the one somebody has when they're in love.
he still has the picture of his wife, but he keeps it taped in his locker. not because he's ashamed. he just doesn't want you to see it and assume that he's still hung up on her and flip out on him. which is a stupid thought. you're not like that at all. but better safe than sorry.
but one day, it's really cold in the ptmc and you forgot your sweater, so jack let's you grab his from his locker. you almost miss the photo at first, but right before you close the locker, you notice it. you recognize the woman as jack's wife almost immediately.
when you later find him during one of the quiet moments, you ask him about the photo. it takes a little convincing, but after a while, you're able to get the truth out of him. in the end, you're not mad at him. not one bit. if anything, you're a little disappointed that he believed you, out of all people, would be upset that he kept a picture of his dead wife in his wallet.
"she came before me, baby. so she deserves a place on that wallet just as much, if not more, than i do. you're not stuck in the past, you're honoring her. and i have no issue with that."
later, before you and him leave to go home together, he puts the picture of her back in his wallet, right beside you. his two girls. the girl who showed him what love was, and the girl who made him believe in love again.
summary you and jack have always been a hands-on, can’t-keep-your-hands-off-each-other kind of couple—until you decide to commit to a month-long “detox.” no sex, no touching, no shortcuts. jack feels like the least sought after man in the land. (ao3)
(inspired by sabrina carpenter’s my man on willpower (2025)!)
tags/warnings MDNI (18+) explicit sexual content, age gap (mid-20s / 50s), established relationship, living together, unprotected p in v, oral (f/m, m/f) handjobs (mutual), mentions of masturbation, praise & teasing, domestic, hospital/medical stuff / orthopaedics (r3), wellness / “spiritual” themes, r. can do splits, santos being santos (mentions of santos/garcia breakup), robby lowkey ur third lol, healthy, sane relationship, more romcom than angst (much less sad than the actual song) (written by a law student, not a doctor—medical accuracy idkher)
wc 16.5k words
“I’m sorry,” Jack says slowly, like he’s trying very hard to be reasonable, “I’m still… a little lost here—what exactly are you doing?”
You don’t turn around from the stove. You know that tone. Measured and suspicious. The same one he uses when a story from a patient doesn’t quite add up, or when he’s looking for you to notice what he has noticed in your words.
“I’m doing a detox,” you say, plating the pasta with unnecessary precision. “So—you know, yoga, no alcohol, no drugs, no screens, no shopping, no sex, no soda—”
“—right there,” he cuts in.
You pause, glancing over your shoulder. “…No soda?”
He doesn’t even blink. “No. The no sex.”
You turn back to the counter, like this is completely normal. “What, you can’t handle a month without sex?”
Jack doesn’t bite—doesn’t rise to it like someone your age would. He just watches you, lips pursed, arms folded, weight settled into one hip, expression flattening into something more deliberate.
“Not when it’s without you,” he says, simple.
You huff a small laugh, trying to shake off the way it lands somewhere inconvenient in your chest. “That’s flattering. That will get you very far.”
You slide his plate toward him. He doesn’t take it yet.
“It’s not like I won’t miss it,” you add, softer now. “Same as alcohol. Same as everything else.”
“Yeah,” he says, pushing off the counter finally, crossing the kitchen in a few easy steps. “Difference is alcohol’s not making you come in under ten minutes, and four times in an hour.”
You shoot him a look—sharp, immediate.
He shrugs, already reaching past you into the fridge like he didn’t just say that. “It’s a valid comparison.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“You love it,” he shrugged, knowing, grabbing the cheese. “Point is - you know, it’s a big difference.”
You try not to smile. You fail, a little.
“I just—” you sigh, taking the cheese from him, grating it over your pasta. “I want to do something that requires actual discipline. Reset a bit. Clear my head.”
“Hon,” he says, quieter now, leaning his shoulder against the counter beside you, close enough that his arm brushes yours, “you work ortho and you’re an R3. You’re up for thirty hours at a time, you operate on broken bones for fun, you look amazing, you’re healthy—what part of you needs more discipline?”
You glance at him. He’s looking at you properly now. Not teasing.
You soften a fraction. “It’s not about that.”
“Then what is it about?”
You hesitate. Just a second too long.
“…It’s just a month,” you settle on. “Four weeks. Thirty days. We’ll live.”
He studies you. You can feel it—clinical, almost. Like he’s trying to diagnose something you’re not saying out loud.
Then—
“And this is just penetration?” he asks.
You freeze.
Your silence is loud.
Jack exhales, slow, disbelieving, dragging a hand down over his mouth. “Goddamn.”
You busy yourself with the plates again. “It’s part of the program.”
“Program,” he repeats flatly. “Who the hell put you up to this?”
“Santos. and McKay. We all agreed to do it together.”
That earns you a look.
“…Santos,” he says, like he’s deeply reconsidering several life choices. “Of course this has Santos written all over it - getting you into a nun-cult thing.”
You laugh despite yourself, handing him his bowl. “It’s not a cult. It’s a detox.”
“It’s a sexless cult,” he mutters, taking the bowl.
You nudge his hip with yours. “You’ve survived longer droughts.”
“Yeah,” he shoots back immediately. “In the army.”
You grin. “Oh, here we go.”
“You’re really gonna do this to me?” he says, following you toward the couch. “Make the disabled veteran relive his worst years?”
“Your worst years were not lack of sex, be serious.”
“Debatable.”
You snort, dropping onto the couch, tucking your legs under you. He sits beside you, close—closer than necessary, knee knocking into yours, like he’s testing the boundaries of this already.
You hand him a fork.
“It’ll be good for us,” you say, softer now. “Builds character.”
He looks at you sidelong. “I have enough character.”
“You could always use more.”
“Yeah?” he murmurs.
His hand comes up—absent, habitual—resting warm at your knee, thumb brushing once, slow. Not even thinking about it. Your breath catches before you can stop it.
His mouth twitches, just slightly. Not quite a smile.
“…Fine. I’ll do whatever I can to support you in this… detox, thing,” he says.
You smile, even though his calloused hand is rubbing softly against your skin, warm, rough and inched maybe a little further onto your thigh. “I appreciate that.”
He leans back into the couch, finally picking up his fork, but his hand doesn’t move from your leg.
A pause.
Then—
“We can still watch Housewives?” he asks, like this is the real negotiation.
You let out a breath, tension cracking just enough to smile. “Housewives stays.”
“Right,” he nods. “Good. Thought you were gonna take everything from me.”
You roll your eyes, nudging him with your shoulder. “So you think you can handle this?”
“‘Course I can handle this.”
★★★
“I can’t handle this,” Jack says.
Robby doesn’t even look up as he checks his watch, pulling up his sleeves as they step outside, already smiling like he’s been waiting for this. “It’s just a month, man. Cool it.”
“It’s not just a month,” Jack shoots back, arms folded, pacing a tight line along the bay, outside the ED. “It’s a month without her. There’s a difference.”
Robby snorts. “Oh, I’m sure there is.”
“I’m serious,” Jack says, sharper now. “You don’t get it—you don’t—” he gestures vaguely, frustrated. “When you have her, she’s— she’s everything. It’s not just sex, it’s…. well, it is, but it's also more, it's... deeper? No, it's... you know, I mean—”
“—you were about to say something amazingly poetic and then ruined it,” Robby cuts in, amused.
“Yeah, well,” Jack mutters. “We have sex four to five times a week. Minimum three. And now?” He throws his hands up. “Nothing. She won’t even let me spoon her.”
Robby pauses.
Then looks up slowly.
“…Spooning.”
“Don’t,” Jack warns.
Robby’s grin breaks wide. “Jack Abbot. Spooning. Are you the big or little one? Or does it switch?”
“Oh, shut up.”
“That’s… wow,” Robby shakes his head, impressed. “It’s a cute image.”
Jack drags a hand over his face, already irritated. “Not even—nothing. It’s like I’m in a goddamn monastery.”
“Voluntarily celibate,” Robby nods. “Very spiritual of you.”
“I did not volunteer,” Jack snaps.
“You stayed,” Robby counters.
Jack glares at him, then looking out into the evening. “Where the hell are they? They said two minutes.”
“Relax,” Robby says, still enjoying this far too much. “Also— five times a week? Christ, having that kind of libido at your age?” He clicks his tongue, an exhale. “Impressive. You should get that checked out.”
“Forget that,” Jack mutters. “She’ll kill me if I’m talking about this.”
“Oh, so there’s still fear. Good. That’s healthy.”
Jack exhales sharply, jaw tight, eyes flicking back out toward the ambulance bay.
“How long’s it been since you two…?” Robby asks, vaguely gesturing, curious as to how his friend is already so wound up.
Jack hesitates.
“…Two days.”
There’s a beat.
Robby stares at him. “…Two days,” he repeats.
Jack doesn’t answer.
Robby lets out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “You’re kidding me.”
“I wish I was.”
“You’re like this after two days?”
Jack shrugs, already keyed up. “Look, I mean, that is including any kind of touch and sexual actions, alright—”
“That’s pathetic,” Robby says, still grinning.
“I know,” Jack snaps, pacing again now, faster. “I know, it’s—this is ridiculous. She won’t even kiss me, barely hugs me. She’s… walking around like nothing’s changed—”
“Yeah,” Robby hums. “Almost like she’s not the one with the problem. Just let her ride this out. You expect her to put on a nun costume?”
Jack shoots him a look. “You're not helping.”
“I’m not trying to,” Robby says easily.
Jack exhales, running a hand through his silver waves, agitation sitting just under the surface now. He glances out again, scanning for lights, for movement.
“Where the hell are they?” he mutters. “They said two minutes.”
Robby straightens a fraction, checking his watch again. “Traffic, maybe—”
“Ambulance crashed!”
The shout cuts through the bay, and their conversation is finished quickly as they race out with nurses to help.
★★★
Jack Abbot was a strong man, in many respects.
He’d seen enough—done enough—to have a working relationship with pain, with loss, with the kind of things that hollow people out if they let it. He wasn’t perfect, but he was… steady. More emotionally literate than most men he knew—Robby included, which wasn’t exactly a high bar, but still.
He knew how to sit in discomfort. Knew how to carry it. Knew how to endure.
But this. This thing you were doing…
The thing about you was, he’d never really had to hold back before.
From the moment you’d settled into his life—properly, fully, toothbrush next to his, your things in his drawers, your presence in every corner of his apartment—he’d made a decision: you get all of him. Whatever he has, whatever he can give, whenever you want, it’s yours.
That includes the easy things. The soft things.
And yeah—sex too.
It wasn’t the foundation of your relationship. Not even close. Two years together, six months living side by side, working different departments, different hours—you loved each other in ways that had nothing to do with sex.
But – Christ. It didn’t hurt that the sex was very good.
And you—young, bright, all sharp edges and softness in the right places—you’d woken something up in him he hadn’t realised had gone quiet. Made him feel… not younger, exactly, but awake.
Kept him on his toes. Made him care, in small stupid ways—like going to the gym on his off days so he could keep up with you, so he didn’t feel like he was lagging behind when you dragged him out into the world.
You were tactile in a way that blurred the line between affection and need. Always finding him. You always managed to make him feel like the centre of any and all desires.
Hands on his arm when you passed. Fingers hooking into his belt loops when you walked past him in the kitchen. Leaning into him mid-conversation like gravity pulled you there. Curling into his side on the couch, half on top of him, legs tangled, absentmindedly tracing patterns over his chest like you didn’t even realise you were doing it.
You’d climb into his lap without asking. Kiss him just because you could. Start something in the middle of nowhere—half a joke, half not—just to see the way he’d react.
It didn’t go unnoticed. Robby had picked up on it within the first few weeks.
Some shitty bar down the road with shittier beer, end of shift, nothing special—and all Jack could do was watch you.
“The hell did you find her?” Robby asked, leaning against the bar, eyes flicking between Jack and where you were across the room, laughing too loud at something Ellis had said, drink loose in your hand.
Jack followed his line of sight without meaning to. It softened him, visibly.
“She found me,” he said, like that explained anything. Took a sip of his beer. “Cafeteria. First week at PTMC.”
Robby hummed, unconvinced. “Right. Of course she did.”
Jack shrugged, trying for casual. “She’s… enthusiastic.”
Robby glanced back at you, just in time to see the way your attention shifted mid-conversation—like something had tugged on you. Your eyes landed on Jack immediately.
Locked. And then—there it was. That smile. Not polite, not social. Specific.
“Yeah,” Robby muttered. “That’s one word for it.”
You were already moving.
Didn’t even finish whatever you were saying, just peeled off like the rest of the room had lost its relevance. Straight line to Jack, weaving through people without hesitation.
You slipped into his space like you belonged there, like you always had.
“Hi,” you said, bright, a little breathless. “Missed you.”
Jack blinked. “You’ve been gone fifteen minutes.”
“Felt longer,” you shrugged, already reaching for him—fingers brushing over his bicep, then squeezing, slow and appreciative, like you were reminding yourself he was real. “I love this shirt.”
Robby snorted into his drink. He knew that shirt. Cheap, slightly too tight on purpose. Jack had once tried to pretend it wasn’t a strategy. Apparently, it was working.
You didn’t move away. If anything, you leaned closer—hips brushing his, hand still on his arm, thumb dragging once like you couldn’t quite help it.
Robby watched the exact second Jack stopped pretending this wasn’t affecting him.
“You busy?” you asked, softer now.
You tilted your head, smiling like you already knew the answer.
Then you leaned in.
Close enough that Robby couldn’t hear, but not subtle about it either—your mouth brushing Jack’s ear, your hand tightening slightly on his arm as you murmured something low.
Whatever it was, Jack went still.Immediate. A shift. Shoulders tightening, breath catching, eyes dropping to you like he needed a second to recalibrate.
Robby raised a brow. You pulled back like nothing had happened, smile sweet, completely unbothered. Jack set his beer down.
“We’re heading out,” he said.
Robby stared at him. “You just got here.”
“Yeah,” Jack replied, already reaching for his jacket. “We’re done.”
Jack had called it the honeymoon phase. It wasn’t. It just… evolved.
You stayed exactly as enthusiastic as he’d first described—just more efficient about it. More integrated into the rhythm of your lives. Somehow worse, if you asked Robby.
And when you were stressed—which was often, given Ortho, given your hours, given you—it got worse. Or better, depending on who you asked.
You’d come home wired, exhausted, brain still running at full speed—and instead of shutting down, you’d go straight to him. Like he was the off-switch. Like being close to him, touching him, feeling him, was how you came back to yourself.
You didn’t overthink it. You didn’t ration it.
And now nothing. He’s not sure if he recognises you.
It’s not just the sex. That’s the worst of it, sure. The obvious absence. But it’s everything else that’s starting to wear on him. You’re thorough with it. Annoyingly disciplined.
★★★
Day Six.
He gets home just after eight in the morning, dead on his feet, the kind of tired that sits behind his eyes and dulls everything out.
The apartment’s not quiet. That’s the first thing.
The second— You.
On the floor in the lounge, in the middle of a yoga mat, moving through a pose like this is something you’ve always done. You quit yoga a year ago. Said it was boring. Said you couldn’t sit still long enough.
And yet here you are. And Santos is with you. Which is… its own problem. There’s a lot to unpack there.
Why does Santos know where you live?
Why is Santos doing yoga?
Why are you wearing that—some tight, soft, barely-there athleisure set that looks like it was designed specifically to make his life harder?
“Hi, baby!” you call, bright, easy, like nothing’s changed, as you both move into cobra.
“Gross,” Santos mutters under her breath.
“Hey, hon,” Jack says, voice rough with fatigue as he steps in, toeing off his shoes.
The coffee table’s been shoved aside, the TV playing some overly calm instructor guiding you through it like this is a wellness retreat instead of his living room.
He walks over anyway—automatic, like always. Bends down, aiming for your mouth—
—and you shift just slightly.
It’s subtle. Anyone else wouldn’t clock it. But he does.
His kiss lands on your cheek instead.
You don’t even break the pose.
“No kisses during yoga, interrupts my zen,” you remind him lightly.
A beat.
“Right,” he says, quieter. “Forgot about that.”
There’s the faintest pause—just enough to feel it.
“Feels like it’s all the time lately,” he adds under his breath. Then, correcting himself, “But—yeah. I get it.”
You hum, already moving out of cobra like nothing’s happened.
He straightens, slower now, glancing at Santos.
She rolls her eyes.
“Next pose,” she says flatly.
You shift without hesitation.
“You should shower, then have some breakfast,” you tell him gently, already moving into child’s pose. “I made oats. They’re in the fridge.”
“Oats?” he repeats. “Since when do you eat oats?”
“It’s good for your gut, heart health, digestion, blood sugar,” Santos answers, not looking up. “Cleansing in some cultures.”
Jack blinks at her. “…Right. I’ve been a doctor for twenty years. Think I’ve got gut health covered, Trinity.”
“I don’t think your army rations count as a gut health plan,” she shoots back.
You let out a small laugh into the mat.
“I thought you said oats were for Victorian children and farmers who hate themselves,” Jack adds to you.
“They are,” you mumble. “But these have honey and cinnamon.”
Santos chimes. “And spite.”
Jack just stares at the two of you for a second.
Looking at you—folded into the pose, calm, deliberate. Not reaching for him. Not pulling him down. Like he’s background noise.
“Okay,” he says finally, a little clipped. “You two… have fun.” He drags a hand over his face. “I’m gonna sleep for about five hours.”
He turns, already heading for the bedroom, shoulders a little tighter than when he walked in.
You glance up, watching him go.
There’s a beat of silence.
Santos shifts beside you into a side plank, already shaking slightly. “Jesus Christ.”
You follow, steady.
“He seems… stable,” she says.
“He’s a bit grumpy,” you reply. “We haven’t touched in nearly a week.”
Santos’s head snaps toward you. “So?”
“We’re touchy people.”
“Right,” she nods once. “I hate happy couples.”
You huff a quiet laugh.
“This was your idea, by the way,” you remind her.
“Yeah, and it’s a good one,” she says immediately. “I needed to not text Garcia at 2AM and ruin my life again.”
“You could just… not text her.”
Santos looks at you like you’ve said something deeply stupid. “Oh, yeah. Genius. Why didn’t I think of that?”
You smile slightly.
“She blocked me last night,” Santos adds, flat.
“Oh.”
“Yeah. ‘For her peace.’” She makes air quotes with one hand, nearly losing balance. “Which is crazy, because I’m incredibly peaceful.”
“Well, this detox thing is a great idea. You’ll cleanse yourself of her.”
“Evil lesbians are not for the weak.”
“Hon, where are those scented candles?” Jack calls from the hallway, voice carrying through the apartment.
“I threw them out,” you call back. “They release benzene. Cleansing, remember?”
There’s a pause.
“…Of course you did,” he mutters, just loud enough.
Santos snorts as you both move into the next stretch, threading your arm under your body.
“Bit much, isn’t it?” she says.
You exhale into the mat. “I am going to be so aggressively cleansed by the end of this, you’d consider me the Virgin Mary.”
★★★
Day Nine.
Virgin Mary, my ass.
That’s all Jack can think as he leans in the doorway for a second too long, watching you at the counter. Pink, ridiculous, barely-there panties.
The ones from Valentine’s. His t-shirt hanging off you like it belongs there, cut just high enough that every small shift of your hips flashes skin he knows too well. Music hums low from the radio—something easy, something you’re half-swaying to as you chop vegetables like this is just… normal.
He’s been up maybe five minutes. Has to leave in thirty. And he’s already half-hard. He pushes off the doorway anyway. Walks up behind you like muscle memory.
His arms come around you slow, familiar—settling over your waist, pulling you back into him. He feels the way you soften immediately, that slight melt into his chest like your body still knows him, even if you’re being… whatever this is.
You startle just a little, then relax.
“Hey,” you murmur, turning your head slightly as he drops his chin to your shoulder. “You’re up.”
“Mhm,” he hums, already pressing his mouth to your neck.
He doesn’t even pretend restraint. Just goes for it—slow, lazy kisses wherever he can reach, nosing along your skin, breathing you in like he’s been deprived, because he has.Which—he has.
“What’re you making?” he asks against you, voice rougher than he means it to be.
“Food prep,” you say, though it comes out softer than that. A little breath slipping through when he finds that spot under your ear.
“Shit—Jack,” you add, quieter now, the knife slowing in your hand. “You can’t.”
He smiles against your skin. Not nice about it.
“I can’t,” he repeats, low. “Or you can’t?”
His hands move without asking—sliding under the hem of his shirt on you, palms warm against your stomach first. Familiar. Testing.
You inhale sharply. He doesn’t stop. Just keeps going—slow, deliberate—up over your ribs, feeling the curve of you, the heat of your skin, until his hands settle over your chest. Not rough. Not greedy. Like he belongs there. Because he does. Or he did.
Your hand stills completely on the counter.
“Jack,” you say again, but it’s weaker this time. Less conviction, more breath.
He presses another kiss just below your ear, voice dropping.
“Been real good about this,” he murmurs. “Haven’t I?”
You don’t answer.
Because he has. You're not making it easy, after Santos suggested to have more fun with it. So, sure, you go for panties and shirt, maybe even the barely there nightgowns you bought a while back, feeling as he is completely still besides you in bed.
His touch shifts just slightly—not pushing, not crossing a line, but close enough to remind you exactly how easily he could.
Your head tips back a fraction before you catch yourself.
“No,” you say, firmer now, even as your body lags behind. “Nope. No, can’t. I’m staying cleansed. My book says even too much contact can make you unfocused.”
He exhales slowly, like he’s dragging himself back by force.
“Unfocused.. alright,” he mutters. “Whatever you want.”
But his hands don’t move right away. You finally set the knife down, turning in his arms so you’re facing him. Big mistake.
Because now you’re looking at him properly—sleep-rough, hair a mess, jaw shadowed, eyes still heavy but fixed on you like you’re the only thing in the room. And you know that look. You’ve felt what follows it.
“You should get a hobby,” you tell him quietly.
“Yeah?” he says, not looking away.
“Maybe pottery,” you shrug. “Something that isn’t being a SWAT medic and—” you hesitate just slightly, “—fucking me or whatever.”
His hands slide down your sides, slower this time. Reluctant.
“But I really like my hobbies,” he says, voice low, rough around the edges. “Especially fucking you, or whatever.”
The way he looks at you when he says it—like he’s imagining you in the most vulgar of situations—makes heat climb straight up your neck. You hate that it works.
He doesn’t move.
“Jack.”
“Just one kiss?” He asks.
You open your mouth to say yes, but you bite your lip and think for a second. You lean in pressing a deliberate kiss to his cheek, hand up to his neck, feeling how he melts under your touch.
You fingers briefly fidget with the grey curls at the nape of his neck, as his fingers dig slightly into your hips. You pull back.
“I’ll try pottery,” he mutters.
You smile—small, controlled. Infuriating. Then he lets you go. Barely.
You watch him walk off toward the bedroom, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to shake it off, his own shirt fitted against him, rising, tight against his biceps, and the second he’s out of sight—
You exhale. Your grip tightens on the counter, head tipping forward for a second. This is... harder than you thought it’d be.
It’s him. The way he moves around you like it’s instinct. The way your body still answers before your brain catches up. The way one kiss feels like a warning.
If you touch him properly—if you let yourself lean into it even a little—you know exactly how it goes. There’s no halfway with him. There never has been. You've struggled to hold back with him.
You both work too hard, sleep too little. You orbit each other—shared meals, late-night TV, quiet mornings when they exist. He’s steady, solid, always there. And sex has always been part of that too.
You press your lips together, shaking your head slightly as you keep chopping, trying to focus. You should’ve fought harder on the point about no sex, but Santos seemed so pitiful, you don’t have the heart to tell her you broke or to lie.
Cleanse. Reset. Prove you’ve got discipline. Prove you’re not just running on impulse and instinct and whatever feels good in the moment. Focused...ness. All that.
It’s just you’ve never seen him like this. Not like this kind of worked up. Not this restless, this… needy. Your thighs press together instinctively, heat lingering, annoying and insistent.
“God,” you mutter under your breath, grabbing the knife again like that’ll ground you. “Pathetic.”
★★★
Day Twelve.
“I cannot tell if you’re being serious right now,” Robby says, standing beside Jack in the elevator as they head down from the roof.
Jack doesn’t even look at him. “It’s psychological warfare.”
Robby scoffs. “Oh my god.”
“I’m serious,” Jack insists, dragging a hand over his face. “I can’t think straight. It’s like… cognitive impairment. I should get tested.”
“You need to get a grip,” Robby replies.
“You don’t get it,” Jack mutters. “You haven’t had a relationship like this in—what, a decade? More? This isn’t casual. This is… routine. Structure. Stability.” He gestures vaguely. “We live together. We’ve got a system.”
“A system,” Robby repeats, flat.
“Yes,” Jack says, defensive. “And she’s dismantled it. Completely. No warning. Just—gone. Overnight. You know her, she's all over me usually. And I’m a touchy guy, man, I feel like a sunflower without sun. She is my sun.”
Robby exhales through his nose. “It’s been two weeks.”
“Twelve days,” Jack corrects. “That’s long enough to destabilise a man.”
The elevator dings. Doors open. A couple of nurses step in.
Jack lowers his voice, but not his intensity.
“She won’t even cuddle with me,” he mutters. “Do you understand that? Cuddling. Baseline intimacy. Gone. She almost slept on the couch the other night because she thought she might—”
He cuts himself off as one of the nurses glances over.
Jack exhales sharply, jaw ticking. “It’s like… all that energy I spent with her, is just… Like I’m all—”
“Do not say pent up,” Robby murmurs.
“I’m pent up, man,” Jack says anyway, under his breath. “I don’t—”
“Jesus Christ.”
“And she keeps wearing—”
“—and that’s our stop,” Robby cuts in quickly as the doors open.
They step out into the corridor, quieter now. Both hit the sanitiser on instinct.
Jack rubs his hands together, restless. “She’s doing it on purpose.”
“No, she isn’t.”
“She is,” Jack insists. “She knows exactly what I like. The shirts, the—lack of shirts. The shorts. The yoga. The fucking… tiny nightgowns. Sheer, too. Door open when she showers. It’s targeted.”
“Or,” Robby says, dry, “she’s a twenty-something woman existing in her own home.”
Jack ignores that. “And then—nothing. Won’t touch me. Won’t let me touch her. She kissed me on the cheek three days ago, and I was gonna… ruin my pants like an idiot. I feel like a teenager.”
Robby snorts. “You sound like one. She showers with the door open?”
“I’ve done tours,” Jack goes on, either ignoring or not hearing Robby’s query, quieter now, almost incredulous at himself. “I’ve been shot at. I’ve dealt with death at its worst. And somehow this is what’s got me pacing like a lunatic at three in the morning.”
Robby stops walking.
Grabs his shoulder.
“You hear yourself, right?”
“…Yeah,” Jack mutters. “Hearin' it.”
“Good,” Robby says. “Because it’s insane. And I’m tired of it, brother.”
Jack exhales, trying to reset—then his gaze shifts past Robby’s shoulder.
Locks. You.
At Central Four, mid-discussion with McKay and Mel, one hand braced lightly against a patient’s lower leg as you check the alignment on a fresh below-knee cast—thumbs pressing along the tibial crest, eyes flicking between the limb and the patient’s foot for perfusion. Focused. Calm. Explaining as you go, that steady, assured cadence you’ve grown into over the past couple years.
You look good. You always do, but—today is… worse. Yeah, he’s definitely pent up. Jack’s jaw tightens. Robby follows his line of sight, spots you, then looks back at him.
“You really look like a kicked puppy right now, bud.”
“Don’t.”
“I mean it,” Robby says. “It’s palpable.”
Jack exhales sharply. “I’ll be right back.”
“You aren’t going there.”
“I’m just gonna ask my girlfriend about her day.”
“No, you’re gonna say something deeply unprofessional to your girlfriend in the middle of a ward round,” Robby corrects. “While Shark is somewhere nearby, sensing weakness.”
“Right, ‘course, you’ve interrupted my plan to give her head in the middle of the ED,” Jack says, sarcastically, then a brief beat of thought. “God, If she asked me to I probably w-”
“-We need boundaries, man,” Robby says. “I don’t… You have fun with that.”
“Relax. It’s fine, we’re both clocking off now. Once she wraps up, we’re outta here.”
Jack glances back at you again. You laugh softly at something McKay says, adjusting the cast edge with careful fingers, smoothing it down. Your hand lingers just a second as you explain something to the patient—voice warm, easy, reassuring.
Mel nudges your shoulder, subtle, and tips her chin toward Jack.
You look up. Catch him. Smile. It’s small, but it lands.
Jack stiffens like he’s just been called to attention, gives you a tight nod—controlled, restrained—then abruptly turns and heads toward the station with Robby.
Robby snorts under his breath. “That was painful to watch.”
“I told you. Psychological warfare.”
McKay smirks a bit as she watches Jack retreat.
“What’s that about?” McKay murmurs, rolling her stool a little closer to the patient bed.
“Our detox program?” you say lightly, refocusing as you check distal circulation again. “Not a fan.” You glance to the patient. “Any numbness or tingling, ma’am?”
“No, love. Feels fine,” she says, half-distracted by her phone.
“Good,” you nod. “Let me know if that changes.”
McKay hums, folding her arms loosely. “Ah. The celibacy portion not going down well?”
You let out a quiet breath. “Not particularly. And I’m not being super easy on him about it either.”
“Yeah,” she says, dry. “Can’t imagine why.”
You suppress a smile, smoothing the cast. “Everything else is good, though. I’m committed now.”
“Mm,” McKay says. “Santos bullied us into it.”
“Santos encouraged it.”
“Santos got dumped and decided everyone else should suffer,” McKay corrects.
“That’s not—” you start, then pause. “…entirely inaccurate.”
Mel watches all of this with mild fascination, then looks back at the cast. “Um—can I try wrapping the next layer?”
You brighten a little. “Yeah, of course. Come here.”
You shift off the stool, making space. “Alright—support here,” you guide, hands hovering near hers. “Keep your tension even, don’t gap it.”
Mel nods seriously, concentrating.
McKay glances between you and the half-set cast, then back at you. “Are you feeling detoxed?”
You huff a quiet breath. “A little. More flexible, improved sleep, and a deeply irritated boyfriend.”
“Holistic wellness,” McKay deadpans.
You smile despite yourself. “And you?” you ask.
“Nope,” she sighs. “But Harrison’s loving the yoga mat, so at least someone’s thriving. And I wasn’t getting laid anyway, so—no real sacrifice on that front. But the no screens thing is doing wonders. I can feel my brain gaining another wrinkle.”
You snort softly, nudging Mel’s hand. “Smoother there—yeah, that’s it. Keep the overlap consistent.”
Mel adjusts, careful, precise, tongue just slightly between her teeth in concentration. McKay watches her for a second, then leans in a fraction closer to you, voice dropping just enough—
“He looks like he’s about five minutes from a breakdown.”
You don’t look over. “He’ll be fine.”
“Mm,” she hums. “He keeps looking at you between charts.”
“He always does that when I’m down here,” you say, a little softer.
“Yeah,” McKay replies. “Not like this.”
You ignore that, focusing instead on Mel’s technique. “Good—now just secure it there. Don’t pull too tight.”
Mel nods, finishing the wrap neatly. “Like that?”
“Perfect,” you say, genuinely pleased. “Nice work, Doctor King.”
Mel beams, small but proud. Behind you, you can feel it again—Jack’s attention, flicking back over, catching, lingering even when he forces it away.
You keep your eyes on the patient. But you’re aware of him. Constantly. And across the room, Jack shifts his weight, jaw tight, trying—and failing—not to look again.
Later, he finds you around the ED. You’re mid-conversation with Santos, focused, explaining something on the chart.
Jack walks up beside you, close enough that your arms brush. You don’t react. Don’t even break your sentence.
“…so we stabilise first, then reassess once imaging’s back—”
He waits. Nothing. Not even a glance. Santos clocks it immediately. Raises her brows.
“…Hi, Dr Abbot,” she says, dry.
You finally look up. “Oh—hey.”
He stares at you.
“…Hey, just... checking in,” he says, somewhat shy now.
You smile, polite. "All good here." Then turn straight back to Santos. “Anyway—like I was saying—”
He stands there for a second. Then another.
Robby, from across the station, watches the whole thing with poorly concealed amusement.
“…You gonna be okay?” he calls out.
Jack doesn’t look at him. “No,” he says flatly, before walking off.
★★★
Day Eighteen.
You’re supposed to be detoxing. Self-restraint. Discipline. Clarity.
Apparently, that also includes driving your boyfriend quietly insane in your living room.
“You need to be doing that right now?” Jack asks as he finally drops onto the couch, exhaustion dragging at him. Scrubs half-off, shirt discarded somewhere along the way before he drags a fresh one over his head, lazy, spent.
You don’t even look at him. “I can stop if you want,” you say, adjusting your stance—hands walking a little wider on the mat, hips tipping higher as you settle deeper into downward dog, covering a good half of the TV screen.
He watches the shift. The stretch. The way your shorts ride up just enough to be completely fucking useless.
He exhales slowly, dragging a hand over his face. “No, no—carry on. This is great. Very relaxing.”
You hum like you believe him. You don’t.
He leans back, head tipping against the couch as he reaches down, taking off his prosthetic with practiced ease, setting it aside. His body finally settles—but his eyes don’t.
They stay on you.
Track every adjustment.
You shift again—one leg lifting, extending behind you before you draw it through, slow, controlled, foot landing between your hands. Your back arches slightly as you ease into it. Jack’s jaw tightens.
“Park’s been on my ass lately,” you say, like this is normal conversation.
“Glad someone has,” Jack murmurs.
You shoot him a look.
“I’m sorry, baby, I’m just… distracted, I don’t know” He says, somewhat earnestly, dryly. “What is it about Shark?”
“He’s not as bad as you guys make him seem, he’s just got tunnel vision," You try, slowly repositioning. “But he can be such a dick sometimes. No concept of tact. I missed one chart the other day, and he ripped me a new one in front of the med students.”
And then you slide down. Slow. Controlled.
One leg extending forward, the other back, lowering into a full split like it’s nothing—hips sinking, spine straight, hands resting lightly on your thighs.
Jack actually goes still. That’s new.
“…Right,” he says, quieter now.
You keep talking. Like you haven’t just changed the entire atmosphere in the room.
“And I was gonna snap,” you continue, calm, measured, “but I did that breathing thing from the book. Actually worked. I didn’t react. I just… sat in it and breathed, five to two.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice a little rougher. “Looks like it’s working great.”
You shift out of it fluidly, folding in, then rolling onto your back—knees lifting, falling open as you stretch through your hips, one hand braced lightly on your stomach as you breathe through it.
Jack leans forward slightly before he catches himself, hand dragging over his jean clad thigh, like he’s trying to reset.
He’s trying to be good. You can see it.
Trying to sit still. Trying not to react. Trying not to reach for you.
You keep going anyway.
“So then Isla comes into the break room—did you know she’s getting divorced?” you say, drawing one knee closer, holding it there, breath catching just slightly at the stretch.
“Do you need help with that?” he asks, too quick.
“Nope,” you say immediately.
You don’t look at him.
Because you know exactly what that would do. You know exactly what this looks like from where he’s sitting. You know exactly what he’s thinking about, because you’re thinking about it too—the way he’s had you like this before, hands on you, holding you in place, your body not your own for a while.
You switch legs, pushing through it again, slower this time.
“Do you think he cheated?” you ask.
“Who?” His voice is tighter now.
“Isla’s husband.”
“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “Maybe.”
You let your leg drop, exhaling as you roll up, sitting back on your knees. Arms stretch overhead, spine lengthening, chest lifting.
Jack looks away this time.
Briefly.
Then back.
Like he can’t help it.
“I taught her the breathing thing,” you go on. “She calmed down immediately. I could totally pivot into this, you know. Wellness, mindfulness—”
“Yeah,” he cuts in, too fast. “You should absolutely do that.”
You glance at him now.
“Yeah, I’ll give up years of med school and fixing bones to teach whiny people how to lock in,” You joke.
“Whatever you want to do, baby,” He nods, eyes looking down at you on the floor, mind literally anywhere else.
“You look like a kicked dog right now. Was the yoga too much?”
“I’m fine,” he insists. “Robby said the same thing. Maybe I just have a pitiful face.”
You don’t disagree with that.
You look at him. Really look.
He’s not relaxed. Not even close. Shoulders tight despite the way he’s sitting, fingers flexing once against his knee like he needs something to do with them. His gaze flicks over you, then away, then back again like it’s a losing battle.
You stand, cross the room, and settle beside him, curling your feet under you so you’re facing him properly.
He immediately turns his head slightly away, like that helps.
“Thank you for putting up with this,” you murmur, softer now, even though it’s just the two of you. Then, almost casually—“Have you touched yourself at all?”
His inhale is sharp enough to answer before he does.
“No,” he says. Then, like he’s committing to honesty instead of dignity: “Figured we’re in this together. Minus… everything else. I can’t not do a line of cocaine before I go into work.”
That earns a small smile from you.
“Responsible of you,” you say.
“Have you?” He asks.
“Nope.”
“Are you struggling at all? Because it’s… you know, you… you really seem very comfortable with all this. This cleansing thing.”
You inhale sharply. “I’m doing great.” You lie.
“I feel like you’re forgetting how good our sex is,” He says.
You raise your brows, give it thought. “Or… I’m free from such… baseless temptations.”
“Baseless temptations had me eating you out for three hours, three times a week. Which in our line of work is a lot. And, at my age, a cardio workout.” He reminds.
Your tongue darts to your lips, eyes flicking away from him like it helps you regain control. It doesn’t.
“I should go,” you say, too casually. “Errands.”
Jack nods once, like he’s trying to behave. “Two more weeks.”
“Two more weeks,” you repeat.
You lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek.
It’s small. Controlled. Safe.
Except it isn’t, because it’s the first real contact in ten days and your body reacts like it’s been starved of oxygen. Like you didn’t realise how much you were holding your breath until you finally touched him again.
He turns his head slightly before you fully pull away.
Just enough. Just enough to trap you in that in-between space—faces inches apart, his breath warm against your mouth, his eyes locked on yours like he’s waiting to see if you’ll fold, head tilted, just a bit, curious.
You shouldn’t.
You press your mouth to his. It’s chaste, sweet, PG. Lasts maybe three seconds, and it’s not long enough for him as you pull away, as if you’ve rewarded him, but he can’t help but be greedy when it comes to you.
“You can do better than that, baby,” he says quietly.
“Mm,” you reply, steadying yourself. “I can’t.”
A pause.
“Promise I won’t do anything,” he adds.
You look at him for a second too long.
Then you nod.
His hand comes up immediately, settling at the back of your head—gentle, anchoring, familiar in a way your body reacts to before your brain does, mouth agape. His thumb brushes your cheek once, slowly, briefly moves to your jaw and chin, over your bottom lip, your mouth opening, almost instinctually, but he moves it back to your cheek, not entertaining it further.
You kiss him again properly.
It starts off controlled—your mouth on his, testing, like you’re still trying to keep it within the rules you made for yourself. The moment he kisses back, the rules seem very silly. No hesitation, no easing in—just straight into it, like your bodies already know exactly what they’re doing, falling into step all over again.
Your hand lifts like you’re going to hold him off, going to stop it but it just hangs there uselessly, mid-air.
His mouth is on yours harder now, deeper, tongue sliding in like he’s done waiting for permission. Slow, but not gentle. Familiar in a way that makes your stomach drop—like your body reacts before your brain even catches up.
A small sound slips out of you without meaning to.
