|| rabbot x reader || smut mdni 18+, pwp, not a single lick of plot here folks, pinv, anal, dirty talk, pet names, threesome, double penetration, creampie x2, slightly mean!robby and softdom!jack, fingers in mouth, teasing, boyfriends kissing, praise, just silly girly things ||
a/n: heavily unedited, word vom, a little spank bank idea I had today and had to deliver to you
wc: 1.7k
"please—"
it wasn't the first time you'd begged. you'd begged for many, many things in this same position, truth be told. robby behind you, jack below. both of their cocks splitting you open. jack was thick, just like the rest of him—thick fingered, thick bodied, thick cock throbbing and twitching where it stuffed your pussy. robby, on the other hand—long and curved up to the right—enjoyed fucking you in your tight puckered muscle, making you whine and squirm beneath him.
robby laid down over you, crushing you further into jack's chest, who moaned with you at the change in angle. robby’s breath was hot against your ear, his lips pressed into the shell.
"please what, baby? hmmmm?" he groaned, his voice hoarse and cracked, his chest wiry with hair against your slick back.
you brought your hand up to fist in his hair, holding on tight as he pulled his length from you almost to the very tip before thrusting slowly back in.
"oh my god," you heard jack curse, his hands tightening at your hips, his mouth opening in a gasp.
both of them were to the right of you—your face laid down on jack's collarbone, robby's chin hooked over your right shoulder. they were so close. breathing one another's air, enough that you could feel jack’s breath leave him and robby’s cheek shift against the side of your head when he opened his mouth to kiss the crest of your shoulder.
you tightened your grip in the latter's hair.
"wanna see you kisssss—"
jack let out a breathless little laugh, robby chuckling into your shoulder.
"baby, we talked about this—" jack said, his voice hardly more than breath, his chest heaving under yours.
"—but it would be so hottttt," you whined.
robby ignored you. "how's she feel, brother?"
jack's head tipped back into the pillow beneath him, and you watched the rough scruff of his unshaved neck shift as his adam's apple glided up and down, swallowing around the broken gasp he pulled in.
"so god damn good—go a little harder, she squeezes me so fucking tight when you really give it to her, mike."
you barely had time to register the gleam in robby's eyes before he was swinging his hips back again, this time thrusting hard against you, his skin slapping hard, balls clapping right above where jack's cock was buried deep inside.
you squealed and jack groaned loudly. your hand hung on tighter to robby's hair, your other hand digging into jack's shoulder beside your head.
"ohhhh fuck—" you mewled. "so—so deep, robby, oh god—"
"she sounds so pretty when she makes those little noises," jack strained to say, turning to kiss you on the nose. "huh, honey? robby's dick feel good like that? yeah? gimme a kiss."
you tilted your chin, pushing into his lips lazily, your tongue reaching out to lick at his, wet muscles sliding together. when you began to drool out the side of your lips, you brought robby's head down closer, resting your cheek back to jack's chest.
"your turn—" you murmured sleepily, your brain fucked out of any logic.
nothing passed through you but the ecstasy of having these two men and being sandwiched between them and their weight pressing in around you. jack began jerking his hips up into you, making you hiccup and whine, his thrusts getting erratic, his breath heavier.
robby's cock pushed deeper into you too, the pressure of both of them at the same time making you feel so content, so full, so cock drunk.
"please, please," you chanted. "wanna see you kiss so badly—"
"she really does beg so cute, doesn't she?" robby murmured, kissing your shoulder.
"yeah—" the other breathed, a light groan strangling the word as both of them slid in and out of you in tandem—full of jack's cock, then robby's, empty. then again, both of them filing you at the same time. the rhythm made your jaw go slack, your thoughts thinning. it felt so right, with jack below you, robby behind you, both of them too big, too hot, too much. still, you wanted more. wanted this so badly the need burned behind your eyes.
"like this—" you said, ignoring their cooing, and you craned your neck, pressing a chaste kiss to robby's lips.
it was hardly a second, your brain too foggy to make it anything more.
"that's it, huh? that's what you want, honey?" robby murmured, voice even hoarser with mirth as he smiled at you.
"yesss!" you whined, kicking your feet into the bed beneath.
"not good enough to have both of us, huh?" he teased. "such a needy little girl."
"be nice, mike—" jack moaned. "she's a good girl."
his praise always effected you—making you flutter around him, and you knew he could feel it, even with the increased fulless from robby deep inside you with him. he cracked a little knowing smile between moans.
"oh, i know she's a good girl, brother," robby said, and his mouth dragged over the back of your shoulder. "no doubt about it. but we've spoiled her. she thinks she can have whatever she wants."
you pouted, the prick of tears in your eyes not from him denying you, but from the utter fullness of their cocks punching in and out of you. from the easy back and forth of them—robby pretending there wasn’t a soft spot in him you could reach with the simplest look. and jack caught it every time and teased him for it.
"enough talking—" jack cursed. "fuck, fuck, she's tightening up on me— think she's gonna come, mike, oh god—"
"please—" you moaned louder, thrashing a little bit out of frustration.
"fuck it—" robby growled.
he leaned down and placed a kiss on the corner of jack's mouth.
they didn't stop entirely when robby pulled his lips away from jack's. their thrusts only softened into shallow rocks, jack's hands tightening on your skin, both his and robby's throbbing lengths still pressed deep enough inside you that every quiet breath made you feel the stretch of both of them. you held yours without meaning to—waiting, feeling both of them still around you.
robby's chest pressed heavier against your back as he breathed through his nose. you felt jack's beneath you, his ribs expanding, pressing against your breasts.
"yes," you whispered, though not wanting to rush them. your mouth brushed jack's skin when you said it, soft against the damp hollow below his collarbone. "more."
"you're right—" jack huffed a little laugh that shook his chest on the way out. "she really is needy."
robby smiled, as if grateful for the lightness, "told y—"
but he couldn't say anything else, because jack's lips were suddenly on his.
a deep, harmonized groan passed between the two of them, and it did something terrible to you. your stomach dropped, your hips jerked. even a little lick of jealousy flamed in you, warming your skin, but they looked good together. so good. exactly as you pictured it. it made you moan and writhe to see their mouths slot against one another, lips parting, tongues sliding, jack's stubbled jaw working under the rough scrape of robby's beard.
"oh my god," you whispered.
when they paused their kissing, a string of spit connected them, shiny and wet.
"d'you feel that?" robby whispered.
"yeah," jack answered, his one hand squeezing your hip while the other came up to robby's hair along with yours. "her pussy is gripping me like a vice—"
"yeah, she really tightened up—fuck, c'mere."
robby's hand went up to jack's hair too, fisting in the messy graying curls. jack's mouth fell open in a guttural groan, and robby's other hand came to the nape of your neck in answer. he pulled you into himself harshly, his tongue sliding against yours as your mouths met.
it was slick and wet and lewd, and just when you began to moan in earnest, their thrusts picked up again. harder now, less patient. jack fucking up into you from beneath, robby driving into you from behind, the bed frame knocking against the wall harshly again and again.
then you felt a second tongue at the corner of your mouth.
you pulled back only enough to welcome it—jack's tongue sliding against yours, robby's flicking against the two of you together.
the room filled with louder moans and the thick slap of skin, the wet drag of mouths, jack's rough little curses disappearing against your lips. robby's hand stayed tight at the back of your neck, holding you there for it, making you take the kiss you had begged for. you gushed around them, pussy fluttering and convulsing in pleasure.
"come for us, baby," robby whispered between kisses. "come for jackie. he wants you to come all over his big cock."
jack groaned under you, his hips jerking up harder, his member punching even deeper.
"I wanna feel it too," robby said. "c'mon now, gave you what you wanted. now I get to feel this perfect little ass take my come."
"just wanted your boyfriends to kiss, huh, baby?" jack cooed, his hand moving up to grip your face, forefinger and thumb squeezing your cheeks. his thumb hooked into the tender hinge of your lips, sliding along your molars to pry your mouth open wider for the two of them.
you cried out around his salty skin, and he pouted in mock pity as he looked at you.
"come on my cock, baby," jack moaned, leaning in to keep licking and nipping at your lips. "know you wanna, come on my cock now—gonna fill you up so good, mmmm—"
"i'm—i'm—i'm coming—oh, god, oh god—"
"yeah, that's it, that's it—oh fuckkk—" robby groaned, his thrusts slamming harder, turning erratic before he froze up, jaw unhinging, breathing hotly against wanton mouth.
jack's opened too, in shock, in awe, and when you looked at him you saw his eyes go wide before they rolled back behind his eyelids.
your orgasm ripped through you, a heady pressure down your spine and tightening your hips, making your legs lock up before it crested you like an ocean wave swelling and crashing. your hand clenched in robby's hair as your mouth fell open around jack's thumb. both of them groaned in tandem, trapping you between them, both buried deep while your body squeezed down, making jack curse and robby bare his teeth.
as the euphoria eased and your body went loose with the oxytocin flooding your blood, the three of you kept kissing—gentle little nips, soft flicks of tongue, spit sliding and glistening at the corners of your mouths, collecting where lips met and parted. jack retreated his thumb from your mouth to gently pet at your cheek, and they let you have as much as you wanted, just like always. spoiled thing, they'd tell you again afterwards, while they washed your hair in the bath and cleaned you up.
but for now, you kissed them as your eyes grew heavier and heavier, your breathing deepening against jack's chest. robby's weight behind you felt heavy and comforting, tucked between two men, utterly spent and completely content.
wrote this at 8pm posted at 9:30pm so please ignore any typos or mistakes lol my horny lil mind couldn't be stopped
warnings! smut fingering public sex unprotected sex (don’t be silly wrap that Willy) they almost get caught uh basic sex warnings idk im still new to this stuff lolsies ignore any typos and stuff lol sorry if it’s cringe yall
The heavy velvet curtains of the private opera box muffled the soaring soprano on stage.Inside the shadows the atmosphere was thick with much more wicked tension. Lestat sat beside you,with his ice cold fingers tracing slow agonizing circles on your bare knee.Beneath the folds of your silk gown. His icy blue eyes gleamed with a predatory hunger that had nothing to do with blood and everything to do with the breathless gasp you had been holding since the first act.
“You are radiant tonight my love far more captivating than anything on that stage” he whispered,his lips brushing the sensitive skin just below your ear.His hand slid higher up your thigh,bunched up silk yielding easily to his relentless,intoxicating touch.You trembled actually aware of the hundreds of Parisian aristocrats sitting just beyond the thin partition of your box.
With a low amused chuckle,Lestat shifted, pulling you onto his lap so that you straddled his clad thighs. The stark contrast of his cold hands against your flushed skin made you shiver.With your fingers knotting into the lapels of his velvet evening jacket.He looked up to you with a devastating fanged smile.Completely unbothered by the sheer audacity of what he was about to do.
Before you could voice a single protest,his found your center already slick,and aching for him. A sharp needy moan escaped your lips,Instantly swallowed by the booming crescendo of the orchestra below. Lestat groaned against your neck,his thumb applying a firm rhythmic pressure that had your hips titling instinctively into his palm.
Suddenly the heavy brass latch of the box door rattled violently, the sound cutting through your pleasure like a knife. You froze, your heart hammering against your ribs as footsteps paused just outside in the dimly lit corridor. Lestat merely smiled, his eyes darkening with thrill as he held you tightly against his chest, refusing to let you pull away.
"Regardez, I told you the latch was sticky on this side," a disgruntled usher muttered to a patron right outside the door. You buried your face in Lestat’s shoulder to muffle a whimper, your body shaking as the handle turned halfway before the voices finally drifted down the hall. Lestat let out a soft, melodic laugh, entirely aroused by the brush with exposure.
"See? We are perfectly safe, ma chérie," he murmured, his voice a velvety purr that vibrated against your collarbone. Without further delay, he unfastened his trousers, his thick, rigid length pressing demandingly against your aching warmth. You lifted your hips, guiding him to your entrance, crying out softly as he buried himself inside you with one smooth, deep thrust.
The sheer fullness of him stole your breath away.Stretching you completely as he held you pinned to his hips.He remained still for a heartbeat,letting you adjust to his massive size while his fangs gently grazed against your pulse point. Then, with a wicked gleam in his eyes, he began to move, lifting you up and dropping you back down onto him.
The friction was agonizingly perfect, a primal rhythm that threatened to shatter your resolve to stay quiet. Every time you tried to hold back your voice, Lestat would drive deeper, intentionally forcing sweet, breathless whimpers from your lips. The music downstairs swelled, providing a dramatic soundtrack to the shameless, desperate rhythm of your bodies joining in the dark.
Just as you were losing yourself to the mounting waves of pleasure, a shadow fell across the frosted glass pane of the box door. Shadows of two aristocratic women stopped directly outside, their fan-fluttering gossip loud enough to pierce through the operatic aria. You gasped, clamping your muscles tightly around Lestat’s length in sheer panic, which only made him groan in exquisite agony.
"I hear the Countess is wearing imported diamonds tonight," one woman chirped, her shadow leaning precariously close to the doorframe. Lestat froze mid-thrust, his hands gripping your hips so hard they would leave bruises, his jaw clenched as he fought to keep from driving into you again. You held your breath, a single tear of pure, frustrated stimulation slipping down your cheek until the women finally ambled away.
The moment the shadows cleared, Lestat let out a ragged breath and resumed his assault with an unleashed, feral intensity. He rocked his hips upward fiercely, meeting every downward sink of your body with punishing, deep strokes that had your head rolling back. The risk of being caught seemed to have stripped away his usual aristocratic restraint, leaving only a desperate vampire intent on consuming you.
You were entirely at his mercy, tossed on the waves of an orgasm that was rapidly building at the base of your spine. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, your toes curling inside your silk shoes as the friction reached a fever pitch. Lestat’s breathing was just as ruined as yours, his chest heaving as he pulled you flush against him, drinking in your erratic heartbeats. With the slight fear of getting caught
The opera was nearing its grand finale ,so were you as well.The brass section blaring and the chorus rising in a unified, thunderous roar. Sensing the end was near, Lestat picked up the pace, his thrusts becoming faster, shallower, and incredibly intense. You could feel the explosive climax hovering just out of reach, your body wound as tight as a coiled spring.
Right at that pinnacle moment, the door to the box actually clicked open, swinging inward a few inches to reveal the bright light of the corridor. A young nobleman stood there, blinking into the darkness of the box as he looked for his misplaced opera glasses. Your eyes went wide in absolute horror, your entire body locking up as you stared directly at the intruder through the crack.
With supernatural speed, Lestat threw his heavy, velvet cloak over both of your bodies, completely shielding your tangled, naked forms from view. "This box is occupied, monsieur," Lestat snapped, his voice dripping with such icy, lethal authority that the young man visibly paled. The nobleman stammered a hasty apology, slamming the door shut and retreating down the hall in a mad rush.
The sheer adrenaline of the near-miss snapped the last cords of your control, sending you cascading over the edge into a violent, shattering orgasm. You clamped down around him in tight, rhythmic waves, your face buried in his cloak as you shook with the force of your release. Lestat let out a low, guttural roar, his own control breaking as he delivered three final, devastating thrusts.
He filled you completely, his hot release pooling inside you as he pulsed deep within your body, his fangs sinking just deep enough into your neck to mark you without drawing heavy blood. The sensation was overwhelming, a perfect blend of pleasure, pain, and the residual thrill of danger. You both clung to each other in the dark, chests heaving, as the audience downstairs erupted into a deafening round of applause.
Slowly, Lestat withdrew from you, his fingers gently wiping away the sweat clung to your forehead as he helped you adjust your ruined clothing. He smoothed down the silk of your gown and fastened his own attire, his composure returning with a terrifyingly beautiful ease. By the time the house lights began to flicker back on, he looked every bit the perfect, untouched gentleman.
"A magnificent performance, wouldn't you agree?" Lestat purred, offering you a pristine linen handkerchief to clean yourself. You could only nod weakly, your legs still trembling as he pressed a tender, lingering kiss to your knuckles. Stepping out into the crowded corridor, no one could have guessed the scandalous sins you had just committed in the dark.
okay that’s it yall I’m still new to this so my ass writes on the notes app then copies and pastes but who else should I write for I like Yellowjackets iwtv the pitt twin peaks lost dc and uhh yeah but hope u enjoy!!!
warnings:period sex p in v uh idk what else this is my first time writing smut or a fanfic
He lifted you effortlessly, setting you down on the edge of the cluttered makeup vanity while lipsticks and brushes clattered to the floor around you. His cool hands slid up your thighs, bunching your skirt up around your waist with an impatient, possessive hunger that made you gasp. You tried to warn him again, but he silenced you by pressing his mouth to yours, tasting like expensive wine. The contrast of his icy skin against the sudden, throbbing warmth between your legs. His touch made your head roll back against the lit mirror. Lestat groaned against your neck, his fingers deftly finding their way past your underwear to discover just how slick and ready you already were for him. He whispered wicked praises into your skin, completely unfazed by the crimson staining his pale fingers as he began to stroke you.
Your hands tangled in his thick, blonde curls, pulling him closer as a desperate whimpering sound escaped the back of your throat. Lestat’s thumb found your sensitive center, moving in rhythmic, heavy circles that drove you closer to the edge with agonizing slowness. He watched your face intently, drinking in the sight of your flushed cheeks and hooded eyes as you succumbed to the pleasure he was mapping out. The feral nature of his vampire instincts seemed to thrive on the metallic scent in the air, heightening his arousal to a fever pitch. He suddenly leaned down, his tongue replacing his fingers, lapping at you with a fierce, shameless devotion that left you completely shattered. You arched your back, riding the intense waves of your climax while he held your hips firmly in place against the vanity.
When the tremors finally began to subside, Lestat looked up at you with dark, blown out pupils and a smeared crimson grin that should have been terrifying but was utterly intoxicating. He didn't pull away; instead, he parted your legs further and unbuttoned his leather pants with a sharp, metallic click. The thick, rigid length of him pressed against your aching entrance, teasing you for a agonizing second before he pushed inside with one deep, possessive thrust. You cried out at the sudden fullness, your walls clamping down tight around him as he began to move in a slow, punishing rhythm. Every slide of his hips felt incredibly slick and intensely friction-filled, amplified by the natural heat of your cycle. He buried his face in the crook of your shoulder, his breath coming in ragged pants as he drove himself deeper with every frantic push.
The rockstar persona completely vanished, leaving only a hungry beast who wanted nothing more than to claim every single part of you in the dark. Lestat’s pace quickened into a breathless, bruising momentum that had the heavy vanity mirrors rattling against the wall behind you. You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist, locking him in as the friction built toward a second, even more violent crescendo. He let out a low, rumbling growl, his fangs scraping lightly against your collarbone as he felt your muscles squeeze him in another impending release. The sheer intensity of the pleasure broke through his legendary vampire control, sending him over the edge right along with you. He gave a final, desperate thrust, holding you tightly against his chest as his own climax tore through his immortal frame.
Afterward, the dressing room was completely silent save for the sound of your mingled, heavy breathing echoing off the walls. Lestat gently pulled out of you, kissing your bruised lips with a tenderness that contrast sharply with the wild passion from moments before. He used a damp silk towel to lovingly clean the messy mixture of love and life from your thighs and his own pale skin. With a soft chuckle, he pulled your underwear back up and adjusted his clothes before lifting you into his lap on the sofa. You rested your head against his chest, listening to the unnatural stillness of his heart while his cool fingers stroked your hair. As the distant cleanup crew began dismantling the stage outside, you fell asleep wrapped securely in the arms of your vampire rockstar.
In which Dennis Whitaker offers to help you fix something at your house, and oh, you must pay him back somehow.
Dennis Whitaker x femreader!
Readers a rad tech. City girl reader. NSW. Oral (m&f) unprotected P in V. A bit of rough Whitaker (i headcanon he doesn’t know he’s strength sometimes lol) bit of inexperience Whitaker. Feral reader. Bit of breeding if you squint. Dennis likes to bite.
word count: 6k
First time writing smut so please be nice
Morning filtered in through the blinds in thin, honeyed lines, striping the small apartment in soft gold.
The place had that that lived-in feel, trinity’s hoodie draped over a chair, Dennis’s boots abandoned by the door, maybe a sock somewhere in the living room. It was the quiet hum of a space that had seen a plenty of ordinary mornings just like this one.
Dennis was by the door, shrugging into his jacket, keys already looped around his fingers, halfway out before he’d even technically left.
From the kitchen, Trinity didn’t even pretend to be subtle as she watched him, leaning against the counter, in her robs, mug in hand.
“Oh, wow,” she drew out slowly, head tilting as her gaze dragged over him, amused and a little too pleased with herself. “Look at you.”
Dennis didn’t look up. “What.”
She took a slow sip of her coffee,“Nothing, nothing… just you actually made an effort today.”
That made him, slightly confused and smartly wary, glance at her and for her her grin to widened.
“God, you even put cologne on,” she added, like she’d just uncovered something incriminating. “Can smell it from here.”
Dennis frowned faintly, like he hadn’t even realized. “I always use it”
Trinity gave him a look so disbelieving it was almost theatrical.
“No, you wear whatever deodorant survived the week and call it a day. This…” she waved vaguely in his direction. “is effort.”
He looked down at himself like maybe his clothes had betrayed him somehow. “It’s not effort.”
“Right,” she said dryly. “And I’m the patron saint of minding my own business.”
Dennis let out a quiet breathy laugh through his nose and reached for the coffee mug he’d left on the counter, taking a swallow mostly so he wouldn’t say anything stupid.
Unfortunately for him, Trinity Santos loved silence for the reason being, that it gave her room.
She pushed off the counter and went to pour herself more coffee,“So what exactly is broken over there?”
He shrugged and set the mug down. “Her sink, I think, she said the water’s not coming out right.”
“And of course,” she said, voice laced with mock admiration, “you became Katniss Everdeen.”
Dennis rolled his eyes, catching the reference. “Don’t start.”
“‘Don’t start,’” she mocked, “You mean the super hot rad tech who just happened to need help and you just happened to volunteer?”
“It’s just a broken thing.” he waved a hand, already wishing he hadn’t said anything at all.
“A thing,” Trinity echoed, nodding like that explained everything. “Got it.”
“Yeah, her sink.” He turned away from her, moving to rinse out his mug with a little more focus than necessary.
Her expression softened into something far too sweet, dangerously sweet. “And tell me, Huckleberry, you heading over there to fix her plumbing… or are you planning to service her pipes?”
He grimaced, a faint flush creeping up his neck despite himself, at the thought. “Seriously?”
“What?” Trinity let out a quiet laugh,“You practically set that one up yourself, and don’t act like the thought hasn’t crossed your mind. Because it definitely would’ve crossed mine.”