His hand at the back of your head tightens, fingers in your hair, not yanking but holding you exactly where he wants you. His other hand shifts at his crotch, you barely glance down at the corner of your eye, seeing as his palm moves over his hardening length beneath his jeans.
He exhales into your mouth, rough. “Damnit.”
You kiss him back harder, mouth opening more, his tongue dragging against yours again, slower this time but deeper, like he’s checking how far you’ll go if he just keeps pushing like this.
You make another sound—low, breathy—and he feels it immediately. You can tell by the way his hand tightens at the back of your neck, thumb pressing in like he’s grounding himself there, like he needs something solid to hold onto before he loses the plot completely.
“Mm—no more,” you manage, pulling back slightly, dazed. “No more. Errands. Oxygen. Meditation. Focus. Detox. Okay? Okay.”
“Okay,” he hums back, like he agrees, but he doesn’t move his eyes off you.
You’re both breathing heavier than you should be for a kiss that’s supposedly not doing anything.
He drags his tongue over his lips, slow, watching you properly now. Then his hand drops from your neck and he leans back a fraction—except he’s not actually done. He’s just shifting, exhaling through his nose like he’s trying to reset and failing.
You glance down.
He’s already adjusting himself, palming himself through his jeans, at the feeling and sight of you, far from subtle at all. His eyes flick between your face and your reaction like he’s half curious, half done pretending this isn’t affecting him.
You just stare for a second, hair slightly messier now from his grip, lips swollen, clearly trying to act normal and not really succeeding. Your eyes linger as you watch him become harder under the denim.
“Baseless temptation?” he echoes, dry, almost mocking, interested by your seeming entertainment.
“You’re ridiculous,” you mutter, swallowing, standing up like that fixes anything. “I’m going. Errands.”
“Mm,” he says, already unbuckling his belt properly now, like he’s given up on dignity for the moment. “That.”
You clear your throat, turning away too quickly. “Yeah. That.”
“Great detox, honey,” he calls after you, voice low, almost satisfied, like he’s both impressed and completely fucked by it.
You don’t look back when you walk out.
★★★
Day Twenty Two.
You were even stricter after your brief lapse on Day 18.
Santos had spiralled a bit after Garcia tried to re-enter her life—one text, then another, then a “just checking in” that meant absolutely nothing and everything at the same time. And Santos, for all her bite, was still soft where it counted. So she doubled down.
We resist.
You weren’t going to be the weak link in that. Not when she was white-knuckling her way through it.
So you didn’t argue. Didn’t say that your situation was devolving.
So. Yoga, reading, no screens—none of it was enough anymore. Not because you were failing, but because you’d started treating this like something to actually get through properly.
So you added structure.
Cooking, mostly. Proper cooking, technically normal, but now with a kind of performative discipline to it. Whole-food, vegetarian-heavy meals that smell intense enough to make Jack pause in the doorway like he’s trying to decide if he’s being punished or supported.
You explained something about how Santos had plenty of recipe choices, these were the best. He dreaded knowing the worst.
You’ve always cooked. So has he. It’s part of your relationship—easy, domestic, something you both fall back on without thinking.
But wow, the past three or four days have been a steady rotation of “cleansing” meals that are aggressively healthy in a way that feels almost personal and cruel.
You’ve also tightened everything else.
Early nights. Early mornings. You’re not avoiding him exactly—you’re just very efficient with your time now. No lingering in shared spaces. No sitting too close on the couch “by accident.” No hand brushing his back when you pass him in the hallway, even though that one clearly takes effort.
The hardest part was that you kept missing out on Housewives.
“Hon, you sure?” Jack had tried one night, hovering in the doorway. “It’s the mid-season finale.”
Pitch black room. Eye mask on.
“Tell me about it tomorrow,” you’d said.
He’d watched it alone. Hated it.
Even the small stuff has become intentional.
You’ve started drinking herbal tea that tastes like wet grass just to prove a point to yourself.
He’s started making coffee louder than necessary just to annoy you.
And still—you function.
You were both high-energy people—incapable of just sitting still without developing a new hobby or mild personality trait.
The apartment was proof: books half-read, yoga mats permanently out, easels you didn’t touch, Jack picking up SWAT shifts “for fun” like that’s a normal recreational activity.
And, historically, you’d had a very reliable outlet for all that excess energy. Now that’s been… aggressively decommissioned. So it lingers. In your body, in his shoulders, in the space between you—tight, charged, and just annoying enough to make everything feel a little harder than it needs to be.
The call comes down fast and ugly—trauma bay already prepped, voices sharp, movement tighter than usual.
Open tib-fib. High-energy. Motorcycle versus ute, no helmet.
You’re already pulling gloves on as you move, snapping them tight against your wrists, pace quick to match the rhythm of the room. Doctor Park is a step ahead of you—of course he is—already at the bedside, already assessing, already ten steps into the problem.
Robby and Jack linger to the side, Whitaker working the patient while they observe, supervise. Robby’s still here past his shift—because of course he is.
“Walk me through it,” Park says without looking at you.
“Mid-shaft tibial and fibular fracture, likely comminuted,” you reply immediately, eyes scanning. “Significant displacement. Possible vascular compromise—foot looks pale, delayed cap refill.”
“Good,” Park says shortly. “Check dorsalis pedis. Posterior tibial.”
You nod, moving in.
The leg is… bad. Angulated wrong, skin stretched too tight over something that shouldn’t be pressing there. Blood everywhere, soaked through layers Whitaker is trying—earnestly—to keep under control.
You don’t flinch. You tilt your head slightly, studying it like a problem you already want to solve, something in you clicking into place.
“Dorsalis pedis faint,” you say, fingers pressing in. “Posterior tibial—hard to appreciate.”
“Mm,” Park hums. “We reduce now.”
Behind Whitaker, Jack stands with his hands clasped behind his back, posture loose but attention razor sharp. Tracking everything—monitor, patient, Park.
You.
He hasn’t seen you all day. You left before he got home—left him in a cold bed, a note about oats, and absolutely nothing else. And now, every time he does see you, it feels deliberate. Like you’re making it harder.
Three weeks of this… discipline.
And now you’re here, calm, focused, humming under your breath like you haven’t been systematically ruining his life, like his muscles aren’t taut without getting to feel you under him or on him.
Jack’s jaw tightens.
“Traction,” Park says.
You nod, hands steady as you take hold above and below the fracture. “On you.”
“Now.”
You pull—firm, controlled. There’s a shift. A sickening, mechanical realignment as bone slides back into place.
Whitaker visibly winces.
“Better,” you murmur, almost satisfied.
Jack exhales through his nose. “Hold it,” he says, stepping in just slightly. “Pulse?”
Whitaker checks, brow furrowed. “Stronger. Still thready, but—better.”
“Good. Splint.”
You glance up—just briefly—and catch Jack already looking at you.
Not subtle. Not tonight. Something heavier in it. Sharper. Like he’s been holding onto something all shift and hasn’t decided where to put it.
You hold his gaze for half a second.
“Doctor,” you say, light.
He tilts his head a fraction. “Nice work,” he says, dry. Then, without missing a beat—“You leave that… green-orange situation in the fridge?”
You blink. “Are you—seriously?”
“I got four hours of sleep,” he shrugs. “I’m allowed one grievance.”
You briefly glance to Park who doesn’t seem to care or mind your minor chatter with Jack, looking at the monitors with a hardened gaze.
“It’s vegetable soup,” you say, adjusting your grip. “It’s good for you. Anti-inflammatory.”
Whitaker glances between you, confused. “Soup? Do you two live together?”
Jack ignores him completely. “Tastes like punishment.”
“Funny,” you say. “You seemed very into punishment a few weeks ago.”
Robby lets out a short, sharp laugh from the other side of the bed. “Oh, I’m awake now.”
“Not helpful,” Jack mutters, not even looking at him.
“You started it,” you shoot back, breath steady despite the strain in your arms. “Also, Robby likes my soup. Don’t you, Robinavitch?”
Robby raises both hands. “I’m not being... triangulated into whatever this is.”
“You’re making bone broth for my best friend now?” Jack goes on, like he didn’t hear that. “That’s where we’re at?”
“It’s not bone broth,” you correct. “And maybe I’d cook for you if you weren’t so moody—”
You cut yourself off, refocusing as the splint is brought in.
“Keep traction steady,” Jack says, tone snapping cleanly back to clinical—but there’s an edge under it now. “You’re drifting distal.”
You correct it immediately. “Better?”
“Yeah,” he nods. “Don’t let it shorten.”
Park finally glances back down, unimpressed. “If you’re both done flirting—”
“This is not flirting,” Jack and you say at the same time.
A beat.
Whitaker frowns. “…What is happening?”
Robby snorts. “I’ll tell you about it later. Celibacy ritual.”
“Robby,” Jack says, warning.
“What?” Robby shrugs. “I’m just saying. There’s context.”
“You told Robby?” you shoot at Jack.
He opens his mouth—
“I heard from Santos,” Robby cuts in, enjoying this far too much. “And McKay. Whole department knows you’ve gone monk mode.”
You scoff. “It’s not monk mode, it’s a detox.”
“Yeah,” Robby nods. “Abbot’s detoxing from joy, from what I can tell.”
Jack exhales sharply. “Can we focus?”
“You are the one who brought up soup. Besides, this guy’s gonna be fine. If he wasn’t, Shark here would’ve bit one of your heads off,” Robby shoots back.
Whitaker looks even more lost, Park stands off the side, giving Robby a brief glare before nodding back to you to continue.
“Angle your wrist,” you tell him, cutting through it. “You’re losing medial pressure.”
“Oh—right—sorry—”
“It’s fine. Just don’t let him bleed out.”
“Right. Yeah. Prefer that.”
Jack hovers just behind your shoulder now—close enough that you can feel the heat of him, the shift of his weight when you adjust yours.
He leans in slightly, voice low, for you.
“Breakfast tomorrow,” he murmurs. “Is it gonna be more… anti-inflammatory punishment?”
You don’t look at him. “Depends.”
“On?”
“How much you told Robby.”
He exhales a quiet, disbelieving breath, your words just for each other as the others get to work. “Just the basics. Nothing bad, just the weird bunny mask roleplay you’re into,” he jokes. “And I am not moody.”
“Debatable.”
“Reactionary to my dire circumstances some might say,” he mutters.
“You’re ridiculous.” You remark.
There’s the smallest pause. Then, softer, a bit quick, to make sure you know he means nothing bad by it—
“You look lovely, by the way. And I’d eat oxygen if you made it for me, promise. I love all your cleansing meals.”
You don’t respond to that. Not here, a small smile twitching at the corner of your lips.
“Secure it,” Park says, already moving on mentally. “Get him upstairs.”
You guide Whitaker through the final positioning, hands precise, controlled.
Jack steps back, watching you finish the job.
Still looking at you like that.
By the time you strip your gloves off, the room already shifting on, Robby’s watching you. Not subtle about it, an amused hint behind his tired eyes.
“When do you clock off?” you ask, tossing the gloves.
“An hour ago,” he says. “I stay for the live show now. Better than anything on TV.”
You huff. “How is he doing?”
Robby considers that, eyes narrowing like he’s actually weighing it up.
“Clinically?” he says. “Great. On top of it, always is. It’s annoying.”
“And not clinically?” you prompt.
He tilts his head. “Mm… a little rougher than usual,” he admits. “But he’s dramatic. You know ‘im.”
You grin. “Yeah, I do. It’s cute.”
“That’s certainly a word for it,” he mutters, jerking his chin subtly across the room. “Because he looks like he’s about to file a formal complaint with God.”
You follow the glance—Jack, shoulders tight, jaw set, mid-conversation with Park like he’s holding himself together out of sheer professionalism.
You look back, unfazed. “It’s temporary.”
Robby studies you for a beat, then huffs a laugh. “You’re enjoying this.”
You don’t even try to hide it. “A little bit. It’s fifty-fifty. It’s fun seeing him worked up, it’s annoying because we do have great sex. And I know that isn’t TMI for you because he tells me worse about your sex life.” You pause, then add, “Didn’t realise Hastings was so freaky.”
“Jesus,” Robby exhales, scratching at his beard. “You’ve been around him too long.”
“Occupational hazard,” you shrug.
He shakes his head, but there’s a smile tugging at it now despite himself.
There’s a small pause, then—more casually—
“Soup was good, by the way.”
You blink. “The vegetable one?”
“Yeah,” he nods. “Don’t tell him I said that.”
“He called it punishment.”
“He’s wrong,” Robby shrugs. “I had two bowls.”
You brighten, just a fraction. “See? Someone has taste.”
“Let’s not get carried away,” he says. “It’s still soup.”
You laugh under your breath.
He glances around, then back to you. “I think Shark’s already ditched you,” he adds, nodding toward the empty space where Park had been.
You swear quietly. “Fuck. Whatever. Nice seeing you.”
“You too,” he says, stepping aside.
You pass Jack on your way out, offering him a light, professional smile like nothing’s off at all.
“See you at home in a few hours.”
He watches you go, something unreadable flickering across his face.
“Love you,” he calls after you anyway, voice a little rough, arms folded as the room empties out.
“Love you too,” you say as you hurry out, not turning back.
You’re gone. Whitaker stands there for a second, still blood-specked, brain clearly lagging behind everything that just happened.
“I’m… still a bit confused about—” he gestures vaguely between where you were and where Jack is now, “—that.”
Jack shoots him a look. Then Robby. Then just shakes his head, already walking.
“Hey, what have you told her about me and Noelle?” Robby asks, following after, quiet, a bit antsy now.
Jack shakes his head immediately. “Nothing much, just the leash stuff you’re into. Anyway, I think you’re sleep deprived, man. Time to clock off, daywalkers.”
★★★
Day Twenty Nine.
“So, how’re we doing?” you ask, already halfway into the break room fridge like it’s part of your job description.
McKay and Santos are at the table with lunch. McKay looks as composed as ever—tired, but functional. Santos, on the other hand, looks like someone who has emotionally moved on from her entire relationship with Garcia but hasn’t informed her nervous system yet.
“Great,” Santos says immediately. Then, after a beat: “I stopped yoga.”
You glance over. “Why?”
“Pulled my calf,” she replies. “Turns out inner peace is physically unsafe.”
“Unfortunate,” you say, finding Jack’s labelled container and closing the fridge.
McKay watches you sit down. “That his lunch?”
“Yeah.”
“Doesn’t he need that later?” she asks.
“He’ll order takeout,” you say easily. “I’m doing him a favour. He keeps eating the stuff I make, even though I know he hates it, I think he thinks suffering is his virtue.”
Santos snorts. “He and Garcia would get along in a really unbearable way.”
You glance at her. “You miss her.”
She points at you with her fork. “Don’t.”
“You brought her up first.”
“That’s because you brought up food and suffering in the same sentence,” she shoots back. “It’s a trigger.”
McKay, calmly: “You both need to stop talking.”
You ignore her. You exhale, rubbing at your temple. You feel… weird. Wired. Like your body’s trying to replace one habit with ten others. You’ve thought about buying something three separate times this morning. Shoes, candles, a ridiculous blender you don’t need. You haven’t, obviously. Discipline. Wellness. Enlightenment.
“Where’s Robby?” you ask. “I can split this with him.”
“Talking to Gloria,” Santos says. “Looks like he’s in a mood. Snapped at Whitaker.”
“Great,” you mutter. “Two moody old attendings. Love that for you guys. I think Park might actually be more regulated than either of them.”
McKay doesn’t push it, just turns her attention back to you, calmer. “You’ve been very… consistent with this whole detox thing. Very controlled. Composed.”
Santos squints at you. “Almost spiritual, honestly. It’s impressive.”
You blink. “It’s just discipline.”
McKay hums. “Most people don’t call not having sex for a few weeks ‘discipline.’ They call it ‘being busy.’ Or just not having a high libido.”
You sigh, too quickly. “I’m just… glad it’s nearly over. I think Jack’s actually counting down the days.”
McKay tilts her head slightly at that but doesn’t bite yet, a slight purse in her lips. She makes eye contact with Santos. Santos bites back a smile. McKay begins to shake her head, as if reading her mind..
Santos, however, immediately does.
“So,” she says, leaning forward, “what’s he like?”
McKay shoots her a warning look over her fork.
“What?” Santos says, unbothered. “I’m curious. You thought of it too.”
“Like… personality-wise?” you try.
Santos waves a hand. “No. Don’t be boring.”
McKay mutters, “Oh God.”
Santos continues anyway, delighted now. “Like sex-wise. Come on. There has to be a reason he’s walking around like a man personally victimised by fucking… yoga and vegetables.”
You nearly choke. “Santos—”
“What?” she says. “I’m just saying. There’s clearly a secret here. He’s what, fifty-something? Night shift ED attending? You know how fucked you have to be to be the attending on night shift? Robby level fucked up. And you’re—” she gestures vaguely at you, “you. So either he’s got some hidden advantage or you’ve all been lying to yourselves.”
McKay, dry as ever: “Please stop talking.”
Santos ignores her. “Am I wrong?”
You stare at her.
“That’s not an answer,” she says.
McKay finally looks at you properly now, faintly amused despite herself. “You do not have to answer that.”
“I’m not going to answer that,” you say immediately.
Santos leans back, offended. “Okay, so it’s missionary.”
You blink. “And that's my cue to leave.”
“Doggy?” she tries. “Am I warm? Am I cold?”
You stand up. “I’m very happy for you and your recovery from Garcia, truly.”
McKay actually smiles now. “This is why I eat alone.”
Then, casually—
“Do you guys have threesomes with Robby?” Santos adds. “Got a vibe there.”
You don’t even hesitate. “Constantly. He’s actually the glue holding the relationship together. Into weird shit.”
McKay exhales through her nose.
Santos tilts her head. “I don’t believe you.”
“That sounds like a you problem. We host swinger parties, come by next Thursday if you want.”
Santos rolls her eyes, somewhat disappointed by your sarcasm. At that exact moment, Dana walks in. She stops, looks between all of you, then sighs.
“Oh no,” she says, immediately clocking the energy. “We having a party? What are youse talkin’ about in here?”
“Nothing,” McKay says instantly.
Santos says at the same time, “Abbot’s sex life. Featuring Robby, too.”
Dana physically recoils. “Oh Jesus Christ, why?”
You look at her like salvation. “Help.”
Dana points at Santos without hesitation. “No. Absolutely not. I’m not bein’ dragged into whatever this is.”
Then she looks at you, and her whole face softens a little. She gives you a nod, as if to ask if you’re well. You give a nod back, a small smile.
Dana claps once, decisive. “Alright. Trauma two. You two. Now. Move it.”
Santos groans. “You’re ruining my research.”
Dana points again. “Move. It. Out.”
★★★
Day Thirty Two.
Your schedules have always been a mess.
Some weeks you overlap perfectly—same shifts, same hours, brushing past each other in hallways, stealing five minutes in empty consult rooms, syncing like it’s easy. Other weeks, like this one, you exist on completely different timelines.
Park needs you flexible. Jack is the schedule. So you miss each other.
You leave just as he’s getting in. He leaves while you’re dead asleep. Nights bleed into days, days into nights, and suddenly it’s been forty-eight hours of doubles and you’ve communicated more through texts and post-it notes than actual words.
Eat something.
You too.
Left food in the fridge.
Miss you.
Jack finally makes it back into the apartment, adrenaline high shaking in his veins, excited to finally see you, feel you.
He shuts the door behind him, exhales—and then pauses.
“How are you cooking after working that long, baby?” he calls out, already loosening up as he moves toward the kitchen. “Challenge is over, I am going to give you the best damn head of your life and then cuddle like—”
“I’d cuddle with you,” Robby says from the stove, “but I’m busy right now. Preferably not the head part, though.”
Jack thinks for a moment, a slow nod.
“…You are not my girlfriend.”
Robby glances over his shoulder, unimpressed. “I like to think of us as work husbands, but yeah. Good observation.”
Jack just stares at him for a second, processing.
Then—“Why are you in my apartment?”
Robby sighs, turning back to the pot like this is his burden to bear. “This is not turning out well.”
He gestures vaguely at the spaghetti bolognese like it’s personally offended him.
“I followed her recipe,” he adds.
Jack moves further in, slower now, dropping his bag, still trying to catch up, somewhat antsy as he taps the counter repeatedly. “Where is she? She texted me she was home.”
“Shops,” Robby says. “Said she needed a few things. Asked me to start this because she didn’t wanna get changed and dirty her clothes, a surprise, or something.”
A beat.
“I think I’ve screwed this up,” he admits.
Jack sinks onto the stool at the island, scrubbing a hand over his face. “How do you fuck up spaghetti?”
Robby turns to him, dead serious. “Who puts that much sugar in a sauce?”
Jack doesn’t even hesitate. “She does. It’s good.”
Robby squints. “It feels offensive.”
“It’s not,” Jack mutters. “It’s… you know, balanced.”
Robby gestures at the pot again. “It’s dessert.”
Jack leans forward, peering into it like he’s assessing a trauma. “Did you reduce it?”
“…Did I what?”
Jack looks at him slowly. “Oh my God.”
“I stirred the thing, I don't know,” Robby defends.
“Yeah, I’m sure that helped,” Jack says dryly, already pushing himself up despite the protest in his leg. “Move.”
Robby steps aside with zero resistance. “Be my guest, chef.”
Jack takes over, grabbing a spoon, tasting it, making a face—not terrible, but not right.
“You didn’t salt it properly,” he says.
“I salted it.”
“You absolutely did not. I can even smell the absence of salt.”
Robby watches him work for a second, then glances at him sideways. “You look like shit, by the way.”
“Feel like it,” Jack mutters.
“You two haven’t seen each other?”
“Not properly.”
Robby nods once, like that explains everything. Then—casual, but not really—“Once you finally get laid and stop being so damn dramatic, I need help with Noelle. Bring your girl if you want, I told her the two of you’d meet. Tomorrow night?”
Jack doesn’t even look up. “My girl and I will be very busy, if all goes well, so, unlikely.”
“…I hate knowing things about you,” Robby mutters.
Jack huffs, stirring the sauce.
The front door clicks open. Both of them look up.
“Robby, you didn’t salt it—I can smell it,” you call out immediately as you step inside, toeing off your shoes.
“Salting it now, sweetheart,” Jack shoots back, not missing a beat. He flicks Robby a look. Robby scoffs.
You come in fully then, arms loaded with shopping bags—Victoria’s Secret, a couple of clothing stores, something small and overpriced in tissue paper. You were pretty keen to break that no shop rule, apparently.
“When’d you get back?” you ask.
“Five minutes ago,” Jack says, already moving toward you. “You walk? I would’ve picked you up.”
“I was trying to surprise you,” you say, smiling. “Robby wasn’t supposed to be part of it.”
“Shocking,” Robby mutters.
You barely register him—because Jack’s right there, closer now, and you really do not care about some cleansing shit anymore. You grab his shirt and pull him in, kissing him quick—warm, familiar, a little rushed like you’re making up for lost time in a single second.
You pull back just as fast.
“You look like shit,” you tell him, joking and dry.
“Yeah,” he says, softer now. “You look… really good.”
His hand slides up, brushing through your hair, lingering there a second longer than necessary.
You clear your throat, stepping away first. “Okay, how bad did he fuck the sauce?”
“I did not fuck the sauce that bad,” Robby says.
You move to the stove, peering in, grabbing a spoon. Taste. Pause.
“…It’s not that bad,” you admit. “Maybe a bit more sugar, not enough salt.”
Robby throws his hands up. “Of course it does. Why not throw chocolate in there while we’re at it?”
“Don’t tempt me,” you say lightly.
Robby exhales, grabbing his jacket. “Alright. I’m off. Dana’s gonna love that I delayed my shift because I was domestic here.”
“Tell her I said hi,” you call.
“I’m not telling her anything,” he mutters, heading out.
He pauses at the door, glances back at the two of you—at the way you’ve both unconsciously drifted closer again without noticing.
“Don’t give him a heart attack. At that age you never know,” he adds.
“Out!” Jack says.
Robby leaves.
The door shuts.
And just like that—
It’s quiet. No monitors. No pages. No interruptions. Just you and him. You don’t move at first, still standing by the stove, spoon in hand. He’s leaning against the island, watching you. Really watching you.
“Day Thirty Two, by the way,” he says.
“Really? Didn’t notice,” You shrug.
He nods, coming up besides you, watching as you stir the sauce.
“This is gonna take ages. He didn’t reduce anything. Useless,” You murmur, mostly sarcastic, as you look at it.
“Oh, you know Robby,” Jack sighs. “Can’t do anything right.”
You put the lid on top, lowering it to a simmer. You hum to yourself, feeling Jack’s eyes on you.
“C’mere,” he says.
You step in between his legs, your gaze dragging over him as his hands catch your waist, pulling you in. His grip is heavy, grounding, sliding over your hips like he’s relearning the shape of you after weeks of not touching.
“This alright?” he asks, quieter now—though his hand dips, squeezing your ass through the thin fabric of your dress.
You nod.
“Speak,” he adds, low.
“Yes.”
That does something to him. You see it—jaw tightening, breath shifting, his eyes darkening as they move over you slowly, deliberately. Chest. Lips. Eyes again.
“What am I gonna do with you?” he murmurs.
His hand comes up, sliding to the back of your neck, fingers spreading there, warm and steady. He tilts your face up, thumb brushing along your jaw, holding you in place like he’s taking his time deciding something.
You can’t quite read him. It’s too much at once.
His thumb drifts lower, pausing at your bottom lip. You hesitate—barely—but he notices.
“Go on,” he murmurs, giving a small nod.
You do. Tongue slow, tentative at first, wrapping your mouth around the digit, then steadier, your focus slipping as his breathing changes—subtle, but not enough to hide it. His shoulders pull back slightly, tension running through him like he’s holding himself in check.
He exhales, eyes still locked on you.
“Yeah,” he mutters under his breath.
“Want another?” he asks after a second, voice rougher now.
“Mhm.”
He moves his index and middle, thumb dropped to your chin, your saliva coating your jaw slightly as you suck the digits. He watches you for a beat longer, like he’s considering pushing it further—then drags his hand away instead, jaw tightening again.
“Bedroom,” he says, quieter, but it lands just as firm.
His other hand slides down your side, lifting the hem of your dress just enough to make his gaze dip—brief, restrained—before he turns you, your back to his chest, guiding you away.
“I’m running on an adrenaline high from work, I’m gonna fuck you, then we’re gonna cuddle and sleep for twelve hours,” he adds, voice low behind you. “That sound good to you?”
You turn your head, looking at him behind you. “Love you too,” You give him a quick kiss to his lips, feeling him smile from that.
You head down the hall, already pulling the dress up and over your head, not looking back—but you can feel his eyes on you until you disappear.
Behind you, the stove clicks off.
A second later, you hear him move—quick now, like whatever control he had left is running out.
“You know, I was talking to Santos about our whole… challenge,” you start, slipping your dress off and draping it over the chair. You catch your reflection in the mirror, thumb swiping under your eye to fix the faint smudge of mascara. “Turns out she lasted all of ten days before she slept with Garcia.”
He huffs a quiet breath against your shoulder, voice rough where it meets your skin. “So all that torture for nothing?”
“Torture’s dramatic,” you murmur, but there’s a smile tugging at it.
“You did it on purpose,” he counters, hand sliding up to cup your tit, squeezing through the fabric of your bra like he’s testing a theory he already knows the answer to. “Walkin’ around in those… stupid shorts, the yoga, that little nightgown—won’t even kiss me, won’t even touch me.” His thumb drags slow, deliberate. “You know what that does to a man? That kind of taunting?”
You let your head tip back against his shoulder, soft, unbothered on the surface even as your breath shifts. “I think I’ve got an idea.”
“Yeah?” His mouth finds the space under your ear, kisses turning slower, heavier—less rushed now, more deliberate. He sucks at your neck, groaning low when you push back into him, feeling the way he’s already half-hard under your touch.
You turn suddenly, hands braced on his shoulders, guiding him back until his knees hit the mattress. “I lied,” you admit, pressing him down to sit. “About not touching myself.”
His brows lift, something amused and dark flickering there as his hands move instinctively—reaching behind you, unclipping your bra with practiced ease. “You? Lie?” he mutters, watching as you pull it off and toss it aside. “What happened to Miss Wellness Mary Magdalene?”
You barely get a breath out before his hands are back on you, over your tits, fingers pinching at your nipples, rougher now, less patient—palming, shaping, like he’s reacquainting himself. His mouth follows, pressing to your tits, tongue warm, stubble dragging just enough to make you jolt.
“It’s bullshit,” you breathe, the words breaking as he closes his mouth around your nipples, the sensation sharp and grounding all at once. “I was miserable the whole time.”
“Yeah?”
“Mm. The vegetable soup was shit. I miss my phone. Yoga is boring. I like tequila,” you say, feeling his chuckle vibrate against your skin as he kisses over your sternum.
“What else?”
“I like sex,” you tell him, whimpering as his teeth drag over your nipple briefly, the sharp tug making your core clench. His other hand travels over your stomach to the pink panties, fidgeting with the sides of the material over your hip.
You climb onto him, knees spreading wide beside his thighs, your body hovering just above his. “I really like it when you touch me. I like touching you. I like when—” He cups your clothed pussy, his palm pressing firmly against the damp fabric.
“You like that?” he wonders, voice low and almost casual, watching as you moan at the contact, your arousal soaking through the panties instantly. “Speak, sweetheart.”
“You know I like that,” you gasp, grinding down against his hand instinctively.
He nods. “Damn right I do,” His fingers slip beneath the edge of your panties, tracing the slick folds of your pussy with deliberate slowness, teasing the entrance before pushing one thick digit inside you.
The intrusion is warm and welcome, stretching you just enough to make you clench around him. He curls it slowly, stroking that sensitive spot deep within your walls, the pad of his finger rubbing in firm, unhurried circles that make your thighs tremble and your breath hitch.
You rock against his hand, chasing the building pressure. He adds a second finger without warning, scissoring them gently to open you up, then pumping them in and out with deliberate thrusts—shallow at first, then deeper, his knuckles brushing your clit on every inward slide.
His thumb finds your clit, circling it with rough, insistent pressure, alternating between tight loops and light flicks that draw out breathy cries from your lips. The wet sounds of his fingers fucking you fill the room mingling with your moans as he watches your face intently, eyes dark with hunger, drinking in every twitch and gasp.
“How about this? You like it when I fuck you with my fingers?” he asks, his voice a gravelly rumble, free hand gripping your hip to steady your grinding.
“Mhm,” you whine, riding his hand harder now, your pussy fluttering around the invading digits as they twist and probe, hitting that spot again and again.
He slides in a third finger, gently stretching you out, the fullness making you gasp as he kisses at your neck, lips hot and sucking lightly on the skin. You moan into his mouth when he claims your lips in a messy kiss, tongues tangling as his fingers maintain their rhythm—curling, thrusting, spreading you wider with each pass.
He varies the pace, slowing to a torturous drag that lets you feel every ridge and vein on his fingers, then speeding up to plunge deep and fast, his palm slapping wetly against your mound.
“That’s right, atta girl, doin’ so well, aren’t you?” he murmurs against your throat, nipping at the pulse point while his thumb resumes those relentless circles on your clit, pressing harder now, building the ache into something electric.
He watches as you ride his fingers, your juices dripping down his wrist, the obscene squelch growing louder with every movement.
“What’d you think of when you touched yourself, honey? You thinka me?”
You nod frantically, words caught up in your moans, your walls clenching tighter around him. “Uh-huh,” you whine as he curls his fingers deeper into you, hooking them to stroke that bundle of nerves with precision, his other hand sliding up to pinch and roll your nipple, adding sparks of sensation everywhere.
He keeps you teetering, easing off just when you get close—pulling his fingers almost all the way out before slamming them back in, thumb pausing its circles to let the tension simmer. Then he ramps it up again, fingers pistoning faster, thumb vibrating against your swollen clit. Sweat beads on your skin, your breaths coming in short, desperate pants as the coil in your belly winds impossibly tight.
“C’mon, baby, let go f’me,” he murmurs, kissing at your neck with open-mouthed presses, his teeth grazing your earlobe.
He feels as you tense and tighten around his fingers, hips bucking erratically, thighs quivering you come undone, jaw agape as your body stills over him, warm and melting.
“You come when you touch yourself?” he asks, quieter now.
His hand leaves you, trailing over your hips as he guides you back onto the bed. You go easily, breath unsteady, the anticipation settling into something heavier as you lie there, bare and waiting.
You shake your head.
“You?” you ask, your hand drifting instinctively over yourself, fingers trailing over your core, testing the sensitivity, your eyes flicking back to him.
He gives a short shake of his head, rolling his neck once like he’s trying to keep himself together.
“Still got enough in you?” you murmur, a little teasing. “Or did that shift kill you?”
He huffs a breath—half laugh, half something tighter. “I’d find the energy,” he says, stepping out of his scrubs, not taking his eyes off you. “Don’t worry about that.”
You watch him move, slower now but deliberate, like he’s pacing himself instead of rushing it.
“You wanna take that off?” you start, glancing down to his prosthetic.
He follows your gaze, then looks back at you. “In a minute,” he says, already leaning over you again. “Wanna make sure I remember what you taste like first.”
He slides a pillow beneath your head, then gently eases your knees apart. You give a small nod. When his tongue traces slowly across your center, your body responds instantly—back arching, breath catching. His palm presses firmly against your stomach, keeping you anchored.
“Stay still f’me, can you, baby?” He murmurs against you, barely enough for you to hear.
You gasp his name between ragged breaths, managing to nod yes, your fingers threading through his salt-and-pepper curls. His mouth moves against you with deliberate patience—soft yet demanding—and your lungs empty completely, replaced by something molten and urgent.
“Atta girl, you feel good yeah, baby?” He hums.
You nod fast. Your thighs tremble against his shoulders as he tastes you with unhurried determination, as though time has ceased to exist beyond this bed, beyond this moment. When his tongue finds that perfect rhythm, that perfect spot, coherent thought dissolves into desperate pleas that barely form words.
He groans against your center, vibrating against you as you claw at his nape, nails digging into his sun-kissed, freckled skin with desperate urgency. “God, fuck, I missed this,” you say,
His tongue, slick and insistent, flicks against your clit, drawing out your orgasm with relentless precision. You feel the heat of your release coating his tongue, his lips, and he devours it hungrily, as if it's the sweetest nectar he's ever tasted.
“Please, please, fuck,” You mumble, brain foggy as his tongue sweeps over you with a kind of desperation of a starving man.
His fingers digging into your hips, holding you in place as he feasts on you. You can feel his hot breath against your sensitive flesh, his tongue delving into every crevice, every fold as you come undone, moans loud to the point where you throw your hand over your mouth, biting down into your palm.
You let out a shaky breath, head back as he kisses your inner thighs, gentle, stubble coated in your orgasm before he climbs back over you, kissing you, deep, as you taste yourself on his tongue.
“Once I wake up—after fucking you—obviously,” He murmurs against you, sloppy tongues colliding. “I’ll do that for three hours, until you can’t walk, alright?”
You moan at the thought, nodding. You believe him because he’s done it on many occasions. You think he just likes doing it to get you to go to sleep sometimes or knock you out and he can take care of you or something. That and he just entirely gets off on you.
“Fuck willpower,” He says against you as he briefly tests your folds with fingers over your sensitive clit, watching your mouth open in a small whine, lashes fluttering, another hand pulling your body even closer, as you wrap your legs around his waist. “Fuck being cleansed, alright?”
“Mm,” You say, watching as he swallows, you’re watching maybe the toll of his shift start to come back physically and you move your hands to his cheek, away from where’d he place them above your head.
You don’t say anything, just still him briefly, eyes wide, a nod, a check in. He nods, mouth twitching in a smile.
He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, pushing them down with a practiced ease born from years of undressing after long shifts. His cock hard and eager, his breath hitching as you wrap your hand around his length, your touch sending electric shocks through him.
You spit into your palm, the wet sound echoing in the quiet room, and he groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through him. Your hand moves over his cock, slick and smooth, your fingers tracing the veins, your thumb rubbing over the sensitive head. He curses under his breath, a string of words that would make a sailor blush, his hips jerking forward, seeking more of your touch.
“Shit… fucking hell– You keep doing that this is gonna a lot quicker than I mentally planned for.” He tells you.
“What’d you mentally plan for?” You chuckle, a low, sultry sound that sends shivers down his spine, your hand never pausing in its slow, torturous rhythm.
“Well, six hours of foreplay,” he moves his cock over your pussy, gliding it over your folds, amused by your gasp of a moan. “Six hours of shower sex, kitchen, couch, each. Obviously six… emotionally… intelligent, beautiful conversation about life and marriage. Ever thought about wanting a third?”
“I don’t know, have you?” You murmur, watching as he taunts you as he moves his cock over your pussy, the head slipping through your folds, coating itself in your wetness. You gasp, your back arching, your hips lifting to meet him. He groans, his eyes fluttering closed, savoring the feel of you.
“Christ,” He murmurs, absentmindedly, then, with a slow, steady push, he slides into you, his cock filling you completely. You moan, your nails digging into his back, your body arching into his. “Maybe. I don’t know. We can talk about this later.”
He’s still for a moment, body hot and warm above you as his hand grips onto your hips. You let out a shaky breath and smile. “You alright there, old man?”
“Heavenly,” he says quite earnestly, leaning to kiss you down at your neck. “Missed this. God, it’s like you’re made for me. So goddamn perfect.”
You clench slightly at his words, hearing as he groans at that, vibrating against your skin. A moment passes before you start getting desperate for action.
“Please move, baby,” You ask, looking up at him with eagerness.
“‘Course, whatever you want, sweetheart,” He kisses your lips softly, before moving.
Pulling out slowly before sliding back in, his pace steady and sure. With each thrust, he swallows your moans with his kisses, his hands tangling in your hair, his body pressing you into the mattress. You can feel every inch of him, every ridge and vein, and it's perfect.
His tongue dances with yours, exploring your mouth, tasting you. His hand tangles in your hair, his grip firm but not painful, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. You moan into his mouth, your body arching into his, your nails digging into his back.
He pulls back, his breath ragged, his eyes dark with desire. "You feel so good," he murmurs, his voice hoarse. "So fucking good."
You can only nod, your words lost in the pleasure that's coursing through your veins. He starts to move faster, his hips snapping forward, his cock sliding in and out of you with increasing urgency. You can feel the pleasure building, the tension coiling in your belly, your pussy clenching around him.
His hand travels from your hair to your face, cupping your cheek, keeping your eyes on him. You gasp, your eyes fluttering closed, your body arching into his touch. He groans, his cock twitching inside you at the sight of you losing yourself in his touch.
He gently moves two fingers down your chest and stomach, landing at your core, above where he fucks you. He circles your clit, his touch firm and steady, drawing tight circles that make your hips buck off the bed. You let out a low moan, your body tensing, your breath coming in short gasps.
He can see your arousal coating his cock, your slick gathering around the base, and it spurs him on. He leans down, his lips finding your ear. "You like that, don't you?" he murmurs, his voice low and rough. "You like feeling me stretch you, filling you up?"
“Yes, yes, mhm,” you try, nails moving from his back to his biceps, hard and taught beneath your touch.
He starts to move faster, his hips slamming into you, his cock sliding in and out of you with increasing urgency. You can feel the pleasure building, the tension coiling in your belly, your pussy clenching around him.
His weight edges off just enough, bracing more through his arms and left side, breath going a touch uneven where it presses against your shoulder. Not stopping—he’d push through it if you let him—but compensating. You feel it.
Your hands slide up his back, slower now, anchoring “Take it off, baby,” you murmur softly, glancing down toward the prosthetic. “You’ve had it on too long.”
He eases to a stop, controlled, careful not to jostle you as he shifts his weight fully off. You guide him back with you, hands steady at his sides, both of you moving without needing to overthink it—this part practiced, familiar.
He settles against the pillows with a small exhale, rolling his shoulder once as if resetting himself. You stay close, one hand resting at his hip, the other brushing briefly up his chest—grounding, not rushing him.
He reaches down, undoing the prosthetic with efficient movements, years of muscle memory. There’s no awkwardness to it, no self-consciousness—just a small release in his face as it comes free. You take it from him without comment, setting it at the foot of the bed like you always do.
“Better?” you ask, thumb tracing idly along his side.
He nods once, eyes flicking back to you, something softer under the edge of want. “Yeah. C’mere.”
You shift back over him, settling in close again, your knees bracketing his hips, easy and familiar. You lean down to kiss him, long and sweet, less immodest as your other ones, maybe. Just maybe, as his hands immediately find your ass, helping your back arch into him, cock still hard as you slide over it, folds wet and sensitive.
“God, you’re–” He groans as you bite at his bottom lip, pulling it back, as you kiss down his chest. “Gonna be the death of me.”
You lean down, your tongue flicking out to taste his skin, tracing a path down his chest, over his stomach, until you reach the V that leads to his cock. You look up at him, your eyes meeting his, and you can see the anticipation in them.
You take your time, your tongue sliding over his shaft, from base to tip, feeling him pulse under your touch.
“Great way to go,” he murmurs as he watches you.
You take him into your mouth, feeling him slide over your tongue, your lips stretching to accommodate him. He groans, his hand finding your hair, not pulling, just gripping, as you take him deeper, your mouth warm and wet. You can feel him, hard and throbbing, and you know he's close, with how his arms tighten and tense, fingers tighter on your scalp.
You pull back, your tongue flicking over the head of his cock, tasting the precum that beads at the tip. You sit back, straightening your spine, and look at him. His eyes are on you, hungry and intense.
You spit on his cock, watching as the saliva slides down his shaft, making it glisten in the soft light. You rise up, your knees bracketing his hips, and lower yourself onto him, feeling him slide into you, inch by inch.
“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck,” you whimper as you settle on top, nails over his chest.
He groans, his hands finding your hips, holding you in place as he thrusts up into you. You can feel him, deep and hard, filling you completely. You start to move, your body rolling and grinding against him, your hips moving in a slow, steady rhythm.
His hands roam over your body, one staying on your hip, guiding your movements, the other trailing up your stomach, over your breasts, squeezing them, his thumb brushing over your nipple. You gasp, your head falling back.
His thumb circling your nipple, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. He starts to talk you through it, his voice slow and steady, a counterpoint to the fast, hard rhythm of your bodies. "You're so fucking beautiful, riding me like this. God- so tight and wet for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?"
His words send a shiver through you, your body tensing, your breath hitching in your throat.
“Yeah? Yeah, that’s right, that’s right," he mutters. “C’mon, baby, right there f’me, you’re doing so good.”
“Please,” you moan, hips grinding down against him.
“You need help, honey? Just ask,” He sits up, his chest pressing against yours, his breath hot on your neck. He reaches between you, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight circles over the sensitive bundle of nerves.
You whine, your body arching into his touch, your hips moving in time with his fingers.
“C’mon, words for me,” he says, breathing heavily against you as he finds himself closer to the edge at how you clench down on him, tight and warm.
“Wanna cum,” you pant, your body tense, your breath coming in short gasps.
“Again? So greedy,” he mocks. “Go ‘head, you can do it”
His words push you over the edge. You move, your body rolling and grinding against him, your hips moving in a fast, frantic rhythm. You can feel it, the pleasure snapping, your body convulsing, your nails digging into his back, your mouth open in a silent scream.
"Good girl," he groans, his body tensing, his cock pulsing inside you. He follows you, his release hot and hard, filling you completely.
You collapse onto his chest, your body spent, your heart pounding in your ears. He wraps his arms around you, holding you close, his body still trembling with the aftermath. You can feel his heart beating in time with yours, and you know, in this moment, everything is right.
You stay there a little longer than you mean to, half sprawled over him, your cheek pressed to his chest, skin still warm, damp, real. His arm is draped around you—loose now, heavy with exhaustion—but his fingers keep moving anyway, absentminded, tracing slow patterns over your back like he can’t quite stop touching you yet.
Like he doesn’t want to.
You draw lazy shapes over his shoulder, connecting freckles you already know by heart, like it’s something you’ve done a hundred times—because you have.
“I love baseless temptations,” you murmur.
Jack lets out a quiet laugh, the sound low in his chest, vibrating under your cheek. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough but easy. “Me too.”
There’s something softer in it now. Not the edge from before. Just… him.
You shift slightly, listening to his breathing settle, feeling the way his body gives into the mattress—finally. Like he’s been holding himself upright all day and only now gets to stop.
“Fourteen hours,” you mumble, almost to yourself, remembering your insane schedules. “And you still managed to—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” he cuts in, dry.
You grin against his skin. “I was gonna say ‘impress me.’”
“Sure you were.”
“I was,” you insist, lifting your head to look at him properly. “Honestly, I thought you’d pass out.”
He cracks one eye open at that. “Have a little faith.”
“I do,” you say, brushing your thumb over his jaw, softer now. “I also have eyes. You look like you got hit by a truck.”
“Feel like it,” he mutters.
“Mm.” You lean down, press a brief kiss to his chest—nothing urgent, just there. “Still did good.”
He exhales a quiet laugh at that, head tipping back. “Christ. It’s alright, I’ll probably crash in twenty minutes. Took tomorrow off, at least.
You watch him for a second—really watch him. The lines of tension finally easing out of his face, the way his shoulders have dropped, the way he looks… settled. Not asleep, not yet. Just here. With you.
It hits you again, softer this time, how much of him is usually in motion—pulled in a hundred directions, needed everywhere at once—and how rare it is to have him like this. Still. Letting himself be here, with you, without reaching for the next thing.
You smooth your hand over his chest, slower now, grounding.
“You gonna keep up the meditation thing?” he asks, voice rough with the edge of sleep.
You huff quietly. “Probably not.” A beat. “Unless you’re suddenly interested.”
“Mm. I think I’ll stick to therapy,” he murmurs. Then, after a second, a little more awake—“You still think I need other hobbies?”
You glance at him, mouth curving. “No. I’m actually very supportive of your current hobby.” You lean in, kiss him soft. “Big fan. Please continue exclusively.”
He laughs into it, low and tired, something easy settling back into him.
“I’ll be right back,” you add, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “Gonna clean up, check the spaghetti. You’ll eat something, then we’ll watch Housewives in bed. Deal?”
“I can help, I’ll—”
“—Stay,” you cut in gently, pressing him back into the pillows. “I’ve spent a stupid amount of money while I was out this morning, this is more for me than it is for you, trust.” You tell, already slipping out from under the sheets.
You move around the room in one of his old shirts, easy, familiar—tidying, grabbing what you need, the quiet domestic rhythm of it settling everything back into place. It’s almost meditative, in a way that none of the actual meditation ever was. This is the version that works for you: him in the bed, you in the room, the soft comedown of it all.
When you come back, he hasn’t moved much. One arm over his eyes, breathing slower now, like he’s finally letting himself drop. You sit beside him, brush your hand over his chest again, then pass him a bowl.
“Eat, quick, before it gets cold,” you say.
He obeys, because of course he does, getting through a few bites before setting it aside with a quiet exhale.
You keep going, perched cross-legged beside him, the normalcy of it comforting after a month of physically pushing him away to be cleansed, when ironically, you feel more cleansed than ever to be near him.
There’s a pause.
“So,” you begin. “What was that thing you said? Earlier? About a third?”
He chuckles. “I was just kidding, hon,” he says, a little rough, like he’s not fully back yet. He presses a lazy kiss to your head. “Why?”
You tilt your chin up slightly, watching him. “I don’t know.” Your head ring vaguely with Santos’ words from the other day. He reads pretty quickly where your train of thought is going.
“Hypothetically. If you had to pick someone.” You ask.
He looks at you properly now, narrowing his eyes just a fraction like he’s trying to read the angle. Like there’s definitely a wrong answer here and he’d quite like to avoid it.
You just hold his gaze, completely neutral.
A beat passes. Something unspoken flickers between you—quick, familiar.
Who would you pick?
Who do you think I’d pick?
Are we about to say the same name?
“…Robby,” you both say at the same time.
There’s a pause. Then Jack lets out a quiet, disbelieving huff of laughter, shaking his head against the pillow. “Jesus Christ.”
You grin a little, unable to help it. “I mean—objectively—”
“He’d be… fucking insufferable about it,” Jack cuts in immediately. “You know he would.”
You refrain from commenting, leaving your spaghetti aside, as you open your computer. Jack groans, dragging a hand over his face. “He’d give me notes or something.”
You’ve got Housewives on your computer. It’s obviously the New York one, still early days - Season 4.
“So what happened in the mid-season finale again?” You ask as you settle against him.
“I barely remember, honestly,” He sighs. “Ramona’s being difficult, someone brought the wrong wine, it’s a mess. Cindy is great, though.”
His arm tightens around you again, a quiet, grounding squeeze.
The episode keeps playing. His commentary gets more frequent—dry, half-interested, pretending he’s above it while very clearly tracking every single detail.
You let it happen, tucked into him, warm, fed, a little tired in the best way.
Cleansed, in a way none of the yoga or herbal tea ever managed. Just this—him, you, the low hum of something ridiculous on screen, and the easy, familiar weight of being exactly where you’re meant to be.
a/n: i love this song! I got this though from when i watched a robby x abbot tiktok edit to my man on willpower, and if im desperate for inspo i go to my tiktok edits and see if i can spur some ideas, and i was like, oh maybe abbot like not fucking you or something because of some self care thing and i was like, god he’d never do that. he’s fucking whenever, life is short, he would want to treat his partner as much as he can mentally and physically handle i think. And then i was like. Wait, lets switch the beat…. anyway i had to restrain myself from writing more orlike writing everyday and unpacking different interactions. i wrote a scene where'd try to seduce you with his "slutty pyjamas" (his army uniform) and you gaf or something but i felt too much 2nd hand embarrasment. im so tired i have triivia to go to now i have no idea if this is good i just want it done so i caan study and work on the lawyer series!
Summary: At Station 42’s annual fundraiser, you’re the new probie running the demo table when Battalion Chief Brett Richard shows up—off-duty, relaxed, and impossibly attractive.
Tags: Age Gap Relationship (Implied), Banter, Probie/Chief Relationship, Workplace Romance, Mutual Pining, Flirting
A/N: I have not watched a single episode of Fire Country, so please forgive me, I do not go here but... the old man makes me watch anything he is in.
divider by diviniyae
The station is transformed. String lights hang across the bay, casting a warm glow over the crowd that's gathered for the annual Cal Fire charity fundraiser. Families mill about, kids clamoring to sit in the engine. The smell of burgers on the grill mingles with laughter and conversation, and someone's playing classic rock through a speaker system that's seen better days.
You've been at Station 42 for two months now, and this is your first community event. The crew had insisted you help set up—"probie duty," they'd called it with good-natured grins—which meant you'd spent the afternoon stringing lights, arranging tables, and hauling equipment for demonstrations.
Now you're manning the equipment demonstration table, fielding questions from curious kids and their parents. A Halligan bar sits on display next to various other tools of the trade, and you've just finished explaining the jaws of life to a fascinated teenager when a ten-year-old grabs the Halligan.
"Can I take this home? It's so cool!"
"Sorry, buddy," you say, gently prying it from his hands. "This stays with the fire department. But I can show you how we use it to force open doors."
The kid pouts dramatically. "You're the worst."
"Wow, that's harsh," you laugh, demonstrating the tool's weight and balance. "I'm just trying to keep you safe."
His mom mouths a "sorry and a thank you" as she steers him toward the silent auction, and you're resetting the display when you sense someone approaching. You glance up, and your breath catches slightly.
Brett Richard is making his way through the crowd, and you're momentarily thrown by the sight of him out of uniform. He's traded his usual Battalion Chief attire for well-worn jeans that fit him perfectly and a fitted Cal Fire t-shirt that does absolutely nothing to hide the fact that your commanding officer is built like someone who actually fights fires instead of just commanding them. His hair is slightly less composed than usual, more curls than you are used to seeing and there's an ease to his posture you don't often see at the station.
He's stopped twice by community members—shaking hands, smiling, playing the role of the approachable fire chief—but his eyes keep drifting back to your table. To you.
When he finally reaches you, there's a slight smile playing at his lips. "Holding down the fort?"
"Trying to explain to a ten-year-old why he can't take the Halligan bar home," you reply, grinning. "Apparently, I'm the worst for saying no."
Brett chuckles, the sound low and genuine. "The worst, huh? That's a new one for you. Usually the crew has... other descriptions."
You busy yourself straightening the equipment display, hyperaware of how close he's standing. "Oh?" You raise an eyebrow, leaning against the table and meeting his gaze directly. "And what exactly does the crew say about me, Chief?"
His eyes meet yours, and there's something playful in them you haven't seen before—something that makes your pulse quicken. He's looking at you differently than he does during shift briefings or training exercises. "That you're a quick learner. Dedicated. Not afraid to get your hands dirty." He pauses, his gaze lingering just a beat too long, traveling from your eyes to your mouth and back again. "Easy on the eyes when you're not covered in soot."
Heat rises to your cheeks, "Is that your professional assessment, Chief?"
"Strictly observational." He steps closer, reaching past you to straighten a display helmet that doesn't really need straightening, his arm brushing yours. The contact sends a spark through you, and you notice he doesn't move away immediately. His hand lingers near yours on the table, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his skin. "Though I probably shouldn't be making observations like that."
"Probably not," you agree, your voice softer now, barely audible over the music and chatter around you. You can smell his cologne—something clean and woodsy with a hint of cedar. It's distracting in the best way. "But I won't tell if you won't."
Brett's smile widens slightly, almost boyish despite the authority he usually carries, and it transforms his face completely. "You know, there's a difference between chain of command at a scene and... off-duty circumstances."
Your heart is hammering now, but you keep your voice light, teasing. "Is that right?" You tilt your head, unable to stop your own smile. "And what circumstance is this, exactly?"
"A charity event," he says, but his tone suggests he's considering other interpretations. His eyes haven't left yours, and the intensity of his attention makes you feel like you're the only person here. "With decent music, terrible barbecue—"
"Hey, I helped with that barbecue," you protest, laughing.
"My point exactly." His eyes crinkle with amusement, and he's close enough now that you could reach out and touch him if you were brave enough. "And apparently an off-duty probie who's going to make me regret being professional for the last two months."
Your heart skips, and you forget how to breathe for a moment. "Two months? You've been counting?"
The question hangs between you, and you watch something shift in his expression—surprise at his own admission, maybe, or resignation that he's already said too much to take it back now. Brett opens his mouth, then closes it, shaking his head with a quiet laugh that sounds almost self-deprecating. "I'm your commanding officer. I shouldn't—" He stops himself, running a hand through his hair, messing it up in a way that makes him look younger, less composed. "This is a bad idea."
"What is?" you ask, even though you know exactly what he means. You want to hear him say it.
"Admitting that I've noticed you as more than just the probie." His honesty catches you off guard—no deflection, no retreat into professional distance. Just truth, laid bare between you. "But I have. Since day one, if I'm being honest. And standing here pretending I haven't is getting harder every time I see you."
The air between you feels charged, crackling with possibility. Somewhere nearby, someone laughs. The music shifts to a slower song. Kids squeal with delight by the engines. But it all feels distant, muted, like the world has narrowed down to just the two of you in this bubble of string lights and confession.
"So what do we do about that?" you ask quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.
Brett's jaw works for a moment, clearly weighing his words, measuring the risk. When he speaks, his voice is low and careful. "We're careful. We're professional when it matters—and it matters most of the time. I won't put your career at risk, and I won't compromise the crew's trust." He glances around, checking that no one's paying attention to the two of you, then looks back at you with something vulnerable and hopeful in his expression. "But maybe... maybe when you're off shift tomorrow, you can let me buy you coffee. Somewhere that's not Station 42. Somewhere we're just two people, not Chief and probie."
Your chest feels tight with warmth, with possibility. "That sounds like a date, Chief."
"Brett," he corrects, his voice dropping even lower, intimate. "When it's just us, it's Brett. Not Chief, not sir. Just Brett."
The way he says it, the way he's looking at you—like he's been wanting to say this for months—makes your smile widen. "Then yes, Brett. Coffee sounds perfect."
He nods, and the reserved smile he usually wears breaks into something genuine and warm, reaching his eyes. "Good. That's... good." He looks almost relieved, like he'd been bracing for rejection. "Now get back to work before someone notices I've been standing here too long. Gaberiela's already giving me looks from the grill."
You glance over and sure enough, one of the veteran firefighters is watching with poorly concealed amusement. "Yes, sir," you say with playful formality, giving him a mock salute.
Brett shakes his head, but he's still smiling as he starts to walk away. He makes it a few steps before he glances back, and the look he gives you—equal parts promise and anticipation—sends butterflies erupting in your stomach.
summary: jack returns home from work, earlier than you expect him to, and catches you getting off to another's man voice. (2k)
pairing: jack abbot / fem!reader
contents: established relationship, shy!reader, basically just an excuse to write smth about that shawn hatosy quinn audio lol, not proofread, cw for smut 18+ (MDNI), caught in the act, oral (fem receiving), while listening to audio porn
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
In retrospect, Jack knew something was off the second he stepped through the door.
It was the strange quiet that tipped him off — your absence, more so. There was no soft padding of your footsteps down the hall, no half-distracted greeting from the couch where you’re usually curled up and watching some reality TV show (that Jack swears he hates but always gets a little too invested in), no absentminded “hi, honey” tossed over your shoulder as you tend to daily household chores.
Jack, for the first time in a long time, is greeted by nothing but silence. The clinking of his keys hitting the coffee table sounds much louder in the foreign quiet — so does the sound of his creaking footsteps down the hall. He worries that you’re sick, or worse, and then forces himself to shake away that thought as he heads for the bedroom.
“Baby?” he calls into the quiet, as his fingers twist on the cold brass knob. The silence he gets in return is hardly reassuring.
He pushes the squeaking door open, then freezes in the threshold when he finds you there — perfectly well and languishing in the unmade sheets. Your bulky headphones are snug over our ears; your head is tossed back against the pillow; your eyes are fluttered shut. Your phone rests just beside you, the screen glowing faintly in the lamplit room.
And, in the stillness, Jack can hear a subtle and unmistakable humming sound coming from beneath the blankets, where your knees are bent and spread.
Jack almost retreats. His instinct tells him to — to give you your privacy, to close the door, to pretend he hadn’t walked in on such an intimate moment. But something deeper roots him in place; the strange warm feeling swirls in his chest, maybe.
There’s something strangely intimate, he finds, in watching you when you think no one is looking — when you have nothing and no one to perform for. You look peaceful, completely undone, totally in your own world.
Jack freezes in the doorway when you shift on the bed, sinking further into the mattress as you adjust the vibrator between your thighs. It seems to hit the spot, as you exhale a whimpered sigh a second later.
So Jack just decides to watch you — he migrates to the desk chair, in hopes of relieving the strain of his prosthetic, but the old floorboards betray him with a soft creak.
You don’t react immediately, but your expression flickers a bit, as a subtle awareness prickles up your spine. You worry, briefly, that someone may be watching you — you always are, in a way, especially when your headphones are on — but you struggle now to shake the feeling.
Your eyes flutter open, if only to prove to yourself that there’s no one there, and they widen in shock when they land on Jack in the corner of the room.
“What the fuck—?” you exclaim, clicking the vibrator off with one hand and slinging off your headphones with the other.
Jack startles, too. His hands lift in surrender as a laugh sputters from his lips. “Sorry! Sorry, I— I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Your face burns red-hot. You can feel the heat climbing up your neck and to your ears as your eyes flit to his eyes and away again. “H-How long have you been standing there?”
“Not long,” he shrugs and crosses his strong arms over his chest. His freckled biceps strain against the sleeves of his black tee, which he wears tucked into his camo fatigues. A crooked smile tugs slow at his mouth as he tilts his head. “Two minutes. Give or take.”
“I thought you weren’t coming home until later— Why didn’t you say something?”
“I tried to,” he quips, brows raised to his hairline. “But then I realized you were having a pretty good time in here, so… I didn’t want to interrupt.”
You bury your burning face into your hands. “That’s so embarrassing…” you groan, muffled into your palms.
Jack’s laughter doesn’t make you feel any better.
“Why is it embarrassing?” he chuckles as he closes the distance between you.
You can tell that he’s limping from the quiet scuff in his step. The mattress sinks under his weight as he sits on the edge of it, relieving the ache in his amputated limb that he’s been carrying all day.
He looks over his shoulder at you, lips curling into a sly smirk when he can still hear your headphones playing from just beside you. It’s a muffled, indistinct humming that he can’t quite make out, but it’s very obviously someone else’s voice.
He nods towards it, silver curls turning golden in the amber light. “What are you listening to over there, huh?”
“Nothing,” you answer, a little too quickly, as you take the headphones back into your hands.
“Oh, yeah?” he hums. “Let me see.”
You jerk them away when he reaches out for them. “Don’t…” you murmur, all shy, like a scolded child.
“I’m not upset, baby,” he assures with a gritty laugh. “I just wanna know what you’re into. That’s all.”
He eases the headphone from your grip; this time, with little protest from you. He holds your weary gaze with his glimmering one as he slips them over his own ears. He’s met with a bassy, masculine voice: “—God, you’re so sexy… Look at how you’re dripping on my fingers, baby…”
You watch, mortified, as confusion etches across his weathered face — eyes squinting and brows lowering. “Who is this?” he asks.
“No one,” you mutter, gaze averted, as you pick at pills of cotton on the blanket with anxious hands. “He’s just… some guy on the internet. I don’t even know what he looks like, he just makes… You know… Audio stuff.”
“Audio stuff, huh?” Jack echoes with raised brows, before huffing a quiet laugh. “God, I’m old…”
He slides the headphones from his silver curls and passes them back to you with something different etched across his features now, something thoughtful. Curious. Interested, even.
“…You’re not mad?” you wonder in a timid voice.
“Why would I be mad?” he scoffs, then bounces a shoulder in a lazy shrug. “I think it’s hot. I like knowing what you’re into.”
He leans in to kiss you, and your stomach does a back flip. His scruff brushes your delicate skin when his lips meet yours. You melt against him with a heavy sigh through your nose, as some of the embarrassment from before slips from your skin.
“C’mon,” he slurs between his kisses. “Keep listenin’ for me…”
You pull back, features screwed. “Really?”
“Yeah,” he nods once, without taking his unwavering stare off yours.
Your fingers tremble with hesitancy as you go to put the headphones back over your ears. Jack’s hand catches your wrist in a soft, calloused grip — redirecting you with a gentle touch.
“No,” he says in a gravelly voice, eyes low and lidded. “Let it play.”
He reaches over and taps your phone screen with his pointer finger — once to disconnect the wireless headphones and second to unpause the audio. The voice resumes, sounding a little foreign now as it plays throughout the otherwise silent bedroom.
“—You always get so sweet for me when I kiss your neck,” the masculine voice slurs.
Jack doesn’t miss a beat.
He props his fist beside your blanketed thighs and twists his upper body to lean in closer. His warm breath fans over your jaw right before he plants a wet kiss to your neck. Your jaw tightens as you fight back a shiver.
“See? I can feel your heart racing for me…” the stranger mumbles between mimed kisses. “Let me see if I can find that sweet spot, huh? Right… here…”
Jack’s teeth graze over your pulse point — not enough to hurt, but enough to make your breath hitch. You raise your hands to his shoulders, balling the fabric of his shirt into your fists. His mouth curls into a slow smile against you, and you sigh when his scruff brushes your delicate skin.
“You love this, huh?” Jack mumbles into your skin.
“This is…” you trail off in mild anguish. “Both incredibly hot and wildly embarrassing.”
“Why is it embarrassing?” the older man laughs, as his lips slide over the thrumming tendon of your neck.
“I don’t know…” you mumble, trailing your hands up and over his broad shoulders until your fingers find the silver curls at the nape of his neck. “I feel like… Like you just caught me watching porn or something, and now we’re watching it together— It just feels weird.”
Jack hums against you, as if it were a proposition that needed considering.
“Sounds pretty fun to me,” he hums and pulls off of you with a quiet click. His mouth is softly swollen from his kisses, and his eyes are lidded and glittering with mischief when they lock with yours. “Wanna try that later?”
You swallow hard, features crumpling in distant shame as you squeak out, “Yeah…”
Jack’s grin widens right before he presses it to your mouth — in a lengthier and more languid kiss that pushes you slowly back into the mattress again. You sigh hard through your nose when his tongue licks into you, like velvet in your mouth. Your fingers tug harder at his silver curls, and you smile to yourself when he groans quietly against you.
He follows the direction of the foreign male voice spilling from your phone, and it leads him to your spread legs — where a wet patch has already started to form in the thin cotton of your underwear. You melt into the mattress when his strong arms wrap around your thighs to hug you close against him.
“Look at how wet you are for me, baby… Your pussy’s just begging for my mouth, huh? God, you’re such a little slut for me, aren’t you?”
Jack freezes, mid-kiss on your inner thigh. He flashes you an amused look up your clothed body, clad in one of his oversized t-shirts that’s slipping off your shoulder now.
“Do you like being talked to like that?” he asks.
Your mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water for an embarrassing moment. “I… I don’t know… Maybe?”
“Hm… Good to know,” Jack nods and gets back to work.
“I’ll warm you up with my tongue first, okay? Nice and slow…”
Jack takes the instruction in stride.
He slips his pointer finger in the hem of your panties, slipping the fabric to the side, until your drooling pussy is on display for him — already needy and craving the orgasm it missed beforehand.
Jack ducks down to lick a fat stripe up the length of your cunt in time with the sound effects of the audio. His tongue slots just perfectly within your silken folds.
Your mouth parts in a silent moan as your head tips back against the pillow. You feel Jack smiling against you when your hips buck instinctively to chase his mouth.
“You like that?” he mumbles, in time with the foreign voice playing just beside you.
You exhale a breathless laugh that turns into a moan when Jack returns to your pussy, kissing you there like he would your mouth. He groans against you when your fingers twist harder in his curls; the vibrations only add to your sensitivity. Your whine swells within the walls of the quiet bedroom, entwining with the wet sounds from the audio and the realer ones coming from between your thighs.
“Now… How about I suck on the pretty little clit, huh? Get it nice and swollen for me…”
Your face flares at the overtly crude language.
Jack doesn’t miss a beat.
He spreads your velvety folds with his thumb and forefinger, bearing the most sensitive part of you for him. His lips wrap around your clit a second later, and your thighs clench instinctively around his head. His scruff prickles at your delicate skin when you jerk against him. A cry spills from your parted mouth before you can stop it.
“Wait, wait, wait—” you hear yourself say.
Jack pulls off of you with a quiet smack. His eyes are lidded; his mouth is swollen; his chin is coated in a layer of your slick. “Too much?” he asks.
You lift your head to stare down your body at the man between your thighs, nodding until the words catch up to you. “I’ll— I’ll cum too fast if you keep doing that.”
His brows lift as something teasing swims in his heavy eyes. “Isn’t that the point?”
Jack returns to your weeping pussy, licking and sucking you there, with noises far more lewd than the ones spilling from the speaker beside your head. There is no further protest from you, as he drags an orgasm from your trembling body — a much more powerful one than you would’ve gotten with just your vibrator, had he not walked in on you. His fingers threaten to dig bruises into the plush of your thighs as your hips twitch wildly against his face.
“Good girl— Good fucking girl,” the stranger’s deep voice croons throughout the quiet bedroom, coaching you through the orgasm Jack gives you with nothing but his tongue.
He caresses you gently on the comedown, with his calloused hands and his wet mouth, molding you back together again as he kisses his way back up your trembling body.
The voice on the phone continues while the two of you work with graceless limbs to undress — your fingers scramble with the buttons of his camo pants while he tugs his shirt up and over his body by the neckline.
A heavy sigh grumbles in the back of Jack’s throat when you free his half-hard cock from the confines of his boxers, pulling the hem down beneath his heavy balls. His muscular chest, flushed with need, heaves as you take him into your hand.
“I’m gonna fuck you now, okay?” the masculine voice continues to slur. “You don’t have to beg for it, baby, I’m gonna give it to you. I’m gonna give you all of it—”
Jack reaches for the phone again while you massage his cock the rest of the way hard; he feels like heavy velvet in your fist. He taps the screen to pause it.
“Alright, enough of that,” he huffs as he shifts on his knees. “I need to focus.”
You blink up at him, a little dazed from your lingering orgasm, as a smile curls slowly at your lips. “Aren’t you supposed to be good at multitasking, Dr. Abbot?”
“Multitasking’s for paperwork, baby,” the older man quips with a smug smirk and a pair of squinted eyes. He takes his stiff cock in his fist and eyes you carefully as you lean back onto your elbows, thighs nice and spread for him. “And this—”
He nudges the drooling tip of his cock against your already sensitive clit and grins wider when your head tips back with a moan.
“This deserves my full attention, don’t ya think?”
pope code is addicted to your scent. so addicted that he can sniff out when it's...different.
mdni, 18+, panty stealing and sniffing, scent kink, ovulation kink, cunnilingus, semi-public, didn't go in detail with scents because i know we all smell different hehe, season two andrew cody in a button-down, pope is a bloodhound who can smell when you're ovulating loll
listen ♬.ᐟ
pope cody is addicted to your scent.
not in the way people say they love the smell of coffee in the morning or the way clean laundry smells. nothing casual about it. it's the kind of addiction that rewires something primal in the back of his brain, something hungry and absolutely feral.
he craves it like a drug, indulges in it every single moment he gets.
when you’re laying in bed in the dark, safe and warm, his toned arms wrap tight around your torso and his nose is buried in your hair. right at the nape of your neck, where the scent is strongest. he sniffs that powdery soft smell of your shampoo like he's inhaling crack, chasing a high, letting it overwrite the smell of gun oil and anxiety that clings to him like a second skin.
when he hugs you after a long day of one of the solo 'jobs' smurf sends him out to handle. the ones that leave him coming back to you all bruised and beaten down, knuckles split and raw, a darkness behind his eyes that wasn't there when he left that morning.
he doesn't just hug you. he clings. buries his face in the curve of your neck, nose pressed right over the pulse, to make sure you're still alive. still real. still here and his and not another thing the world has taken from him. and then he breathes you in deep. lavender soap. shea butter cream. the faint, clean musk of your skin underneath it all. his eyes flutter shut. his shoulders drop.
and on the nights he can't come home, the nights he feels too filthy, too stained by the shadows of the crimes he committed, by his own sins. too ashamed to drag all that darkness to your doorstep and let it taint you. on those nights, he sits in his car, the engine cooling in the dark silence of an empty parking lot, and he reaches into his glovebox.
he pulls out the lace panties he stole from your hamper three days ago. the pretty pink ones with the little bow on the trim. they’re delicate, too soft on the rough, calloused skin of his palms. he brings them to his face, pressing the fabric against his nose, and he inhales.
deep.
the scent is sickly sweet, a hint of musk and entirely an essence of you. it makes his eyes roll back, his head falling against the headrest. he unbuckles the belt of his jeans with a hurried but shaky hand, pulls down his jeans and his cock springs free, slapping hard against his belly. he’s already achingly hard. the shaft curved and heavy, an angry, throbbing vein running down the length. the tip is an blushed pink, swollen and desperate for you.
he gathers spit in his mouth, thick and shameless, and lets it dribble down over the head. then wraps his calloused fist around himself and twists the slick down his shaft all while pressing the panties tighter against his face. breathing you in with every stroke.
he groans your name into it, and it comes out all whiny and wrecked, a desperate, broken sound he'd never let anyone else hear. never. pope cody doesn't beg. pope cody doesn't whine. pope cody holds his shit together with duct tape and sheer fucking will and doesn't let anyone see the cracks. but alone in this car, with your scent flooding his senses, he's whispering your name like a prayer and a plea all at once. repeating it. "please, please, please—" not even sure what he's begging for. forgiveness? repentance? or maybe just to be inside you. to be good enough for it.
his hips twitch up off the seat, fucking into his fist in short, desperate rolls. he's pretending the cotton against his nose is your skin. pretending his hand is the wet, clenching heat of his sweet girl's pussy. pretending he's buried between your thighs where he belongs, where the only smell in the world is you, raw and unfiltered, nothing between his mouth and your pussy.
it's pathetic. depraved. and, oh, he knows if he could crawl into your skin and live there, he would. he'd shrink himself down and burrow into the warm, soft space behind your sternum and never come out.
now you're both at smurf's place.
the noise of the pool party is a distant static hum buzzing through the sliding glass doors into the dim quiet of the living room. smurf's shrill laugh cutting through the splashing, the sizzle and pop of the grill, craig hollering at someone about something stupid, glass bottles clinking, music too loud. all of it muffled and far away from the little bubble you and your boyfriend, pope, created in the living room.
he's dead weight across your lap.
sprawled flat on his stomach on the big red lounge couch, long legs hanging off the end, one arm tucked under his chest and the other holding his phone above his face while his head is pillowed on your soft thighs. your skirt has ridden up, the soft cotton bunched at your hips, exposing miles of bare skin to the cool air. his cheek is pressed against the warm inside of one thigh, his auburn curls spilling across your lap.
he's scrolling through his phone. aggressively. irritated by a stream of texts — people his brothers ripped off, loose ends he has to tie up because god forbid craig or deran handle anything cleanly. you can see the tension in his jaw even from this angle, brows in a mean furrow, the hard set of his mouth, the way his shoulders are drawn up tight. he's been like this since he walked through the door forty minutes ago. coiled, wound, a spring waiting to snap.
"you're getting worry lines, andrew." you look down at him from the book in your hand and frown.
then you reach down and push at the deep crease between his brows with the pad of your thumb, smoothing it out.
"m'sorry it's just that have to fix this mess these idiots left and—" he doesn't finish his sentence as your fingers card slow through his auburn curls, scratching gently at his scalp, dragging your nails lightly over the warm skin of his nape where his hair is shortest. it pulls a low rumbling sound from deep in his chest, something that vibrates straight through your thighs and settles hot and low in your core. you feel him physically relax at the contact. the tight line of his shoulders drops a fraction. his jaw unclenches.
"we're here to relax. now relax and put the damn phone away."
"hmm. fine." he obeys you easily, always does, almost like he physically can never say the word 'no' to you. he abandons the phone, letting it drop face down onto the cushion with a thud. his arm flops down beside it, limp and defeated, and he exhales — long and slow, the last of the tension leaving his body in that single breath.
you're both quiet for the moment, not the awkward kind. but in a way that feels comfortable, calm. nothing pope is used to but longs for desperately.
his dark eyes flutter open. he watches you from below, chin tucked against your thigh, face tilted up. he looks at you the way he always looks at you, like you're something he doesn't deserve and knows it and is terrified of anyway.
he studies the deliberate, unbothered calm of you. the way you're reading a fucking paperback like his ticking time bomb of a family isn't less than twenty feet away, like the man currently using your thighs as a pillow hasn't got blood under his fingernails that will take hours to wash out, like the world isn't constantly on fire around both of you.
he wonders how he got this. how he got a girl who holds his violence in her lap and tames it with only her fingers in his hair. who accepts him as is, doesn't flinch when he comes home with bruised knuckles and dead eyes. who just wants him safe, whole, and in your arms before the end of the night. who makes him feel like maybe the rot inside him isn't terminal but something you can fix.
his calloused thumb rubs absent circles into your bare thigh — rough pad dragging over your soft skin, back and forth, back and forth.
then he turns his face.
you feel the hot wet exhale of his breath against your inner thigh — closer than before, higher— before his nose drags slow along the soft skin toward your center. your thighs clench. your thumb stills on the page. he inhales, deep and shameless, pressing his face into the crease of your thigh like he's trying to breathe you directly into his lungs and bypass his respiratory system entirely.
"you smell..." he trails off, the words muffled against your flesh, his lips moving against your skin. "different."
"really?" you hum, not looking up from your book. "just my usual body mist though. you know the one you like..."
"yeah, i can smell that." he says, voice low, he rolls his head deeper, nose pressing into the warm crease of your thighs. "but there's somethin' else underneath it. somethin'…" he trails off, searching for the word, and settles on: "sweet."
and then, god help you, his nose twitches. actually twitches, like a dog catching a scent on the wind, and you would laugh if you weren't so busy trying to keep your composure because his nose is dangerously close to your pussy. and you've been hypersensitive all day and–
and something clicks.
the dull ache in your lower belly this morning. the tenderness in your breasts when you pulled your shirt on. the way you've been running hot all day with an aching need for him. you were–
"oh."
"oh?" he breathes out, like he already knows. of course he does. "you ovulating? aren't you early?"
you want to scream. the man is ridiculous. how could he possibly have known you were ovulating before you did? his nose is pressed against the inside of your thigh and he's casually sniffing out your pheromones, tracking your menstrual cycle like he's got your flo app memorized.
"what the fuck, andrew. how did you even ah—" he buries his face into you again — deeper this time, closer, nose dragging right over the seam of your panties right above your pussy folds — and the question leaves your mind.
you forget to care in that moment.
don't care about the science or the logic or the frankly alarming acuity of his senses. because instinctively, traitorously, your thighs fall open for him. an invitation your body makes before your brain can catch up and stop it, before you can remember that his family is quite literally right outside.
he makes that sound again. that pleased, hungry hum that makes something molten pool down to your core, as he accept the invitation, and sinks his head deeper between your parted thighs until his hot breath is ghosting right over the thin cotton of your underwear.
he groans and his whole body shudders against you.
"yeah. fuck. 's right here." his voice is wrecked already, barely above a whisper, vibrating against your pussy through the fabric. "this is what i— this is what i've been smellin', this is—" he breaks off. can't finish. doesn't need to. he buries his face directly against the slit of your pussy and inhales over the cloth, long and filthy and shameless, over and over, running the hard bridge of his nose between your folds, bumping against your swollen clit through the cotton until you jolt and bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste copper.
"smell really fuckin' good, baby," he mumbles, nose pressed so flat against the damp fabric you can feel the shape of it. "all musky and soooo fucking sweet." each word is muffled, spoken directly into your pussy, his hips jerk against the couch cushion, involuntary, and you feel the hard length of him press against your leg through his jeans. "christ."
"andrew." you hiss, your grip tightening in his hair, tugging which makes things worse because he love love loves when you get rough with him. "your family is right outside."
but he doesn't move an inch. "they're outside." his voice is calm, too calm, like he doesn't have his face buried between your thighs, nose pressed right against your clothed pussy. "they won't bother comin' in."
you should protest, say or do something logical like push his head away and slap him silly. but he keeps inhaling you. shameless and deep, nose pressed flat against the cotton that's growing damper by the second, and god help you, your hand is already pushing his head in deeper, fingers curling tight in his auburn hair.
because maybe you're just as bad as he is, a huge perv, maybe worse.
he loves when you use him like this, when you get greedy and desperate and stop pretending you're too good for the filthy things he wants to do to you. when your fingers twist in his hair and you grind against his face and all that careful composure cracks open and he can see the messy, wanting thing underneath. that's the real you, he thinks. not the paperback-reading calm. this. the girl who'll let him eat her out on his mother's couch knowing anyone could slip in and catch them any moment from now.
and you're dripping already. soaking through the thin cotton just from him sniffing you like a dog, and the fabric is clinging to your folds now, outlining every detail, and you know he can see it, see what he's done to you with nothing but his mouth and his nose and those big dark eyes looking up at you from between your thighs.
so without warning, his broad tongue drags a flat wet stripe right up the damp spot on your panties. slow. deliberate. the full width of his tongue, warm and rough, pressing the cotton between your folds as it drags upward.
you throw your head back, a sharp gasp tearing from your throat, the book slipping from your fingers and hitting the floor with a crack you don't even hear. your spine arches off the couch cushion.