Dennis didn’t reply, mostly because he couldn’t, there wasn’t much he could say without giving himself away. The truth was, it had crossed his mind, more than once, different scenarios, different angles… more than he’d ever admit out loud, but he shut it down just as quickly every time.
For one, he’d been raised better than that and for another… it wasn’t something that would ever, in this god green earth, actually happen.
You were friends, that was what mattered.
Sure, maybe he had an itty bitty crush on you, small enough that he could almost lie to himself about it, but then again, who didn’t? Half the people in the Pitt would’ve lined up for a chance, and with the amount of options you had, with the way you could pretty much take your pick of anyone there, there was no world where it’d be him.
He just turned away, opening the cupboard to put his mug back while behind him, Santos kept going, because of course she did.
“You know, I’ve gotta say… I’m a little surprised.”
He nudged the cupboard shut, the wood clicking softly. “Yeah? About what?”
“I just figured if you weren’t on shift, you’d be back at that widow’s farm.” She gave a small shrug as she reached for the loaf of bread.
That made him slightly pause.
“I go out there to help Amy,” he said, turning toward her, the explanation coming out smooth, rehearsed from overuse. “You know that.”
“Mm,” Trinity hummed, like she wasn’t entirely convinced. “And now you’re helping Y/N. At her place, on your day off. Bright and early.”
Dennis exhaled quietly through his nose, like he could already see where this was going.
“It’s just a favor.”
“Just nice to see you branching out beyond farmerettes, Huckleberry.” Trinity said easily, not even looking up as she dragged a knifefull of butter across her toast
He shot her a look. “What does that even mean?”
She kept spreading the butter, a small, knowing smirk tugging at her mouth. “Means you’re diversifying your… charitable efforts.”
Dennis huffed, shaking his head as he reached for his jacket, tugging it on like he could physically remove himself from the conversation faster.
“I’ll be there, like, twenty minutes.”
“Right, right…” Trinity nodded, finally glancing up at him. “So should I expect you back before lunch, or are you planning to vanish into some kind of rendezvous bliss?”
“…you’re disgusting. Goodbye.” He grabbed his keys, already backing toward the door.
“Drive safe!” she called after him, completely ignoring that. “And take your time, no need to rush quality work.”
The door shut a second later.
Trinity chuckled and took another bite of her toast, pleased as anything.
“Oh, that boy is so not coming back soon.”
And for once, it wasn’t just her running her mouth for the sake of it.
She knew you well enough to remember the way you’d sit next to her as she wrote up some charts, a few weeks back, arms crossed, trying to sound casual while bringing him up.
“He’s just… nice,” you’d gone on, almost against your own will now at where Whitaker was with a patient, eyes narrowing slightly in thought. “Bit quiet, doesn’t get in your business, and he’s got that whole… farm boy thing going on and, I mean have you seen his hands? Gawd almighty, Santos, they’re rough, but not in a bad way, like he could fix anything, or...” you cut yourself off, but not before your mouth curved just slightly, “yknow, hold you down without even trying.”
All Trinity could do was stare at you as if you’ve grown a third head and started speaking in tongues “Ew”
“Doesn’t talk too much, but he listens, like he’s actually paying attention to you, doesn’t need to be loud about anything.” You’d tilted your head slightly then, like you were studying something only you could see. “…and there’s something about that whole rural thing.”
You were circling an idea, turning it over, testing it, considering it, a predator deciding if something was worth the chase.
“Right,” Trinity said slowly. “So what I’m hearing is you want to climb him like a tree.”
Boy, did you.
And now he was in your house, which somehow made all of it worse or better, mostly worse but definitely better.
Dennis had shown up not with your coffee order already in hand, your coffee order, exactly right, because months back you’d mentioned it once in passing and apparently he was the sort of man who just… remembered things like that.
He’d stood there at your door looking unfairly good in a plain shirt and jeans, holding the cup tray, all casual like this was no big deal.
As though he hadn’t just arrived armed with caffeine, competence, and that quietly helpful thing he did that made you want to see him shirtless and pantless.
You had insisted, no, flat-out refused to let him touch anything, until he ate something first.
“Sit,” you’d told him, already pushing a plate toward him.
“I’m here to fix your—”
“And you will,” you cut in, already halfway to the counter, “after you eat. I didn’t wake up early and bake for it to just sit there looking pretty.”
He’d tried to protest again, of course, a quiet, half-hearted “I’m fine, really—” that didn’t stand a chance against the look you gave him.
So he sat, and when he took that first bite of the jam spread croissant, and the sound he made, something almost like a groan slipping out before he could stop it, hit you straight to your core.
“Jesus,” he’d muttered, more to himself than to you, glancing down at it like he didn’t quite trust it. “That’s—”
“Good?” you’d offered.
He looked up at you then, with those big, sad, oh so tempting blue eyes.
“Yeah, really good.”
You had to physically turn away under the excuse of grabbing a napkin because otherwise you might’ve jump him right there.
Now, he was on his back under your sink, which in hindsight, that had been the easy part, because now, he was on his back under your sink.
You leaned against the counter, arms loosely crossed, trying to look like you weren’t actively losing your mind.
He shifted slightly beneath the cabinet, one arm braced, the other working at something you couldn’t see.
“You’ve definitely got a clog in here,” he said, voice a little muffled. “Probably buildup.”
“Makes sense,” you replied automatically but had no idea what he was talking about because your attention was… elsewhere.
His shirt had ridden up to show a strip of skin at his stomach, the light dusting of hair, the way his jeans sat low on his hips as he shifted to reach further in, by the time you noticed the veins, you were shamelessly wet.
Your gaze traced details you absolutely had no business cataloguing, like the flex in his arm, the quiet strength in the way he worked.
Sooner rather than later, much to your disappointment, he was done.
There was a final twist of something under the sink, and then he shifted, sliding out from beneath the cabinet and pushing himself up in one smooth motion.
You had exactly half a second to compose yourself.
He turned the faucet on, letting the water run and watching it drain properly, then he glanced at you, a small, satisfied smile tugging at his mouth as he stepped back and gestured toward it.
“All good. You’re set, my lady.”
You couldn’t help it, you smiled back, a soft little laugh slipping out of you. What a geek.
“Thank you, Dennis…”
He shrugged it off like it was nothing, wiping his hands on a rag. “Yeah, no problem.” after a beat, he added, a little more earnest, “I mean it—if you need anything else, just let me know.”
That was the opening you needed.
You hesitated for half a second, just enough to make it seem natural and said, glancing toward the living room like the idea had just occurred to you. “Well… since you’re already here…”
He followed your gaze, brows lifting slightly. “Yeah?”
“Do you think you could help me set up my TV stand? I’ve been trying, but—” you let out a small breath, gesturing vaguely, “—it’s just not happening.”
Dennis huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head a little like he’d expected something like this.
“Yeah, I can take a look.”
“Thank you,” you said, already stepping back to give him space, gesturing for him to follow. “It’s in here.”
You led him into the living room, where the box and scattered parts sat waiting.
“Okay, I got… this far.”you said, pointing at the half-assembled stand.
Dennis took one look at it and huffed a quiet laugh under his breath.
“Yeah,” he said, setting his toolbox down, already crouching beside it. “I can see the problem.”
You crossed your arms, mock-offended, though there was a hint of embarrassment tucked into it. “Hey, I followed the instructions.”
“I’m sure you did,” he said, glancing up at you, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “They just didn’t do you any favors, huh?”
You huffed a small laugh despite yourself. “Not even a little.”
He shook his head, reaching for a piece, turning it over in his hands with that same easy focus he’d had in the kitchen.
“Alright, let’s fix it.” he said easy, looking over at you with a grin.
And God, you had to physically stop yourself from biting your lip.
It should not have been this attractive, the whole capable-man-putting-things-together thing, and yet here you were, standing in your own living room trying not to stare at his hands again.
He worked with this quiet, steady focus, the same one he has at the hospital, like everything else fell away when he was doing something with purpose.
You were faintly aware he was talking, something about which piece went where, or why you thought the instructions were “backwards” but it all blurred into background noise.
“Yeah,” you murmured at one point.
“Mhm,” at another.
Not a single coherent thought behind it because all you could really register was;
I'm going to fuck his brains out.
You gazed as he leaned forward slightly, muscles in his forearms tightening as he adjusted something into place, voice dropping as he muttered under his breath, focused.
There was a faint sheen of sweat starting to gather at his temples, just enough to darken the edges of his hair where it curled slightly at the nape of his nec—
“Alright,” he said, giving the stand a small test push to make sure it was steady. “That should do it.”
You blinked, having been snapped out of your sightseeing.
“Oh—already?” you said, a little too quick.
He glanced at you, faintly amused. “Yeah. Wasn’t too bad.”
Course he made it look easy.
Then he stepped over toward the TV without hesitation, hands settling at either side like he’d done this a hundred times before and with one smooth motion, he lifted it and turned, placing it carefully onto the stand.
Your attention shifted to his back.
The stretch of his shirt across his shoulders, the way the fabric pulled just slightly with the movement, the subtle shift of muscle underneath as he adjusted the TV into place, making sure it sat just right.
You exhaled slowly, trying very hard to act like you were not noticing any of that.
“Good?” he asked, stepping back slightly, eyes flicking toward you.
You blinked again, dragging your gaze up to his face like you hadn’t just been staring.
“Yeah, yeah, that’s perfect,” you said, a small grin slipping through despite yourself as you gestured beside you. “Come take a look yourself.”
Dennis stepped closer, brushing past you just enough that you caught the faint scent of his cologne again. He leaned in slightly, eyes scanning the TV, checking the alignment, one hand coming up to adjust it just a fraction.
He nodded after a second, satisfied. “That should hold just fine.”
“Yeah… looks so good,” you nodded, though your attention wasn’t really on the TV anymore.
Neither of you moved right away, until he stepped back first, putting just enough space between you to make it noticeable. He cleared his throat lightly, like he was shaking something off.
You frowned a little, tilting your head as you looked up at him, something softer slipping into your expression. “Thank you, Dennis. Really, I don’t know what I would’ve done.”
He chuckled under his breath, one hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck, the other resting on his hip, just a little awkward now in a way he hadn’t been before.
“You would’ve figured it out,” he said easily, though there was a hint of something warmer in his tone. “Or called someone who charges way too much for it.”
You huffed a small laugh, but kept your eyes on him . “Yeah, well… I’m glad I didn’t.”
“Anytime." He nodded once, almost to himself.
You shifted your weight, turning to face him properly, a small smile playing on your lips. “I’ll have to repay you somehow.”
His brows lifted slightly, the corner of his mouth tugging just enough to make you wetter than ever. He still looked a little unaware of the full effect he was having on you, which, honestly, only made him more delicious.
“You already fed me,” he said with a grin, like that should settle it.
You shook your head slowly and took a small step toward him.“That doesn’t count.”
Dennis blinked, grin slowly fading, a little thrown now, like he hadn’t expected you to push back. “No?”
“No,” you repeated, holding his gaze now, a bit more seductively than before. “That was just me being a good host.”
For a second, he didn’t say anything and just looked at you.
It was subtle, but you saw the moment he processed what you were trying to do, the shift in his expression, the way his attention sharpened and he straightened, like he was finally catching up to something that had been there for a while now.
“Oh,” he said after a beat, quiet.
You smirked lightly at that and took another step, now in his personal space.
“How about dinner?” you said, voice easy but edged with something a little more deliberate now. “We can start with dessert, if you want.”
Dennis flushed and let out a soft breath through his nose, one hand settling at his hip while the other flexed once at his side, like he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with it.
“You— er you don’t gotta repay me,” he said, though his voice had gone lower now, less certain than before. “Wasn’t a big deal.”
You stepped in closer, up onto your tiptoes, just enough to close the space between you, your voice dropping to something lustful and meant only for him.
“Maybe not to you.”
He stilled and you shifted just slightly, your hand lifting, a single finger brushing under his chin, guiding his gaze back to yours, lips hovered just a breath away from his.
“So? Do you want dessert?” you murmured, barely above a whisper.
Dennis’s blue eyes dropped to your lips for a second, then back to your eyes. He swallowed, visibly, and when he answered it came out low and a little rougher than before.
“Yeah.”
A small, satisfied grin tugged at your mouth.
“Good,” you whispered, letting your lips barely brush his, enough to feel the warmth of him, enough to make him tremble. “I’d have felt terrible if I couldn’t show you just how appreciative I am.”
Your lips where on his.
A shudder ran through Dennis's entire body, a full-body tremor of pure shock and want. He was holding his breath, you realized, his whole body coiled with a tension that was equal parts nerves and raw arousal.
You took control instantly, your mouth moving against his with practiced ease, tongue tracing the seam of his lips, coaxing him to open up, to relax. He followed your lead blindly, a soft, choked sound escaping his throat as you deepened the kiss, teaching him with your tongue, showing him how to move, how to breathe and boy was he a fast learner, perhaps a bit too fast and eager.
It was like a desperate, clumsy energy took over, making him kiss you back with a force that was more enthusiasm than skill, his mouth moving against yours with an almost frantic need.
It was all tongue and teeth and pressure, a messy, hungry kiss that sent a thrill straight through you.
One hand flew up to cup the back of your head, pressing you to him, and the other hand, after a moment of awkward hovering, landed flat and awkward against your ribs.
You grinned against his lips, a silent, wicked acknowledgment of his fumbling earnestness.
Your own hand, which had been resting at the nape of his neck, slid down to find his, were they were still stiff against your ribs, radiating a nervous heat. You wrapped your fingers around his wrist, feeling the frantic pulse beating just beneath his skin.
He let out a sharp, shaky breath against your mouth as you began to move his hand slowly and deliberately, guiding his palm down the curve of your side, over the dip of your waist.
His touch was light, hesitant, but he didn't resist, and you pressed his hand lower, over the swell of your hip, until his fingers were splayed across the flesh of your ass.
A choked sound, half-gasp, half-groan, rumbled in his chest.
His fingers, which had been so uncertain moments before, suddenly dug in, gripping you with a desperate, possessive force that sent a jolt of electricity straight through you.
He pulled you even harder against him, and you could feel the thick, hard ridge of his cock straining against his jeans. The awkwardness was gone, replaced by a pure, instinctual need to claim.
You broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to see his face.
His eyes were blown wide, dark and glassy with lust, his mouth slightly pink and parted as he stared down at you. He looked utterly wrecked, and you'd barely even started.
"Breathe, Dennis," you murmured, a small, satisfied smirk playing on your mouth.
"Right," he breathed, the word barely audible. "Sorry."
"Don't be," you purred, nipping at his lower lip.
Your hand moved with a slow, deliberate confidence, sliding down the firm plane of his stomach and your fingers pressing directly against the hard ridge straining against the denim of his jeans.
Dennis's entire body went rigid, and a sharp, choked gasp was torn from his throat, his eyes squeezing shut, his mouth falling open in a silent 'o' of pure shock.
You smirked, your thumb pressing down, rubbing a slow, firm circle right over the head of his cock through the fabric, but this is not what you want to do now.
You gave him a chaste kiss before gently pushing against his chest making him stumbled back a step, eyes widening slightly in surprise before he caught himself, his legs hitting the edge of the couch.
He sat down heavily, his gaze locked on you, looking up with an expression that was a mixture of awe and pure, unadulterated hunger.
You stood looking at him like a predator admiring its prey, a slow, deliberate smirk spread across your hands moved as you slipped the dress off your shoulders.
The same dress you had absolutely not chosen with this exact outcome in mind. Not at all.
It fell away easily, pooling at your feet, and for a second you just stood there, letting him look.
His mouth fell slightly agape as he took you in, standing before him in nothing but your pretty lace panties. The flush on his neck and cheeks deepened to a dark red, his gaze roaming over your body like he was trying to memorize every single inch.
He shifted on the couch, his hands gripping his own thighs, knuckles white.
You took a step forward until you were standing directly between his spread knees and looked down at him.
"Comfortable?" you asked, your voice a low purr.
He could only manage a shaky nod, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.
"Good," you murmured, placing your hands on his shoulders and leaning down, bringing your face close to his, your breath ghosting over his lips. "Because the real dessert is about to be served."
In one fluid, graceful motion, you sank to your knees on the floor between his legs, which made his breath catch in his throat. He stared down at you, his eyes wide with a mixture of disbelief and raw, unfiltered lust.
With your eyes on him, your hands moved to his belt, the buckle clinking softly in the charged silence, you made quick work of it, then popped the button of his jeans.
His hips lifted instinctively, a desperate, needy motion, and you hooked your fingers into the waistband of his jeans and his boxers, pulling them both down in one smooth tug.
His cock sprang free, thick and hard and already leaking at the tip.
It was a beautiful thing, and the low, guttural groan that escaped Dennis's lips as the cool air hit him was music to your ears.
You looked up at him again, holding his gaze as you wrapped your hand around his hard, leaking cock. His eyes widened, his breath hitching in his throat as you began to stroke him slowly, your thumb smearing the bead of pre-come over the sensitive head. His hips jerked, a helpless, needy motion, and a low groan rumbled in his chest.
"This okay?" you asked, your voice a low, husky murmur.
He stared down at you with his mouth slightly parted and for a moment he seemed incapable of forming words, his mind completely consumed by the slow, deliberate movements of your hand.
He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.
"Y-yeah," he finally managed to choke out, the word a strangled, breathless sound. "Fuck, yes, more than okay."
A small, satisfied smirk tugged at your lips, your hand never ceasing its slow, torturous movements as you purred, "I'm just getting started."
You then leaned in, your breath ghosting over the head of his cock, and his entire body tensed, one of his hands gripping the edge of the couch so tightly his knuckles turned white, and the other was in your hair. You held his gaze, your eyes dark and full of promise, as you slowly, deliberately, swirled your tongue around the tip.
A choked sob of pleasure escaped his lips, his head falling back against the couch, his eyes squeezing shut. He was completely at your mercy.
"Fuck!" The word was torn from Dennis's throat, his entire body arching off the couch.
You set a punishing rhythm, your head bobbing, your tongue swirling around the sensitive underside of his shaft. You took him deep, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat, and you swallowed around him.
The sound he made was pure, unadulterated ecstasy, a choked sob of pleasure that vibrated through his entire body.
He was completely at your mercy, his experience no match for your expertise. You were in control, and you were going to make sure he never forgot this.
You gave him a few pumps with your hand while you suck on the tip, could feel him getting closer, the frantic twitching of his hips, the way his fingers tightened in your hair, his breaths were coming in short, sharp pants, and then he started begging, his voice a ragged, desperate mess.
"Wait— fuck... I need... I need—" he gasped, his hips bucking wildly. "Please..."
You pulled back, just enough to let him breathe, but your hand never stopped its firm, rhythmic stroking. You looked up at him, a wicked smirk on your face, a thin string of saliva connecting your swollen lips to the head of his cock.
"Yeah, baby? What do you need?" you purred, your voice husky.
He groaned, his head thrown back against the couch as he fought for coherence. His eyes, dark and wild, found yours, and he gritted out the one word he could manage. "You."
Your smirk widened because that was the answer you wanted.
You leaned in and gave him one last, hard suck, a final, teasing taste that made his whole body jolt, before you rose gracefully to your feet.
You stood over him like a goddess of sex and satisfaction, and looked down at the disheveled, beautiful man you had just unraveled.
"Pull them down for me," you commanded softly, your gaze dropping to the scrap of lace covering your pussy.
He nodded, his movements clumsy with renewed urgency. He leaned forward, his hands shaking slightly as they hooked into the waistband of your panties, but instead of just pulling them down, he surprised you as he pressed his lips to your stomach, then lower, trailing open-mouthed kisses down your hipbone, down your thigh, as he slowly, reverently, peeled the lace from your body.
Once they were down around your ankles, you expected to take control again, to push him back and show him what came next, but you didn't get the chance because to your utter shock, Dennis took charge.
A raw, primal instinct seemed to take over.
He grabbed one of your legs, his grip firm and swung it over his shoulder, and before you could even process the sudden shift in power, he dipped his head and buried his face between your thighs.
The first swipe of his tongue was clumsy, but it was electric. A sharp gasp escaped your lips, your hands flying to his shoulders to steady yourself.
Dennis was a man possessed, licking and sucking with a desperate, hungry enthusiasm that was both messy and utterly divine. He was plainly inexperienced, yes, but he was an eager participant, his movements becoming more confident, more targeted, as he listened to the sounds you made, as he felt the way your body responded.
Your fingers tangled in the messy strands of his hair to hold him closer, nails scraping lightly against his scalp as a soft, breathless whimper slipped past your lips when he found a spot that made your knees shake.
His grip on your hips tightened, knuckles white with the effort of keeping you steady as he lost himself in the taste of you, his low moans vibrating against your skin in a way that sent shivers down your spine made your head fall back.
Dennis pulled back for a split second, lips glistening, eyes dark with hunger and a flicker of uncertainty.
"Am doing this right… right?" He panted, voice rough with need as he turned his face to kiss your leg.
You nodded quickly, thumb brushing over his flushed cheek.
"Yes, just keep going, baby," you whispered, voice thick with desire.
That was all he needed to hear. Dennis dove back in, his movements got bolder, he licked a slow stripe up your slit, then pushed his tongue inside you, making you cry out and for your free leg to wobble beneath you.
You could feel the heat coiling in your lower stomach, building faster now.
Your free leg started to shake again as his fingers dug into the meat of your thigh draped over his shoulder and his other hand splayed across your lower back to yank you closer, holding you firmly in place as he worked you toward the edge.
When you finally tipped over the edge, right after another deep, rumbling moan of his vibrated up through your core, spurred on by your desperate whimpers and the way you fisted his hair to yank him closer, your body seized tight.
A ragged, broken cry tore from your throat, but he didn’t let up, no, Dennis kept licking and sucking, relentless, until you were weakly pushing at his shoulders, overstimulated to the point of trembling but still aching for more of him.
Only when you finally pleaded his name did he pull back. His lips were slick, his breath hot, and when he looked up at you his eyes were dark, and still hungry.
“You taste so good,” Dennis murmured, voice rough. He pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh, then nipped gently, making you shiver. “Can I do that again?”
You let out a weak, breathless laugh and shifted forward to straddle him, his hard dick was grazing your slick folds as you leaned down to kiss him, tasting yourself on his mouth while your fingers threaded into his hair.
After a beat, his hands found your ass again, gripping like he couldn’t help himself.
You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze and whispered, “Maybe on round two. Right now, I need you inside me.”