"oh my god—"
he does it again. and again. long, slow, filthy laps over the soaked fabric, tasting you through the cotton, groaning low in his chest with each pass like he's savoring it. the friction of the wet fabric against your swollen clit is maddening —too much, but nowhere near enough — and your thighs are trembling on either side of his head, your breath coming in short shallow gasps.
"andrew — please, ah— slow down—"
you hiss it through your teeth, your grip tightening in his hair, tugging warningly. your voice comes out shakier than you want it to, breathless, the please slipping out before you can stop it, and you hate that it sounds less like a command and more like a whimper.
he doesn't listen. he never does, not when he's like this. not when he's got his mouth on you and whatever part of his brain handles reason and restraint just shuts the fuck off. he repeats the motion, the long, wet, dragging and groaning low at the taste. his hot tongue pressing the cotton flat against your folds until it's clinging to you, practically transparent, doing nothing to hide how drenched you are. his saliva is mixing with your arousal, making the fabric heavier, wetter, and the obscene squelch of it is quiet but loud enough in the stillness of the room that it makes your stomach clench with panic and want all at once.
"it's gettin' sweeter," he rasps, and when he glances up at you — chin wet, lips glistening, eyes wild, pupils blown so wide there's barely any brown left — he looks unhinged. feral. and you whimper at the sight of it, a small broken sound from the back of your throat that you couldn't suppress if your life depended on it. "i need more. need to taste your pussy, baby. please, please, please."
he's begging. andrew cody – who doesn't beg for anything, who holds everything tight and close and quiet, who would rather swallow glass than let anyone see him want – is begging with his face pressed against your clothed pussy and his eyes locked on yours and that desperate, wrecked please falling out of his mouth like he can't help it.
he's breathing hard already, chest rising and falling visibly beneath his wrinkled button-down. his dark eyes are wide and dark and starving, locked onto the wet mess between your thighs. you bite your lip hard enough to hurt, knowing that look, knowing exactly what kind of trouble it means.
it has been a while.
pope and the boys have been on 'business' for a week. a total blackout period, no calls, no texts, nothing, smurf's rules. and you were so fucking pent up, running on nothing but your own fingers and a dying vibrator that kept losing charge halfway through and leaving you a whimpering frustrated mess in an empty bed at two in the morning, thinking about him, aching for him.
you glance toward the large windows. everyone is focused on the grill and the pool and the obnoxiously loud chaos of it all. the sheer curtains obscure everything beyond them into a hazy glow. no one could possibly catch them unless they were actually looking.
just a little wouldn't be so bad.
so you part your thighs wider for him. skirt bunching at your hips. the wet spot on your panties glaringly obvious in the dim light. and with a low, shy, sultry voice — one that doesn't sound like you at all, sounds like some version of you that only comes out when andrew 'pope' cody is between your legs — you tell him:
"just a taste, popey."
and he groans — low and broken, almost pained — at that, at the nickname, at the permission, at the way you say it like you're doing him a favor when really you're both already drowning. his big hands grip your knees, squeezing hard enough to bruise through the skin, thumbs pressing into the soft hollows on either side.
the corner of his mouth twitches into a smile. almost guilty. completely full of shit.
"that's it. that's my girl." his voice drops, rough and low, barely audible. "my sweet fuckin' girl."
he dives in immediately. no teasing. hooking your panties to the side with one rough finger. you feel the fabric pull taut against your outer thigh, the elastic biting into your skin — and pressing his open mouth right against your bare pussy.
the first thing he does is inhale. long and deep, nose pressed right against your slick, dripping folds, and the sound he makes isn't human, his whole body shuddering between your thighs. then his tongue darts out — just the tip, just a taste — and he pulls back for a half second, lips parted, like he's savoring it, like he's letting it sit on his tongue.
"fuck." it comes out broken. barely a word. more like a breath with weight behind it. "tastes even better than it smells. how's it...taste so good?"
and then he's licking. long strokes from your entrance to your clit, flat and wet and obscene, groaning with every pass like you're killing him softly with just the taste of you. every now and then he buries his face deep and inhales hard, nose bumping your clit, mouth open against your hole, panting, like your pussy is a drug and he's been in withdrawal for a week and this is his first hit back.
"oh— oh, fuck—" your hand flies to your mouth, pressing the back of your knuckles against your lips, and the moan that escapes anyway is thin and reedy and pathetic. your hips roll up against his face without your permission, chasing his tongue, and he makes a low pleased sound against your pussy that just makes it worse.
the sounds are wet, sloppy, filthy — his tongue working through the mess you've made, the slurping wet noise of your pussy against his face, and he's making it worse, so much worse, drooling all over you, mixing his spit with your slick until your inner thighs and his chin are dripping and the couch cushion beneath your ass is probably ruined.
he doesn't care. he'll clean up after his sweet girl like he always does.
his tongue runs flat over your folds again and again. up up up. circling your clit, then back down, dragging through the wetness pooling at your entrance — before he pushes it all inside.
"oh, popey, there." you sigh, falling back completely into the couch, eyes rolling back. the angle is awkward, his face mashed between your thighs on a narrow couch, but he's tongue-fucking into you as deep as he can reach, swirling against your gummy walls, mapping the inside of you with nothing but the wet muscle of his tongue. his thumb comes up to circle your clit — the calloused pad dragging over the swollen bundle of nerves with just enough pressure to make your vision blur.
"mmnh— ah— andrew, that's— oh my god—" you're whimpering now, openly, shamelessly, any pretense of composure dissolved the second his tongue pushed inside you. small, hiccuping little sounds that spill out between gasped breaths, your free hand fisting tight in his hair, pulling, guiding, your hips grinding up against his mouth in stuttery rolls you can't control.
he moans into you when you pull his hair. a high, breathy, pathetic sound — mmhh — vibrating against your walls, and you feel it in your spine, in your toes, in the tight coil of heat building in your lower belly. his hips are grinding against the couch cushion now, shamelessly humping the fabric while he eats you out, and knowing that he's so turned on that he can't keep still makes you clench around his tongue.
"taste so good, baby," he mumbles against your pussy, pulling back just enough to speak, his mouth still on you, lips brushing your folds with every word. "so fuckin' sweet. been thinkin' about this — ah — been thinkin' about this the whole trip. couldn't stop thinkin' about it." he dives back in, tongue pushing deeper, and the words are lost in the wet obscene sounds of his mouth working. then he pulls back again, gasping, chin dripping. "every night. in that shitty motel bed. thinkin' about your pussy. made myself fuckin' crazy."
"popey i—i—" your voice cracks on his name, high and thin, and you're so wet you can hear it, can hear the slick sounds every time his tongue moves, and you should be embarrassed but you're too far gone, too deep in the heat and the filth and the risk.
"i know, i know," he breathes, and his voice is so tender it almost breaks you more than the filthy things he's doing with his mouth. "i know, sweet girl. i got you. been so long for you too, huh? gonna make you feel so good."
he seals his mouth over your clit and sucks, tongue working in tight fast circles, and a moan tears out of you — loud, too loud — and you slap your hand back over your mouth, eyes going wide with panic toward the window. the party noise continues outside. nobody heard.
he pulls back just enough to spit a thick, warm glob landing right on your clit, and then dives back in to lick it up with a broad, flat stroke that makes your whole body seize. a high, thin whine escapes your throat, muffled by your palm, and your hips buck up off the couch.
"quiet, baby," he murmurs against your clit, and he has the audacity to sound amused, lips curving into a smile you can feel against your flesh. "gotta be quiet. don't want craig comin' in here, do you?" he sucks again, gentler this time, and you whimper behind your hand, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the effort of staying quiet. "though i dunno... maybe i don't care. maybe i want 'em to hear. want 'em to know you're mine."
"asshole—" you hiss behind your hand, but it comes out broken and breathless and more like please than an insult, and he laughs — actually laughs, low and warm, right against your pussy, and the vibration makes your thighs snap shut around his head.
he seals his mouth back over your pussy and sucks, hard, tongue working your clit in tight fast circles.
"oh fuck, popey—" the little nickname slips out of you, wrecked and desperate, barely recognizable, and something about it makes him growl against your pussy, a low rumbling sound that makes your thighs shake. "popey, i'm— i'm about to—"
"i know." he mumbles against your pussy between filthy wet slurps, his voice completely destroyed, barely recognizable, thick with you. "'can feel it. feel you gettin' tighter. squeezin' my tongue—" he's whining now, actually whining, these high desperate sounds that are almost pitiful, vibrating against your pussy. "please. need it. need you to cum for me. wanna taste it. wanna taste all of it. every drop. give it to me, please, please—"
the please is what does it. andrew cody saying please, andrew cody whining into your cunt like he's the one falling apart, andrew cody begging for it like he needs it more than air — it unravels you completely.
you cum with a muffled cry, teeth sinking into your own hand hard enough to draw blood. your thighs clamping shut around his head, suffocating him, your back arching off the couch, your pussy pulsing against his mouth in thick rolling waves.
"ah — ah — fuck, fuck, fuck—"
the words spill out in a whispered frantic chant behind your bloodied palm, your body shaking, your vision going white and then blurry and then nothing but static and heat.
but that doesn't stop him. doesn't even slow. fucks you through it with his tongue buried deep, pushing against that spongy spot inside you that makes your legs spasm and your stomach clench, swallowing every pulse of it, drinking your slick down with these greedy gulping sounds, and you can feel his throat working against your thigh, feel him swallowing you, and the obscene intimacy of it makes you cum harder, a second smaller wave crashing through you that pulls a broken sob from your chest.
"oh god — popey, 's too much — ah — too much—" you're whimpering through the aftershocks, small sounds. your hips twitching away from his mouth, your thighs are shaking.
he moans at that, low and pleased, like you telling him that is like music to his ears. and with that he finally, finally slows. his tongue gentles from frantic to lazy, drawing long slow passes through your folds, licking up the mess all nice and clean, unhurried like he has all the time in the world. like his jaw isn't probably aching. like there isn't a full blown pool party twenty feet away.
when he's done, he leans forward and kisses your inner thigh. soft, a strange tenderness after all that filth. and then bites down gently, teeth sinking into the soft flesh just hard enough to make you flinch, hard enough that you know there'll be a bruise there tomorrow, a pretty purple, shaped like his mouth.
then he lifts his head.
your slick shines on his chin, his jaw, his cheeks. his lips are swollen and glistening and utterly wrecked, bitten red. his breathing is ragged, chest heaving, his auburn curls disheveled and matted from where you've been pulling at them, strands sticking to his damp forehead.
he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand but it doesn't do anything. there's too much of you on him. his face is a mess but he doesn't seem remotely bothered by it. if anything, he looks satisfied. like a big puppy that finally got his doggie treat.
but there's something deeper, a primal want that still burns behind his eyes, the throb of his cock still evidently hard pressing into the side of your leg.
"need more." he murmurs watching the mess between your thighs, and his thumb drags through your soaked folds, possessive.
"andrew, i just–"
"know you got more for me, sweet girl. always got more for me." he cuts you off, his thumb circling over your clit carefully and your breath catches. your thighs tremble.
you should say no.
you should pull your skirt down and find your book and go back to 'relaxing'. but his thumb is still inside you, still moving, still there. his face is still wet with you, and he's looking at you with a hunger, like the only thing that can feed it is you.
so you ask him before he even says another word:
"is your bedroom free?"
author note: okay i will go back to dr. jack abbot now hehe :3
It’s an off night for him which is why you’re holding yourself back, but there’s only so much you can do with the way Jack looks right now.
First off, he's shirtless, and that’s enough to drive you crazy on a good day. But as if that’s not enough of an attack on your self-control? He has his eyeglasses on. A simple pair he wears at home to give his eyes a rest; they slide down the bridge of his nose and make him look so stupidly hot.
“You know, I’ve been meaning to teach you this,” he says, prepping the materials: needles, a practice pad, thread. He’s methodical even when he’s relaxed, his movements efficient and practiced, almost mechanical, which makes sense considering the amount of times he’s done this along his career. He’d suggested it out of nowhere, and who are you to disagree with Dr. Abbot? “You never know when it could be useful.”
“Yeah, yeah. Useful. Right.”
His eyes flicker up to make sure you’re actually paying attention, peering at you over the dark frames. His eyes narrow just a fraction, accompanied by the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“So,” he continues, his voice dropping into a steady, serious tone. Even on a kitchen table, this is a serious lesson. “First thing is positioning.”
He steps around the table, stopping right in front of you. He’s close enough that you catch the scent of his soap and that faint, lingering trace of antiseptic that seems to live in his skin. He’s still warm from the shower, muscles shifting under the low light every time he adjusts a tool. When the glasses slide another millimeter down his nose as he looks at the suture kit, your brain just... quits. Blue screens.
He is so fucking hot.
You’re trying—god, you’re trying—to focus on the needle driver, on the difference between a simple interrupted stitch and a running one and whatever else his sexy mouth is saying. But your eyes keep dragging away. You’re tracking the sharp line of his jaw, how his shoulders roll when he reaches for the pad, the faint scar that disappears under the waistband of his sweats. Dr. Jack Abbot in full 'competent doctor' mode is lethal as it is. Shirtless and half-smirking? It’s just downright mean.
He finishes the demo, tying off a knot with a series of precise flicks that make your stomach flip. He’s so good with his hands, what a delicious way to remind you. Then, he looks up. This time, the smirk is unmistakable.
“Paying attention?” he asks, dry and knowing.
“Yeah,” you lie way too fast. “Totally.”
He hums, clearly not buying it. “Good. Now you try.”
You take the instruments, your fingers brushing his, the heat of him zips straight up your arm. However, he doesn’t move back to his seat. Instead, as you bend over the pad to try and mimic his grace, he circles behind you.
His presence is immediate, solid, heavy, and way too close. One hand settles on your hip to steady you, while the other reaches around to adjust your grip on the needle driver. His bare chest is a hair's breadth from your back.
“Relax your wrist, baby,” he murmurs into your ear, breath a warm ruin against your skin. “You’re gripping it like you’re about to stab someone. It’s not a weapon.”
You let out a shaky, breathy laugh and try to focus, trying your best to imitate what he’d just taught you. Your stitches are crooked as hell, he could probably do better one handed. You can feel him hovering over your shoulder, and you can practically hear the quiet amusement in the way he exhales. He’s too kind to mock you, but he’s enjoying this far too much.
“There you go, sweetheart,” he says, his voice vibrating through your spine as his thumb brushes the back of your hand, guiding you through the next pass. “See? Even tension. You’re getting it.”
You aren’t getting anything except lightheaded and horny. Which he knows. He absolutely knows. And he’s letting you know with little tells, like the way he lingers a second too long, or how his fingers stay anchored to your hip, even the faint chuckle when your next stitch pulls too tight. Evil old man. This “lesson” stopped being about first aid ten minutes ago.
He leans in a fraction more, glasses still perched on the tip of his nose, his voice a soft, velvet tease against your hair. “You’re doing great, sweetheart… but if you keep looking at me like that instead of the pad, I’m going to have to supervise a lot closer.”
Your next stitch goes completely sideways this time. He laughs fully now, low, warm, and unfairly deep, and you realize you aren’t learning a single useful thing tonight.
“Fuck this,” you mutter.
You spin around, catching him off guard for all of half a second before you’re crashing your lips against his. Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him down. Jack doesn’t miss a beat; one hand locks onto your waist while the other sweeps the medical supplies off the table in one clean motion, clearing the space to haul you up onto it.
the cotton sheets were a damp mess, already glued to the curve of your spine with a thin sheen of sweat. they clung to you, heavy and humid, tracing the sharp arch of your back every time your hips stuttered upward. a sound broke from your throat, half-moan, half-broken whimper, as your muscles wound tight, bracing for the next heavy, pulsing wave. you had officially lost count of how many times you’d come.
it was too much, the friction of his tongue making your nerves spark and fray. by mere instinct, you tried to shimmy away, just an inch or two of desperate breathing room, but you didn't get far.
two strong, freckled arms hooked over your thighs and waist with quick efficiency. he anchored you to the mattress, refusing to let the moment break. one of those big hands began to roam, calloused palm sliding up, up, and up over the soft dip of your stomach until his fingers splayed wide just beneath your breasts, pinning you steady while he dove back in.
his mouth was relentless, hot and slick and merciless, tongue flattening wide before curling tight around your swollen clit, dragging slow and deliberate like he wanted to taste every little pulse. wet sounds filled the room, the obscene, filthy little slurps and laps that made your cheeks burn hotter. he sucked you between his lips with a low, hungry groan that vibrated straight into your core, the rumble traveling up your spine and shattering behind your eyes.
your thighs trembled against his grip, muscles jumping and twitching as another thick wave of pleasure slammed into you. he didn't let you twist away though; instead, he spread you wider, thumbs digging crescents into the soft flesh of your inner thighs, holding your dripping pussy open so he could bury his face deeper. his nose pressed firm against your mound, rubbing in tight circles while his tongue speared inside you, fucking you with long, greedy strokes that curled and stroked every sensitive ridge.
you were soaked, embarrassingly so—your arousal coating his chin, dripping down to ruin the sheets even more—but he only hummed in approval, the vibration making your back bow hard off the bed. his free hand slid higher, rough fingertips finally capturing one aching nipple, rolling and pinching it in time with every devastating flick of his tongue. sparks shot from your chest straight down to where his mouth devoured you, the dual stimulation leaving you gasping, almost sobbing, fingers clawing uselessly at the damp cotton beneath you and at his gray curls.
he pulled back just enough to drag his tongue through your folds in one long, torturous stripe, collecting every drop of your slick mixed with his spit before sealing his lips around your clit again and sucking hard. your vision whited out at the edges, again, hips jerking helplessly against his unyielding hold as the pressure coiled tighter and tighter, threatening to snap you in half.
“jack, please—” the words tore out of you, cracked and desperate, barely more than a whimper, your voice was already raspy.
he hummed against your soaked cunt, the sound low and indulgent, and pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss right over your throbbing clit before answering.
“shhh, shhh… it’s okay, baby,” he murmured, voice rough, deepened by lust, lips brushing against your swollen folds with every word. his breath was scalding hot, teasing your highly oversensitive nerves. “just breathe for me.”
you tried to close your legs, overwhelmed, but he held you open easily, freckled arms flexing as he kept you pinned exactly where he wanted you. he licked another lazy, filthy stripe up your pussy, savoring the way you fluttered and leaked for him.
“let me have this, pretty girl,” he cooed, pressing the flat of his tongue against your clit and giving it a slow, heavy drag that made your toes curl. “i’m not done yet. not even close. you’re gonna let me keep eating this pretty pussy until i’ve had my fill… yeah?”
his voice was velvet-soft and teasing, dripping with lazy, adoring confidence while his mouth stayed cruel, so unlike his voice. sucking, licking, humming praises right into your pussy like he had all the time in the world—which in nights like these, when he needed to blow off some steam, he did.— every time your hips twitched too hard or your voice broke on another plea, he’d gentle you with another soft “shhh, baby, i got you,” only to immediately dive back in deeper, tongue diving deeper into you.
jack was starving.
there was no other word for it. the man was ravenous. he shifted his weight forward, pressing his broad chest and shoulders down over your lower body, blanketing you. he was careful to not crush you, just applying enough weight to be heavy enough to pin your hips flush to the mattress, trapping you completely under him while his arms stayed locked around your thighs, keeping you spread open for him.
his mouth never stopped. he licked a long, slow, filthy stripe from the very bottom of you, starting at your soaked, fluttering little hole, dragging all the way up through your dripping folds, over your entrance, and then higher still, teasing your sensitive clit before circling back down. the flat of his tongue painted every inch, collecting the slick that had leaked down to your ass and tasting it like it was the best thing he’d ever had.
“fuck, baby… you’re dripping all the way down here,” he groaned against you, voice wrecked and low. he pressed the tip of his tongue right there, right against that tight little ring, giving it one slow, deliberate swirl that made your whole body jolt. “so messy for me. leaking everywhere f’me.”
you whimpered, completely overwhelmed, trying to twist, but his weight held you perfectly still. he hummed in satisfaction at your reaction and dove back in harder, face buried so deep his nose rubbed against your clit. his jaw must’ve be aching by now, but if it was, he didn’t care.
“that’s it,” he murmured between long, hungry licks, lips shiny and slick with you. “don’t fight it, pretty girl. just let me eat. i’m not stopping until this sweet pussy stops twitching for me… and we both know that’s not happening anytime soon.”
he sealed his mouth around your clit again, sucking hard while two thick fingers slid down to tease your entrance, pressing just inside and curling mercilessly. his weight, his arms, his relentless mouth… all of it kept you pinned and spread and completely at his mercy.
summary: jack abbot, after hypothesizing that you might be a little touch-starved, decides to take matters into his own hands and change that. (or: the three-ish times jack abbot holds you, and the one time you finally hold him back). (2k)
characters: jack abbot / fem!reader, michael robinavitch, parker ellis, crus henderson
contents: part 2 to this fic but can be read on its own, friends in love, fluff, hurt/comfort, jack abbot being a d1 yearner yet again, not proofread cw for medical inaccuracies, medical procedures, mentions of grief and trauma
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
Jack had not yet forgotten the way you melted into his touch. The way he held your face in his hands on that rooftop, and the way you heavied into his palm as he tricked you into staying alive for him. He can still feel the weight of you against his fingertips; a phantom sort of pressure that hurts him far worse than the one in his leg.
Maybe that’s why he can’t seem to stop touching you — a feeble attempt to relieve him of that ache. It’s usually nothing more than faint nudges of his shoulder against yours, or gentle pats on the back after a job well done, or sympathetic brushes of the hand after a job done not-so-well.
It’s swift and always subtle; just enough to stop his aching, but never enough for anyone else to notice.
Most of the time, anyway.
When Jack comes up behind you at the busy workstation, he splays a wide hand along the base of your spine to squeeze through the growing crowd there. The quiet of his touch gets lost beneath the relentless bustle of the afternoon rush, but makes you forget how to breathe for a half second or more all the same.
Sometimes you think your body has grown so unaccustomed to tenderness that any touch registers immediately as terrifying.
You blink the fleeting shock away and force yourself to keep typing when Jack’s steady hand never wavers on your spine. “Are you sure about this?” you hear yourself ask.
“Of course I am,” he shrugs. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
You glance back at him with an expectant gaze, wide eyes glimmering with worry. “Because we could get in trouble if someone found out— serious trouble.”
Jack exhales hard through his nose in place of a laugh, because this wasn’t the first time he’s low-balled a few measurements to help a patient get an abortion they want, and it probably won’t be the last.
His mouth flickers upward in a soft smile, but his eyes stay stern as he tells you in a calm and unwavering voice, “Well, I’m the attending here, right? So, technically, I’d be the only one getting in trouble.”
“That’s worse,” you agonize in a sharp whisper, fingers trembling over the keyboard. “I don’t want any of us getting in trouble— not her and especially not you.”
“Good thing no one’s gonna find out then, huh?”
Jack arches an expectant brow.
Your eyes soften around the edges with apprehension.
Robby’s gritty voice cuts through the never-ending noise and the tension between you as he drops off a clipboard at its assigned rack. “What are you two whispering about over here?” he quips drily.
You flounder instantly at the simple question.
Jack takes it in stride. “Oh, nothing— Just, you know, conspiring against you. Figuring out the easiest way to overthrow your authority. That’s all.”
“If you wanna take over, then by all means…” Robby jokes with his hands splayed in surrender before stalking off in the opposite direction. “Put me out of my misery.”
You exhale a wavering breath when he’s gone and turn back to the computer in front of you. You adjust the girl’s gestational sac and biparietal diameter measurements to meet the mandated eleven-week cutoff.
Jack’s warm hand never leaves your back.
You fail to notice that your fingers no longer shake.
Trauma 2 swells with heat — both from the increasing temperature of the unconscious burn patient rushed in by the EMTs, and from the rising tension as the young man’s sats begin to plummet without warning. An unrelenting beeping noise fills the tense air, along with the sound of shuffling as you all scramble to throw on disposable PPE.
You fumble with a pair of gloves like it’s your very first day in the ER, while Jack helps tie a paper gown around your neck and spine.
“What’s your call, Doc?” he asks from behind you.
“I-I don’t know,” you stammer breathlessly. “Maybe a— a lung injury from the fire?”
“Explains the sudden respiratory distress,” Jack nods affirmingly, warm fingers brushing the base of your neck. “But doesn’t explain the high peak pressure or the low tidal volume.”
“Okay… Uh…” you waver and swallow hard. It takes a long moment for your brain to finally click. “Then it’s a— A restrictive pattern. The burnt skin is losing elasticity. The chest wall’s getting too tight.”
You miss the proud smile Jack gives you in response.
“That’s right,” the older man praises as he finishes knotting the tie in your gown. He turns to announce to the rest of the room: “Let’s get these dressings off and prep him for an escharotomy, shall we?”
A nurse readies a medical tray. You freeze when Jack passes you the scalpel in a gloved hand. Your wide eyes flit wildly between it and him.
“I… I’ve never done one of these before. I wouldn’t know how to—”
“That’s okay,” Jack nods, with a voice much softer than the chaos surrounding you. “You hold the blade. I’ll cut. We’ll take it slow. I promise.”
When he steps in behind you, you can smell the musky cologne on his skin and the coffee on his breath — beneath the bitter scent of charred skin and antiseptic. His right hand rests firmly on top of your smaller one, warm like a furnace, and guides your fingers to the man’s blistered side.
“Start at the lateral clavicle…” Jack instructs lowly in your ear. “And then down the anterior axillary line…”
“How much pressure?” you ask, fighting off a shiver.
“Just about… this much.” He applies the slightest bit of guidance. The scalpel pierces the skin. Fatty tissue blooms underneath, tainted by the deep scarlet blood that spills out. “Now just go around to the lower rib margin…. Yep, that’s it… You’re doing great…”
Your chest warms at his praise.
The rapid beeping quietens shortly thereafter.
“Peak pressure’s already down in the thirties,” Ellis comments from the opposite side of the room, dark eyes steady on the monitor. “And tidal volume’s already coming up.”
“See?” Jack lilts in your ear, a smile audible in his voice. “There we go.”
You exhale a wavering sigh; a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
Jack finds you in the break room afterward, when the patient is finally stable again. Your back is facing him as you make yourself a coffee, all slow and methodical — ‘cause this is the only place in the PTMC where you’re truly allowed to take your time.
“Hey…” the man greets gently to keep from startling you. He smiles when you glance over your shoulder to look at him. His chin bows in a nod of approval. “You did good in there.”
You shake your head and turn away, ripping open three square sugar packets in one fell swoop. “No. That was… That was all you, Dr. Abbot…”
You tap the pink wrappers with your pointer finger. White granules come spilling out, dissolving instantly in the steaming liquid — a little like you do, when Jack towers suddenly at your side, leaning back against the counter with his arm brushing yours.
His freckled biceps strain against his scrub sleeves when he crosses them over his chest. His scruffy chin ducks softly to flash you a stern sort of look.
“You did the left side and the horizontal incision,” Jack reminds you. “So just take the win, kid.”
You peer up at him from beneath your lashes. A reluctant smile tugs at the edges of your mouth. “Thanks…”
His kind eyes drop to the mug in your hands. “Though, to be honest, I’m not sure how much of a good idea that caffeine is. I know your adrenaline’s spiked— always happens when you get to do something new in here.”
“I know. I just… needed a second to breathe,” you confess. “I was actually making it for you…”
Jack’s brows lower in a dubious look. “…Really?”
You nod, smiling quietly but still wider than you realize. “Two creams, three sugars, right?”
His expression softens as something red-hot burns through his chest. He nods once, with a shy smile, and with calloused fingers that brush yours when he takes the mug from your hand.
“Yeah…” he hums, breathless for a reason he can’t name. “That’s right.”
The MCI hits the PTMC like a tidal wave.
The emergency department turns into a blur of blood and bustling bodies and bellowed commands as a series of GSWs are rushed in from a shooting at a local concert. The day shift is called in despite the late night for extra hands, while the rest of the bottom floor is cleared out to make room for incoming patients.
A young boy is carried in, limp and bloodied. His concert tee is two sizes too big and ripped at the stomach from where a bullet had torn through his skin and wedged into his abdomen.
You’re reminded immediately of the boy who was rushed in the same way, some months back, with differing injuries but on the brink of death all the same — Barry, who now lives with his grandmother, and had just celebrated his fifth birthday, and is going to start kindergarten in the fall.
You don’t have time to think about all that now — not about the child from before, or how the sight of this one reawakens a trauma you thought you’d gotten over. You just move.
Your hands move fast and steady despite your racing mind. You’re wrists-deep in the boy’s small, round stomach when sudden intestinal failure causes his sats to drop. You work fast to stop the hemorrhaging and to repair the rupture in his small intestine before he’s taken to the OR for more intensive monitoring.
“Sats are stabilizing,” you hear Crus say from beside you, as the rapid beeping of his monitor begins to slow. “Heart rate’s normalizing. Blood pressures trending upwards— Let’s get him to the OR.”
You don’t realize Jack had been with you the whole time until the room is cleared out.
You remain in place, covered in bright red blood that isn’t yours — with your gloved hands limp at your sides and your glassy gaze focused on the crimson footprints smudged on the linoleum below.
Jack steps into your tunnel vision then, silver head bowed and light eyes swimming with concern behind his safety glasses.
“Hey…” he coos. “You with me?”
You blink hard, trying to clear the haze of adrenaline from your vision. You nod on muscle memory, until the words catch up with you, “Yeah. Y-Yeah, I just—”
Your voice breaks, betraying you instantly.
“It’s okay,” Jack murmurs. “You did good, kid. You did everything right— He’s okay…”
He reaches out for you, weathered hands tense with hesitancy. Your wide eyes are filled with lingering fear as you watch him inch towards you, but you don’t stop him when his fingers brush your wrists.
He peels your bloodied gloves from your trembling hands with a warm and steady touch. Your paper gown goes next, and then your glasses. You stay still, letting Jack take care of it all, while your brain struggles to catch up to the current moment — still stuck somewhere in the chaos from before.
“I thought—” Your breath stutters in your chest. You struggle to tear your eyes off the blood on the floor. “I thought he was— that he was going to—”
“I know,” Jack hums, more distant now. “I know. But he’s okay. That’s what matters.”
Your head swivels over your shoulder. You find him standing at the bin across the room, chucking away your PPE gear before tossing in his own — his gloves, then his gown, then his glasses. The two of you are left in your heavy black scrubs, unstained, but still smelling of the heavy metallic blood in the room anyway.
His eyes are narrow and attentive as they flit across your face — the beads of sweat on your forehead, the glazed-over look in your eye, the bite marks of worry etched into your mouth. He hasn’t seen you like this since the day he found you on the roof.
“Go ahead and take a breather, kid— I’ll come find you in a second.”
Any other time, the thought of a break would’ve terrified you. But now, you catch yourself nodding before you’ve even really considered it.
“Okay…” you hear yourself waver in a faraway voice. “But can you, uh— Can you check— Make sure he’s… that he’s okay in the OR—”
“Yeah,” Jack nods instantly. “Of course.”
His words hang in the quiet, heavy, blood-soaked air for several long moments — the weight of them more so — the notion that no one has ever cared for you in your whole life the way Jack Abbot has cared for you in the past few months.
You feel your feet moving before your brain has truly processed it.
The steps you take towards him are not planned; they’re not all the way thought through, either. You gravitate towards him with all the same instincts as the tides to the moon. You don’t even realize you’re hugging him until your arms are already wrapped around his waist — until your warm cheek is pressed to the soft fabric of his scrubs, until you can hear his heart beat thudding in your ear.
You hold him tight — scared that he’ll sleep away, or maybe that you will.
Jack freezes for half a heartbeat. Because, even though he’s made a habit of being next to you in every room he’s in, it isn’t lost on him that this is the very first time that you’ve touched him without him initiating it first.
Once the fleeting moment of shock has passed, his strong arms wrap just as tight around your form — one hand firm between your shoulder blades, and the other cradling gently at the back of your head. He keeps you close while you bury your nose in his chest, breathing him in, grounding yourself in his warmth.
“You’re okay…” he coos. “I got you, kid. You’re okay…”
You can feel the words humming in his chest.
And for the very first time, you start to believe them.
summary: when jack catches you spiraling after a taxing double shift, his worry for you spikes when he discovers that robby has been less than sympathetic with you, and that the ptmc is your only emergency contact on file. (4k)
characters: jack abbot / fem!reader, michael robinavitch, dana evans
contents: friends to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort, protective!jack, so much yearning, not proofread cw for medical inaccuracies, mentions of patient death, abuse and sexual assault, heavy talks of suicidal ideation, brief mentions of jack abbot's ptsd
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
The refrigerator door seals shut with a suctioned click under your trembling hand, far too quiet for all the horror it holds. The worst night of a person’s life, reduced to the evidence in the collection fridge — to labels and barcodes and detailed forms.
Two boxes lie inside when there should only be one: the kit you logged two weeks ago, which should’ve been picked up the day after, is still there. Still waiting to be seen, still waiting for someone to notice it, but still ignored all the same.
It feels like a metaphor for your own life, and it starts to strangle you before you can help it.
Because you’d spent three hours in that room with Ilana — three hours of talking her through every step, every swab, every scan — three hours of telling her how much her being there mattered. And now her kit sits there, just as forgotten as the one before, just as forgotten as you.
Something cracks.
A sob sputters from your chest before you can choke it down. Your hand shoots up to your mouth in a feeble attempt to shove it back inside. And then the door opens.
“Oh, shit—” a familiar voice calls from the doorway.
You flinch so hard your shoulder hits the fridge. You swipe your palms over your wet eyes and cheeks, rapidly scrubbing the evidence of your misery away, before turning in the direction of the masculine voice. You find Jack Abbot lingering in the threshold, eyes wide and attentive, with one weathered hand still wrapped around the silver handle.
Neither of you says a word for several long moments. It could’ve been three seconds or three years; you can’t quite be sure.
“Are you… okay?” the older man presses.
“No. Yeah. I’m—” Your voice breaks, betraying you instantly. You shake your head despite yourself. “I’m fine.”
Jack’s head lowers. His light eyes squint. He doesn’t try to argue; he just looks at you, really looks at you.
“I know I seem crazy,” you laugh through a quiet sniffle. “But I’m fine.”
He steps further inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The chaos of the crowded ER goes muffled in an instant.
“Did something happen?” the attending asks lowly. He’s visibly on edge from the Code Hula Hoop from earlier that day — silver head bowed to keep your gaze, strong arms crossed over the chest of his thin black tee.
“No. Nothing like that,” you assure him quickly. “It’s just… It never gets easier, you know?”
Jack’s expression shifts when you turn away to lock up the small fridge behind you. His alarm ebbs into something more sympathetic. “Yeah. I get it…” he mumbles. “Go take a breather, if you need it.”
You shake your head, dismissing the thought immediately. “Robby’s been on my ass all week about taking too much time with my patients as it is. If I don’t pick up a few before I go, he’ll—”
“I’ll deal with him,” Jack cuts in, firm but not entirely unkind. “You go take a break.”
You turn back around, looking half-shy as you cross your arms tight over the chest of your wrinkled scrubs. “I… I can’t…” you mumble.
“…You can’t?”
“I’m like a shark— if I stop swimming, I’ll die.”
Jack would’ve laughed at that if you weren’t so solemn about it; if he hadn’t remembered, in that moment, that you’ve been working since seven the evening before. Almost twenty-four hours ago. “You haven’t slept today, have you?”
“I was going to,” you tell him, a little too quickly. “And then we got all those patients from the waterslide collapse, and then the systems went down, and then Ilana came in, and…”
His brows knit together. “So you haven’t slept since you started your double?”
“No,” you shrug. “I’m just… I’m not tired.”
Jack studies you for a long moment — your wet eyes, your worry-bitten lips, your arms crossed like you’re trying to make yourself as small as possible. You wear the long day all over, along with the grief you’ve been trying to hide all day. Jack knows the signs; he’s seen them in his patients, in his staff, in himself.
It usually starts with a double, and then a patient or two that spikes the adrenaline like a triple shot of espresso. That’s when the mania sets in, the belief you don’t need sleep despite the obvious, which inevitably leads to a crash. And that’s exactly where you’re heading.
“Can I ask you something?” Jack wonders lowly, taking a slow step forward and never once taking his eyes off of you. “Something kinda… personal?”
You hesitate, brows lowered, then nod despite yourself. “Yeah?”
“Do you… Do you see someone?”
You blink owlishly at him. “See someone?”
“Yeah. You know, like a… therapist,” he clarifies. “It’s good, you know, to have someone to talk to about… all this.”
He motions vaguely all around him, to the muffled chaos outside.
“No,” you shake your head, almost amused by the thought. “I’m fine. I don’t need a therapist—”
“Everyone needs a therapist,” Jack huffs a faint laugh. “Especially the people who choose to work here. We’re all lunatics.”
“Well, I’m fine,” you shrug and look away. “It’s everything else that’s so… fucked up.”
Jack exhales hard through his nose, nodding sympathetically. “Yeah, I… I heard about Barry. And his mom. I’m sorry…”
That’s what does it. The reminder of the memory — only from earlier that morning, which you had not forgotten but had tried hard to bury anyway — does it. You feel the dam break, crumbling into nothingness under the weight of an unrelenting pressure.
“See, that’s— that’s what I’m talking about,” you start with a wet, maniacal sort of laugh. “I spend two hours coding a pre-school teacher, then another two treating her four-year-old, all while trying to get him to talk about what happened. And then I have to act like none of it fazes me, or else I’ll get that whole spiel from Robby— again. And then I do a sexual assault kit that no one will pick up because nobody gives a shit!”
Your voice rings through the quiet room.
You don’t seem to notice it, though, so Jack pretends he doesn’t either. He knows you need this, knows you’ve spent the past near twenty-four hours keeping all of this trapped inside.
“Barry’s dad won’t see the inside of a jail cell for what he did to them, and Ilana’s abuser won’t either, because the police won’t do their job— because nobody fucking cares—”
Your breath comes out sharp, like the air is being punched out through a tight chest. Your words spill from your mouth faster than you can stop them.
“And I’m supposed to help them, right? But how can I when nobody else gives a shit?”
“Hey— Hey…” Abbot coos, taking another step closer when he catches you starting to spiral. “Take a breath, kid…”
His voice is grounding. Steady, almost. A firm sort of comfort you’ve been searching for all day — a tenderness that feels like proof that you’re broken. Suddenly, you feel like you’ve said too much.
“I’m sorry,” you huff with a shake of your bowed head. “I-I have to go— I’m sorry.”
You storm past him to the door, and don’t stop when he calls your name.
Jack looms over the monitor of the now-functioning workstation.
While the rest of the PTMC scrambles to scan their paper documents into the system, Jack peruses your file. His narrowed eyes flit across the screen, searching for your emergency contact. He holds his phone in his free hand and prepares to dial the number — to tell whoever is on the other line that you need them.
Because someone did it for him once upon a time, and sometimes he thinks that’s the only reason he’s standing here now.