You rose a few inches, guided him to your entrance, and then dropped down on him in one smooth motion. Dennis hands tightening on your hips as the stretch made you both brake at once, his guttural groan mixing with your breathless moan as pleasure lit up your whole body.
"Fuck, Dennis," you breathed, rolling your hips experimentally, feeling him throb inside you. "You feel so good, so… fucking… big."
His eyes fluttered shut for a second, his grip on your ass tightening almost painfully.
"God, you're perfect," he groaned, his voice wrecked.
You leaned forward, lips brushing his ear as you started to move, slow, deliberate grinds that had him panting beneath you.
"You like that, baby?" you whispered, nipping at his earlobe. "You like feeling how wet I am for you? How perfectly you fill me up?”
He nodded frantically, his hips bucking up to meet yours. "Yes—fuck, yes,"
You picked up the pace, riding him harder now,
"I've been thinking about this all day," you moaned, head falling back as pleasure coiled tight in your belly. "Thinking about how good your cock would feel inside me, how you'd stretch me open and make me scream your name."
"Please," he whimpered, and the sound of him begging made you clench around him. "Please don't stop."
"I'm not stopping until you fill me up, Dennis," you purred, grinding down hard. "Not until I feel you come inside me."
Dennis moaned loudly, his head falling back against the couch, and the sight of him, completely undone beneath you, drove you absolutely crazy.
"Look at you," you gasped, rolling your hips harder, chasing that delicious friction. "Bet you’ve never… you’ve never been with a girl like me, huh?”
His fingers dug into your hips, his breathing ragged, and you could feel him twitching inside you, close, but not quite there yet.
Then, to your surprise, he suddenly shifted.
His hands gripped your waist and he hoisted you up as if you weighed nothing, making you yelp as he maneuvered you both. In one smooth motion he had you on your back on the couch, your legs falling open as he settled between them.
He pulled back just long enough to yank his shirt over his head and toss it aside, and the sight of him, chest heaving, muscles taut, eyes dark with need, made your mouth go dry.
"My turn," he growled, and then he was pushing back inside you, deeper this time, the new angle making you cry out.
"Oh fuck—Dennis!" you moaned, your hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging in as he started to move. "Yes, just like that! don't stop, please don't stop."
He set a relentless pace, each thrust hitting that perfect spot inside you as he panted against your neck. "You feel so fuck-ing good, honey… S-so perfect."
You moaned, your legs wrapping tight around his waist, pulling him deeper.
"God, yes, fuck me harder, Dennis, I want to feel you for days." Your back was arching off the couch.
He groaned at your words, and you felt his rhythm falter for just a second before he found it again, harder this time, more desperate. His grip on your hips tightened like he was holding on for dear life, and the intensity in his eyes was almost overwhelming.
"You're so—fuck," he panted, the words breaking apart as he thrust into you.
He wasn't smooth about it, but god, the raw need in every movement made it even hotter.
"You feel so good inside me," you whimpered, nails dragging down his back. "So fucking good, Dennis, please don't stop, baby.”
His breath hitched and he buried his face in your neck, his hips snapping forward again and again. You could feel him trembling slightly, like he was barely holding himself together.
Your hand slipped between your bodies to touch yourself, and the moment your fingers found your clit, you clenched hard around him.
"Oh—oh fuck," he gasped against your skin, his whole body shuddering. "You're—I can feel—"
"I'm so close, keep going, just like that—" you moaned which only intensified when he bit you.
It took three more thrusts for you to come, and when you did, it hit you like a tidal wave.
You went silent but your whole body was seizing up as pleasure crashed through you, your walls clenching tight around him.
The second you did, you felt his teeth sink into your shoulder, not hard enough to really hurt, but enough to make you gasp, as he came with a muffled, desperate groan against your skin. His hips stuttered, grinding deep as he spilled inside you, his whole body shaking with the force of it.
"Oh shii—oh fuck," he panted against your neck, his grip on you bruising as he rode out the last waves of his orgasm.
You were both trembling, breathless, tangled together on the couch. Your legs were still wrapped around him, holding him close as the aftershocks rolled through you both.
"Holy shit," you breathed, your fingers threading through his hair, still trying to catch your breath.
He lifted his head just enough to look at you, his face flushed and his eyes still glazed with pleasure.
"Yeah, that was... fucking incredible," he breathed.
He leaned down to kiss you, soft at first, then deeper, and you returned it eagerly, a breathless laugh escaping against his lips as you pulled him closer, letting his weight settle onto you.
"Damn right," you murmured, fingers tracing lazy patterns down his spine. "How am I supposed to go to work tomorrow and face everyone when I know exactly how you feel inside me?"
His eyes widened slightly, a flush creeping up his neck that had nothing to do with the exertion.
Dennis groaned, half-laughing as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. "Oh, don't—I'm never going to be able to focus during rounds now."
"Wonderful," you teased, nipping at his earlobe. "Every time you see me at work, I want you to think about this. About how good you felt buried inside me."
He shuddered against you, his arms tightening around your waist. "You're going to kill me, I'll be trying to read X-rays, and all I'll be able to think about is—"
"Me riding you on my couch?" you finished with a wicked grin.
"Exactly that," he admitted, lifting his head to meet your eyes. The flush on his cheeks deepened. "I'm so screwed."
You laughed, reaching up to kiss the tip of his nose. "Yeah well, at least you'll be able to walk normally tomorrow. I'm pretty sure I'm going to be feeling this for the next week."
Dennis's eyes widened slightly, a mix of pride and concern flickering across his face. "Is that—I mean, are you okay? I didn't—"
"I'm okay," you assured him, brushing your thumb along his jaw.
"I.. uh, I might've... left a mark," he mumbled, glancing at your shoulder.
You turned your head to look, catching a glimpse of the reddened impression of his teeth on your skin and a slow smile spread across your face.
"I don’t mind," you said, meeting his gaze again. "Now I'll really have something to remember this by."
His breath caught, and you watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed hard. "You're not mad?"
"Mad?" You laughed softly, tracing your fingers down his back. "Dennis, that was hot as hell. Who would've thought you're a biter?"
He huffed a laugh and buried his face against your neck again, carefully avoiding the bite mark this time. "I can't believe we just did that."
You shrugged, a satisfied smirk playing on your lips. "I didn't see today ending any other way. I knew I was going to fuck you since you gave me your last Reese’s pieces."
Dennis lifted his head to stare at you, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Seriously? But that was months ago!"
"Yep," you grinned, running your hands through his hair. "You gave me your last piece of candy without even hesitating. I knew right then I was going to end up in bed with you eventually.
He laughed, shaking his head in amazement. "All this time... over chocolate?"
"Believe it," you said, stretching slightly beneath him and wincing at the pleasant ache. "Now, I don't know about you, but I could really use a shower. Want to join me? Maybe after, I can actually make us some lunch.”
"That sounds perfect actually," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your palm.
"Good," you smiled at him before reluctantly starting to shift. "But fair warning, I might need help standing up."
Extra:
By the time Dennis walked into the apartment, it was pushing 9pm.
He tried to be quiet about it, keys set down gently, door eased shut instead of slammed, but he really should’ve known better.
Trinity was in the living room, curled up on the couch with takeout spread out in front of her, TV flickering lazily in the background. Her eyes slid over to him the second he stepped in.
She didn’t say anything at first, just looked at him, taking in the slightly rumpled clothes, the faint flush still clinging to his neck, the general vibe of a man who had not, in fact, spent “twenty minutes fixing a sink.”
She hummed, deeply smug. “Must’ve been one hell of a sink.”
“Oh, shut up.”
A/N:
Hello, hello, hope you enjoyed my attempt to create smut <3<3<3
summary: even after swapping from nights to days, you just can’t seem to escape the inconveniently attractive night shift attending. then a ptmc night out, a sparkly dress, and a not-so-innocent game of never have i ever leads to dr. jack abbot making sure you can never utter the words “never have i ever finished during sex” ever again.
notes: i really hope you guys enjoiy this! it was so much fun to write and i just feel like jack is a little easier to put into silly situations than robby, so here i am torturing the poor man! i'm sorry in advance if the smut is kind of mid, i was fighting tumblr's block limit rule with this fic so i feel like i didn't get indulge as much as i would have liked, but still! i hope you guys love it, and please, please let me know what you think! (p.s. i think i mentioned the title was originally 'unaffected' but i like this one better)
warnings: swearing, alcohol, blushing, italics, jealousy, implied age gap, jack is a yearner, reader wears a "revealing" dress (but description is very vague and there's zero detail about body-type), mildly uncomfortable male encounters, friend!santos, pittlings chaos, garsantos mention, jack gets a little possessive, reader has long enough hair to sweep off her neck, and SMUT (making out, fingering, "panties", a tiny bit of dirty talk, unprotected piv, "good girl", and jack says sweetheart a lot) 18+ only please, mdni.
word count: 18889
Jack Abbot had never thought of himself as a jealous man.
Possessive, maybe. Protective, definitely. But jealous? Never.
He had never really had anything to be jealous of.
Until now.
Now there are far too many things.
Like the pen between your lips—and the way you bite down just hard enough to leave a little dent in the plastic while you read through Dana’s notes.
Or Dana herself, and the way you’re looking at her—soft, sleepy, warm in a way that twists something tight in Jack’s chest. The same way you used to look at him in the quiet hours at the end of a night shift.
Or your scrubs—God, your scrubs—and the way they fit just a little too well tonight. Too tight in all the right places. Distracting in ways that are becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
Jack has never needed to be jealous of anything before, but now he finds himself jealous of inanimate objects, coworkers you barely glance at, and your goddamn clothes.
So, yeah. Jack Abbot had never thought of himself as a jealous man—until you came along.
“Dr. Abbot,” Dana calls, peering over the top of her glasses. “You’re early.”
Beside her, you glance up from your tablet, meeting his eyes across the ER with that same soft smile.
“Dr. Abbot,” you say, like you can’t quite help yourself.
Jack squares his shoulders and starts toward the nurses’ station, determined not to let Dana and her all-knowing, all-seeing bullshit clock exactly why he’s at work almost two hours earlier than he needs to be.
“Yeah, I’ve got some stuff I didn’t get to wrap up this morning,” he lies.
Princess pops up from behind the desk. “I thought you said you stayed back this morning to make sure everything was sorted?”
Jack’s gaze cuts to her. “Yes. But I forgot something.”
Dana narrows her eyes. “Mhm. What’d you forget?”
“A few notes from the three a.m. GSW,” he replies quickly—too quickly.
It’s weak and he knows it, but there’s nothing else he could think of with Dana watching him like that and your warm, sleepy gaze still lingering from across the desk.
Dana nods slowly, adjusting the chart in her hands. “Right. Two hours early for a few notes.”
Jack just shrugs, avoiding her gaze as he walks past—and he doesn’t look back until he’s safely around the corner, standing in front of his locker. Only then does he risk a glance, just briefly over his shoulder, quick enough to catch a glimpse of you disappearing down the North hall.
God. It’s ridiculous, really. He’s a grown man.
More than that—he's an old man.
Yet here he is staying late at work and coming in early just to see more of you. Because ever since you swapped from nights to days, Jack doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. Sure, he could barely concentrate when you were on shift together, but who knew not having you around would be even worse?
He spends the first half of his shift hating himself for being so hung up on someone so young and so impossibly out of reach—then spends the second half anxiously awaiting your arrival for the day shift.
And it’s only been two weeks.
But the absolute worst part?