He’s got his thumb hovering over the green button to call when Robby catches his eye — the same way a dark black storm cloud swirling overhead would catch his eye. The older man tilts his head to glance at the overhead monitor and scratches at the grey patch in his beard.
“Who’s supposed to be overseeing the kid in pedes?”
“I’ll do it,” Jack tells him, half-distracted.
“I have a senior resident who’s supposed to be doing it,” Robby scoffs.
“I told her to take a break.”
The older man’s head snaps in his direction in an instant. His brows lower as his lip twitches into a faint smirk, looking half-offended as he crosses his arms over his chest. “And why would you do that?” he squints.
“She’s had a hard day,” Jack shrugs.
“We’ve all had a hard day,” Robby laughs. “And if we all took off because of one bad shift, none of us would be on this floor right now.”
“And if you had a little bit more basic human empathy, maybe your residents wouldn’t be falling apart, brother.”
He flashes the older man an unamused glance. Robby flinches slightly at his words, chin jerking like he feels them physically. Jack would’ve apologized for being so harsh any other time — if he hadn’t almost gotten shot today, and if he weren’t already slightly angry at Robby for mistreating you.
“Excuse me. I gotta take this,” he mumbles and brings his phone up to his ear.
Robby scoffs a quiet laugh and shakes his head as he walks off in the opposite direction.
Jack watches him go with an unblinking stare as his phone starts to ring. Once, twice, and then—
A sharp, grating chirp fills the crowded ER, swelling over the droning chatter and distant beeping. Jack’s eyes snap to the red phone on the other side of the work station, while his own stays pressed to his scruffy jaw.
Dana peers at the man over the top of her glasses. Her eyes flit from his shocked face to the ringing telephone at her side. She picks it up with a lazy hand and holds it to her ear.
“PTMC charge nurse,” she greets without taking her eyes off Jack. “You mean to call this number?”
“Yeah, I was just—” Jack clears his throat and glances at the monitor below. “This was the emergency contact on file.”
“Well, sorry to get your hopes up…”
She flashes the man a sympathetic smile before hanging up the phone.
The dial tone beeps in his ear for several long moments. He tries to guess why you would’ve made the E.D. your emergency contact — because you don’t have anyone outside of work, maybe, or because all of your closest friends work here, or because you’d want the ER to know first if something ever happened to you.
It makes his chest hurt either way.
He exhales a slow, heavy breath and shoves his phone back into his scrub pocket. He turns on his heel and makes a beeline for the stairs, hiking up to the roof despite the distant ache it puts on his prosthetic. Because he knows that’s where you are.
Because it’s where he would’ve gone, too.
“Y’know…” a familiar voice cuts through the quiet of the roof, lit only by distant streetlamps. “You’re in my spot, kid.”
You don’t turn to look at him. You’re too tired to take your eyes off the pitch-black hills rolling in the far-off distance, further away from the PTMC than you’ve been in months. Years. You get lost in your own head, and only vaguely register the sound of Jack’s nearing footsteps scuffing against the concrete rooftop.
“It’s getting pretty late…” the man continues, all casual, like you’re not standing on the very edge of the hospital roof. “If you’re hungry, there’s this DoorDash guy. Name’s Marco. He’ll trek up here for an extra ten—”
“Twenty if you want beer,” you finish for him, voice weighed down by something heavy.
“Ah…” Jack hums, closer now. “You come up here often then, huh?”
You exhale a heavy breath that he thinks is meant to be a laugh, though it comes without a usual smile. “I guess you could say that…”
He reaches the metal railing just a few feet from the ledge, where you stand on the other side, with only a thin glass pane keeping you from the roof’s edge. Even though you aren’t looking at him, you can feel him just beside you. The silken summer breeze carries the scent of his cologne as he bends at the waist to rest his elbows along the barrier between you.
“You wanna talk about it?” he wonders quietly, after a few beats of not-quite silence, filled by the sound of passing cars and chatter from the city below. “It’s good to talk about it.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” you shrug with a shake of your head. “I just… I thought I was doing some good, you know? By showing up here every day…”
“You are,” Jack insists, firm and immediate. His stare hardens as it flits across your emotionless profile, silently begging for you to look back at him. You avoid his gaze at all costs. “Those people down there— They need you. They need all of us.”
“But what’s the point?” you scoff. “If I can’t help him, then what’s the point?”
“You do help them.”
You scoff a teary laugh.
Jack burns from the inside out.
“You may not see it, kid, but I do,” he tells you. “That little boy in there— He’s still alive because of you.”
“But his mom’s not,” you argue in a detached tone of voice. The starry sky above you starts to blur as you blink back the warm tears gathering at your waterline. “And when Barry grows up, he won’t remember his mom— what she smelled like, what kinda music she liked to listen to in the car— but he’ll remember how the system failed her… Both of them…”
You trail off. Jack stays silent, letting you say all the words that have been raging in your head all day — untrue or otherwise.
“And it’s the same with Ilana, too, you know? I spent three hours with her in that room, doing something I know was triggering for her, and… for what? For the kit to sit in that fridge for two weeks because no one else gives enough of a shit to actually pick it up?”
The dull amber streetlights turn your unshed tears to gold when you finally turn to look at him. Your features are largely emotionless, fixed into the sort of automatic deadpan you train yourself to do as a doctor. But your eyes are wide and glittering with emotion despite yourself when you turn to the man beside you.
“I tricked myself into thinking I was actually doing some good for these people, but…” Your jaw clenches to stave off a sob as you shake your head at yourself. “Turns out, it’s all just… bullshit.”
The corner of Jack’s lip flickers upward into a sympathetic smile, because he knows exactly how you feel. “It’s not, kid…” he murmurs lowly.
“It is,” you insist, still stern despite the way your features crumble. “What I do in there doesn’t matter— None of this shit matters—”
Jack can sense you spiraling, can sense you about to turn away from him before you’ve even done it. He reaches out for you, catching your chin between his thumb and pointer finger to keep your eyes on his.
Your gaze flickers with surprise at first, stunned momentarily by the warmth of his touch, before it softens around the edges with something tender — as if you’d been craving this kindness all day. Your glitter irises follow Jack when he rises to full height, towering over you from the other side of the thin metal railing.
“Hey,” Jack snaps, firm but still strikingly soft with you. “You saved a life today, kid. That matters.”
Your eyes sting.
“You helped a girl through the hardest day of her life,” he continues, with a stare just as merciless as his words. “That matters, too.”
You shake your head against his calloused hand, trying and failing to repel his words. You need them more than anything, and still, you can hardly stomach them.
“The officers will pick up that kit, I promise you that. And the asshole who hurt her will pay for what he did, I promise you that, too.”
“But you can’t,” you whimper. “You can’t promise me that. You can’t promise anyone that.”
“Well, I am,” Jack says. “Because I’m gonna make sure it happens. Because I believe it— Because I believe in Barry and Ilana, just like I believe in you. And without you… If you weren’t here for them today… Who knows what would’ve happened?”
His gentle grip on your chin softens when he knows you aren’t going to turn away from him again, but he still doesn’t let you go.
“That’s the point,” Jack tells you, so softly you could cry. “That’s why it matters. That’s why we need you here, understand?”
You sniffle quietly and nod despite yourself, if only to free yourself from this suffocating moment — from Jack’s unrelenting tenderness, which you feel hardly deserving of now.
He clicks his lips against his teeth and smiles softly as he murmurs, “Yeah, I’m gonna need to hear you say it…”
Your wet eyes are stern with unsaid protest, with lashes all clumped together from unshed tears. Your voice is small and more fragile than glass as you abide him anyway. “I understand…”
“Oh, c’mon…” Jack lilts drily. “You can’t bullshit a bullshitter, kid— At least try to make it sound like you believe it.”
You roll your glassy eyes, more in embarrassment than annoyance.
Jack grins wider. “Yeah, I don’t know if you know this about me, but I can get real annoying if I need to…”
A faint smile pulls at the corners of your mouth despite yourself.
“…I understand,” you repeat, slightly steadier this time.
“Yeah…” Jack praises with a slow nod. “There we go…”
There’s a lingering beat thereafter, where you think he’s about to let go of your chin. Only he doesn’t.
And it isn’t till then that you realize how intently he’s looking at you now, with eyes heavy and glittering beneath the dim starry night. Your heart lurches in your chest when you think he might kiss you — a fleeting, irrational thought that makes your breath shudder and your mouth fall gently agape.
A sudden boom cracks suddenly through the air.
You flinch hard as a blue-pink firework crackles in a navy black sky.
“Shit…” you huff, clutching at your racing heart. “That scared me…”
Jack’s chest aches with a similar fear. He reaches for you on instinct as his own hands start to tremble.
“Here. C’mon,” he mumbles to himself, calloused hands firm on the outsides of your elbows. “Come back on this side before you give me a damn heart attack, kid…”
He assists you over the railing. You swing one leg over, and then the other, in a motion that feels practiced. Familiar. Until your left foot catches slightly on the edge, that is, and sends you stumbling into the older man’s chest.
“Whoa—“
“I got you,” Jack murmurs, steadying you with firm hands.
For a second, you’re closer than you’ve ever been. You can feel his heart racing against your palms. He can feel your breath fanning across his scruffy cheek. You can see his heavy eyes flitting wildly between yours, and again, you think he might kiss you — you want so desperately for him to kiss you.
Then the heavy door to the roof swings open, and the two of you jerk rapidly apart.
Laughter and muddled conversation come spilling out as a handful of the day shift emerges, with Donnie and Princess leading the charge, carrying a square blue cooler between them. The former smiles when he finds the two of you standing there together.
“You guys are early to the party, I see,” the man shouts over another set of booming fireworks.
“You kinda have to be when you’re the life of one,” Jack shoots back. “It’s more polite that way.”
“Here,” Princess says, handing the man a chilled beer. “Figured you could use one after getting shot today.”
“Shot at,” he corrects drily and takes the can from her grasp. “But I’m not drinking— I’m still on the clock… But she’s not.”
He turns to you, holding the beer out expectantly between you.
“I-I still have a few rounds to finish up,” you shake your head.
“I’ll do ‘em,” Jack shrugs. “You take a load off, alright? You deserve it.”
You hesitate for a moment, swallowing hard before reaching for the can with trembling hands. “…I deserve it,” you repeat under your breath, as though you were trying the words on for size.
“Yeah, you do,” Jack squints.
The can cracks faintly when you open it. You bring it to your mouth and take a slow sip, watching as the fireworks continue raining down overhead.
The day shift gathers around you at the railing with their own beers, while sparkling rainbow hues decorate the dark rooftop. You lean against the cool metal, now on the other side of it, and a little bit better than you were before.
Jack lingers just next to you, and forgets to watch the show playing overhead.
He doesn’t even realize he’s staring until you turn to look at him, eyes wide with worry.
“You’re okay, right?” you mutter sheepishly, licking the sheen of alcohol from your mouth. “It’s not too loud out here, is it? ‘Cause we can go back inside if you want.”
The corner of Jack’s mouth lifts in a smile at your concern, and at your use of ‘we.’ The warmth you put in his chest far outweighs the lingering panic settled there.
He shakes his head with a glassy-eyed gaze, “I’m right where I wanna be,” he assures in a honeyed voice.
You turn away, face flaring, and hide your smile behind your beer.
summary: on your very first day as an attending at the ptmc, you're forced to navigate the chaos of the night shift, a code silver, and the fact that jack abbot would (and did) take a bullet for you. (7k)
characters: jack abbot / fem!reader, samira mohan, john shen, crus henderson, princess de la cruz, michael robinavitch, jack's dead wife also gets a wee mention
contents: friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, heavily inspired by greys anatomy s6ep24, not proofread soz cw for so many medical inaccuracies (like so many), hostage situations, heavy mentions of blood and gore, mentions of trauma and grief
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
It was your first day as an attending, and almost your very last.
Other than your newfound position, there was little else different about this night compared to all the others. The late evening was filled with all the usual chaos that you’ve come to find a strange sort of refuge within. Your first patient of the day was a woman in a pretty sequined dress, who’d sustained a collapsed lung after screaming a little too hard to “Bohemian Rhapsody” during karaoke — something you’d only find while working the night shift.
“First needle aspiration as an attending…” Jack Abbot said with a nod of approval when the procedure was done. “How’s it feel?”
The simple question made you dizzy. It was as much of a reminder of your new ranking as the foil balloons in the break room, bobbing lazily against the ceiling tiles. Or the crooked banner strung above the coffee maker, reading CONGRATS in cheap gold letters. Or the plastic container of store-bought cupcakes someone definitely bought last-minute, with neon-colored frosting smeared slightly on the lid.
But what really sent you reeling, though, was the inadvertent acknowledgment of the simmering tension between you and Jack — which had always been there in some ways, but was much easier to ignore before now.
The constant will-they-won’t-they between you was buried under layers of hierarchy, rules, and morals — under the unsaid understanding that whatever this thing between you was could never be acted upon. Not while you were his resident, anyway.
The obvious power imbalance was a line Jack Abbot would not let himself cross, no matter how desperately he wanted to.
Only now, that wretched line isn’t there anymore. For the first time since he met you, you’re both on even ground. The world is your oyster, as it were; all the opportunities lie now at your feet. You need only to reach out and take it.
“First intubation as an attending,” Jack hums from the opposite side of the hospital bed, eyes glittering with amusement behind his safety glasses. “How’s it feel?”
You scoff a quiet laugh and shake your head. “That question got old about the fourth time you asked it, Dr. Abbot…” you deadpan, sewing the trachael to the unconscious patient’s neck.
Reggie Brice; thirty-two-year-old male; exhibiting crush injuries to the chest and pelvis from a gnarly car pile-up. Seven people, including this one, were rushed in requiring immediate assistance. The rest were brought in with sustained head injuries, concussions, or minor fractures that needed tending to. You know that there has been at least one confirmed death.
“Well, it’s a big deal,” the man scoffs. “Why do you think we all chipped in two dollars to decorate the break room? Those grocery store cupcakes actually mean something, you know?”
“Well, I am honored…” you sigh in a distracted monotone.
Jack squints. “Yeah, I can tell. You look downright emotional—”
You take a step back to assess, gaze flickering to the monitor at your side. You find the man’s blood pressure continuing to climb, which is less than ideal for the injuries he’s sporting now.
“Pressure’s too high. We gotta fix that, or he’s gonna crash,” Jack announces in a sharper tone, though it never quite loses its laid-back edge. He always works best under pressure, in truth. “We could always crack the chest, cross-clamp the aorta— buy him some time till we get him a room.”
“What about preperitoneal packing?” you suggest, gesturing over the patient’s lean stomach with gloved hands. “We do a simple midline incision below the umbilicus, pack like hell around the bladder, keep the bleeding in check until we get him upstairs.”
Jack’s silence is less than reassuring.
You peer at him behind the glasses sitting low on your nose, stumbling over yourself as you brace for an inevitable rejection. “I know it’s more of an OR procedure, and I’ve only done it once, but—”
“Hey…” Jack cuts in softly, brows raised to his hairline. “You’re the boss here, kid. Remember? We’ll do whatever you wanna do.”
Your eyes narrow, despite the funny feeling flaring in your chest. His voice, all deep and gravelly and gentle, has always had a way of piercing right through you.
“I’m not a kid anymore, Abbot,” you remind him.
So there’s nothing standing in your way anymore, old man, you’re really saying.
Jack grins wide, like he can hear it in your silence.
“Force of habit,” he shrugs. “Now, c’mon. Let’s do it your way, boss.”
You’re wrists-deep in the conscious man’s pelvis, packing the blood clot around his bladder while Jack holds the Deaver retractor in a steady head. You fall into a strange sort of rhythm together, the way you always do, moving with each other without ever having to speak. Though, for some reason, you can’t seem to stop your hands from shaking.
“This is good, right?” you murmur behind your mask, shoving more gauze beneath the man’s sliced skin.
“You’re doing great,” Jack praises muffedly, without missing a beat, though he flashes you a stern look behind his glasses a second later. “You’re an attending now— You know what you’re doing.”
You swallow hard with an unsure nod. “Right… Yeah…”
Jack smiles at your sheepishness — a stark contrast to how methodically your hands move — though the expression gets hidden behind his blue surgical mask. “Don’t worry. It’s always a little weird at first. You’ll settle in in no time.”
You scoff a harsh breath through your nose. “You’ve been uncharacteristically sweet to me today. You know that?”
“I’m always sweet,” Jack squints. “But I can always get meaner, if you want. You know, if my kindness isn’t impressing you.”
“Hm,” you shrug and swipe your gloved fingers under the fatty tissue of the fleshy linea alba. “Jury’s still out.”
“Well,” his brows bounce. “I guess I’m just gonna have to try a little harder, then, aren’t I?”
“What can I say? I have high standards, Dr. Abbot.”
Your concentrated gaze flickers from the incision to the man standing across from you. Something mischievous glimmers in your eyes, crinkling at the edges with a smile he can’t see behind your mask. The air between you charges in a flicker.
“You doin’ anything after this shift?” the man wonders suddenly, passing you another stack of gauze with his free hand. “You know, to celebrate?”
“I don’t know…” you sigh and turn away again. “I guess it depends.”
“On?”
“Whether someone can give me something better to do than collapsing face-first into my bed.”
“I think I could make a pretty strong case,” Jack quips.
“Ooh…” you hum. “Do tell.”
“Something involving food. Definitely,” he starts. “Maybe something a lot more filling than two-dollar vending machine snacks.”
“Very compelling start, Dr. Abbot…”
“And maybe— if you’re so inclined,” he croons drily. “Something where we don’t talk about work for an hour. At least.”
You flash him a deadpanned stare. “Well, now, that’s just way too far.”
“Hm. It was worth a shot,” he shrugs.
“I guess we’ll just have to see how the rest of your performance goes...”
His eyes widen in amusement at your sudden teasing, not nearly as shy as he’s grown accustomed to. “Oh, so I’m the one being evaluated now?”
“Yep,” you nod once, popping the p.
“And what happens if I pass?”
You meet his gaze once more, with something a little shier around the edges. “Then I’ll… let me take you somewhere for breakfast in the morning,” you shrug, trying to be casual, though your wavering voice gives you instantly away.
A smile curls slow at Jack’s mouth behind his surgical mask. You can see it squinting the very edges of his light eyes as he nods in response. “Looking forward to it—”
The glass door across the room swings open without warning.
Your heads whip simultaneously, half-expecting to find a grey-scrubbed nurse standing there, hopefully with some information about the state of the suddenly flooded OR. You find a strange man there instead — late fifties, bearded, tall but with a beer gut that hangs over the top of his baggy jeans. There’s dark blood on his t-shirt and the collar of his beige jacket, dripping from a cut on his temple.
His narrow face is strikingly hollow; his eyes are painfully empty. You figure he must be one of the victims from the pile-up. He wears the shock of it all over, no doubt.
“This is a sterile room, sir,” Jack tells him, authoritative but never unkind. “If you’re family, I’m gonna need you to wait outside. I’ll have a nurse give you the details— and maybe take a look at the cut of yours.”
“I’m not his family,” the man says in an even monotone, with a gritty drawl that insists he’s from somewhere further south. There is little inflection in his voice, the same way there is little emotion on his bearded face. He just lingers there in the doorway, frozen still in a way that feels almost uncanny.
Your wide eyes flit to Jack, glimmering with apprehension. Your stomach twists with it, too.
Jack’s firm gaze never wavers from the stranger across the room. “Either way, sir, you can’t be in here—”
The older man’s weathered right hand reaches slowly for the inside pocket of his jacket. Something silver glints beneath the bright white fluorescents overhead. It takes you a second too long to realize what it is — a gun.
The world narrows in an instant. The oxygen gets sucked out of the room all at once. Your chest hitches for a breath it cannot take.
You don’t realize until then that you’ve never seen a pistol this close before — or at all. Your brain detaches in an instant accordingly, protects you now by convincing you that this is no longer your reality. That you’re only dreaming. That everything around you is just a movie you’re watching from faraway.
“Hey, hey, hey…” Jack cautions on bated breath, bloodied hands raised in surrender.
His wide eyes dart between the man and the glass door, where the stranger is just out of view of the hallway. He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, as he takes slow steps towards the assailant.
“Let’s just— Let’s just take a breath here, alright, man?”
The monitor beside you begins to beep wildly when your hands freeze. Your body jerks when the sound fills the silent room.
Your gloved hands move on autopilot, adjusting the Deaver retractor in Jack’s absence and continuing to pack the bladder with the remaining gauze. The work is the only thing anchoring you now — the glaring acknowledgment that, if you don’t finish up here, the man in the bed will die before he makes it to the OR.
“That man there…” the stranger says in a distant voice, like he’s not all the way here either. “He was driving the car that hit my wife… Blew a red light… Came out of nowhere…”
Jack’s expression shifts. He reaches for his jaw with slow hands, plucking the surgical mask from his right ear, and letting the left side hang by his chin — allowing the man to see his face.
“I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”
“He killed her… On the scene…” the man continues, gravelly voice tighter now. “I was trying to scoop her brains back into her skull— Do you have any idea what the kinda shit does to a person?”
“That’s hard, man,” Jack nods sympathetically but stands his ground at the head of the hospital bed all the same, planting himself firmly between you and the stranger across the room. “I get it.”
“You don’t—” the man snaps, harsher now.
You flinch when his voice rings suddenly through the room, trying to pack the wound tight with half-numb fingers.
“You don’t just get to— to fix him like nothing happened. Like her life didn’t matter—”
“It does matter,” Jack assures with a rapid nod. “Your wife matters, I promise.”
“Then let me do something about it—”
Jack’s chest tightens when the man’s knuckles turn white around the gun. He holds it steady despite his troubled state, like he knows exactly what he’s doing with it. Jack understands, then, that if he lets that gun off, it’ll hit exactly whatever this man wants it to — wherever he wants it to.
“There are two other people in this room who had nothing to do with what happened to your wife, man,” Jack tells him. “And I know you don’t want anyone else to get hurt. I know that.”
“You’re right… I don’t want anyone else to get hurt…” the man nods, voice heavy and trembling. “So tell her to stop—”
The gun shifts over Jack’s shoulder, aiming right for your head.
A pained whimper sounds in the pit of your tightening throat. You can hardly see the incision below you as burning tears gather at your waterline. Your shaking fingers scramble for the sutures to stitch him back up again.
“Hey, hey, hey!” Jack blurts, stepping in front of the gun again without a second thought. He keeps his gloved hands raised, but his sympathetic stare turns stern in a flicker. “You’re talking to me right now, alright? So put the gun back on me— We’re gonna figure this out together.”
“I said— tell her— to stop!”
His thumb flicks the hammer of the gun with a daunting click.
“I know, kid…” he says without looking back at you, with a voice much more even compared to yours. “I know. Just keep going.”
“Stop!” the man bellows. “Or I swear to god, I’ll shoot you both in the goddamn head!”
Jack is not perturbed by his yelling. He wants him to yell, wants him to cause a scene so that someone’ll check in and call in a Code Silver. He just doesn’t want that gun to go off. So he keeps his voice calm as he counters gently, “And what happens next? If you kill us— If you kill him. What are you gonna do after?”
The man hesitates for a moment. His grip falters on the gun, as if he hadn’t considered the question until that very moment.
“I know you want your wife back… But this isn’t gonna make it any better.”
“Maybe not,” the man says. “But it’ll make it stop.”
He doesn’t elaborate on what ‘it’ exactly is, but Jack doesn’t need him to. He’s been where this man is standing — not physically, maybe, not with a gun in his hand; but in the deep, dark void reserved only for a special, gut-wrenching sort of grief.
“It won’t. Trust me,” Jack says with a shake of his silver head. “I lost my wife ten years ago. Not like you did, but it still hurt like hell, man, I can tell you that…”
The man softens slightly. It’s the first time since the crash that someone’s tried to level with him, that someone’s actually understood.
Jack takes a hesitant step forward when he catches the stranger’s resolve starting to slip.
“And I can tell you it doesn’t stay that way forever…” he continues. “Whatever you’re feeling right now, I know you think it’s never gonna stop. But it will. You just have to let it.”
Another step forward.
“You see the woman you’re pointing that gun at?” Jack wonders with raised brows, nodding his silver head in your direction. “I like her… I really like her. And I didn’t think I was capable of feeling anything again.”
Your chest aches at his words. Your glasses fog from the warm tears clinging to your bottom lashes. Your clammy hands fumble with the surgical needle.
The man’s finger loosens slightly on the trigger, and Jack takes another cautious stop.
“And this is really bad timing, man, ‘cause I was gonna take her out after this,” he confesses with a not-quite smile. “But for that to happen, I need us to walk out of here. All of us.”
The beat of silence thereafter feels borderline suffocating. It wraps its cold hands around your neck and strangles you.
Jack almost thinks he’s gotten through to the man. He can see the cracks starting to fissure throughout his hollow face; the flicker of hesitation, the realization of what he’s doing — where his dark mind has led him.
“So you’re saying…” the man trails off and swallows hard. His drawl is much too soft for the words that spill from his mouth a second later. “…If I shoot her, you’ll understand how I feel?”
Your blood runs ice cold in an instant.
Jack’s shoes squeak hard against the tile as he lunges for the man before you can blink. He pushes him into the wall with an aggressive thud and tries to shove his gun out of your direction. You bend over the bed on instinct, covering your patient without a second thought.
Two shots ring out.
You expect to feel both of them, or perhaps nothing at all, as your limp body hits the floor. You keep your eyes shut and your jaw clenched tight, bracing yourself for pain or certain death.
The harsh ringing in your ears is slow to fade. When your hearing finally returns to you, and your eyes peek slowly open, you find a sea of bodies crashing into the room like a tidal wave — and you, yourself, still standing.
Your head swivels on your shoulder, still half-hunched over your patient. Your gaze drags unwillingly past the blur of bodies and dark scrubs until it finds Jack, lying flat on the ground instead of you.
It takes your brain a long moment to make sense of it — the strangle ngle of his body, the stuttering of his chest, the tear in his shirt from the bullet, and the wet crimson darkening the tile beneath him. The sight doesn’t fit, doesn’t belong. Not to Jack, anyway; not to the man who’s far too steady, too solid, to ever look like this.
And the worst part of it all — the part that will follow you long after this moment ends — is that that bullet was meant for you, and that Jack didn’t even hesitate to take it instead.
The ED descends into a different sort of chaos than you’re used to. The PTMC fractures, splinters into something unrecognizable, as voices overlap and distort in your ears. “Gunshot wound— Attending down!” you hear someone shout, followed by a quieter, “Help me get him up,” and a harsher, “Someone get me a fucking line!”
None of it feels all the way real.
It’s like looking through the rest of the world through a fishbowl, where everything is blurred and warped and muffled. You can see armed guards detaining the crying gunman in the foreground of it all, along with Jack’s body being transferred to a stretcher, right before Samira ducks into your tunnel vision.
Her dark brown eyes are lined with exhaustion from her double shift as they dart attentively across your face — the first person to reach out for you in the midst of all the chaos.
“What do you need me to do?” is all she says.
Your voice comes out strangled. It sounds like it’s coming from somewhere else entirely as you choke through panted breaths, “F-Finish up his— his sutures, and… and get him to the OR... Walsh has a… has a room ready for him, I think—”
Your legs feel half-numb as you step back from the patient before you, left totally unaware of the chaos surrounding him. You stumble for the entrance, peeling off your stained gown and bloodied gloves as you go, and follow Jack’s body as they lead him out of the room.
You migrate to his side like it’s muscle memory to you, struggling to find your footing in the midst of the growing crowd as the doctors rush the gurney to the elevators. For every step you take, Shen and Crus seem to take three more. It makes it nearly impossible to keep up in your stupor.
You crane your head to catch a peek of the man from behind the towering bodies before you. “I-Is he okay?” you wonder breathlessly.
The gurney jerks too hard around the corner, scraping the side of the wall.
“Motherfucker!” Jack groans.
“Well, shit— He definitely sounds the same,” Parker quips from beside you.
“How are you feeling?” Crus calls from the man’s side. “Talk to me, Abbot— You’re still with us, right?”
“Not unless you two learn how to maneuver a goddamn gurney,” Jack jokes through gritted teeth.
“Page Walsh,” Shen tells Lena with a stern nod, pushing the button for the lift. “Make sure she’s got a room open.”
The doors part with a ding. They wheel the stretcher inside, and you make sure to squeeze in with them, elbowing past the attendings and nurses to get to Jack’s side.
He’s clammy and pale when he comes into view, writhing in place as he clutches at his ribs. His black scrubs are stained a darker color from the blood spilling from the wound, which turns the white towel pressed there a deeper shade of scarlet than you think you’ve ever seen.
Your trembling hand reaches for him on instinct. You press your palm over his bloodied knuckles — keeping some pressure there, reminding him that you’re still here.
“Jack?” you call to him in a voice taut, as your teary eyes dart wildly across his scruffy face. “Jack? A-Are you okay?”
He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. His head turns slowly, just enough to find you, and he blinks wildly to clear the blur in his vision. The corner of his mouth twitches in a faint hint of a smile when he spots you standing over him.
He clears his throat, but his words still come out a little gravelly as he arches an expectant brow and says, “Told ya…”
You shake your head, features screwing in confusion. “Told me what?”
“That I’d make a good case…”
Your chest flares. Something wells suddenly in your throat, though you can’t be sure if it’s a laugh or a sob. You just scold him instead. “It’s not funny, Jack—”
“Hey. You’re the one who said you had high standards, kid…” he rasps.
His eyes fall over your form, trying to assess you despite his dwindling vision. You watch his scruffy features twist with concern a second later. His chest stutters as he questions breathlessly, “Whoa— Is that… Is that my blood? Or yours?”
You tilt your chin to follow his gaze. Only then do you feel the warm blood trickling down to your elbow; only then do you feel the white-hot, searing pain of the bullet that had grazed your shoulder.
You feel very suddenly like the world is spinning around you.
The stares you get return, as everyone else seems to notice too, only adds to the dizziness.
“You’re bleeding,” Shen observes sharply. “Why didn’t you tell anyone you got hit?”
“I-I’m fine,” you insist despite the waver in your voice, shaking your head to fight the lightheadedness away. “I can’t— I can’t even feel it, okay? I swear.”
“Get someone to take a look at that when we get upstairs, alright?” Shen commands with a stern glare. “I mean it.”
Your wet eyes harden in an instant. “I’m not leaving—”
Jack’s hand, still weak on his side, twists over the damp towel to grab yours. His bloody fingers are cold and trembling as they struggle to find purchase on your smaller ones. You hold him with enough strength for the both of you.
“You got hurt ‘cause of me, kid. At least let someone—”
“Hey,” you snap, meaner than he’s ever seen you. “That was not your fault.”
“Let ‘em take a look at you, alright?”
You shake your stubborn head. “I need you to focus on yourself right now—”
“I am,” he insists. His gravelly voice never loses its humorous edge, and neither do his glassy eyes lose their tenderness as they flit back and forth between yours. “And I’m not gonna be okay if you aren’t, alright? So just… please.”
Your features crumple at the pleading look he gives you — with his eyes all squishy around the edges, and glazing over with unshed tears.
The elevator stills with a ding, shattering the tense moment. It jolts faintly, just enough to make your swimming stomach feel sicker. You catch yourself nodding despite your better judgment.
“Fine…” you tell him in a fragile voice.
Jack tries to smile but finds the strength to slowly leave him, a little like the blood trickling from his side.
“I’m in good hands,” he assures you, then turns to the attending on his left. “Right, Dr. Shen?”
The younger man’s brows lower. “Didn’t you just call me a motherfucker?” he quips.
Jack’s weathered face twists as he’s wheeled out of the elevator. “…Did I?”
Your hand slips from his as you watch him go. Something about it feels wrong, though you can’t exactly place why. You just know it feels like something ripping in two — like the torn skin of your bloody shoulder, times a thousand.
The room they put you in is achingly quiet; the kind of quiet that makes everything else seem ten times louder. The green-white fluorescent bulb clicks and buzzes mercilessly over your head, drilling straight into your skull. The AC hums gently alongside it in a mundane sort of symphony that matches the empty room you’re in — where only one hospital bed sits beside a shuttered window, in front of a porcelain sink and mirror.
Everything smells like stale air, sharp antiseptic, and metallic blood.
You stand before the cloudy mirror with your scrub sleeve pushed up your shoulder, kept awkwardly in place by your chin. You struggle to do your sutures with a hand that won’t stop trembling.
You don’t realize how ardently you’re still shaking until the needle slips across your skin — not enough to do any real damage, but enough to make you hiss through your teeth when it stings. You clench your jaw and pull the thread through, until the raging skin around the laceration pinches together again. Your features flicker as you try and fail to ignore the dull burn that spreads up and down your arm a second later.
The fiery sensation is the only thing keeping your mind distracted from all the rest of it — the way the gunshot made your ears ring; the way Jack’s body jerked before it hit the ground; the way the man called out for his wife when security pinned him to the floor.
You tug the sutures harder, relishing in the sting. You push the needle through once more, harder than necessary, and let it slip a little sloppier than you should — anything to take your mind off of it.
“Careful…” a voice cautions from the doorway.
Your head whips over your shoulder. You blink rapidly as your brain struggles to catch up — like you half-expect to find yourself back in that room; like you half-expect to find the man from before standing there.
You feel a little like the ground has been pulled from underneath you when you find Robby there instead, rubbing disinfectant between his calloused palms.
Someone downstairs must’ve called him about Jack, and about the Code Silver currently turning the PTMC to shambles. And, based on the surgical mask sticking out of his jacket pocket, you figure he must’ve just gotten back from checking in on him in the OR.
His dark eyes flit from your face, to your shoulder, and to the supplies scattered across the sink before you.
“They said you were supposed to be getting looked at,” he says. “Not playing DIY surgeon.”
You huff out a breath that would’ve passed for a laugh any other time.
“Everyone else is busy… At least I can make myself useful this way…”
You can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. You can’t stand the way he’s looking at you now. His gaze is too sharp, too focused. It’s like he’s studying you, cataloging, assessing — the same way you do with your patients. The thought of being so helpless makes your stomach twist.
Robby doesn’t argue, but instead lets his eyes linger on the slight tremor in your hands. The leftover adrenaline is likely buzzing like electricity in your veins just now. You’re bound to crash at any second.
“I know you don’t want my help,” he starts slowly, sauntering further in with his arms crossed over his chest. “But at least lie and say I did your sutures— so Jack doesn’t try to kill me when he wakes up.”
“I think he’ll know you didn’t do ‘em when he sees how neat they are,” you joke drily.
“Rude…” Robby scoffs, sneakers scuffing as he plants himself at your side. You can see the leftover slumber in his swollen eyes more clearly now, as he ducks down to look at you. “Want me to get you something for the pain, at least?”
You shake your head instantly, not trusting your voice enough to speak without wavering.
“You sure?” he presses.
“I’m fine,” you snap. “I’m not the one in surgery.”
He is not dismayed by your anger. He knows it’s not meant for him.
“Well, Jack’s doing just fine. Walsh is finishing up with him now,” he tells you. “Honestly, I think the hardest part is gonna be keeping him off his feet for the next little while…. ‘Cause there’s about a hundred percent chance he’s gonna want to come back to work when he’s discharged.”
You exhale sharply through your nose in place of a laugh as you tie the sutures and cut the excess with a pair of small medical scissors.
You just barely catch sight of your delirious smile in the cloudy mirror before a chuckle sputters suddenly from your mouth. The sound of it fills the quiet room as you tumble into a fit of half-drunken giggles, bowing your head and propping your gloved hands on the porcelain sink.
Your shoulders shake as your laughter turns quickly into sobs.
Robby softens instantly. “Shit… I’m sorry…”
“I’m fine,” you blurt once more and shake your head. Your voice is strangled through the tears in your throat, but you dismiss him anyway. “I’m fine. I-I don’t even know why I’m crying, so..”
“You went through something traumatic tonight,” he coos. “Everything you’re feeling is completely normal.”
You shake your head again. “I should’ve gone with him— I should be helping in there—”
“You’d just be a liability,” Robby shrugs, a little blunt but not entirely unkind. “You’re still in shock. Your hands are still shaking— I wouldn’t let you anywhere near an OR like this… You’re better off here, and you know it.”
You turn your head to flash him a teary-eyed look. Your chin quivers as your taut voice trembles, “He asked… He asked me if I wanted to go out with him when we got off,” you confess in a strangled whisper.
Robby’s brows raise to his hairline. “Did he?”
You nod slowly. “And I was gonna say yes…”
“Good…” the older man nods, lip flickering into a smile beneath his beard. “About time…”
“So he can’t… He doesn’t get to…” You stumble over yourself to get the words out. “He doesn’t get to not come back after that.”
Robby’s sympathetic grin widens at the stern, wet-eyed glare you give him. He takes a slow step closer and splays a warm, comforting hand along your back.
“Jack Abbot is the most stubborn son of a bitch I’ve ever met,” he tells you. “If there’s even the slightest chance of him coming out of that OR just to take you out, then… He’s gonna take it. Trust me.”
“Yeah,” you quip drily. “He better…”
Jack wakes after surgery to a tingling ache in his side and a heart monitor beeping faintly overhead, pervading the strange silence surrounding him — a silence he doesn’t usually allow himself.
His eyes crack slowly open, dry and unfocused for several long moments. They dance across the ceiling tiles as he blinks the haze of sleep from his gaze. He struggles to recall how he got here — in this dim recovery room, which he had never seen as a patient until now. He remembers the stranger with the gun first, the warmth of the blood that came spilling from his side second, and the way you cried from him third.
Your name spills from his dry mouth like it’s the only word he remembers.
“Great. Now I owe Crus twenty dollars,” he hears a familiar voice joke from his side. Jack’s head swivels until he finds Princess standing there, checking the IV hanging by his bed. She smiles softly down at him and quips, “He said the first thing you’d do is ask for her. I thought for sure you’d want a beer.”
“Yeah…” Jack rasps, then clears the gravel from his throat. “I could go for that, too…”
“Want me to go grab her for you?”
He hesitates. “Is she… Is she okay?”
“She’s great. Last I heard, Robby was patching her up,” the woman grins. “And, for what it’s worth, she was asking about you, too…”
The anticipation of seeing you again was somehow worse than the pain, blooming something sharp in his abdomen, and only slightly ebbed by the morphine drip.
The minutes drag on. The heart monitor at his side counts the seconds instead of his pulse. His fists curl against the stiff hospital sheets when he remembers the sticky red blood that had dripped slowly down your arm — the way you so easily brushed it all off, the way you so desperately wanted to stay at his side.
The door creaks softly open.
Something tightens in his chest.
You linger in the doorway for several long moments, as if you aren’t allowed to come any closer just yet. You’re bathed in the shadow of the lamplit recovery room and backlit by the too-bright hallway outside. He can only vaguely see the outline of your features from here — weighed down with fear and exhaustion and relief.
The laceration on your arm has been cleaned and sewn. It’s still raging a little around the marred edges, but will heal into a thin scar in a few weeks’ time — a story you’ll tell for years to come.
Jack grunts as he struggles to sit further up on the raised bed, but hides it by clearing his throat. “You look good…” he observes in a rasp.
“Are you flirting with me, Dr. Abbot?” you joke with narrowed eyes.
“I am,” he quips back. “Thanks for finally noticing.”
You scoff a faint laugh and shut the door behind you with a quiet click. You can’t help but feel a little like the air has thinned as you walk further inside. You focus on your wringing hands the entire way to his bedside. You don’t have the strength to meet his unwavering stare, still puffy from a medically induced slumber, but never once straying from your face.
“You okay?” he wonders aloud, shattering the silence between you.
You huff a weak laugh. “I’m not the one who just came out of surgery, Jack…”
“Fair point…” he nods.