He doesn’t even know why you swapped shifts. You never even spoke to him about it. You just told him at four a.m. two Saturdays ago that you were switching to day shift. No reason. No explanation. That was it.
At first he wondered if it was his fault—if maybe you’d simply decided you didn’t like working with him.
But you still greet him every morning and every evening with that same warm smile. You still look to him first whenever someone asks for an attending and he’s still around. You still text him whenever the ER cat shows up outside the ambulance bay—which apparently happens much more often during the day shift.
And Jack still buys a packet of freeze-dried liver treats every Sunday to keep in the cupboard above the break room fridge—because he knows how much you love feeding that cat.
“What’re you doing here?”
Jack’s head whips around at the sound of his friend’s voice.
“I—uh—came in early to fix up a few notes,” he says, turning back to shove his bag into his locker.
Robby’s brows lift. “Two hours for notes?”
Jack sighs, slinging his stethoscope around his neck and shutting his locker before turning to face his fellow attending. “Are you of all people really going to lecture me about not having a life outside of this ER?”
Robby chuckles quietly, lifting both hands out of his pockets in surrender. “I wasn’t judging.”
“Good,” Jack mutters, already starting back toward central. “Anything I need to know?”
Robby falls into step beside him. “North Three’s waiting on a CT for possible appendicitis. Kid in Five came in with chest pain but his labs look clean so far. Dana’s still fighting with bed control about moving the pneumonia admit upstairs.”
They both stop at the nurses’ station, glancing up at the board.
“Otherwise it’s been unusually calm,” Robby adds. “Which probably means you’re about to get slammed.”
Jack gives him a flat look. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.” Robby claps him on the shoulder. “Oh—and that R2 you gave me?”
“What about her?”
Robby shrugs. “She’s great.”
“I know,” Jack says, keeping his voice carefully even.
Robby studies him for a second, eyes narrowing just a fraction, the corner of his mouth threatening to lift. The man might be a disaster when it comes to his own feelings, but he has an uncanny talent for spotting everyone else’s.
“We’re alright out here if you want to catch up on your notes,” he says after a moment, already turning away. “Or go make the rounds. Get some very thorough handovers from the residents.”
Jack keeps his eyes fixed on the board. “I hate you.”
Robby huffs out a quiet laugh. “Then why are you here two hours early?”
Jack exhales sharply and steps forward, pulling one of the tablets from the rack.
“Notes,” he says, a little louder than necessary.
Robby just shakes his head, still smiling faintly as he disappears down the North corridor.
For a moment, Jack doesn’t move. He lingers at the nurses’ station, tablet in hand, pretending to analyse the board while ignoring the incredibly unsubtle looks from Perlah and Princess—both of them watching him with the kind of interest that usually means someone’s about to become the subject of a very entertaining conversation.
Then, with a polite nod to each of them, he clears his throat and steps away, turning toward the break room—trying very hard not to hope he runs into you on the way.
And trying not to be disappointed when he doesn’t.
The break room is empty when he steps inside, the noise of the ER dulling as the door falls shut behind him. He sets his tablet on the table—next to someone’s half-eaten lunch and a discarded Lean Cuisine container—and grabs a clean mug from the cupboard, pouring the last of the coffee pot into it.
Then he drops into the seat furthest from the door, his back to the bulletin board, and taps the tablet awake, pulling up the notes for the three a.m. GSW. The same notes he already finished in detail while staying back this morning—before Robby told him to get the hell out of his ER and get some sleep.
He barely makes it through two lines of the chart before the door swings open again.
“Shit, sorry,” you say quickly, stepping toward the table.
Jack’s pulse does the same stupid thing it always does whenever he sees you, making his chest feel hot and his head a little fuzzy.
“What are you sorry for?” he asks, as if it isn’t obvious.
You’ve already stacked the Lean Cuisine container on top of the half-eaten bowl of something grey and mushy-looking and are halfway to the sink with them.
“I only got, like, a five-minute break today and had to run out for a trauma, then completely forgot about my lunch,” you explain, cheeks flushed as you glance down at the bowl. “This is gross. I’m so sorry.”
Jack shifts in his chair. “I’ve seen worse in here, I promise.”
You glance over your shoulder as you turn on the tap, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly. “Really?”
He nods. “Really.”
He could almost swear your smile lifts a little higher before you turn back to the sink, scrubbing hurriedly at the bowl of slop that probably shouldn’t be going down the drain anyway.
Jack clears his throat. “But—uh—Lean Cuisine? Really?”
You look back at him again, brows drawn. “What’s wrong with Lean Cuisine?”
“Nothing,” he says lightly. “If you’re trying to survive a very stressful twelve-hour shift on only four hundred calories.”
You huff a quiet laugh, turning back to the sink. “I actually managed to eat lunch today. That’s already a win.”
“It’s mostly sodium and sadness,” he adds, almost absently. “Not much protein.”
You finally turn the tap off and spin around, leaning a hip against the counter. “Alright, Dr. Abbot. When I find the spare time to start meal prepping between my very stressful twelve-hour shifts, I’ll let you know.”
Jack opens his mouth—then closes it again. Because what he wants to say is ridiculous.
But it comes out anyway.
“…I cook.”
You blink.
“You cook?”
Jack clears his throat, suddenly very interested in his coffee mug.
“Yeah. Well.” He shrugs. “I’ve been told I’m reasonably good at it.”
You stare at him for a second, brows knitting slightly as you clearly try to figure out where the hell that came from.
“Well,” you say with a quick smile, “I guess your dinner guests are pretty lucky.”
Before he can respond, you grab the Lean Cuisine packet, toss it in the bin, and step toward the door.
“Sorry again for the mess.”
Then you’re gone—leaving Jack alone with his coffee, his notes, and the growing suspicion that there might actually be something seriously wrong with him.
-
“Is that Dr. Abbot in the break room?” Santos asks, falling into step beside you.
You keep your eyes fixed on your tablet.
“Yep.”
She leans closer, steering you out of the way of a gurney.
“But night shift doesn’t start for like two more hours.”
“I’m aware.”
“So, why is he here?”
You exhale sharply and finally look up from your tablet. “I don’t know, Trin. Maybe because the universe hates me.”
She snorts. “Or maybe because he likes you.”
You roll your eyes, turning toward the South corridor. “Please don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything,” she insists. “I seriously think that old man has a thing for you.”
“Don’t call him that,” you mutter.
“Okay, fine. I seriously think that hot, older man has a thing for you,” she says, stopping beside you at the South desks. “And we all know how you feel about him, so—”
“No,” you snap. “We don’t all know how I feel about Ja—Dr. Abbot.”
She presses her lips together to keep from laughing.
“Besides,” you go on, dropping into a chair. “I swapped to day shift so I could stop being distracted by my attending and actually focus on being a good doctor—so could you please stop distracting me?”
She leans a hip against the desk, completely ignoring you. “And don’t you think that’s a little strange? I mean, you swapped to day shift—what, two weeks ago?”
You glance at her from the corner of your eye. “And?”
“And,” she says dramatically, “for the past two weeks Dr. Abbot has been staying back every morning and coming in early every afternoon.”
Your gaze slides back to the computer. “So?”
She sighs, exasperated. “It’s not a coincidence.”
“Actually, I think it is,” you argue.
She stares at you for a second, eyes narrowing. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re annoying.”
She rolls her eyes and pushes off the desk. “Whatever. You’re still coming out tomorrow night, right?”
Your fingers hesitate over the keyboard. “Uh—I’m not sure yet.”
“Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift that’ll be there,” she says.
You let out a quiet sigh of defeat.
“Fine,” you mutter. “I’ll come.”
“Good.” She grins, already turning away. “Come to my place around six. We can get ready and pregame.”
“Why can’t I get ready at home?” you ask.
“Because,” she calls over her shoulder, “I get to pick what you wear.”
And before you can argue, she slips into a patient room, effectively ending the conversation.
“Great,” you mumble, turning back to the computer. “Can’t wait.”
It’s not like you’re not looking forward to finally joining in on a night out now that you’re no longer on the night shift.
You are. You’re just... nervous.
Nervous, perpetually stressed out, and still adjusting to life as a day-walker. And Santos knows that. She probably knows you better than anyone else at PTMC—even though you’ve spent the better part of ten months working opposite shifts.
Which is exactly why she’s pushing you to join this night out. Because she knows you need it. She knows you need to relax, forget about work, and do something other than obsess over the night shift attending who’s had you completely undone since the day you first met.
God.
Jack Abbot. The single most dangerous man in Pittsburgh.
Not only is he stupidly hot, but he’s also annoyingly competent, irritatingly attentive, and has the starring role in every single one of your most inappropriate fantasies.
He’s also the very reason you’re terrified of having to redo your second year of residency, because that man affects your focus so much you literally can’t function. Like three weeks ago, when you walked straight into the glass door of Trauma One because you were too busy watching him take his jacket off.
His damn jacket.
That was the moment you finally decided you needed to swap shifts—because Dr. Shen couldn’t look at you for the rest of the night without bursting into laughter.
Jack Abbot is a liability to your health and wellbeing—which means he is a liability to your career. And even though asking Dr. Robby to swap to day shift was one of the most ridiculously difficult things you’ve done since starting at PTMC, you stand by the fact that it was the right decision.
The smart decision. The professional decision. Even if… it might not be working yet.
Because now you can’t just glance across central anymore and see Jack leaning against the desk, talking through a case with Lena. You can’t have him step up beside you when you’re unsure about something and quietly walk you through it. He’s not the one across from you in the trauma bays. And there isn’t a coffee cup that magically appears in front of you during the three o’clock lull.
Now you just… think about him instead.
But it’s only temporary. You’re sure of it. You just need to get used to the day shift and figure out how to get Jack Abbot out of your head.
Which… you have a sneaking suspicion is what Santos plans on helping you with this weekend.
You’re pretty sure you overheard her the other day telling Whitaker that the only way to get over someone is by getting under someone else. And maybe that’s exactly what you need to do—get under someone else so you can stop thinking about the maddeningly hot man who’s nearly twice your age and most definitely does not have a thing for you. Regardless of what Santos seems to think.
You spend the rest of your shift catching up on charting and trying very hard not to think about Dr. Abbot.
When someone asks for an attending, you call Dr. Robby. When you hear his voice just around the corner, you change paths as quickly and inconspicuously as you can. And when your notes are up to date and night shift starts rolling in, you find Dr. Ellis and give her—and only her—the rundown on your patients.
By the time you shut your locker and sling your bag over your shoulder, the sky outside is dark and there are only a few day shifters left lingering around the nurses’ station.
“Did you drive today?” Whitaker asks, shutting his locker only a moment after you.
“Yeah,” you reply. “Need a ride?”
He nods sheepishly. “That’d be great. Santos left already, said I was taking too long.”
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, I bet it had nothing to do with whatever she and Garcia were whispering about in the stairwell.”
Whitaker winces. “I just hope they’re at Garcia’s tonight.”
You huff a small laugh and hitch your bag higher. “You ready?”
He nods.
You both turn and start back toward central—but just as you reach the nurses’ station, his steps slow.
“Do you need to…?”
He jerks a thumb over his shoulder.
You frown. “Need to what?”
He hesitates. “Don’t you normally say goodbye to Dr. Abbot?”
Your eyes widen slowly. “Uh—no. Why would you say that?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just thought you two were close.”
“We’re not close,” you say, a little too quick.
“Sorry,” he mutters, raising both hands in surrender. “I just—I don’t know. I thought because you were his resident you two were… close.”
“I’m not his resident,” you snap. “I’m just… a resident. I don’t belong to him.”
“Okay,” he says slowly, brows drawing together. “I’m sorry, I just thought—”
“You thought wrong,” you mutter, glancing over your shoulder to make sure no one is listening.
Thankfully, the two nosiest nurses in the ER have already gone home for the day.
“Let’s just go.”
You grab his wrist and walk quickly toward the ambulance bay doors, giving Ellis and Shen a small nod as you pass—completely missing the middle-aged attending who just overheard most of your conversation.
The car ride to Santos and Whitaker’s isn’t long. Whitaker fills most of it anyway—rambling about the shift, about the kid in Five and whether night shift is going to get slammed, about how Dana looked like she was two seconds away from strangling bed control by the end of the day. And every few minutes he circles back around to apologising for making you drive him home.
You wave him off each time.
“It’s fine, Whitaker.”
“Seriously though,” he says as you pull up outside their building. “I really appreciate it.”
He slings his bag over his shoulder and climbs out of the car, pausing on the sidewalk to give you one last wave before heading toward the front door.
The moment the passenger door falls shut, the quiet settles in. You let out a long breath, tipping your head back against the headrest and letting your eyes fall shut for a moment. And immediately—inevitably—your brain drifts straight back to the same place it always does.
Jack Abbot. Of course.
You scrub a hand over your face before shifting the car back into gear and pulling away.
The rest of the night passes the way most nights do—with a quick shower, something vaguely edible scavenged from the fridge, and half-heartedly scrolling through your phone until exhaustion finally drags you to bed.
When your head finally hits the pillow, you tell yourself you’re too tired to think about him. It’s been a long day—long week—and all you need right now is sleep, not fantasies.
But that doesn’t stop your brain from doing it anyway. Because sometime in the early hours of the morning, Jack Abbot shows up in your dreams. Not in the ER. Not standing beside you at the nurses’ station or leaning over a chart.
He’s in a kitchen. Cooking.
Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, moving around the stove with the same quiet confidence he carries through the hospital—like he knows exactly what he’s doing and expects the rest of the world just to trust him.
And in the dream, you do.
You lean against the counter and watch him the way you sometimes watch him in the trauma bays, telling yourself you’re just observing. Just curious. Just learning.
He glances over his shoulder eventually, catching you staring—and says something you can’t quite hear over the soft clatter of the pan. But he’s smiling.
Then the dream shifts the way dreams tend to—logic slipping sideways until suddenly you’re standing much closer than you should be. Close enough to smell whatever he’s cooking. Close enough that when he turns toward you the space between you disappears entirely.
His hand settles at your waist like it belongs there.
Your back meets the edge of the counter.
And when his mouth brushes your neck—
You wake with a sharp inhale, staring up at the ceiling, heart racing.
“Fuck,” you mutter, dragging a hand over your face.
So much for getting him out of your head.
For a while, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, watching the first pale line of sunlight creep across until it touches the wall opposite your window.
At some point you realise you’re still replaying the dream in your head.
The kitchen. The way his hand had felt at your waist. The warmth of his mouth against your neck.
You groan quietly and drag the blanket over your face.
“Get a fucking grip.”
Then you throw the covers back and force yourself out of bed, heading straight into the kitchen in search of coffee.
Your small apartment is always quiet—but this morning it feels too quiet. Too still as you silently sip your coffee, one hip leaned against the kitchen counter. Which, unfortunately, leaves far too much room for your brain to wander right back to its favourite topic.
Jack Abbot.
After coffee, you take yourself for a long walk around the block, hoping the cool morning air might help clear the remnants of the dream from your head.
It doesn’t.
But by the time you make it back to your apartment, your legs feel loose and your mind feels a little quieter, and for the briefest moment you almost manage to convince yourself that you’re excited about tonight. That you’re going to be able to do what Santos is clearly angling for and go home with an attractive stranger so you can stop draining your vibrator battery with inappropriate thoughts of your attending.
The rest of the day drifts past in a slow blur of small, forgettable things. Laundry. Answering a couple of messages in the group chat. Half-heartedly reviewing a few notes from earlier in the week before deciding you absolutely refuse to think about work on your day off.
Eventually the afternoon light begins to soften and stretch across the floor, which means it’s probably time to start getting ready if you’re actually going to make it to Santos’ place before she decides you’re bailing and comes knocking to drag you there herself.
So you shower, change, pack a bag, and throw it over your shoulder on the way out the door—trying very hard not to feel disappointed that Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift who’s going to be at the bar tonight.
It really is for the best.
You, alcohol, and Jack Abbot in the same room is a terrible idea.
“Alright, I’m ready,” Santos announces, finally stepping out of the bathroom.
You, Javadi, and Whitaker—who have spent the last twenty minutes on the couch chatting and sipping beer—look up.
“Aw, I wish I could do winged eyeliner like that,” Javadi says. “It just doesn’t suit my eye shape.”
“Don’t look too close,” Santos mutters. “It’s super uneven, but I don’t have time. I still have to fix this one before we go.”
She tips her chin toward where you and Whitaker are sitting on the opposite end of the lounge.
Whitaker’s eyes go wide. “Me?”
Santos scoffs. “Not you, Huckleberry. God, I don’t have enough time in the world to fix whatever’s going on there.”
Whitaker frowns, glancing down at his navy-blue button-up shirt. “What’s wrong with this?”
“Everything,” Santos says, already turning away.
Whitaker lifts his head, glancing between you and Javadi. “Is it really that bad?”
Javadi leans forward, lowering her voice. “There’s nothing wrong with it, Whitaker. You look great.”
You pat his shoulder. “It’s fine, really. She’s just—”
The words die on your tongue as Santos reappears, holding what can only be described as a sparkly scrap of fabric on a hanger.
Javadi tilts her head. “What’s that?”
Santos grins. “A dress.”
Whitaker chokes on his beer. “That’s… not a dress. That’s a glittery napkin.”
“Oh my God.” Javadi snorts. “My mom would kill me just for buying that.”
“I didn’t buy it,” Santos says lightly. “A friend in college gave it to me, but it’s never fit quite right.”
She steps forward, extending the hanger toward you.
“But I know you’ll be able to pull it off,” she adds, her grin sharpening.
You stare at it—glinting in the low evening sun spilling through the windows.
“Santos… this is a work thing,” you mutter.
She rolls her eyes. “It’s not a work thing. It’s just an outing with people from work.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?” Whitaker asks.
Santos sighs. “No, it’s not. And are you forgetting our main objective?”
You blink at her.
“To get you laid.”
Javadi giggles nervously, trying to hide it behind a swig of beer.
“Come on,” Santos says. “Just put it on and if it doesn’t work, we try something else.”
You hesitate, staring at the glittery thing like it might catch fire at any moment. Which, given enough sunlight, it probably could.
“Fine,” you say at last, pushing off the couch. “I’ll try it on, but that does not mean I’m wearing it.”
Santos’ eyes sparkle with excitement. Or maybe it’s just the dress.
“That’s my girl.”
You take the hanger from her and trudge into her room, nudging the door shut behind you. It takes a minute for you to figure out how the glittery napkin is supposed to go on—but once you do, you shed your comfortable clothes and shimmy into the most sparkly piece of fabric you’ve ever worn.
And somehow, the shimmering scrap of nothing turns out to be an actual dress—short, sparkling, and just structured enough to stay where it’s supposed to while still feeling mildly illegal.
With a deep breath, you turn away from the mirror and open the door, stepping back out into the lounge room.
“So?”
For a moment, no one says anything.
Whitaker’s mouth falls open.
Javadi’s eyebrows lift. “Oh.”
Santos, meanwhile, tilts her head appreciatively, one hand on her hip, eyes gleaming as she looks you over from head to toe.
“I knew it,” she says smugly.
Whitaker blinks. “That is not a dress.”
Javadi elbows him. “Stop talking.”
You tug awkwardly at the hem—which doesn’t actually move much because there isn’t very much hem to tug.
“Santos,” you say carefully, “I’m not sure—”
“Relax,” she says. “You look incredible.”
She circles you slowly, like a stylist inspecting her work.
“And you’re definitely going to get laid.”
“I feel like I shouldn’t be here,” Whitaker mutters, his face bright red.
Santos rolls her eyes. “You’re only here because you live here, Huckleberry. Now go grab that bottle of tequila from on top of the fridge—we’re going to need some liquid courage before we head out.”
After two shots of tequila and Santos’ finishing touches to your makeup, you all head out the door. Whitaker calls an Uber, the four of you pile in, and you carefully keep Santos’ leather jacket wrapped around yourself for some semblance of modesty.
You don’t really plan on taking it off for the rest of the night—even if it isn’t that cold.
The ride to the bar isn’t nearly long enough. Javadi spends most of it excitedly talking about how she can finally go out drinking now that she’s twenty-one, which Santos encourages with the enthusiasm of someone who clearly intends to make the most of that milestone.
You mostly just stare out the window. Trying not to think about the dress you shouldn’t have agreed to wear and the night shift attending you definitely shouldn’t be missing right now. Because if someone asked you where you’d rather be tonight—the bar or the ER with Dr. Abbot—your honest answer would be incredibly depressing.
Who would rather be at work than out with their friends on a Saturday night?
“We’re here,” Santos announces, nudging your side a little too hard.
You all thank the driver before climbing out, gathering yourselves on the sidewalk in front of the familiar establishment Santos loves dragging everyone to.
“Relax,” she says, dropping a hand on your shoulder. “You don’t need this.”
She tugs at the leather jacket, pulling it off your shoulders until it’s bunched at your elbows.
“I feel naked,” you mutter. “Like this is some nightmare where I show up to work in my underwear.”
Whitaker snorts. “Not far from it.”
Santos rolls her eyes. “Well, you’re not at work. You’re at a bar. And this is supposed to be fun.”
Right. Fun.
That is the entire point of tonight. Go out. Have a drink. Meet someone who isn’t Jack Abbot. Ideally forget Jack Abbot exists for at least a few hours.
Completely achievable.
Right?
“Fine.”
You draw a deep breath and drop your arms, letting the jacket slide off completely. Santos grins as you sling it over one elbow, trying not to instinctively hold it in front of your body like armour.
“See?” she says. “Much better.”
“Let’s just go inside before I change my mind,” you mutter, already starting toward the door.
Javadi loops her arm through yours. “You look amazing. Seriously.”
You give her a small smile, trying not to feel quite so awkward as Santos leads the way toward the main entrance.
It’s just a bar. Just a normal Saturday night. You’ll be fine after a few more shots of liquid courage.
You glance through the front window as you approach—more out of habit than anything else, your eyes drifting lazily over the crowded room inside.
People. Low lights. Patrons lingering around the bar.
And—
Your brain stalls.
Because there’s a man leaning against the bar with one elbow braced on the countertop, his shoulders broad under a tight black shirt, head tipped slightly as he talks to someone beside him.
A familiar someone.
Dr. Ellis.
And the man—
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Your stomach plummets.
Jack fucking Abbot.
Your feet stop moving, your whole body suddenly forgetting how to function.
Your pulse kicks violently against the inside of your throat as a wave of heat rushes up the back of your neck, sudden and dizzying and sharp enough to make the edges of your vision blur for half a second.
Because he looks—
He looks so good.
Relaxed in a way you’ve never seen at work. One hand curled loosely around a glass as he frowns slightly at something Ellis is saying, that small crease between his brows you know far too well.