“But yes… I’m okay,” you add, if only to appease him. “What about you? How do you feel?”
Jack exhales a heavy breath, chest deflating behind his thin hospital gown. “…Like I got shot.”
That almost gets a real laugh out of you.
“Yeah. That— That makes sense…”
You flounder in place for a moment, before reaching for the chair by the curtained window and dragging it closer to his bed. Jack is able to eye you more clearly when you settle into the cushioned seat by his side. He can see the redness in your eyes, the tension in your jaw, the way your clammy hands hover like you’re not quite sure what to do with them.
Whatever closeness you had before those shots rang out is long gone now. You orbit around him like he’s a stranger to you, like you’re not quite sure what to do with him, like you’re too scared to get any closer.
He bows his head, made of mussed silver curls, in a feeble attempt to meet your stare. He silently begs you to look back at him, but you never do.
“I’m okay, you know?” he coos to you, equal parts because it’s true and because he knows you need to hear it from him.
“No, I know, I just—” You cut yourself off when your fragile voice finally breaks. You shake your head to yourself and swallow hard, picking at the skin of your thumb until it starts to bleed. The scratch there blurs as burning tears gather once more in your gaze. “I can’t stop thinking about it, you know? If you wouldn’t have— have gotten as hurt if… you know, if you weren’t standing in front of me like that—”
His chest twists at the thought of you blaming yourself for it. The burning sensation there hurts him far worse than the one at his side.
“You would’ve gotten it a lot worse if I hadn’t.”
Your eyes snap finally to meet his gaze, though your stare is much more hardened than he’d like.
“But what if something worse had happened to you? Huh? What if you died, Jack?” you scold in words that spill faster from your lips than you can stop them. “Were you even thinking about that?”
“No.”
His honesty stops you cold as much as his lack of hesitation.
“I guess I was just thinking about you…”
The room goes eerily quiet, saved only by the even beeping of the monitor at his side and the distant voices talking in the hall.
Jack holds your gaze even as it weakens around the edges, even as it glazes over with burning tears you can’t seem to keep away. A rogue droplet clumps your bottom lashes together when your eyes flick down to his abdomen, to the place beneath the blanket where you know the damage lies.
“You’re not supposed to do that to a person, you know?” you whimper. “It’s cruel.”
Jack’s brows furrow. “Do what?”
“Make someone like you, and then— And then get yourself shot,” you stammer, gesturing wildly with your anxious hands. “Make someone almost lose you before—”
Your breath hitches.
Jack leans further in. “Before what?” he presses gently.
“Before they’ve even gotten to have you…”
His lip flickers with a weak smile. “You do have me,” he assures. “You’ve had me way before I ever asked you out— You know that.”
“Yeah,” you scoff with a grin of your own, much sadder in comparison. “So much for that date, huh?”
Jack’s eyes narrow in a challenging stare. “And what makes you think it’s not happening?”
You blink owlishly back at him. “Do you want a list, or…?”
That earns a weak chuckle from him, until he winces at the ache it puts in his side a moment later. He cradles the bandaged wound with a grimace, and your chair scrapes the tile when you stand. “I’ll tell Princess you need more morphine,” he vaguely hears you say, though he reaches for your hand before you can stray too far.
You still in place. Your wide eyes fall to the fingers around your wrist, warm like a furnace, and calloused like softly textured velvet.
“I’m okay,” he tells you, then takes a wavering breath in before repeating more firmly. “I’m okay— And you’re not going anywhere— And I’m not missing our date for the world, alright?”
Your features screw, hardly convinced.
“We’ll order something here,” he shrugs. “Hell, we can eat the cafeteria food for all I care, just… Don’t leave. I mean, I kinda got shot, so…The least you could do is indulge me a little…”
You cave instantly under the weight of his light-eyed stare. Your chest hitches with a quiet laugh. “It’d be a pretty grim first date…” you quip.
“Yeah, well…” he trails off, smoothing his thumb over your knuckles. “I plan on having plenty more, less grim ones with you, so…”
Your eyes narrow in a cynical squint despite the smiling tugging at the edges of your mouth. “That’s very presumptuous of you, Dr. Abbot…”
“Well, you could always so no,” he croons drily.
“Not a chance,” you argue without pause, gripping his hand with great strength — an unsaid promise. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”
“Getting rid of you?” Jack echoes with a scoff, wincing when it hurts him but smiling up at you anyway. “That was never a part of the plan, kid— I took a bullet trying to keep you, in case you forgot."
summary: you have a perfectly casual, no-strings-attached night out with a charming stranger you met at a bar; only for jack to find out that he's slept with his resident the next morning, and that you’ve made a very memorable first impression on your new attending. (7k)
characters: jack abbot / fem!reader, michael robinavitch, louie cloverfield, rogue sightings from the pittlings
contents: strangers to lovers, one night stand, implied age gap, humor, so much sexual tension, so much flirting, jack abbot being a d1 yearner, heavily inspired by s1ep1 of grey's anatomy cw for medical procedures and inaccuracies, brief mentions of death, r has hair that can be put into a hair tie, smut 18+ (MDNI), slightly dubcon bc of alcohol
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
Jack Abbot finds the rest of his whole life in the middle of Sonny’s Tavern, sitting on the third bar stool to the left.
There’s a strange sort of glow about you — one that makes the dingy amber light swaying above your head look almost golden when it touches your skin; one that begs to be immediately noticed because, admittedly, there was nothing more overtly special about you.
You’ve come in wearing a simple baggy sweater and a pair of loose-fitting jeans, as if you’d just thrown something on from your bedroom floor before stopping in for a drink or two. You sit slouched at the bar with your head on your fist, talking to the bartender in hushed tones that go unheard beneath the yacht rock playing overhead.
It is more than apparent that you did not come here to be noticed; but even still, Jack struggles to take his eyes off you all the same.
“Alright, who’s in trouble tonight?” the man announces in place of a greeting, as he steps through the threshold into a cloud of sweet beer, charred hamburgers, and skunk weed.
He’s far too familiar with the faces here for anything else. Sonny’s had been standing for longer than he has, to be fair — he had his first drink here, back when no one cared how old you really were, so long as you weren’t totally stupid about it; he had his first kiss here, too, by the dumpster in an alley from a woman much older than he was, who he revered as some sort of god until he got to med school.
Sonny’s had given him a lot over the years, so Jack figured it was only right that he give back in return.
He’d gotten several of its patrons out of a number of sticky situations over the years. Everyone knew to call him if someone had gotten themselves into trouble — whether that be bathroom overdoses, bar fight aftermaths, or kids with fake IDs who’d drunk their weight in whiskey. They knew Jack Abbot would fix them right up. No questions asked, no money needed, no judgment at all.
Except for today, he hadn’t gotten a single call, nor had he heard a murmur of anything medical-related on the police scanner all afternoon. His day off had been exceptionally quiet, which he thinks is why he struggles to sleep tonight, without the adrenaline crash from a long day forcing him into slumber.
That’s why he comes into Sonny’s for an actual drink, for the first time in a long time — to escape the loneliness of his home for a while, and to down a few beers that’ll hopefully put him to sleep when he inevitably has to return to its emptiness. That’s why he welcomes the racing heart he gets, too, when you glance at him over your shoulder at the sound of his voice.
“Didn’t ya hear?” a familiar voice calls from the booth nearest to the door. “We’re celebrating!”
Jack turns his head to find Louie sitting in the cracked vinyl booth, ahead of two men who seem to be around his age. He nurses a sweaty pint in his sun-kissed hand, with two more empty ones sitting at his side.
If Jack knows anything about Mr. Cloverfield, it’s that he’s already had much, much more than that tonight alone. ‘Cause the last time he saw Louie, he had a BAC of .420, and was walking and talking just fine — aside from the shakes he couldn’t quite get rid of.
“Weren’t you supposed to be taking it easy, Louie?” Jack squints.
“I was,” the older man assures with a lopsided smile that says otherwise. “But now we’re celebrating.”
“Oh, yeah?” he scoffs and walks further inside, ignoring the way his shoes threaten to stick to his hardwood with every step. “And what’s that?”
Louie motions to you with his half-gone beer. “That one’s starting a new job tomorrow.”
Jack’s eyes cut back to you.
You duck away on instinct when his gaze locks with yours, only then realizing how long you’d been staring. You keep your head bowed like a shy child when he slides into the bar stool next to yours, replacing the scent of an ancient bar with the warmer scent of expensive cologne.
“Oh, really?” the stranger hums. “Where at?”
“Nowhere special. Just retail,” you say with a lazy shrug, struggling to find the courage to meet his unwavering stare. “But I just moved into town, so… I figured I’d buy a round for the house.”
You reach for the shot rack ahead of you, where three narrow glasses filled with clear liquid sit in a row. You go to pass one over to the strange man beside you, but he dismisses you with a shake of his head — made of greying curls that match the silver scruff on his jaw.
“Call me old-fashioned, but I can’t have a pretty girl buyin’ my drinks.”
A laugh sputters from your mouth, rolling off your half-numb tongue. “Pretty girl? What— Are you flirting with me, or is this just… your usual level of arrogance?”
“Neither. I’m just… stating the obvious,” Jack says with a cheeky half-smile, shifting on the squeaking leather stool to reach for the wallet in the back pocket of his jeans. He turns to the bartender and wonders aloud, “What’s her tab, Johnny?”
You burn red-hot almost instantly. “Don’t tell him—”
“$94.57—” the older man answers before you can get the words out, then cuts himself off with a weathered look of apology. “—Oh. Sorry.”
You grimace and hide your burning face behind your hands. “God, that’s so embarrassing…” you whine, muffled into your palms.
“Hey. You’re celebrating,” Jack shrugs. “I get it.”
You hear the man’s leather wallet flip open. You peek through your fingers to find him pulling out a heavy credit card. Your features flood with horror when he hands it off to the bartender.
“Oh, no— I can’t let you do that.”
“You’re not letting me do anything,” the older man scoffs, folding his freckled arms along the counter’s edge. “I want to. ‘Cause we’re celebrating, remember?”
You meet his smug smile with an unsure wince.
Jack caves with a sigh. “Okay, you can make it up to me by drinking with me tonight. How about that?”
Your chest warms with a funny feeling that you’d rather blame on the alcohol. You purse your lips to the side of your mouth before he catches you smiling too wide and nod slowly in response.
“Sure…” you shrug, feigning an air of nonchalance you lost the moment the pretty stranger caught you staring. “I guess I can handle that…”
The stranger — he hasn’t yet given you his name, nor do you bother to ask for it — buys you two more drinks after the fact.
You sip slowly at the first one, then forget to taste the second, too busy catching his gaze every time he looks your way. Lingering eye contact had always perturbed you, but not his. You liked it when he held your stare whenever you turned to face him; you liked it even more when you could feel his eyes on you whenever you looked away again.
You give him this smile from time to time, a barely-there sort of smirk that glittered mostly in your eyes, whenever you tilted your chin to peer at him through your lashes. It was as sweet as it was heavy, honeyed and full of gravity, like you knew something about him that he didn’t — like you were searching somewhere deep in his soul.
Really, though, you were just wildly skeptical of him — eyeing him in silence and trying to figure out if he was real, if this was real. How many times have you played this game, old man? you’d ask him if you had the courage. How many hearts have you already broken? Am I gonna regret it when mine breaks next?
You’re not sure, but you let him walk you to your place anyway, and talk him into letting you buy him a donut from the shop across from your apartment building on the way. He tells you it’ll sober you up, even though you aren’t all that drunk anymore; you tell him that he’ll never want anything else once he’s tasted this one, and he fights the urge to make a sex joke.
“Thanks for walking me home,” you tell him through the wad of donut still stuck in your cheek, standing a step above him on the stony stairs to your building. “And for turning out not to be a serial killer.”
Jack balls his napkin of crumbs into his fist. “Well, there’s still time— You know, if you’re disappointed.”
“Eh,” you hum playfully, swallowing through the mouthful. “Maybe just a little.”
“Then I’ll see myself out, I guess…” the man huffs, feigning a morose disposition, and distantly praying you’ll stop him. “It’s getting pretty late.”
Your eyes narrow into thin slits, and it feels like his heart has stopped — like you’re using some sort of secret superpower to steal his breath.
You shake your head and tell him, “It’s not that late.”
So Jack follows you up to your apartment despite his better judgment, drawn to a siren song that he knows is bound to kill him sooner or later.
Your apartment is mostly empty, he finds, considering you had only just moved into it.
There’s a couch, an air mattress, and a small television on a plastic bin shoved into the quaint living room. There’s one chair at the kitchen island, and a sea of boxes on the counter. You apologize profusely for the mess as you weave through the maze of cardboard for the refrigerator. You bring him a chilled bottle of white wine on the way back.
“I’d pour it into a fancy glass or something, but… I don’t have any,” you confess as you plop down onto the couch beside him, which still smells like the house you just bought it from. “I don’t even have cups. Or silverware. I barely even have a kitchen.”
Jack laughs. “You just moved here, and the first thing you thought to buy was wine?”
“Well, yeah,” you shrug like it’s obvious. “I had to get the essentials, obviously.”
“Obviously,” he echoes with a scoff.
The wine is bad. Almost comically bad. He nearly chokes on it when he takes his first sip, like he’s a teenager again, taking his very first ever drink of alcohol. It’s bitter with an extremely sweet aftertaste that coats his tongue long after he’s swallowed it down. But you don’t seem to mind it, though — you drink it like it’s some sort of delicacy, which he knows it must be for you, ‘cause he was young and broke once, too.
He takes slow sips every time you pass the sweaty bottle his way, if only because doing so means putting his lips where yours once kissed.
“So…” Jack starts after you’ve run out of things to say, sitting with his thighs spread and his heavy head tilted against the couch. He licks the sheen of alcohol from his mouth, passes you the wine, and wonders aloud, “What’s your story, huh?”
“My story?” you laugh into the lip of the bottle, curling your legs beneath you to face him better as you take a short sip. “Why do I have to have a story?”
“Everyone has a story,” Jack scoffs. “Think about it— There was something that led you to that bar tonight, right?”
“Most people would call that fate.”
“What about you?” he asks, then follows at the look you give him. “Would you call it fate?”
You think for a moment, then nod your head against your fist. “Yeah… I guess so.”
Jack nods slowly, scruffy cheek brushing the cushion beneath him. “So if I… I don’t know… If I kissed you right now… Would you call that fate, too?”
Your laugh washes over him like drops of summer rain.
“Real smooth…” you croon drily.
“It’s just a hypothetical.”
“Then, no. I wouldn’t call that fate.” You huff and lean forward to set the bottle onto the box you’re using as a makeshift table. “I think I’d call that taking what I want.”
Despite his own forwardness, Jack is still slightly surprised when you close the distance between you, rather than sit back into place across from him. You rest your knees on the sunken cushions instead, and rest your fist on the space between his spread thighs as you lean in closer.
Jack gets a whiff of the perfume on your skin, then the bittersweet alcohol on your tongue, right before your wine-slick mouth catches his own.
He tenses on instinct at the feeling of you, then relaxes with a heavy breath through his nose a second later, when you lick into his parted mouth. It takes him a moment to kiss you back, because he doesn’t realize until that very second that he hasn’t made out with someone in years.
He reaches for you with trembling hands, curling one around your arm and the other around the back of your neck to cradle you closer to him.
You kiss him lazy and slow. You touch him lazy and slow, too, trailing your palms from his scruffy jaw to his broad chest as you straddle his lap. He wonders if you can feel his heart pounding beneath the thin t-shirt he wears — or his cock growing slowly stiff in the confines of his jeans.
He tries to touch you with a similar confidence, with his wide hands resting on your hips, but he can’t seem to stop shaking.
You kiss and lick the thoughts from his brain. He thinks of nothing but the way you feel against him — feels nothing but your warm weight on top of him. He doesn’t realize he’s grinding you over his lap until he feels you moan into his mouth. Then he pulls away with a quiet smack, wearing your spit down to his chin and something honeyed in his eyes.
“We really doin’ this?” he wonders through panted breaths.
You smile with kiss-bitten lips, twirling your fingers in the silver curls at the nape of his neck. “Depends… Do you wanna do this?”
“Depends,” he echoes. “Are you too drunk for this?”
“I’m not drunk,” you scoff. “I’m a big girl— I can hold my liquor.”
Something dark flickers in his heavy eyes.
Your smile widens.
“What about you, huh? Do you think you got drunk off a few sips of wine? Or can you handle your alcohol… big boy?”
Jack feels his chest flare with a white-hot feeling. He forces himself to breathe through it as he jokes back, “Big boy, huh? Are you flirting with me or is this just— what was it you said— your usual level of arrogance?”
“Neither,” you hum with a cheeky grin. “This is me very humbly, and only slightly embarrassingly, asking if you wanna fuck me on that air mattress over there?”
He’s fleetingly stunned by your forwardness but recovers even quicker. He thinks he’d do just about anything you asked of him in this moment, without question or second thought. It frightens him almost as much as it excites him.
“Yeah…” Jack sighs, half-breathless. “Want me to prove it to you?”
You nod until the words catch up to you.
“Yes, please.”
You’re a pair of anxious limbs on the cheap air mattress across the room. Jack can’t seem to stop apologizing — first when his pants are off and you see his prosthetic for the first time — “Sorry,” he’d said, only because it felt like he should, “For what?” you shrugged back, with your bra strap slipping off your shoulder.
He apologized a second time when the flimsy mattress shifted under his weight and sent him toppling gracelessly on top of you; and then a third when he pierced you for the first time, a little rougher than he intended to.
“Sorry. Are you okay?” he wonders, half-strangled, ‘cause you’re gripping his cock like a vice. “Is this too much— Do you need me to—?”
“No, no. It’s okay,” you assured through labored breaths. He had prepped you with his fingers beforehand, to be fair. The orgasm he’d given you with them had you slicker than honey, but hadn’t totally prepared you for the girth of his cock. “It feels good, I promise.”
“You don’t want me to stop?” he presses, just to be sure.
“I’m already close, and you haven’t even moved yet,” you confess through a breathless chuckle. “So, no… I don’t want you to stop…”
The only way he can fuck you properly is on your side. The air mattress gives less under your weight in that position, with you wrapped in his arms and with your leg thrown over his hip. He curls one hand under and over your back while his other digs bruises onto the plush skin of your ass, pulling you into him every time he thrusts inside of you.
Your strangled whines and his grunted moans echo through the expanse of your empty apartment.
“Tell me it feels good,” he pants against you — warm breath fanning over your jaw, nose bumping against your own. “Tell me you want me.”
You obey without thinking, babbling brainlessly.
“Feels so good…” you whine through gritted teeth, digging crescent shapes into the skin of his freckled shoulders. “Want you so bad— Want you to make me cum— Fuck, I want you—”
Want you, want you, want you.
You repeat it like a mantra.
You cum on his cock a second later, and it feels like praying.
The pretty stranger is not next to you when you wake up on the half-deflated air mattress the next morning.
Golden sunlight peeks through the blinds in flaxen streams from where you’d forgotten to close them the night before. You squint your eyes and blink rapidly to clear the haze of sleep, trying to place when the stranger must’ve left. You hadn’t felt him get up, so you figure it must’ve been pretty early — right after he fucked you so good it put you to sleep, maybe.
His clothes are gone. The only trace of him ever being there is the imprint of his body in the tousled sheets beside you, and in the soreness in the very pit of your stomach where you can still feel him inside of you.
A distant part of you misses the stranger, but a bigger part of you is thankful — because the only thing worse than a one-night stand with a stranger you just met, is having to share awkward goodbyes the morning after with a stranger you just met.
“Thank god…” you grumble as you stretch your tired limbs, plucking your phone from its charger on the floor before trudging down the hall for the bathroom. You only vaguely notice that the door is shut, and that there’s a thin strip of light peeking out from underneath it before you swing it open.
“Morning,” a familiar voice greets, gruff and half-muffled.
Your head snaps up from your phone. Your tired eyes go wide when you’re faced suddenly with the pretty stranger from last night — already dressed for the day and brushing his teeth by the sink. Your feet stumble backward on instinct. Your back hits the doorframe as your free hand flies to your pounding chest.
“Oh, my god—”
“Shit. Sorry,” the older man laughs. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
He bends at the waist to spit into the sink.
You try to catch your breath.
“I… I didn’t know you were still here… Sorry…”
He scoffs like he’s half-offended by the notion. “I wasn’t just gonna leave. I’m not that big of an asshole…”
Your brows furrow as you tilt your head to the side in a confused sort of look. Because that was sort of the point of one-night stands, after all — the leaving.
“Oh, and I, uh— I found a pack of toothbrushes under the sink,” he tells you. “I hope that’s okay.”
“No, yeah, that’s… That’s fine,” you shrug and cross your arms over your chest. You slouch slightly in place, trying to keep the hem of your sweatshirt from rising and revealing that you’re naked underneath it — ‘cause it still feels a bit weird, even though he got pretty well acquainted with your naked body barely six hours ago. “But, um… I do have to leave for work. Like, super soon, so…”
“You wanna ride?” the man wonders through the orange toothbrush in his mouth. “I can walk back down to Sonny’s. Bring my truck back around.”
“No, that’s— that’s okay.” You shake your head and laugh before you mean to, because so much kindness from a one-night stand feels nothing short of alien to you. “You know, we don’t… We don’t have to do… all this…”
Jack plucks the toothbrush from his mouth. The look of confusion that contorts his scruffy face matches your own as he echoes, “…All what?”
“You know…” you trail off with an awkward laugh. “The whole… song and dance of it all… The pretending we care…”
“I do care.”
“Right. Yeah. But… We’re never gonna see each other after this, right? So… Does it really even matter?”
Jack only then seems to remember that he had only just met you, not even twelve hours ago, and that the night before would very likely be the last time he ever got to touch you. He forgot that very important fact somewhere along the line, and tricked himself into thinking you really wanted this, wanted him. The realization hits him like a fist to the stomach.
“Oh… Right…”
He turns away again, half-mournful, and runs the toothbrush under the faucet. Your bleary eyes dart wildly over the weathered edges of his profile, right before you face twists with mortification.
“Oh, god…” you murmur to yourself. “I didn’t take your one-night stand virginity, did I?”
Jack manages a quiet laugh as he wipes his hands on a nearby towel.
“No. Not— Not really,” he tells you. “I think I’m just a little out of practice, you know? I haven’t been with anyone since I got married.”
“Oh, my god— You’re married?!”
“No!” he shouts, laughing louder at the horrified look on your face. “I mean, I haven’t had a one-night stand since before I was married. And definitely not since my wife died, so…”
“Oh, jeez…” you wince, shifting awkwardly on your bare feet. “Sorry…”
The sorrowful look you give him is the same look he’d been trying to avoid this whole time. It finds him very suddenly wanting to get out of here as quickly as he can.
“I’ll, uh… I’ll see myself out, I guess,” he tells you.
“Okay,” you nod with a wavering smile. “Thanks…”
He pauses mid-stride in the doorway, towering over you as he flashes you an amused look — all furrow-browed and smiling. “For what?” the man scoffs.
“I don’t know, actually…” you laugh. “I don’t know what I said that, I just… I felt like I should, you know? I had a pretty good time last night…”
You trail off, and only then realize that you hadn’t yet gotten his name.
“…Jack,” he finishes for you.
“Jack,” you repeat with a firm nod and a shy smile.
And he’s heard his own name a million times, but something about the way you say it sounds different — like everyone else has been saying his name wrong his whole life; like he’s spent years hearing it in a foreign language, and yours is the only one he really understands.
When he leaves your apartment, it’s with the knowledge that he’ll probably never hear his name the right way ever again.
You make it three hours on your first shift at the PTMC before all hell breaks loose — or, rather, a rollercoaster.
Several carts derail from the tracks at a nearby theme park, injuring everyone on board and many more on the ground below. It sends a sudden influx of patients straight to your emergency department. You do more in an hour than you did in weeks at your small-town hospital back home, where you interned and did the bulk of your residency, which now feels rather lackluster in comparison.
You’re still wearing the bright crimson blood from the emergency thoracotomy you did in the ambulance bay, when the heart of a young boy with a steel rebar through his chest gave out before he could be wheeled inside. You were forced to work quickly to cut through his chest cavity and reach through his ribs for his heart. You knelt on the gurney and pumped manually at the artery while the EMTs wheeled you to the nearest trauma room.
You’re only just finishing the transfusion on the patient when another trauma is called in.
You can still feel the boy’s heart in your hand when you peel off the bloodied PPE, replacing it with a fresher set of gown and gloves, as you follow Dr. Robby to the ambulance bay. You struggle to keep up with the man’s longer strides as he passes through the automatic doors, where the fresh air outside smacks you in the face with its sudden reminder to breathe.
“Holy shit…” you hear yourself huff, still half-dazed from the previous operation. “Is it always this bad? Please tell me it’s not always this bad.”
“It’s not always this bad,” the older man affirms without looking back at you. “But I have seen a whole lot worse than this, R3, trust me— Alright, what do we got?”
Robby peers through the back of an open ambulance parked crooked in the bay. He grits his teeth to help lower the gurney to the ground, and an older man comes into view. He’s bloodied and unconscious, and his camo uniform has been cut down the middle to accommodate intubation.
As you rush to Robby’s side, a familiar voice fills your ears: “My buddy, Officer Hiro, high-velocity GSW— He’s getting harder to bag.”
Another camo-wearing officer steps out when the gurney hits the ground. He stands at the head of the narrow bed, squeezing rhythmically at the intubation bag in his fist. His hand is stained with dark red blood. He’s immediately familiar to you, though in your daze, it’s hard to place from where.
You blink once and realize it’s the stranger from the night before — the one you all but kicked out of your apartment this morning. The man from Sonny’s who cleared your tab, who you shared a bottle of cheap wine with on your secondhand couch, who fucked you dizzy in the center of your flimsy air mattress barely twelve hours ago.
You’re filled with an immediate horror at the sight of him. You think death would be a kinder fate when his gaze locks suddenly with yours.
Jack’s eyes squint the same way yours did, like he’s not sure if it’s really you he’s seeing. They widen with realization a second later, but he turns away without a word, continuing to brief Robby on the man’s sustained injuries while you rush him to the nearest trauma room.
“Help me cut down a 6-0 ET tube,” he tells you without glancing your way.
You’re grateful for his apathy, feeling like you’ve been spared from the awkwardness of being faced with a stranger you were never supposed to see again. You wouldn’t have let him into your empty apartment at all if you knew, much less fucked him on an air mattress. And you maybe would’ve practiced a little more humility before kicking him out this morning if you realized he was gonna be your goddamn attending.
You’re only able to breathe again when you leave his side to cut the tube. The exhale gets knocked out of your legs all over again when you turn to face him once more, finding him wearing a smile that you already know means trouble.
“Fancy meeting you here, by the way,” he squints behind his safety glasses.
“Likewise,” you nod once, gaze averted, as you pass him the clear tube in your gloved fingers.
Jack works with deft hands, utterly concentrated, even despite his nonstop teasing. “That retail gig didn’t work out for you, I take it?”
“Retail?” you hear Robby murmur from somewhere behind you.
Your face burns hot.
“I was let go this morning, actually,” you try to joke, though your wavering voice gives your timidity away. “And I realized I always wanted to be a doctor anyway, so I just… Snuck in here, threw on a coat, and nobody was the wiser.”
You flash him a playful grin, which fades when you get a weird look from the nurses standing just behind him.
“I’m kidding!” you blurt with an awkward chuckle. “I-I’m totally kidding. I’m in R3— I just moved here from—”
“Hey,” Jack blurts, peering up at you from the glasses sitting low on his nose, and saving you from yourself. “Help me out with this ET tube, please?”
“Yes, sir…” you nod and don’t miss the smug grin he gives you in response.
You somehow manage to make it through the rest of the endotracheal intubation without making a total fool of yourself — until Robby catches you on the way out, that is, once Hiro is finally stabilized. He chucks his gown and gloves into the biohazard bin beside the door and asks how you and Dr. Abbot know each other.
Jack answers honestly before you can think to make up a lie.
“We met last night, actually,” he’d said. “At Sonny’s.”
“The bar, huh?” Robby nodded slowly. “Hope you didn’t come in hungover, R3.”
Your mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, until you were finally able to stammer out a measly, “O-Of course not, sir!”
Robby only laughed. “I’m joking, kid. I watched you keep a boy’s heart going with your hand shoved in his chest cavity… If you’re hungover, I can’t wait to see what you can do sober.”
He claps you on the shoulder before he walks away. You feel an overwhelming sense of relief at his words. Jack’s praise, on the other hand, makes you feel a little like dying.
“Good work back there,” he says, pulling off his gloves with a dull pop.
“Thanks…” you say with a wavering smile that you hardly mean. “But I, uh— I should probably get going, Dr. Abbot. Dr. Al said she needed me for—”
“Dr. Abbot, huh?” the older man scoffs. “This morning I was Jack.”
“Yeah, well, this morning you were a stranger and notmy attending, so…”
Your gaze is stern but glittering still. You tilt your chin to keep his stare when he towers over you — feet spread shoulder length apart, hands crossed behind his back, light eyes peering at you from the bridge of his nose.
Even despite his strong stature, something playful swims in his squinted stare as he jokes, “Would you have taken advantage of me, then? You know, if you knew I was gonna be your boss?”
You shove him hard by the shoulder, arguing in a sharp whisper. “I did not take advantage of you, Dr. Abbot.”
“Hey, it’s okay,” Jack shrugs. “I didn’t say I didn’t like it.”
You meet his smug smile with a pair of narrowed eyes that dart back and forth between his softer ones — all squishy around the edges with a look that makes your chest feel warm.
“Don’t look at me like that…” you deadpan.
“Like what?”
“Like you’ve seen me naked,” you scold under your breath, brushing his shoulder with yours as you storm past him down the hallway. “It’s not appropriate, Dr. Abbot.”
Jack watches you with a smile, anyway, while you walk away from him with something swift in your step. He can’t help but eye the way your scrubs cradle your body, which he had held in his hands only last night. He can still remember how your ass felt in his palms; how the sweat on your neck tasted on his tongue; how your features crumpled together right before you came for him.
He goes half-dizzy at the memory.
Not appropriate, indeed.
You’re about an hour away from finishing your shift when you nearly lose your first patient.
Everything that came before ceases to exist in that moment.
You had seen death. A lot of it. You had scrubbed in on numerous surgeries where patients flat-lined on the operating table. You’d seen illnesses eat a person from the inside out. You’d seen children try and fail to fight off infections that their tiny bodies just couldn’t handle.
But this time was different — because this time felt like your fault.
Amara was a six-year-old girl who was rushed in, barely conscious, with a fever of 105. By all accounts, she should’ve been your easiest patient of the day — considering the shitshow that preceded her arrival. And you did everything right. Everything that med school taught you.
You wrapped her in ice packs along her major arteries, gave her a cold IV to cool her internally, and did every test in the book to determine the cause of her raging fever.
“I just don’t understand why her fever isn’t slowing down,” you’d rambled to Jack in the break room, where he’d insisted you take a breather, when he saw the moment getting to you. “I’ve done everything right. It should be going down by now, right?”
He’d stopped your pacing with a firm but gentle hand along the outside of your elbow.
“Fevers can be stubborn. You know that,” Jack had told you, ducking down to catch your gaze when you tried to look away. “This isn’t about you missing something, alright? It’s just her body taking time. We can reassess when the tests come back. We’re not out of options yet.”
But then she started seizing, and it triggered an arrhythmia in her heart, and the organ started to fail altogether. She’s flat-lining before you can blink.
You quickly lose count of the minutes you spend doing compressions. You vaguely hear Jack from behind you, telling you to switch positions like you’re supposed to, but you keep on going.
“I got it,” you’d spat through gritted teeth. “I’m fine.”
Your arms grow slowly numb from the strong, never-ending rhythm. Beads of sweat begin to pearl along your forehead, rolling slowly down your temples. You can feel your hair tie slipping from its place, already loose from the long day, before it hits the ground somewhere by your feet. The wild strands fall around your face, billowing with every punched breath from your mouth.
When you feel Jack standing behind you, gathering your hair into his gentle fist, you don’t think about how he was a stranger to you barely a day ago.
You don’t think about what he did to you with the hand he uses to pull your hair back. You don’t think about the awkward exchange from that morning, or the constant teasing all afternoon, or the way you haven’t been able to think without running into thoughts of him.
You think only of saving this girl.
It takes three rounds of epi to get her heart back into a shockable rhythm, and 40 joules to reset it to its natural beat.
Jack helps you off the bed with two firm hands around your arms — because your legs had all but locked into position from the lengthy compressions — and tells Langdon to take over the remainder of the young girl’s care.
“You alright?” you hear the man ask, while you blink the haze of adrenaline from your eyes. He pats you gently on the back, in a silent reminder to breathe. You nod slowly through a wavering inhale, and he smiles at the wordless affirmation. “You ever thought about going into cardiology?”
“That’s not funny,” you deadpan.
“I’m not joking,” Jack scoffs. “I think you might be the heart whisperer, Doc.”
The nickname catches on by nightfall.
Robby tells you to clock out early, that you deserve it, and you don’t push him on the matter.
You don’t say a word, actually, as you trudge to the locker room for your bag and leave through the waiting room doors. The cool night air rushes over your burning skin like silk. Your tired body migrates on autopilot to the park across the street, where two benches sit facing each other, lit only by a single amber streetlamp.
You don’t know how long you sit there by yourself — only that you’ve counted nearly a hundred bricks in the pavement by the time Jack Abbot finds you.
“You’re not thinking about quitting, are you?” he wonders aloud, shattering your train of not-quite thought.
“Hm?” you perk on instinct as your head whips to face him. “Oh. No. Of course not… No one else would take me.”
Jack exhales a quiet laugh at your quip and slides his camo bag from his shoulder. He huffs as he plops down onto the creaking bench beside you, leaving an aching inch or more of space between your bodies.
Though he’s out of the tactical gear he’d arrived in — left now in his baggy pants and a form-fitting undershirt — the scent of blood still lingers on his skin. It’s only partially drowned out by his cologne; the smell of musky leather reminds you instantly of Sonny’s Tavern.
“Well, I’m sure Common Thread around the corner is probably hiring,” he jokes.
You feel yourself laugh for the first time all day.
“I don’t think Common Thread has been around since the 90s.”
“Really?” the older man huffs, crossing his strong arms over his chest and exhaling a punched-out breath. “Jesus… I need to get out more.”
Your eyes dart over the edges of his profile when he turns away. Your gaze grows soft and wet with the apology you’ve been thinking about all day, which rises to the tip of your tongue just now.
“I’m sorry, by the way,” you blurt. “For lying to you last night.”
Jack shrugs. “Who cares? We didn’t even know each other.”
“Yeah, but now we do— And now the rest of our relationship is gonna be built on the foundation of a stupid lie.”
Jack arches a greying brow in your direction. “Our relationship, huh?”
“Our working relationship,” you squint. “I’m not going out with you again, Dr. Abbot.”
“I didn’t even ask if you wanted to go out with me!”
“Well, no, but—”
“So do you wanna go out with me?” he blurts with a smug grin.
“No!” you shout, giggling despite yourself. “It’s not appropriate. We have to draw the line somewhere.”
“Oh, yeah?” he hums. “Where?”
“Here!”
“Right here?”
Jack glances down at where you motion to the space between your bodies. You nod with a poorly held back laugh, and he slides to close the distance between you. You feel almost suffocated by the warmth of his body heat. Your head spins when his thigh brushes the outside of yours.
“So, by your assessment, would you say that I am now crossing that imaginary line?” the older man jokes drily.
“I’d say you’re crossing several lines, Dr. Abbot.”
He meets your smiling eyes with something more serious glimmering in his.
“Do you want me to stop?”
You know that you could say yes and that all of this would be over with. All the teasing, all the lingering touches, all of the everything that came before. You could start over. Clean state. You’d be the R3, and he’d be the attending, and that’d be that. Only now that sounds like a total fucking nightmare. The thought of having any less of him now feels like ripping your own heart out through your chest.
You swallow hard and shake your head. “No… I don’t want you to stop.”
“Good,” he nods.
“Good,” you echo with a firm nod and stupid smile.
“We are clocked out now, you know?” Jack tells you, feigning an air of nonchalance. “I technically wasn’t even working in the first place, so… You know, if we kissed right now, I don’t think it’d violate that many HR policies.”
He catches your eyes flitting somewhere over his shoulder before you quip, “No, but your friends might look at us a little funny…”
Jack glances behind him and finds the rest of the day shift crossing the street together. Their distant chatter draws nearer, and you fight back a laugh when the older man slides slowly away from you — before any of them could catch how close the two of you had been. Donnie arrives first, and places his square cooler in the space between you.
“Dr. Abbot and The Heart Whisperer…” the man croons in place of a greeting. “Here. Take the first beer. You deserve it.”
“Thanks…” you murmur shyly and take the chilled can he motions to you. It opens with a heavy click and a faint hiss. You take a slow sip from it, and nearly forget how to swallow when you feel Jack’s eyes still on you. “Do you… Do you guys do this after every shift?”
“Not always,” Robby answers from the bench across from yours, popping open his own beer with an expert hand. “Usually it’s a lot more lively than this, but…”
“So it’s not always that crazy in there?”
“No, it’s always a little crazy,” Santos quips from where she stands between Mohan and Whitaker. “But today, Heart Whisperer, is what we call baptism by fire.”
“Yeah,” Samira scoffs. “Our first shift was the Pittfest shooting.”
“Oh, shit…” you grimace.
“But the good thing is, I can pretty much guarantee that the next shift will be easier.”
You meet Mohan’s kind smile with a wavering one. “Yeah… I hope so.”
“So, what do ya say, R3?” Robby asks with a smile that’s mostly concealed behind his greying beard. “Think you’ll stick around after today’s shitshow?”
You ponder for a long moment, glancing down at the can you nurse in your lap. You trace the circular edge of the aluminum with your free hand as a smile curls slowly at your mouth.
“Yeah, I think I will…” you hum with a slow nod. “If only because I live right across the street from this really nice donut shop— like the best you’ll ever have, so...”
“So now you have to like it here, huh?” Jack finishes for you, with a knowing squint in his light eyes — because he can still taste your mouth the same way he can still taste the late-night pastry he’d shared with you the night before.
“Yeah,” you smile back. “And it’s crazy because I really wasn’t planning on liking it here…”
“Well, donuts tend to have that effect on people, I’ve found,” he squints behind the beer he brings up to his mouth
“Oh, do they?” you wonder sarcastically.
Jack nods slowly, licking the sheen of alcohol from his mouth. “Yeah, actually.”
“Oh, please, tell me more, Dr. Abbot,” you say, giggling despite yourself.
While you watch Jack talk out of his ass about a statistic he totally made up, you vaguely hear Santos turn to Whitaker and mumble, “Okay, so is ‘donuts,’ like, a euphemism for something, or did this shift make us all ten times dumber?”
you loved jack…but the ladies of water aerobics at the allegheny ymca apparently loved him the most.
content: old women who ADORE jack abbot, the YMCA, wife!reader, sex/sexual activity comments, jack the bashful king, fluff with a dash (dousing) of comedy, and big thanks to addingtoneats on tt for the headcannon!
[jack abbot x fem!reader. wc: 3.7k ]
Masterlist | Other Jack Fics
Behind the door, the smell of chlorine was pungent.
Yet it wasn’t the sterile antiseptic he was used to, so, Jack breathed it in. It filled his lungs knowing he was free for the next several hours to decompress and while it may have only been a Wednesday, it was still a Wednesday.
And those were his favorite—not that he would ever admit that out loud. Who the fuck liked Wednesdays? Jack. Except maybe it was okay for him to, at least he considered it to be because he was already a little fucked up.
Jack heaved in another smell that lingered underneath all the chlorine. Florals, too many of them, that reeked of stale potpourri and lipstick that expired 8 years ago.
On Wednesdays? He liked the smell.
It meant his fan club was there and well, sometimes, Jack just needed the attention of 6 elderly women over the age of 80.
Attention was a word Jack had gotten used to in the last two decades of his life. There were inevitables when he was out in public and decided to wear shorts, or when he was in scrubs picking up milk from the gas station on his way home. The awkward, less frequent words of “thanks for your service” he’d get from older men and the very frequent, immensely awkward stares he’d get from the women.
Those were things he didn’t ask for.
When women ogled him, it hadn’t been an inevitability all of his life—even if you told him, time and again, that he was attractive and handsome.
He believed you. You and only you for the longest time. Jack had a hard time believing that many other people shared your same opinion. That was until he met the 6 ladies of the Allegheny YMCA’s 8:00 AM Water Aerobics class.
It had all been harmless at first.
Initially, he sought out the practice of swimming at the suggestion of his physical therapist three years after his amputation. The water helped him say afloat without many supports and as his muscles grew stronger and his confidence of being a BKA increased, the number of laps he did after a shift were a testament to his determination.
The repetitiveness of laps helped ease Jack’s mind before he went home too. The consistent back and forth of the strokes leveled him out from a difficult night. It functioned as an additional therapy to one he did four times a month and you let him have his space.
Most days the pool was relatively empty. Modern exercise eliminated most water activities from a daily routine and early morning runs to the gym often excluded getting one’s hair wet. Chlorine and its drying effects came second to the avoidance of swim time. It wasn’t feasible for everyone, but on Wednesday’s there were 6 others who simply didn’t mind.
And he could hear it through the door as he reached for the handle.
Paula Abdul’s voice rang loudly against the brick interior of the pool room. It bounced off the walls, cannonballing into the deep end to keep the women on beat as they did their buoyant repetitions.
With their weights in hand, the fifteen minutes since they began felt like seconds.
“Alright ladies,” their instructor, Susan, called out to them in an echo. “Now we are gonna take those weights and put them high above our heads.”
Susan mimicked the movement to which all the ladies copied to the best of their abilities. However, as people got older, the arthritis that plagued wrists and elbows and shoulders kept them from reaching as high as her. It didn’t kill their motivation, nor did it distract them from the men’s locker room door creaking open just like it did every Wednesday at the same time.
8:15. Susan glanced at the clock across the pool.
Like a well-oiled machine, the women began to drop their arms and their heads turned toward the door.
Mary-Ann was the first to pipe up today.
“Hi Dr. Abbot,” she called out immediately in a sweet tone. Jack’s face blossomed into a smile. With one hello, a plethora of them followed.
“Ladies,” he greeted back just as nicely. “Looking lovely as always.”
“You too, Jack!” Cheryl swooned. “You’re as handsome as always.”
“Are you tryin’ to make me blush, Cheryl?”
“I can make you feel a lot of things!” She laughed, loudly and only egged on the other women.
Jack’s eyes pinned themselves on the pool deck in case of splashes or puddles as he knew the risk of walking out on his prosthesis. In another world, his insurance, or the VA, would kindly provide him an Össur-pro so he could save himself time.
But it also gave him an escape from the redness working its way up his neck. Without a shirt on, he was bare to show off just how much flattery worked on him. He kept an eye on his leg to distract himself.
The women never made a deal out of him taking off his prosthetic. They didn’t stare, they didn’t jeer, and for that, Jack was more welcoming to Wednesdays. As he rounded the corner, he picked up a chair with his free hand and carried it with him to the end of the pool. Sharon whistled at him.
“We’re working on our biceps too, Jack. You should feel mine—they’re like steel!”
Jack scoffed, shaking his head at the floor. “Maybe another day, Sharon. But good for you. That’s a really important thing to work on.”
“Did you have a good shift today?” Mary-Ann asked. She was the only one to really care about his job.
No. He didn’t. But he didn’t want to ruin their mornings with tales of a two victim MVA, a meth overdose, or a GSW to the head.
“Oh,” he shrugged. “Same as it always is.”
“Deflection,” one of the ladies said as he passed. “Must’ve been bad.”
Their heads followed him comically to the lane closest to them. Jack settled his stuff onto the ground and used the chair to help him slip his prosthetic off before doing a couple hops to sit on side of the pool. As he fumbled with his goggles, Lisa waded over to him.
“So, Jack, I was wondering if maybe after our session today you could take a look at—”
“Lisa!” Susan called from the deck. “Stop propositioning Dr. Abbot during the session.”
“I’m not!” She defended. “I’m just asking him to look at my—”
“Yeah,” Cheryl nagged. “That sounds a lot like a proposition to me.”
“Don’t you think if he was the slightest bit interested in you he would have said something by now?” Sharon backed up Cheryl. “Jack’s not interested!”
“Hey,” Jack scolded Sharon jokingly. “I never said that…”
“Didn’t you just ask him to feel your arms?” Lisa accused and Jack slipped fully into the pool.
“That’s different.”
“No, it’s really not.”
“Ladies!” Susan yelled out and Jack gave her a thumbs up as if to say, “it’s alright.”
“You know,” Trudy paddled up beside Lisa. “My daughter is in town for the holiday and she’s single looking to mingle.”
“Is she?” Jack laughed. “I think I have some friends that might be interested. She can have her pick: doctors, nurses, police officers, vets… a few firefighters.”
Trudy shook her head with a smile. It was the same wide, pearly grin he got from all of the women of the class except for Susan who just wanted to teach.
“You’re too humble, sweetheart,” she replied. “I’m talking about you. What do you say? Can I give her your number?”
“I’m flattered, Trudy.”
Jack turned around, reaching for his bag to grab his hand paddles when he paused. Where the hell was his bag? Shit. He must have left in the car.
“She’s a nice girl. She just turned 37—is that too young? I know you just had a birthday.”
“Tru—” Jack started but she kept going. Persistent was Trudy Davis’ middle name.
“But she lives in Reading with her son. He’s 10. Do you have a problem with kids? Oh!” She laughed at herself. “Of course not. You’re a doctor.”
“The ones that are good with kids are called pediatricians, Trudy,” Lisa clarified. Trudy shook her off.
“I wouldn’t mind having a little eye candy for a son-in-law. I’d bet you would make a mother-in-law very happy.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Jack murmured. “I think mine sees me a little differently.”
While Jack thought back on his bag, the ladies paused. Their eyes caught one another in a wide revelation that opened a new door of knowledge about their weekly friend. Lisa put her hand on Trudy’s forearm, aghast at the news that their silver fox doctor was married.
Somewhere in the distance between the water lapping and the music changing over, Francis, the oldest woman of the group at 92, held a hand by her ear and asked:
“What did he say?” She couldn’t wear her hearing aids in the water.
“He’s married,” Sharon informed her.
“Yeah,” Francis smiled. “To me.”
“Jack?” Sharon called out to him. He pulled his goggles onto his head but still looked over at the woman.
“Are you married to Francis here?” She asked.
“No,” he chuckled. “I’m pretty sure I’m not.”
“We didn’t know you were married.” Trudy was slightly offended that no one did.
This was their Jack. The same one who, every class, made sure to say hello and goodbye and let them make their silly jokes about him and took it with a brave face. Jack never wore a ring—or at least none of them had ever noticed. Many of the women themselves were married to partners for decades and thought they had a grasp in knowing when someone else was.
“You never asked.” Was Jack’s simple answer.
“Does she get mad you don’t wear a ring?” Lisa followed up and felt suddenly like she didn’t understand his generation at all.
“I do.” He rose his left hand and the smallest, tiniest, tan line reflected a thick band. “I don’t want to lose it in the pool.”
“Why haven’t you ever said anything?” Mary-Ann spoke up after having been uncharacteristically quiet. She had a glimmer in her eye, mischievous one that sent an invisible string glowing between herself and Jack.
Jack shrugged, his leg bending as he got ready to set off the wall.
“Like I said, you’ve never asked about her.”
Twenty minutes from the YMCA, you scrambled in the kitchen trying to butter toast and rush out the door.
The middle of the week always felt a little chaotic—especially when Jack wasn’t there to help in the morning. You’d gotten used to it, no choice but not to be, but it didn’t help ease the stress of trying to make sure the house was in order before you left.
You stuck the piece of toast between your teeth, shouldered your bag, and rushed to the door when your feet caught a bag at the bottom of the steps and tumbled.
Your hands fumbled for the banister as your feet twisted. The piece of toast you were excited for fell onto the floor, butter side down, and your eyes landed on Jack’s work out bag as the culprit.
“Oh, come on,” you whined to no one. “Just one fuckin’ day, I swear to God.”
You hated Wednesdays. They were the bane of your existence.
There wasn’t a day longer than it. It dragged, unceremoniously, to the two days that always gave you better hope that the weekend would be relaxing and with Jack off the next few days, it would be. You just had to get through Wednesday first.
You bent down to pick up the toast only to notice that Jack’s gear was still in the bag. He hadn’t simply just left the bag, he didn’t take any of his supports with him. His paddles, the buoys, his goddamn kickboard.
But like Wednesdays were bad for you, sometimes his night shifts were too.
Jack forgot. It happens.
Digging out your phone, the last exchange you had with Jack was an hour ago where he replied “K” to a “don’t get hit by a car” from you. It was fruitless trying to call him because he was bound to already be inside and he wouldn’t answer if he was in the pool. But you peered back at the paddles and knew Jack needed those supports. Your peace of mind would depend on him having them, even if he never ended up using them.
You swiped both the bag and toast off the floor and sighed.
“What would he do without me?”
For fifteen laps, the women of water aerobics minded their business and listened to Susan’s instructions.
They still talked, however.
“What do you think she’s like?” Trudy asked.
“A nurse,” Francis said shakily as her exertion was starting to show. “Like one of those old war movies. A soldier and a nurse… how cute!”
“He’s not a hundred, Francis.” Cheryl shook her head. “I don’t think she works in healthcare. Probably in an office, maybe a teacher, or a manager of some kind.”
“Do you think she bosses him around?”
All the ladies looked back as Jack swam past the last 15 meter marking down on the opposite end. They thought on it, imagining what a domestic Jack looked like but the man they knew and created an image for wasn’t domestic. He was just a charmer. A kind hearted night shift doctor who listened to their problems.
“No,” Mary-Ann said. “I think they probably have a really nice relationship.”
“Women can be bossy too,” Cheryl defended.
“Yeah it’s kind of… what’s that thing they say? Kinky.” Francis laughed. Her face lit up in red as a result.
They turned back to Susan who changed out the weights for foam tubes. The sea of colors changed the space as they held them in arches above their heads.
Lisa sighed disappointedly. “Is it bad that I’m kind of sad he’s married?”
“Yes,” Sharon deadpanned. “He’s young enough to be your kid.”
“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be a cougar, Sharon. I can provide a really nice life and hey! I’m a really good cook too!”
“Keep telling yourself that, honey.”
Susan cleared her throat and demonstrated an exercise with the tube. She counted them down like dancers as they began another set to round out their session.
“He’s just such a nice man,” Lisa continued on.
“Then we should be happy that someone found him,” Mary-Ann concluded. “Not everyone gets to find their special someone and we know he deserves one.”
The women agreed in staggered murmurs.
As they let the music carry their repetitions away, the women’s locker room door opened with a sharp squeak. The music was almost deafening as you entered the room but a lifeguard perched on their towers blew a whistle in your direction.
You looked up, the old women in the pool stopped, and Jack paused halfway down the lane thinking the stoppage was his fault.
“Ma’am,” the lifeguard spoke. “You can’t be in here.”
You chuckled nervously. “I’m just dropping something off—I am not staying.”
The lifeguard pointed to the sign beside the doors you barely moved away from. “You must be wearing swimwear and appropriate footwear while being on the pool deck.”
“Can I just take off my shoes?” You asked. “I’m just dropping off his bag.” You pointed to Jack who clung to the lane divider.
“Go ahead.” The lifeguard returned their attention to the pool and so did you.
But no one was looking at him. They were all looking at you.
Jack treaded water in the middle of the lane with a small smile fighting its way onto his face. With his bag in your hand, he was happy to have a few unexpected minutes with you before you were whisked away for the day. His chest was rising and falling rapidly but he lifted his hand in a single wave, pointing to the chair at the end of the lane.
You slipped off your shoes and followed along the edge of the pool.
“Ladies!” The aerobics instructor called out to them. “Why don’t we take a break, huh? You’ve earned it, great job.”
Like a thousand eyes piercing your body, all the old women in the pool stared at you as if you were a vision. You gave them a polite nod in return and kept going out slight embarrassment for getting called out by the lifeguard.
“Hey,” Jack reached the edge and tugged off his goggles. “I thought I left that in the car.”
“It almost killed me this morning, actually.”
“Well I’m glad you’re still here.” Jack swiped a hand over his hair before shaking it out. The water made the color go darker and it reminded you of what he looked like before he went gray.
“Thanks me too,” you said slyly and put the bag down at the base of the chair. “How was work?”
“Pretty bad,” Jack sighed, folding his arms in front of him and leveraging himself on them.
“I can tell.”
There was a gaze Jack fell into when the days turned sour. A light that never caught his eye, devoid of true amusement you could feel across a room. He looked drained.
“I’m only gonna do a few more and then I’m heading out. Can you text me what you want for dinner? I’ll go to the store after I sleep.”
“Sure,” you nodded and bent down in front of him. “Are you okay?”
Jack’s mouth got smaller, pinching onto one side of his face in thought. “I will be.”
“I can stay until you’re done,” you told him. “I can be late.”
“No, you can’t.”
“Mmm…” You titled your head. “I think I can.”
“Honey.”
“Jack.”
Your audience grew every second you stayed. Holding out your hand to Jack, he accepted it and held your hand over the end of the pool.
“You know, I was goi—”
“Excuse me?”
The interruption made Jack’s shoulders tense. Trudy led the women to the divider that started Jack’s lane and they hovered like animals preparing to be fed.
“Hi,” you replied. “Yes?”
“Are you his wife?”
Your eyes flicked between Jack and the women and your husband’s bashful avoidance peeked your interest immediately.
“I am. Jack didn’t tell me he made friends here.”
You swung his hand gently in yours.
“Have you known him long?” You asked them and a couple of the ladies nodded.
“He’s our Wednesday snack,” the oldest one said. “Jack the Snack.”
“Jack the Snack?” You beamed with hilarity.
“Oh yeah,” she continued. “He’s the only reason we keep coming to this class so early in the morning.”
“That’s pretty good motivation if you ask me.”
“Please don’t encourage them,” Jack said lowly and the women immediately complained. Their words muddled together in one giant, half-hearted complaint that was ignored. You winked, squeezing his hand in yours.
“He is a snack, isn’t he?” You agreed. “He’s tolerable, though, right? Sometimes he’s a real pain in my ass.”
“I knew I would like her,” one of them said to another.
“He’s a wonderful man. You sure got lucky, sweetheart. Jack’s a keeper.”
“Good.” You said definitively.
And then, the comments just went flying.
“Did you know he answers all of our questions about our ailments?”
“He helped me connect my phone to the WiFi here!”
“Sometimes, he helps me out of the pool when my knees give out.”
“Jack referred me to an Ortho for my broken finger once!”
“He’s the one who made management increase the pool temperature for us!”
“He changed my tire in the parking lot when I got a flat!”
Every comment they made, Jack had to look away. It’d been months since he started coming on Wednesdays consistently and he never thought to keep track of all the things he’d done for them. It was never a hassle, it was just another part of his day.
“Ladies,” Jack spoke up. “Can I have a minute with my wife alone please?”
“You get her alone all the time. We barely know anything about her. We don’t even know her name!”
“Well you weren’t asking about her just now.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Lisa brushed him off. “What’s your nam—”
“Lisa,” he said firmly. “If I get just a minute with her, I’ll look at what you wanted to show me.”
“Susan!” Lisa shouted. “We’re ready to continue!”
One by one, the ladies of the aerobics class returned to their spots in front of their instructor and Jack’s shoulders deflated.
“Jack,” you hummed and he knew what was coming next. “Do you have… a fan club?”
“I think so.”
“Did I see Mary-Ann here? From next door?”
“Mhm,” he hummed. “She’s the only tolerable one.”
“You love it.”
“They love it—or me, I guess. I don’t know. Maybe they just like my muscles.”
Your laugh made some of the difficult night harbored inside of him chip away. “Oh my. I might need to come here on Wednesdays.”
“No.” Jack shook his head harshly. “I cannot handle any more comments from them. They’re insane. Do you know how sexual those women are?” He said it like it was some dirty secret. “They say the most absurd things.”
“Like the absurd things we did after I got home from work yesterday?” You lifted a brow. “I bet they’d love that hot gos.”
“I think you’re going to be late for work.”
“Maybe.” Your eyes trailed over his tired face again. “You sure you’re good?”
“Yeah. I’m glad you came.”
“I can’t have you drowning on me, sweetie. How could I live with myself knowing you left kickboard was at home?”
Jack rolled his eyes at your joking tone and dropped your hand. “Okay, goodbye.”
“Jack,” you laughed.
Before he plunged back into the pool completely, he lifted up on his arms and placed a quick, soft kiss on your lips without warning.
The chatter of the women struck up again.
“I’ll see you at home.”
“Could we ask them all to come for dinner?” You whispered and he kissed you again. “I think they’d all really like that. What do you say, Jack the snack?”
“Never.”
Yet when summertime came, those same six women sat in Jack Abbot’s backyard listening to stories of your marriage and knew that the man they had silly, schoolgirl crushes on, was simply perfect.
a/n: i would bet good money that the old ladies in the water aerobics photo never thought they’d be featured on a jack abbot fanfic.
sorry grandmas!
reblogs, comments, and likes are so greatly appreciated!
— three times jack abbot flirted with you without you realizing, and the one time you realized !!
jack abbot x fem!resident!reader 5k+ word count warnings: medical inaccuracies (i researched the best i could), age gap (not specified), reader may come across as “dumb”, but she’s just overwhelmed!! note: first jack writing!! he’s my dream man btw. also, i refer to the characters as i think of them in my head😭 some are first name basis, others are strictly last name because i cannot remember their first names for the life of me.
{ ONE }
the emergency department at two in the evening feels like a beehive someone kicked. monitors chirp in uneven rhythms, stretchers rattle past with loose wheels that squeal against the tile, santos and langdon argue for the tenth time in an hour, and you stand right in the middle of it with a big smile.
you’ve always loved your job. even when it meant eight straight years of school. nights spent bent over anatomy textbooks while your roommates got dressed for the bars. even when med school felt like someone had taken your brain out of your skull and wrung it dry. you loved it. you loved the moment something finally clicked. the way a diagnosis stopped being a puzzle and started making sense.
now you’re a second-year resident and technically a doctor, even though sometimes the word still catches in your throat when someone says it out loud. the emergency department is exhausting and overwhelming and perfect.
“no, look,” you insist, tapping the chart with the end of your pen. “if his potassium was actually that high, he’d look way worse than this. always check for hemolysis before you panic.”
ogilvie blinks from across you. he runs a hand through his tousled hair and nods curtly. “oh,” he says faintly, internally freaking out because he was the top of his class at whatever school he went to and he wasn’t supposed to mess up.
you grin, knowing that feeling all too well. “hey, don’t get down on yourself. with time comes wisdom. you’ll get used to it.” you promise, giving him a comforting pat on the shoulder. you scribble something quick on the chart and hand it back to him before he scurries off.
you’re already turning back to the computer when you pat the counter beside you automatically, searching for something that isn’t there. your hand lands on the cold desk and you frown. “…damn.”
dana glances over. “what’s up, kid?” she tilts her head, looking above the top of her glasses.
“forgot my coffee this morning,” you sigh, already pulling up another chart. “i was already here before i realized.”
“rookie mistake.” she tsks, already looking up at the patient board again.
“i know,” you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose. “this shift might kill me.” you say casually, fingers clicking against the keyboard again.
three feet to your left, jack abbott hears every word. he’s leaning against the far counter pretending to review a chart he finished five minutes ago. his eyes lift the second you say forgot my coffee. he continues watching you—like always. you’re talking again now, explaining something to a student doctor javadi, gesturing with your pen, hair slightly messy from the start of a long shift. you laugh at something perlah says and the sound carries toward him.
jack used to feel guilty for observing you. it would curl up the nape of his neck and plant itself there every time he realized he’d been watching you for longer than necessary. you were one of the best residents he’d ever seen, so naturally, like any other attending, he kept an eye on you (even though you technically were under dr. robby). still, the first few times he caught himself leaning against a counter across the department, eyes following the way you moved from patient to patient, he’d look away immediately. like he’d been caught doing something he couldn’t quite justify.
now it’s just routine. jack walks into the department and his eyes find you automatically. across the room, down the hall, wherever you’ve planted yourself in the middle of the noise. he tells himself it’s habit. just keeping track of a resident. but the truth is simpler than that.
“abbott.” he looks over, snapping out of whatever trance overtook him. robby, his longtime friend and coworker, raises an eyebrow. “you’ve been staring at her for like…three minutes. blink, brother.”
jack glances back at you. you’re still talking, still smiling, still completely unaware. “…was reading the chart,” he grumbles, scratching the back of his neck.
robby snorts, fingers drumming against the tabletop. they’ve known each other long enough to call bullshit. “whatever keeps you going.”
jack sets the chart down with a huff and pushes off the counter. he taps his pocket, feeling the cold weight of his phone, and murmurs, “gonna make a call.”
robby stifles a laugh, shaking his head briefly before assisting dr. mckay with her patient.
~
about twenty minutes later, you’re halfway through typing a note when a paper coffee cup slides quietly into your line of sight. you pause, blinking like it’s a figment of your imagination, before looking up.
dr. jack abbott stands on the other side of the station, one hand braced on the counter, the other nudging the coffee toward you. he’s wearing a black scrub top that squeezes his juicy biceps, and acting pretty casually for someone who’s not supposed to be working yet.
your eyes flick between the cup and him. “did someone get this for me?” you ask, fluttering your lashes at him subconsciously.
jack stares at you. his mind runs blank. behind you, princess slowly swivels her chair to watch. jack drags a hand down his face. “yeah,” he says flatly. “somebody did.”
you nod thoughtfully. you should ask who or where it came from, but you’re running on fumes. “okay.” you pick up the coffee, pressing your lips against the lid and taking a generous sip. jack watches you drink it like a man waiting for a verdict, his finger tapping against his thigh. your shoulders relax instantly. you hum quietly. “this is really good.”
jack exhales through his nose. “glad you approve,” he murmurs, biting back a smirk. call him a creep, but he’s the only person in the department that can get your coffee order correct down to a T.
you finally glance up again, eyebrows lifting like you’ve only just remembered he exists. “wait,” you say. “you’re here early.”
jack tilts his head slightly, pursing his lips. “that bother you?” his voice is lower than before, causing butterflies to erupt in your stomach.
“no,” you say quickly, ignoring the tingly sensation in your stomach. truth be told, you’re never bothered to see him. “you just usually come in later.”
he shrugs, crossing his arms over his broad chest. it’s a losing battle to keep your eyes on his. “couldn’t sleep.”
dana snorts from behind you, shaking her head while dialing a number on the phone. she bites her tongue, choosing peace for once. jack doesn’t take his eyes off of you, ignoring dana’s antics entirely.
you groan sympathetically. “that’s the worst. i always have melatonin with me if you need it.”
jack’s mouth twitches. a flush forms from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. still, his gaze stays glued on you. “i’ll keep that in mind.”
with a smile, you turn back to the computer, already clicking through charts again, and attempting to calm your nerves. you grip the poor coffee cup, hoping jack doesn’t notice your skin is hot to the touch.
finally, he begrudgingly leaves to assist on a patient down the hall. when he’s out of sight, dana, who stands besides you, leans closer. “you know he bought that for you, right?”
you frown at your chart. “abbot?” you glance up at her, brows furrowed. she nods her head, widening her eyes like ‘wasn’t it obvious?’ you glance over your shoulder toward the hallway he disappeared down. “yeah, but he’s just nice. he’d do it for anyone.” you insist, scratching the top of your head.
dana stares at you like she’s trying to solve a complex neurological condition. “sure…” she finally says.
you just shrug, taking another sip of your coffee because that has to be the reason. right? why else would he buy you the coffee? you close your eyes, shaking the thoughts out of your head because…no way. meanwhile, somewhere down the hall, jack abbott is absolutely losing his mind.
{ TWO }
hour five is always the worst, in your opinion. close enough to the middle of your shift that you should feel motivated, but not quite there. not enough to push you through. just enough time for the exhaustion to settle in your bones and stay.
you’re in bay four with a chart tucked under your arm. the elderly woman on the stretcher looks small under the hospital blanket, silver hair falling loose around her shoulders. her ankle is already swelling beneath the thin sheet and she keeps apologizing every few seconds for something that wasn’t her fault.
“hey,” you murmur gently, crouching slightly so she doesn’t have to crane her neck to see you. “no apologies. gravity gets the best of all of us.”
she laughs softly at that. “i tripped on the rug,” she explains again. “my daughter keeps telling me to get rid of it.” her lips pull downward as she continues. “but it’s just so beautiful.”
you nod while carefully pressing along her ankle, fingers gentle but firm as you check for tenderness. “nothing wrong with enjoying art,” you say lightly. your thumb presses along the swollen joint and she winces just a little. you soften your touch immediately. “even if it occasionally decides to fight back.” she smiles in response.
behind you, jack stands close enough that his shoulder nearly brushes yours when you shift. robby got pulled into something more serious ten minutes ago, and jack (who once again is here before the start of his shift) stepped in without much explanation besides a quiet, i’ll help you with this one. you didn’t question it.
jack watches the way you explain each movement before you touch the patient. the way your voice softens slightly when she winces. the way your hands move with that careful confidence that only comes from repetition. you’re good at this. he already knew that, but still.
“alright,” you say after a moment, straightening slightly. “i’m gonna order an x-ray just to be safe, okay?”
the woman nods, commenting something about you being a doll. then, her eyes flick between you and jack. a slow smile spreads across her face. “aren’t you two just the sweetest together.” you both freeze. “such a nice couple,” she continues warmly. “working side by side like that.”
your brain stutters. “oh-” you start, laughing nervously. jack’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t flinch. you shoot him a quick look before turning back to the patient. “we’re not-”
the woman waves her hand dismissively. “no need to explain, dear.”
jack lets out a quiet chuckle behind you. it’s low and amused and extremely unhelpful. you clear your throat, suddenly very focused on the color of your pen ink. “we just work together.”
the woman hums like she heard you and chose not to believe it. well,” she says sweetly, glancing at jack, “he looks at you very nicely.”
your face heats instantly. you pretend to adjust the blanket around her ankle so you don’t have to respond. jack goes very still beside you. the room stays quiet for a beat before you say, a little too brightly, “okay! we’ll get that x-ray and see what’s going on.”
you scribble something on the chart and step toward the door. jack follows. the second you’re out in the hallway, you exhale like you’ve been holding your breath. “oh my god.” jack laughs softly in response. you glance at him. “you could’ve said something.”
“about what.” he feigns innocence.
“the couple thing.”
jack shrugs, hands slipping casually into the pockets of his scrub pants. “didn’t seem necessary.”
you stare at him. your eyes are wide and mouth agape. “it was embarrassing.”
jack tilts his head slightly, studying you for a second longer than necessary. then he says, voice low and teasing, “i didn’t mind playing your boyfriend for a few minutes.”
your brain stalls. you stare at him like he spoke a different language. jack watches the exact moment the words land. the faint color climbing up your neck. the way the floor tiles suddenly call your attention. his mouth curves slightly.
you clear your throat once again. he definitely didn’t mean it like that. jack abbot is many things, including a vigorous flirt. he’s just trying to fluster you. “i’m sure you’d do it for anyone,” you say weakly, turning toward the nurses’ station, “i-i,” cough, “have to, to go do something.”
jack moves to the side, motioning for you to walk. “go ahead,” he murmurs, but he’s smiling.
{ THREE }
the ambulance bay doors swing shut behind you with a hollow metallic clang. outside, the air is colder than it looked through the glass. it slips straight through the thin fabric of your scrubs, raising goosebumps along your arms almost instantly. your hands brace against the cool metal railing and you stare out into the dark parking lot like it might answer the questions still bouncing around your head.
the case had gone bad fast. too fast. one minute the patient had been talking. the next minute the room filled with voices and hands and alarms screaming over each other. someone calling for another unit of blood. someone else pushing meds. robby barking orders across the bed. you’d done everything right.
your shift ended an hour ago. by now, you should’ve been cuddled up with a hot cup of tea and your favorite fluffy socks and maybe a nice book. but after…that…you couldn’t leave. you offered to help the transition into the night shift and assist with some cases. it was enough to keep your mind off of it until now.
your jaw tightens. you take another slow breath, trying to push the noise out of your head. the ambulance bay door opens again behind you, but you don’t have the strength to turn around. heavy footsteps approach, steady and familiar, until someone stops beside you.
jack rests his forearms on the railing beside you. for a second, neither of you speak. he glances sideways, taking a deep breath. the brisk air burns his throat. you’re staring straight ahead, shoulders tense, lips pressed together like you’re trying very hard not to let the thoughts spill out.
jack knows that look. he’s spent way too long memorizing it. “hey,” he says quietly, bumping his shoulder against yours. you hum in response, which is about the most energy you can spare. jack watches you for another moment. “you did good in there.”
you shake your head slightly, inhaling sharply. “we lost him.”
jack sighs, nodding. “sometimes we do.”
you stare harder at the parking lot. “that doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck.” you mutter, tears pooling at your waterline.
that pulls the faintest huff of a laugh out of him. “yeah,” he says. “that’s the official medical term.” you shake your head, a small smile threatening at the corner of your mouth before it disappears again.
the wind picks up slightly. you shift your weight. jack’s eyes fall to your arms. they’re crossed loosely over your stomach, bumps covering every inch of skin. your shoulders hunch just a little to tell that you’re shivering. he straightens slightly. “hold on.” he says with a tight-lipped smile.
you glance at him. “wha-” but he’s already pushing off the railing before you can finish. you watch him disappear back through the ambulance bay doors with a small frown. he probably got sick of watching you mope. you scoff, kicking yourself mentally because he’s the chief attending and you’re standing here burdening him with your emotional issues.
about a minute later the door swings open again. jack steps back outside to find you in the same position as before. this time, something dark is slung over his arm. you blink as he walks back over and holds it out. a gray zip-up sweatshirt lies in his extended hands.
you stare at it, not moving. “what’s this?” you ask, even though it’s pretty obvious. you’ve never seen him wear the fabric. you’ve only watched him saunter through the automatic doors, eyes intense, and sweatshirt in his hand as he prepares for the night shift.
jack lifts an eyebrow, motioning his hand toward you. “take it.” his voice is low and raspy.
you hesitate. “i’m fine.”
jack gives you a look. the kind that clearly says you’re absolutely not fine. “you’re shivering.” he simply states.
you glance down at your arms like you only just noticed. “…maybe a little.” your hands rub up and down against your arms. jack doesn’t move. the sweatshirt stays extended toward you. after a second, you sigh and take it. “thanks.” when you pull it on, the scent of musky cologne and him fill your senses. you breathe deeper, the smell like a drug. your brain catches up a bit later. “wait—are you gonna be cold?”
jack snorts quietly. “i’ll survive.”
you zip it up the rest of the way, the sleeves a little long over your hands. you fold your arms again, but this time it’s inside the sweatshirt. “thanks,” your voice is softer.
jack shrugs like it’s nothing. “don’t get used to it.”
you glance sideways at him. “you’re very grumpy for someone doing something nice.”
“i’m always grumpy.”
“debatable.”
jack looks at you. his eyes bore into yours, memorizing every detail he can of you. your shoulders have relaxed slightly. the tight line between your brows is gone. mission accomplished. “you should go home now.” he starts softly. “the day shift is all gone and we can handle the rest from here.” he urges.
after a moment, you clear your throat and nod. “i’ll bring this back tomorrow.”
he shakes his head. “keep it.” he says it like it’s no big deal. like he’s not your boss and he’s not lending you a sweatshirt in an oddly intimate way. before you can argue, he says, “you forget things,” he’s already turning toward the door. “figure this way you’ve got a spare.”
you stare at him and just laugh. “that seems like a terrible system.” your shoulders move as you giggle. after the night you’ve had, this is the funniest scenario ever.
jack glances back over his shoulder. his mouth curves slightly. “works for me.” he disappears back inside before you can respond. you stand there for another moment, wrapped in his sweatshirt, staring at the ambulance bay doors.
your fingers curl into the sleeves, fabric bunching around your hands, still warm from him. it sits heavier on your shoulders than it should. you exhale slowly, shaking your head to yourself, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips.
he’s probably just used to this. used to residents stepping out after bad cases, quiet and shaken and trying to hold it together. used to knowing exactly what to say, what to do. how to fix it just enough to get you back on your feet.
you huff out a soft breath, pushing yourself off the railing. “yeah,” you murmur under your breath, already turning toward the doors. “he’s just good at his job.”
{ + ONE }
the bar is loud. a different type of loud than you’re used to. instead of the sharp, frantic noise of the ER, it’s the warmth of conversation and light jokes. robby makes a toast, glasses clink, and drinks are tipped back. the day shift claimed a long stretch of tables near the back. someone dragged two together at some point. chairs are half pulled out, people shifting and talking over each other like no one’s had a full thought all day and now they finally can.
you’re next to samira with one leg tucked under your chair, and your drink sweating in your hand. “i’m telling you,” samira says, covering her mouth to giggle before she even gets the words out. “dr. robby is hot.”
you gasp, choking on your drink before barking out in laughter. “i mean…i can see it.” you say quietly. she raises an eyebrow. you pause. “ok…of course he is.” you rephrase. “he’s just not my usual type.”
beside you, perlah and princess chuckle, pretending that they aren’t eavesdropping.
“what you mean is,” samira takes a swig of her drink before finishing. “he’s not jack abbot.”
you swear you almost drop your glass. “keep your voice down!” you hiss, looking over both shoulders to see if anyone heard.
“it’s not like it’s a secret!” she argues, barely containing her laughter. “you both like each other and you’re both too dense to see it.”
“i would know if someone liked me.” you insist, swirling your straw around in your glass. the ice cubes clink with each stir.
she rolls her eyes, nudging you with her elbow. “yet, you’re the only one who doesn’t.” she huffs out a laugh, shaking her head.
the conversation shifts again after that. someone across the table starts complaining about charting, whittaker gets louder, joy says something dry that makes half the table go quiet for a second before laughing. this is the part of the job makes everything else feel worth it.
you’re sitting quiet, listening to the chatter of samira and the occasional arguments of the med-students when a cool breeze brings goosebumps in its wake. you shiver, peaking over your shoulder.
jack abbott steps inside, pausing just past the threshold. he wasn’t planning on coming. it’s his night off. he told himself he’d stay home for once, maybe get a decent night’s sleep. maybe do something that didn’t revolve around the hospital. then robby mentioned called and drinks. then mentioned you’d be there, and here he is.
he scans the room once, finding you easily. he almost physically stumbles when he processes you. you’re laughing at something samira said, head tipped slightly back, hair down around your shoulders instead of tied up like it always is. you traded your scrubs for a pair of jeans and a simple top that fit you in a way that should be illegal.
jack exhales slowly. right. this was a mistake. he runs a hand over the back of his neck, debating turning around and walking right back out. instead, he straightens slightly and makes his way over. he doesn’t go to you first. mostly because he’s nervous and he’s sporting a semi-hard that needs to go down.
he stops by the end of the table, nodding at everyone, and engaging in conversation with robby. dana gives him a knowing look that he pointedly ignores. “thought you had the night off,” she says, blatantly interrupting robby.
“i do.” he crosses his arms.
“and yet.” dana motions to the room and where he stands.
jack shrugs, casual. “heard there were drinks.” dana hums like she doesn’t believe him for a second. she glances past him, toward you, and then back. jack pretends not to notice. he lingers there longer than necessary, letting himself get pulled into the edge of a conversation he’s not really listening to. how could he listen when you’re there looking like that?
he’s aware of you in a way that hinders his ability to interact. the sound of your voice cutting through the noise. the way you gesture when you talk. the way you lean into samira, laughing at something under your breath. he drags his gaze away, but it always comes back. he’s metal being pulled into your magnetic field.
finally, he pushes off from the end of the table. he circles the group until he’s right behind you. he can hear you clearly now, even smell your perfume.
“you always this loud?” he asks, voice cutting cleanly into your conversation, “or is this a special occasion?”
you freeze. samira’s eyes go wide for half a second before she bites her lip to keep from laughing. slowly—slowly—you turn your head. up close, he looks even better than he did from across the room. you can see his features clearly. the stubble beard he bother shaving, his salt and peppered curls, and that hardened look that always melts you. could he be anymore perfect?
your brain stutters. “i’m not loud,” you retort, which is immediately a lie.
jack raises an eyebrow. “no?” he asks, voice low, amused. “could’ve fooled me.”
samira lets out a quiet snort beside you. you shoot her a look before turning back to him, narrowing your eyes slightly. “maybe you’re just eavesdropping.”
“maybe you’re just easy to overhear.”
you open your mouth, then close it. you can barely breathe the way he’s still looking at you, never mind forming coherent sentences. you swallow. “what are you doing here?” you ask, tone lower.
jack shrugs, one hand settling on the back of your chair. your back brushes his fingers when you lean closer. “thought i’d see what you all look like outside the hospital.”
your stomach flips. samira makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like oh my god. “and?” you ask, lifting your chin slightly. “what’s the verdict?”
jack’s gaze drags over you in an antagonizing slow manner. it starts at your face, and dips before coming back up. your breath catches.
he hums. “undecided.”
samira chokes on her drink. “i need another round,” she blurts, already sliding out of her seat. she grabs princess and perlah by the wrist and drags the with her before you can even process what just happened.
traitors.
you’re suddenly very aware of the empty chairs beside you, and the fact that jack doesn’t move away. if anything, he moves closer. “so,” you say, clearing your throat, trying to ignore the way your heart is picking up speed. “night off?”
“yeah.”
“and you chose to spend it here.”
“seems that way.”
you huff a quiet laugh, glancing down at your drink (because if you don’t you’ll stare at him arms). “we’re honored.”
jack’s mouth twitches. “you should be.” he lowers his voice to a gruff sound. that has to be his bedroom voice, you think. you look back up at him, rolling your eyes, but there’s no heat behind it.
he watches you for a second longer than necessary before finally dropping into the chair samira abandoned like it was always his. your knee brushes his and neither of you move. you take a sip of your drink just to give your hands something to do. jack doesn’t look away. he leans back slightly in his chair, one arm draped behind you like it belongs there.
you clear your throat. “so,” you say, glancing at him, “you just haunt bars on your nights off now?”
jack huffs quietly. “only the ones you’re in.”
your brain trips over itself for half a second. you recover fast. mostly. “that’s…concerning.”
“yeah,” he nods. “i’ve been told.”
you shake your head, trying not to smile into your drink. the liquor warms your throat, giving you some much needed confidence. neither of you move. you glance down at your glass again, tracing the rim with your finger. “they’re short on night shift,” you say after a second. “again.”
jack’s attention sharpens. he notes the way your voice lowers. you don’t want anyone else at the table to hear. “yeah,” he nods, pouring himself a beer from the pitcher on the table. “we are.”
you look up at him through your lashes and he has to adjust his pants. you stall, questioning if this is the right time or place to talk about this. finally, you exhale. “i was thinking about maybe switching over for a bit,” you continue, shrugging one shoulder. “just temporarily. try something different.”
almost immediately, he replies, “you should.”
you blink, stifling a laugh. “that was fast.”
he doesn’t even try to backtrack. “you’d be good over there.”
you tilt your head slightly. “you don’t even know what i’d be like on nights.”
“yeah, i do.”
your brows lift. “you’ve never seen me on nights.”
“don’t need to.”
you bite the inside of your cheek to calm yourself. you feel tingly all over. “you’re very confident.” you say, avoiding eye contact with him.
“i’m usually right.”
“debatable.”
“not about this.” there’s a quiet certainty in his voice that makes it hard to brush off.
you shift slightly in your seat. “i just-” you sigh. “i don’t know how robby’s gonna feel about it. i feel like he’s gonna think i’m abandoning day shift or something.” you ramble. “and-”
jack leans forward now, thick forearms resting on the table. “robby won’t be mad at you,” he interrupts with no room for discussion.
you glance at him. “you say that like you speak for him.”
“i’ve known him longer than you,” jack replies easily. “he’s not gonna hold you back.” you nod slowly, but your not convinced. “he likes you,” jack adds.
your lips twitch. “he likes everyone.”
jack shakes his head slightly. “he admires you.” he corrects himself.
your eyes flick back to his. there’s something in his tone that makes your chest tighten again. you look down quickly. “i just don’t want it to be weird,” you say, softer now.
jack watches you for a second. then leans in just a little more. “it won’t be,” he says. he’s close enough that you can feel his breath fanning against your skin. your breath catches. after a moment, he straightens again. “we can talk more about it over dinner.” he states in a matter of fact tone.
you nearly choke. your brain tries to file that under professional—it doesn’t match. “…what?”
jack’s mouth curves slightly. “dinner,” he repeats, like it’s obvious. like you’re the one lagging behind.
you stare at him. that didn’t sound like just a friendly request. your heart starts picking up. “like…with the team?” you ask, clinging to logic.
jack’s gaze doesn’t waver. “no.”
your stomach drops. “…just us?”
“that’s usually how dates go, no?” he smirks. there’s no hesitation.
everything clicks at once. the realization flashes across your eyes in series of memories. the coffee, the sweatshirt, the way he shows up early, and the way he watches you like you’re the only thing in the room. your breath catches. “you’re asking me on a date?” you ask like you had to say it out loud for it to process.
jack’s smile deepens. “took you long enough.”
your heart stutters. “wait-” you sit up straighter, staring at him. “you’re serious?”
jack leans in slightly, voice low. “i asked you to dinner.”
your pulse jumps. “i thought you meant like talking about the shift-”
“we can talk about the shift,” he nods, taking a sip of his glass. his eyes flick down to your lips for a split second before coming back up. “doesn’t have to be the only thing.”
oh.
oh.
your face heats. you look away, then back, like you don’t know where to land. “you’ve been-” you shake your head slightly, almost laughing. “this whole time?”
“pretty much.”
you huff out a disbelieving breath. “i thought you were just-” you stop yourself.
jack raises an eyebrow. “just what.”
you groan, dropping your head into your hand for a second. “i don’t know…normal.”
that actually makes him laugh real low. “this is me being normal?”
you peek at him. “apparently not.” you lower your hand slowly, looking at him again. your heart is still racing, but you don’t hate it. “you’re bold,” you say quietly.
jack’s mouth curves. “only when it counts.”
your stomach twists again. you shake your head slightly, smiling despite yourself. “and you just assumed i’d say yes?”
“no.” he shrugs simply.
the honesty catches you off guard. “then why ask?”
jack holds your gaze. “because i wanted to.” he murmurs. “figured you were worth the risk.”
you stare at him for a second longer, tilting your head like it might help you figure him out better. “…ok.” it slips out before you can overthink it.
jack tilts his head slightly. “ok?”
you nod, a little more certain now. “yes, i’ll go out with you.”
a boyish grin takes over his face. it may have taken months of what he thought was obvious flirting, hundreds spent on overpriced coffees, and more self-control than he’d ever admit out loud, but he got there. now you’re sitting in front of him, cheeks warm, eyes a little wide, finally seeing him the way he’s been seeing you all along.
You sit on the edge of the bed, Jack beside you, his voice low and careful. He traces the gentle planes of your face with his fingertips, speaking quietly about the little joints and hidden bones beneath your skin. His touch lingers, deliberate, as if memorizing every curve.
“This is your supraorbital ridge,” Jack leans closer, his fingers brushing lightly over your brow.
Then his hand drifts lower, cupping your chin. “And this,” he murmurs, tilting your head slightly as he traces the edge of your jaw, “over here is your mandible, and your zygoma,” His thumb lingers a moment, warm against your skin.
“Open your mouth for me,” he whispers. You obey, and his finger rests gently on the side of your face. “Good, this is your temporomandibular joint, feel that hinge?”
You can’t help but giggle, a soft, nervous sound that makes Jack’s lips twitch. With slow, deliberate precision, he slides two fingers gently into your mouth, pressing lightly on your tongue to examine its movement.
His eyes stay locked on yours, watching every little reaction and small movement, like he’s memorizing you completely.
Jack’s fingers slide a little further along your tongue, gentle but deliberate, following the line he’s been tracing. You feel the warmth of his touch deepen as he moves closer to the back of your mouth. After a moment, a light gag escapes you, soft and involuntary.
“Easy,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, keeping his touch careful as he holds your chin steady. “Here is the median sulcus of the tongue, and back there is the uvula.”
Jack gently withdraws his fingers, letting you close your mouth. You swallow, your cheeks still warm from the closeness.
“Good job baby,” he whispers, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips. “But I’m not done yet.” He pats the bed beside him, guiding you to lay back, his voice soft but insistent. “Lie down, I need to see the rest.”
First off, I just found your account, and I'm obsessed!! I was wondering if you could write a Jack Abbot x fem!reader fic where he's struggling with his PTSD. The vibe is like fluffy angst, if that makes sense.
Scar tissue
Jack Abbot X Fem!Reader
Warnings: PTSD, nightmares, combat trauma, injury description, amputation mention, phantom limb pain, panic response, dissociation, implied suicidal ideation (non-acted), emotional vulnerability, comfort, hurt/comfort, soft ending, established relationship, Robby makes an appearance, no use of y/n
Word count: 3.7K
a/n: Awww thnks for the love hon i'm glad you liked my little corner of the internet and i'm happy to have you here 🫶🏻 hope you enjoy the fic!
Anyone who looks at him knows he’s a tough guy. Not just because of the muscles that show through every piece of clothing he wears, but because of the way he carries himself. Steady. Courageous. Cool as a cucumber.
People look at Jack Abbott and they see a soldier — a man who can handle unimaginable pain without so much as a flinch.
But you? You see the cracks in the armor. You see the soft spots beneath all that steel — the proof that Jack, much like everyone else, is still just human.
Maybe you see it because he lets you. Because he feels he doesn’t have to hide as much when he’s around you. Or maybe it’s because you’re always looking for him in a crowd—your eyes scanning every face until they land on his.
You know he has a harder time dealing with his past than he ever admits. The therapist he’s been seeing seems to help, but it’s not like you can erase everything he’s been through. You’re glad he’s getting the help he needs, and you make sure he knows he has a support system he can lean on whenever he needs it.
He has Robby, and he has you.
When things started getting serious between you and Jack, the first person he wanted you to meet was Robby. You could tell immediately, from the way they interacted, that they shared a long and heavy history. And in the short time you spent with Robby, you could see that he too carried scars from the past.
Robby liked you right away—he was genuinely happy that Jack had someone to share his life with. But beneath Robby’s gentle smile, you sensed something else. A kind of relief hidden behind the easy banter and relaxed expression.
And when he cornered you one evening, glancing around as if making sure Jack wasn’t nearby before whispering, “I’m glad he has someone by his side. I can’t always keep an eye on him with our opposite shifts and all. I’m glad you’ve got his back,” you realized Robby knew Jack in ways you had yet to discover.
It had taken you a while to understand what Robby meant, but one night shift made everything painfully clear.
You’d been searching for Jack everywhere, and you were no closer to finding him. It was unlike him to just disappear—he was the attending, after all. Your worry had started creeping in when Robby walked in and caught the look on your face.
He seemed to know exactly what you were looking for. His hand landed gently on your shoulder to get your attention, a soft look settling over his features.
“You’re looking for Abbott, right? He’s probably taking a breather.”
“No, I checked outside. He wasn’t there,” you answered, eyes still darting around the room.
Robby gave your shoulder a small, knowing squeeze.
“Might wanna go check the roof.”
Robby must’ve seen something in your face shift, because he didn’t hesitate—he just said, “Come on,” and started toward the stairwell. You followed him up the flight of stairs until the sunshine hit your face and the rooftop door thunked shut behind you.
Jack was there. Standing on the edge of the roof, on the opposite side of the railing.
Your heart lurched. Your body moved before you even thought, breath punching out of your chest. Your eyes went wide, your mouth opened—but nothing came out.
Robby’s hand snapped around your arm, steadying you before you could take another panicked step.
“Hey—hey. It’s okay,” he murmured, voice low, like he’d rehearsed this line a thousand times.
You froze, pulse thundering in your ears, as Robby walked forward with a familiarity that made your stomach twist tighter.
He leaned casually against the railing, like this wasn’t terrifying, like it wasn’t a two-story drop to concrete.
“Hey, man,” he called out. “You bird-watching or something?”
Jack jolted—just slightly—like the sound tugged him out of a fog. He turned his head, and his eyes found yours over Robby’s shoulder.
Something flickered there. Recognition. Then shame. Then something soft.
He ducked back under the railing and stepped onto the safe side. Robby clapped him on the back and stepped aside, letting Jack walk toward you.
You stood there, hands trembling before you could stop them, the image of him on the wrong side of the railing burned into your mind. When he reached you, Jack didn’t say anything—just pulled you into his chest, arms strong and shaky all at once.
“Hey,” he murmured into your hair, breathing you in. “You don’t gotta worry. I wasn’t—I wasn’t doing anything stupid. Just… needed a look around.”
You didn’t say anything. You just held onto him, trying to let your body relax beneath his arms. When you finally glanced over his shoulder, your eyes met Robby’s. His expression was soft, a little tired, and without either of you saying a word, you understood.
This was what he meant. This was why he wanted someone else watching Jack’s back.
That was the first time you saw Jack’s armor crack.
But it wouldn’t be the last.
Today had been a particularly rough shift. You were exhausted—bone-deep tired—and more than ready to go home. When you saw Robby walk into the ED for his morning shift, you mustered a smile and walked over to pull him into a hug.
“How was your night?” he asked, like he always did.
“Hell, as usual,” you sighed.
Robby gave you that knowing look, the one edged with sympathy and the kind of exhaustion only long-time trauma can carve into someone. His eyes swept the room, scanning faces out of habit.
You knew exactly who he was looking for. Who he always looked for.
“He’s upstairs,” you said, no explanation needed.
Robby’s gaze snapped back to you, understanding immediately.
“That bad, huh?”
“Yep.” Your shoulders sagged under the weight of the night. “Pretty much.”
“You want me to go get him?”
You gave his shoulder a gentle pat. “No, I got it. I was just giving him a little alone time first. You know how he gets.”
Robby nodded, expression softening. “Call me if you need me.”
You offered him a tired smile before turning and heading for the stairs—your feet already knowing the path to the roof.
Jack is in his usual spot.
Same place he always goes when the shift has taken too much out of him. Same spot where the world stretches out before him far enough that he can pretend he’s not drowning in his thoughts. In his feelings.
You ease the rooftop door open, letting it click shut behind you. He has his back to you, but you know he knows you’re here. You take a couple of slow steps toward him, leaning on the railing like Robby had the first time you’d found out about this routine of theirs.
“Anything interesting down there?” you say softly, voice drifting over to him like you’re afraid of startling him.
Jack glances over his shoulder. It’s not really a smile he gives you—more a tired twitch of his mouth that’s trying to be one. The kind he uses when he doesn’t want you to worry, even though the fact that he’s up here already tells you plenty.
“Nah,” he mutters. “Same old streets. Same old mess.”
The wind is cool up here, biting at your cheeks. Jack’s eyes stay fixed on the drop below. Yours stay glued to his profile.
“You want to talk about it?” you ask gently.
He huffs out a breath. “Not really.”
You nod, because you’re not here to force it out of him. You’ve learned that pushing makes him shut down harder. And besides—that tone? You know that one. It’s the I’m-still-in-it tone. The one he gets when some patient or some moment kicks up dust from the part of his past he tries not to look at. The part filled with dirt and gunfire and screams that don’t belong in a hospital.
Jack’s jaw flexes. You see the tension in his body. Not just the usual post–twelve-hour-shift tension, but the kind he carries from years of seeing more shit than anyone should see in their whole lifetimes. It always lingers. Waiting beneath his skin. Waiting for something to pull it out into the open. And tonight, it’s clear something had made it bubble up.
You keep your eyes forward as you ask, “Want me to go get Robby?”
It’s not jealousy. It’s not insecurity. You know how deep their history runs. Sometimes Jack needs his best friend before he needs anyone else.
But he shakes his head immediately.
“No.” His voice is low, rough. “I just… need a little quiet.”
You give another small nod. “Okay.”
And that’s it. No fixing. No prying. You just sit down, letting the silence stretch the way he needs it to. The wind whistles, cars honk far below, and Jack’s breathing slowly evens out—slowly, gradually, grounding itself in the fact that you’re here.
After a while—maybe minutes, maybe longer—you hear him shift. You watch as he ducks under the railing, stepping back toward the safe side before looking down at you from where you’re still sitting. You lift yourself off the ground, moving so you’re standing in front of him. You stay a couple of steps away for a moment before reaching your hand out.
His fingers brush yours, hesitant at first, then more sure when you curl your hand softly around his.
“Wanna go home?” you whisper.
Jack exhales—a shaky, tired sound that breaks your heart a little.
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah… I’m ready.”
And with that, he lets you pull him back inside.
He’s quiet the whole walk home, which isn’t unusual on days like this. Still, you miss the easy chatter you usually fall into together. You miss the feeling of his hand in yours as you walk side by side, miss the silly comments he always makes just to get you to laugh.
But you know it isn’t personal. Sometimes the weight of the past is just too heavy to carry, and Jack has to put all his strength into keeping himself together. There isn’t much left over for anything else.
So on days like this, you just match your pace to his, silently following him all the way back to your shared apartment.
You walk into your apartment, keys clattering softly against the door as you push it open. Jack trails in behind you. You slip your shoes off, and he quietly closes the door, locking it before doing the same.
You head straight for the kitchen, washing your hands at the sink before opening the fridge and grabbing the food you’d set aside for the two of you. On normal days, you and Jack share the shower—taking turns helping each other wash the grime and weight of the shift away. But today… you know he won’t be up for that.
So you call out from the kitchen, loud enough for him to hear you from the entryway.
“You go first, Jack. I’ll start heating the food up.”
He passes by the kitchen doorway, giving you a small, tired nod before heading toward the bathroom.
After he gets out—looking just as tired as when he went in, but at least cleaner—you make your way to the bathroom next, focusing on washing the shift off your own skin.
You both settle down to eat afterward, the low murmur of the TV drifting across the room while you eat in silence. When you’re done, the dishes washed and teeth brushed, the two of you climb into bed.
You reach over to click the lamp off and start to settle, already preparing yourself to fall asleep without Jack’s arms around you. But just as you’re about to turn your back to him, he says your name—soft, almost hesitant.
You turn, barely able to make out his face in the dark.
“Yeah?” you answer quietly, voice barely above a breath.
“No cuddling today?” he asks, the words gentle, almost sheepish in the dark.
Your eyes soften instantly.
“Didn’t think you’d be up for it,” you whisper.
Jack reaches out, his hand brushing your cheek before gently tugging you closer until your noses touch.
“Always up to cuddle with you, baby,” he murmurs, the teasing warmth in his voice muted by exhaustion but still sincere.
You smile, pressing a soft kiss to his lips before shifting until your head rests against his chest—right where you’ve always fit perfectly.
“Goodnight, Jack,” you say softly, your voice melting into his skin.
“Night, baby,” he replies, the words low and sleepy.
He can feel the sweat against his temple. Can feel it run down his neck and seep into his uniform. He can smell the dirt and blood and gunpowder. Can hear the explosion, the screams, the bullets ricocheting.
His feet pound against the ground as he runs, bag rattling against his back with every step. There’s a rifle in his hand—he can feel the weight of it, the metal pressed beneath his fingers. The sound is muffled, but he can still make out orders being shouted somewhere beside him. He takes another step.
And that’s when it happens.
He doesn’t even have time to react before his body is launched backward. His back hits the ground and, for a moment, he can’t hear anything. The explosion blows out everything else, dust filling the air and swallowing what little he could see.
And then it hits him.
Pain.
Searing pain, shooting through him so fast he doesn’t even have time to scream.
The world tilts. His vision blurs. When he finally manages to bring it into focus, his eyes trail downward to assess the damage.
He catches it immediately.
Blood. Shredded fabric. Jagged bone.
The panic settles in instantly, and the scream that rips from his throat makes his lungs burn. Hands grab at him—soldiers barking his name, trying to drag him away—but everything blurs, their faces smearing together.
His vision tightens, tunneling. He feels the blood pumping out of him, warm and fast.
And then darkness surrounds him.
Jack jerks awake with a gasp so sharp it almost sounds like a sob.
The room is dark. Quiet. Safe. But his body doesn’t know that—his heart is racing like he’s still on that damn battlefield. His hands fist at the sheets, tugging them off him in a panic. His eyes land on the place where his leg should be and, even though it’s not there—even though it’s been years—he can still feel the pain as if it had happened just now.
He’s so focused on the sight in front of him that he doesn’t feel you stir in bed. Doesn’t even remember you’re there next to him until your hand finds the center of his back.
His head snaps toward you, panicked eyes locking onto your worried gaze. The sight of you seems to pull him back into the present, inch by inch. He lets out a shaky breath just as you say his name again—because he didn’t hear it the first time.
“Jack? Hey — talk to me. What happened?”
He swallows. It’s hard. His throat feels tight, scraped raw.
“I… it was my leg.” His voice trembles in a way he hates. “I was back there. I saw it happen again.”
His breath stutters. He drags a trembling hand over his face, trying to wipe away the nightmare like it’s something he can physically scrape off his skin. You shift closer, slow and gentle, giving him every chance to pull away. He doesn’t. If anything, he leans toward you without realizing it, like his body is reaching for something solid to anchor to.
“Is it hurting?” you whisper.
He nods, jaw clenched. “Feels like… like it’s still there. Like it’s still being blown off.” A shaky laugh slips out, humorless. “Stupid, right?”
You shake your head, reaching out to take his hand — letting him decide if he wants to hold on.
“That’s not stupid,” you whisper. “Phantom pain isn’t imaginary. And neither is what you lived through.”
His fingers curl around yours. Tight. Desperate.
For a moment, he just breathes. Eyes closed. Shoulders trembling.
Then he lets out a quiet confession, barely audible:
“I hate waking up like this. I hate that you have to see it.”
Your shoulders sag at the words. You know he struggles with being vulnerable, know he hates making you worry. But it doesn’t bother you — in fact, you’re glad to know he isn’t alone. Glad that you can be there for him when he needs someone, even if he tries to avoid it as much as he can.
You press your forehead gently to the side of his, grounding both of you.
“I’d rather be here with you through the bad,” you murmur, “than miss the chance to be here for the good.”
Jack lets out a sound that borders on a sob and a sigh. He shifts his head to the side so that your foreheads touch. Your hand moves up to cradle his cheek, making his eyes close.
“I’m here,” you murmur against his hair. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
He leans into your touch like he’s been holding himself upright for too long, like the simple act of your hand on his cheek is the one thing keeping him anchored.
You stay like that for a moment, his uneven breathing fanning across your face as your thumb continues to caress his skin. His hands move forward, grabbing onto your hips as if he needs to make sure you’re real.
“Sorry,” he whispers, voice raw. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
You shake your head gently, brushing your thumb over his cheekbone.
“Jack… you don’t have to apologize for having nightmares.”
His jaw tightens like he wants to argue, but the fight leaves him before it ever really forms. His shoulders slump, exhaustion settling back over him like a heavy blanket.
“It felt so real,” he admits, the words barely catching the air between you. “Every time it happens, it feels like… like I’m right back there. Like I’m losing it all over again.”
Your heart twists. Not out of pity — never pity — but out of that deep ache that comes from loving someone who’s been hurt in ways you can’t erase. You angle his face toward yours, gently guiding him until his eyes meet yours in the dark.
He gives you a look that almost makes your heart shatter in your chest. For a moment, you don’t see the Jack everyone else sees — the chill Jack who makes jokes and walks around like nothing ever gets to him. You see the man beneath the armor. The real Jack. The one who carries the world on his shoulders, the one who keeps going even when the pain gets unbearable.
You see your Jack.
The one you love with every fiber of your being.
You can’t promise him the nightmares won’t come. Can’t take the pain from him. Can’t promise that nothing will ever hurt him again.
So you say the only thing you can — the thing you feel every time you see him like this.
“I’m so sorry, Jack.”
Jack’s brows pull together at your words — not in frustration, not in dismissal, but in something softer. Sadder. He shakes his head almost immediately, hands tightening on your hips as if anchoring you in place.
“Don’t be,” he whispers, voice barely holding itself together. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
You swallow, but the ache in your chest doesn’t ease.
“I know. I just… I hate that you went through that. I hate that you still have to.”
You sigh softly, the sound threading through the quiet of the room.
“I wish I could make it better.”
Jack pulls back just enough to see your face, his hand moving from your hip to your cheek, warm and steady as his thumb brushes your skin.
“You do,” he whispers.
You give him a sad smile and lean forward to press a soft kiss to his lips. He accepts it immediately, sinking into the tenderness, savoring the love you pour into him—trying to commit the feeling to memory.
When you pull back, he follows you, leaning in until his forehead rests against your collarbone. You wrap your arms around him instinctively, holding him close, cradling him as his fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt.
For a long moment, neither of you speaks. It’s just the two of you breathing in the dark, his heartbeat slowly finding its rhythm again, your hands moving up and down his back in calm, soothing strokes.
Eventually, Jack exhales — a low, weary sound that seems to release a little of the weight crushing him.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your chest.
You run your fingers through his hair, soft and steady.
“For what?” you ask gently.
“For staying,” he breathes. “For… not being scared of me. Or of this.”
You press a kiss to the top of his head.
“Jack,” you whisper, “I’m not going anywhere.”
He holds onto you tighter after that—the kind of hold that says he believes you, even if it scares him to. He presses a kiss to your neck, lips soft against your skin.
“I love you,” he whispers.
“I love you too, Jack.”
He lifts his head just enough to look at you, and you offer him a tender smile.
“Wanna try and get some sleep?”
He breathes shakily against you, the fear of the nightmares creeping back in making him never want to sleep again. You can sense his apprehension, so your hand moves gently to hold his face.
“Don’t worry. I’m right here. I’ll keep you safe.”
Jack can’t help but smile at your words—because he can hear in your voice that you genuinely mean them, and that makes him believe them too. He unlatches from your body, moving to lie back down on the bed. You settle beside him, tugging the sheets over your bodies as you inch closer.
You tuck yourself against him, your fingers drawing slow circles along his ribs, a steady rhythm he can follow back into calm.
“Stay… right here,” he murmurs, voice thick and low.
“I’m not moving,” you promise. “Sleep if you can. I’ve got you.”
Jack exhales, the sound shaky but softer than before. His chin rests lightly atop your head, his heartbeat gradually syncing with yours. His hand slips around your waist, pulling you closer as though he’s trying to merge the last of the fear out of his body and into your warmth.
And little by little, you feel his body start to relax against yours, the nightmare losing its grip as he lets himself rest in the one place he still feels safe.
summary: jack abbot never gets jealous; that is, until he finds out that you have a whole lot of history with the handsome radiologist from upstairs that everyone else is fawning over. (3k)
characters: jack abbot / fem!reader, nick barker / ex!reader, dr. al-hashimi, michael robinavitch, princess dela cruz
contents: secret relationship, friends with benefits, grump!reader, jealous!jack, fluff, humor, so much sexual tension
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
“I was thinking Italian for tonight,” Jack says in lieu of a greeting as he falls seamlessly into step with you down the busy hall of the emergency department. His biceps strain against the sleeves of his fitted black tee as he reaches to hold either end of his stethoscope. “Or burgers, maybe— but I’m not picky. What about you?”
His heavy head swivels slowly to face you. The bright white fluorescents overhead cast a greyer tint over his curls and light eyes, which glimmer faintly with amusement as a knowing half-smirk tugs slowly at his lips.
You look up from the clipboard in your hand with a squinted look of mild annoyance, despite the quiet smile that threatens to pull at your own mouth.
“Very subtle, Dr. Abbot,” you croon in a dry monotone.
“Well, I can be less subtle, if you want,” the man shrugs, side-stepping to walk backwards ahead of you. He ambles carefully into the central work station with a wider, smugger smile. “Go out for dinner with me tonight… I promise I’ll make it worth your while…”
“Oh, really?” you hum and slide your clipboard back onto the chart rack. “Do tell.”
“Well, I’d get into the details and all, but… There are kids around, so…”
Your eyes cut to the crowd of young residents gathered by the dry-erase board, now acting as a makeshift monitor for the time being. You scoff an emotionless laugh in response. “Trust me, whatever Santos and Garcia are getting up to is far more scandalous— And don’t even get me started on Whitaker and that farmer’s widow of his.
“I wasn’t talking about them,” Jack quips, but makes a mental note to ask you about all that later. “I was talking about Robby.”
He nods to the front desk, where the man himself scribbles at the chart laid crooked before him. Robby flashes Jack an unenthusiastic look from over the top of his glasses at the sound of his name.
“Don’t drag me into this,” he deadpans.
“Into what?” Jack scoffs.
“Into whatever the two of you are flirting about.”
“Have you seen Dr. Al?” you blurt, if only as a desperate plea to change the subject.
He points aimlessly over his shoulder, and you follow his thumb across the room. You leave Jack behind without a second thought and make a beeline for the curly-haired woman on the opposite side of the station.
“Hey, Dr. Al— Have you figured out what we’re doing about the CT films? Because I’ve got a patient with an ankle injury that’s already been sitting for hours.”
“Yep,” the woman smiles, flipping through the yellow order slips in her hands. “I have them right here.”
You freeze in place just ahead of her, glancing at the papers between her fingers and the chaotically organized desk beside her with wide eyes. “…Where? Have they been miniaturized?”
A laugh sputters from her mouth as she shakes her head. “No, I mean— Radiology is getting backed up upstairs, obviously, so… I brought radiology to us.”
She motions behind her, and only then do you notice the portable machine sitting on the other side of the circular desk. A crowd of grey-scrubbed nurses helps adjust the station to make room for the bulky device. When Jesse moves the long arm of the X-Ray machine, a familiar face comes into view that makes your skin flare beneath your black scrubs — though you’d sooner blame it on the sweltering summer heat blowing in from outside.
Because, just when you think the day can’t get any worse than a heat wave and a potential cyber attack, your ex-boyfriend shows up out of nowhere.
Nick Barker smiles kindly at you with all of his pretty white teeth, swiping a veiny, sun-kissed hand through his dark, pushed-back hair.
“Hey, Professor. Long time, no see.”
You meet his warm grin with a wavering smile of your own, though it looks more like a grimace when your eyes widen at the old nickname his family had given you some years back — when you graduated high school early and became the youngest med student in your class.
It was not working with your ex that was the issue — you’ve already been doing it for years at this point — but you’re realizing now that he was much easier to stomach when he was upstairs, totally out of your line of sight.
“Dr. Barker,” you greet, with your voice an awkward octave higher and trembling with a palpable panic. “Hi…”
“Oh…” he winces playfully. “I’ve been demoted to last-name basis, huh?”
You muster an artificial smile in response and wring your clammy hands together as you amble slowly to his side. He tilts his scruffy chin to keep your gaze, though you refuse to meet the big brown eyes he looks at you with.
“Have you gotten the order slip for Adebayo? A-D-E-B-A-Y-O?”
“Uh…” he trails off and turns away to glance at the files on the desk beside him, organized by alphabet and urgency. He skims his manicured pointer finger down the list and taps on the clipboard when he finds the patient’s name. “Yep. Right. I’ll get right on it.”
“Great,” you sigh and take a step back to walk away. “Thank you.”
“Busy day, huh?” Nick hums distantly, half-distracted as he taps at the keyboard of the heavy machine before him. He’s as kind and casual as you remember him being — not nearly as fazed by your presence as you are by his — which is why you falter so desperately at the innocent small talk.
“Yep…” you nod with an apologetic grimace. “Which is kinda why I have to run right now, so…”
“Right. Yeah,” Nick chuckles. A rogue strand of silky black hair drapes effortlessly over his forehead as he shakes his head at himself. “That was a— stupid question, right? Look at this place.”
You fake a laugh at his laughing and turn on the heel of your sneaker to walk away.
Your smile ebbs the second you’re out of his sight, contorting into a pained sort of wince as you slide past Jack — who leans on a desk some feet behind you, hardly trying to conceal that he’d been watching you. (He hadn’t thought anything of it until he saw you get all embarrassed; because you never let anyone see you embarrassed, least of all a man.)
“What the hell was that about?” he murmurs lowly, falling into step with you once more. His squinted eyes dart between your profile and the vaguely familiar radiologist across the room — until you duck behind the oversized dry-erase board like you’re hiding from something. Some-one. “You know him or something?”
“Uh… Yeah?” you shrug, trying and failing to be casual, as you uncap a black marker with a sharp pop. “Kind of… I guess…”
“Kinda?” Jack echoes with a scoffed-out laugh, further disturbed by your sudden diffidence as you update the patient board with anxious hands. “What— Did you guys screw around together or something?”
“Don’t be crude,” you scold with your features twisted in disgust — mean all over again, and not at all how you were with Dr. Barker. “We just… used to date… A long, long time ago.”
“Yeah? For how long?” Jack presses, brows raised to his hairline.
“Not long,” you shrug. “Just a… better part of a decade, that’s all.”
“That’s all?” he repeats, a little louder than he meant to. He cowers at the strange looks he gets in response and takes a step closer to you behind the towering board. “What’s next? You’re gonna tell me you were engaged to the guy?”
He chuckles until you flash him a weary look in reply.
His shock returns.
“Holy shit— You were engaged?”
“We were high school sweethearts going into medicine together— getting engaged was just on par with how cliche we were,” you ramble with your gaze pointed at the organized board before you.
“Oh, don’t tell me you got married to the guy,” Jack huffs. “I don’t think my heart could take all that.”
You sigh in annoyance but answer him honestly anyway. “No… We never made it that far.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know,” you shrug, half-detached in reminiscence. “We just… We weren’t good together, you know? He was… way too nice…”
Jack blinks owlishly at you. “You broke up with him because he was… nice?”
“It’s a long story,” you sigh.
“Well, I got plenty of time,” the man tells you, crossing his strong arms over his broad chest. “It’s not like we’re on the cusp of a cyber attack or anything.”
“Okay… We got into this crazy fight one night,” you murmur, stepping closer to him like you’re telling him some sort of secret. You tilt your chin to keep Jack’s gaze as you gesture with the marker in your hand. “Sort of. ‘Cause I was the only one that was mad— But I was trying to push him into an argument because I started to notice that he never got upset with me. Like, ever. And he just… wouldn’t budge, you know? Everything I told him he was doing wrong, he just… agreed with me. And promised to work on it.”
“Wow…” Jack monotones. “He sounds like a real psychopath.”
“I know he’s a good guy, alright? That’s not the point,” you tell him. “He was just… dreadfully boring.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah, he’s like— missionary personified,” you ramble. “He’s great and reliable and he gets the job done, but… Sometimes you wanna spice things up, you know?”
“Do you?” Jack teases with narrowed eyes.
“It was a metaphor,” you deadpan.
“Well, I promise that if you ever feel like fighting it out, I will always be there for you, sweetheart,” he lilts.
“Don’t tell me you’re jealous, Dr. Abbot,” you croon drily.
“Jealous?” he scoffs. “I’m not jealous.”
“Who are you convincing here— You or me?”
“Well, between me and Dr. Barker only one of us got shot at today, so…” Jack trails off with a lazy shrug. “You can’t exactly call me boring, honey.”
You cap the marker and set it back on the rack with a nod and a knowing smile. “Well, we never exactly had trouble in the boring department, did we, Dr. Abbot?”
He ambles slowly after you as you walk off in the opposite direction.
“What did I say about talking dirty to me while we’re at work?”
Nick still smells the same, you realize, when he calls you to his side to show you the newly produced film. You recognize the cologne on his navy button-up almost instantly — the soft, vanilla musk cologne you’d gotten him for his birthday when you were still in med school.
Something about it makes your chest feel funny; the acknowledgment that, in many ways, the two of you are still tied together. You’d stolen a collection of band tees from his closet back in college, and even now you swear that they’re the coziest shirts to sleep in (though you’d never tell Jack exactly where you got them from.)
You slouch in the cushioned swivel chair at his side with your heavy head propped on your fist, blinking slowly as he flicks through the various X-Rays on the monitor ahead of you.
“Looks like the ankle’s negative for fracture…” he mumbles.
“No, that can’t be right,” you murmur to yourself, lifting your head to motion at the blue-white image before you. “Look— The tibiofibular clear space is enlarged. And the overlap seems reduced, no?”
“Hm…” he hums. “Maybe a little.”
You reach blindly for the clear ruler at your side and press it to the screen, aligning it with the x-rayed ankle. You trace the ridges with your pointer finger. “8 millimeters dilated, and… 3 millimeters overlapped. Which would mean that—”
“There’s probably a tear in the sydesomatic ligaments,” Nick finishes for you, clicking at the ink pen in his right hand. “Yeah.”
“Which needs surgical fixation, which means I need you to put in a request for an MRI, which means I can free up another bed,” you ramble with an exhausted sigh as you slouch back into the cushioned seat.
“On it,” Nick nods with a quiet laugh. “When did you learn so much about radiology, Professor?”
“Well, we were kinda together for a long time, Dr. Barker,” you answer like it’s obvious. “I guess I just picked up a thing or two over the years.”
“Well, I’ve heard you complain about a thousand surgeries, but that doesn’t mean I could do one,” he scoffs with a lopsided grin that would’ve made you swoon five or more years ago.
“Sounds like a skill issue, Barker,” you joke with a shrug.
“No, I think you’re just smarter than you give yourself credit for,” he grins. “Why do you think my mom still calls you Professor?”
A laugh sputters from your mouth before you can stop it. “Why is your mom even still talking about me?”
“Are you kidding?” Nick chuckles. “She loves you! I’m pretty sure she’s still holding out hope that we’re gonna get back together…”
“You just need to date another doctor, that’s all,” you shrug. “Then she’ll forget all about me—”
“I’m a nurse!” Princess volunteers from the nurse’s station, behind the portable machine. She chirps like a songbird, with a hopeful grin and a pair of sparkling eyes. “That counts, right?”
“Aren’t you married, Princess?” you laugh.
Her smile turns into a frown in a flicker.
“Thanks for blowing my cover,” she deadpans and turns away.
“Sorry…” you grimace.
Nick laughs, dark eyes crinkling at the edges. You fight the urge to cower at the melted chocolate look in his gaze when he turns back to you. “You haven’t changed at all, you know that?”
“You have,” you retort.
“Really?”
You nod, eyes squinted in observation. “I realized you fixed that chip in your tooth.”
“I did…” Nick lilts with a slow nod, instinctively running his tongue over the bottom of his front tooth, which he’d chipped in a fall during a particularly drunken 4th of July party some years back. “I forget sometimes— Most people don’t even notice.”
“Well, I notice everything,” you quip.
“Hence the reason we still call you Professor—”
Ahem. Someone clears their throat from just behind you. The two of you turn in tandem to glance over your shoulders, where Jack looms like a storm cloud with his arms crossed over his chest. He wears an emotionless look on his scruffy face that would seem almost intimidating if you didn’t already know him so well. Maybe that’s why Nick cowers at the sight of him.
“Sorry to interrupt, guys,” Jack greets in a gritty monotone. “I’m just checking on my patient’s scans. Name’s Reeves.”
Nick swallows hard at the older man’s unwavering stare and turns to the order slips on the desk ahead of him. “Uh, yes— Reeves is still in the wet read, but I’ll come get you when they’re done, Dr. Abbot.”
“Sounds good,” the man hums with a slow nod, warm and cordial again in a flicker. His light eyes flit back to yours as he says, “Dr. Al-Hashimi wants to talk to you about your patient. Adebayo.”
“Dr. Al?” you echo, but rise from your chair despite yourself. You don’t think twice about it as you follow the man’s footsteps across the station. “I took the case from Robby. Why would Dr. Al wanna—”
“She doesn’t,” Jack answers without looking at you, when Dr. Barker is finally out of earshot. “I just didn’t like what I was looking at back there.”
You slow to a stop in front of the chart rack, where Jack pretends to survey the list of patients there. Your eyes narrow into a challenging squint. “I thought you said you weren’t jealous, Dr. Abbot.”
“Well, in my defense, I’d be a lot cooler about it if I didn’t know the two of you were literally engaged,” he whispers sharply, as if it’s some deeply held secret. “And if I didn’t know that the only reason you broke up with the poor guy was because he was too nice to you. I mean, what the hell does that say about us?”
“Us?” you scoff. “I didn’t know there was an us.”
“Of course, there’s an us,” he squints. “But if you broke off an engagement because he was too nice, what does that make me? An asshole?”
You look him up and down, smacking your lips against your teeth. “Kinda. Yeah.”
Jack’s frown deepens. “I usually find your tendency to deflect with humor incredibly hot, but unfortunately, I am trying to be serious right now.”
You huff and roll your eyes. “You’re nice, Jack. Obviously. But you’re also a little bit of an asshole— And you argue with me about stupid shit— And I wake up every day excited about what you’re gonna do to piss me off next—”
“Well…” he quips drily, despite the sudden flaring in his chest as he fights the urge to kiss you. “If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.”
“I’m not talking about love,” you retort in a monotone.
“Oh, yeah? Then what are you talking about?”
“I don’t know…” you trail off, narrowed eyes glimmering. “I’m still figuring that out…”
“Wanna figure it out tonight?” he wonders with a newfound grin, as smug as ever. “Over pasta and/or burgers? My treat?”
“You’re still on that?” you deadpan.
“Yep,” he nods, popping the p. “And I promise to start an argument with you over something meaningless if it’ll make you wanna come with me.”
“…Fine,” you roll your eyes, and poke him in the chest as you tell him, “But we’re ordering takeout. Pasta. At my place.”
“My place,” Jack corrects with a pair of squinted eyes.
“It’s your day off, Jack, and I’m the one who has work in the morning,” you argue. “And if we eat at your place, that means I can’t stay over, and last I heard, you were supposed to be making it worth my while, Dr. Abbot.”
“Touche…” he nods slowly with a sly smirk. “Well played, Professor.”
You shake your head and smile as you turn on your heel and walk down the adjacent hall. He never takes his eyes off of you — not even when Robby appears at his side to return a clipboard to the rack.
“She really keeps you on your toes, huh?” the older man murmurs.
“You don’t know the half of it, brother…” Jack mumbles lowly. “No way that Barker kid knew what he was doing with her…”