And suddenly you are extremely, violently aware that you are standing outside a bar wearing approximately three square inches of glitter.
“Hey,” Javadi says beside you. “What’s—”
“Santos.”
She doesn’t stop.
“Santos,” you say again, your voice almost breaking.
She glances over her shoulder. “Hm?”
“You knew.”
She stops, her hand hovering near the door.
Whitaker glances between the two of you. “What’s happening?”
“Technically,” Santos says slowly, “I didn’t know. I just... suspected.”
“You said Ellis was the only one from night shift who’d be here.”
She winces. “I did, but what I meant is… Ellis is the only one who actually told me she’d be here.”
You stare at her. “So you did know?”
“I knew it was his night off.”
“Santos, I—” You glance back at him through the bar window. “I can’t go in there like this.”
“Like what?” she asks. “Smoking hot?”
“Half naked.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yes, you can.”
“I will actually die.”
“No, you won’t,” she says firmly. “You’re an adult. You can wear whatever you want, talk to whoever you want, and just because your incredibly inconvenient attending crush happens to be inside does not suddenly revoke your civil liberties.”
She pulls the door open.
“Now stop panicking and get in the bar.”
-
“He swore the chest pain had nothing to do with the seven energy drinks he’d had that night,” Ellis says, still rambling about a patient who pissed her off two nights ago, “which was a bold position to take with a heart rate of one-forty.”
Jack snorts softly. “And did you believe him?”
Ellis’ eyes go wide, and she takes a long drink before continuing her rant about night shift patients and the strange confidence people have when explaining why their terrible decisions definitely have nothing to do with the symptoms they’re currently experiencing.
Jack nods along, offering the occasional comment or question where needed, meeting her gaze now and then—but mostly keeping his attention on the door. Waiting. Because he’s not stupid enough to ask anyone if you’re going to be here tonight, but he is naïve enough to hope you will be.
He wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight—his first night off in two weeks.
He was supposed to be at home, cooking something decent for dinner, enjoying the rare luxury of not wearing scrubs, and inevitably indulging in his favourite guilty pleasure—involving nothing but his hand and some very inappropriate thoughts of you.
But he’s not.
He’s here. In a crowded bar, sipping cheap scotch, listening to Ellis complain about the night shift patients and their weird confidence, just… waiting.
For you.
He’d wanted to ask you yesterday if you were coming to the bar tonight—before he agreed to join—but he’d barely seen you before the end of your shift. And you didn’t even say goodbye. Which isn’t unusual, given how chaotic the ER can be, but then he’d overheard your conversation with Whitaker—and something about it made his chest feel too tight.
It wasn’t anger. Not exactly. Not jealousy, either. It was just... wrong. Not because what you said was wrong, but because he hates that it was right. That you don’t belong to him. Even if Robby calls you ‘his R2’ and Whitaker thinks you’re close because you’re his resident—none of it changes the fact that he has no real claim over you.
Which is ridiculous. He knows it.
He shouldn’t feel territorial. He shouldn’t want this. Want you. And yet, his chest still feels too tight—a slow, hot coil of frustration and longing curling up into his throat, and he hates it. Hates hearing it out loud, hates how much it matters, hates that he can’t make it not matter.
“Oh.” Ellis glances over her shoulder. “Looks like Santos and the others are here.”
Jack’s gaze flicks back to the door.
He tries not to react, not to straighten, not to square his shoulders as if he’s bracing for something—but he can already feel his composure slipping.
Santos steps in first, her head turned slightly as she talks to Whitaker, who walks in behind her. Then it’s Javadi, an unusually wide smile on her face as she looks at—
You.
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Jack stops breathing.
His chest burns. His stomach flips. His hand tightens dangerously around his scotch glass.
It’s you. Of course it’s you. You’re perfect.
But then—
That dress.
God.
That dress—short, sparkling, clinging just enough to make every nerve in his body snap awake. It shimmers under the low lights as you move, and he hates himself for noticing every subtle curve, every shift of fabric, as if time itself has slowed just to torture him.
It’s all too much.
He can feel his pulse in his throat, heat burning beneath his skin, blood rushing in the one direction it really, really shouldn’t be right now. In public. In front of his coworkers.
He blinks, finally tearing his gaze away from you.
And that’s when he notices the rest of the bar. All staring. All stunned.
He hates them all.
He hates that they can even look at you. Hates that the universe allows it. Hates that they might see even a fraction of what he sees—and feel a fraction of what he feels.
And he hates, more than anything right now, that you’re not his.
“Dr. Abbot,” Robby says, appearing beside him and slinging an arm across his shoulders. “What’s your poison tonight?”
Jack lifts his drink, knuckles still white around the glass. “Scotch.”
Robby claps his shoulder, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “You might not want to have too many of those.”
Then he slips past both Jack and Ellis and raises a hand to flag down the bartender.
“Alright,” Ellis says, pushing off the bar. “I’m going to go grab a seat before the table gets too crowded.”
Jack nods, but he doesn’t follow. He stays beside the bar, rigid now, eyes fixed on the group of men at a high table just a few feet from the front door. They’re muttering to each other, leaning in, voices low—but nothing about it is subtle. Their gazes are glued to you as you weave through patrons and tables to greet the rest of the PTMC crew gathered in a booth near the back.
One of them—the dumbest looking one, Jack’s already decided—slowly slides off his stool, nodding along while his friends murmur their advice.
Jack glances back at you, now standing beside McKay, sliding your arms into the leather jacket you’d been carrying. Santos grabs your wrist, tilting her head toward the bar as she starts dragging you with her.
And, like a fourteen-year-old boy with a crush, Jack’s pulse starts racing.
“Dr. Abbot,” Santos says, grinning as you both approach the bar. “Fancy seeing you somewhere other than the ER on a Saturday night.”
“I do have a life outside of work, you know,” he says dryly, lifting his drink and looking anywhere but at you.
“Like playing bingo at the senior centre?” Santos asks, resting both forearms on the bar.
You step up on her other side, squinting at the shelves of liquor on the back wall like they’re the most interesting thing in the room.
“Bingo’s on Wednesdays,” he says mildly. “Try to keep up.”
Santos snorts, shaking her head as she reaches for the small leather-bound bar menu. But out of the corner of his eye, Jack sees your head dip—just slightly—and you try to hide a small laugh against your shoulder.
Jack feels it like a punch to the ribs.
Because you’re listening.
And apparently… you think he’s funny.
“Alright,” Santos says, lifting a hand. “I think we need some tequila over here.”
The bartender steps away from where he’d been serving farther down the bar, but his attention quickly drifts past Santos and lands on you. He leans in, resting one palm flat against the bar while he wipes down the counter with a rag that doesn’t really need wiping.
“So,” he says to you, not Santos. “What are you drinking tonight?”
Santos blinks.
“I just told you,” she says flatly. “Tequila.”
The bartender barely glances at her.
Jack’s jaw tightens.
You look briefly confused, glancing between Santos and the bartender.
“Uh—whatever she orders is fine.”
“Yeah. Tequila,” Santos repeats, slower this time.
The bartender laughs like she’s joking—and Jack sets his scotch down slowly. Carefully.
His eyes stay locked on the man now lining up four small glasses in front of you, still completely ignoring Santos. The way he’s watching you is too much. Too close. The faint curl at the corner of his mouth makes Jack want to punch the smirk right off his face.
And by the way you shift a little closer to Santos—pulling your jacket tighter around yourself—he knows you’re uncomfortable.
His hand clenches at his side.
Robby pauses as he walks past, a beer in each hand.
“Easy, tiger,” he mutters. “She can handle herself.”
“I know,” Jack says, voice low. “Doesn’t mean she has to.”
Robby gives him a look—a brief, knowing glance, somewhere between amusement and warning. “Careful.”
Jack doesn’t respond. He just turns back to you and Santos, watching as you each knock back two shots of tequila, your nose scrunching as the burn hits. And he can’t help the small twitch at the corner of his mouth, because the face you make as you set the second glass down is ridiculously cute for someone wearing a dress like that.
“Okay,” Santos says. “I need a vodka soda before I start making bad decisions.”
The bartender nods, already reaching for another glass—and before he can even ask if you’d like another drink, someone else steals your attention.
“Hey,” the guy says, stepping up beside you. “Can I get you another one?”
He leans in, just enough to be heard over the noise—but it’s still too close.
You shift slightly, angling toward him. “Oh. Uh—sure.”
Santos presses her lips together, clearly fighting a smile as she turns back to the bar, suddenly very invested in whatever the bartender is doing. The second he sets the vodka soda in front of her, she scoops it up and drops a few bills on the counter.
She lifts the drink to her lips as she turns away, pausing just long enough to glance at Jack over the rim of the glass.
Her brows lift. “You really gonna let that happen?”
Jack frowns. “What—”
But Santos is already gone, drink in hand, halfway back to the booth where everyone else is.
Where Jack should be headed too—because there’s no reason for him to stay here. No reason for him to linger, to hover, to make sure you’re okay, to stand there glaring at the guy buying you a drink like that’s going to change anything.
It’s not like he can blame him. If Jack thought he had a shot with you, he’d take it too. The difference is, Jack wouldn’t need the dress. Or the drinks. Or the crowd. He’d take that shot with you even when you’re tired and stressed out and covered in blood at the end of a bad shift in the ER. He’d take it any time. Any place.
But Jack doesn’t get that shot.
Because you’re young. You don’t have baggage. And you’re a resident—maybe not his resident, but still a resident.
It’s just too inappropriate.
Jack sets his glass back on the bar a little harder than necessary—and the bartender glances over, brows raised as if silently asking if he’d like another, but Jack just shakes his head.
His eyes flick back to you. To the way you’re smiling now—soft, not uneasy. To the way you seem to have forgotten about keeping your jacket closed, and now the idiot talking to you is looking anywhere but your face.
Then you laugh—light, easy—and something in Jack’s chest tightens again.
He looks away. He can’t keep standing here. He’s not going to stand here and watch you flirt with some idiot at the bar like he has any right to care.
With a deep breath, he forces himself to turn away and start walking back to the table.
Where he should have been five minutes ago. Where he plans on staying for the rest of the night.
Half an hour later, most of PTMC’s day shift staff are gathered in the booth, half still wearing their scrubs after coming straight from the hospital. The volume of conversation builds with the growing collection of empty glasses in the middle of the table, voices overlapping, getting louder with every round—but Jack doesn’t order another scotch. At some point, Ellis sets a beer in front of him, which he nurses until it’s too warm to enjoy.
Every now and then, he makes a point of nodding or laughing or glancing at someone across the table—pretending to follow the conversation, pretending he’s paying attention—when really, all he can focus on is you. You and your smile. And your laugh. And the way your hand settles lightly on a man’s bicep when he says something that makes you blush.
Not the same man as before, either. No—this one is new. This one swooped in when the first one excused himself to take a phone call, and now that one is back at the table with his friends, sulking.
Kind of how Jack is right now, sitting at the table with his friends. Sulking. Glaring. Plotting.
He knows he shouldn’t. He knows it’s none of his business. But he can’t stop himself from trying to come up with an excuse to interrupt you. To get you away from those men and their lingering stares.
Not that he’s any better.
“Abbot.” Robby nudges his side. “Hungry?”
Jack blinks, finally dragging his gaze away from you to where Ellis is standing, looking expectant.
“Hm?”
“Are you hungry?” Ellis asks. “I’m going to order some wings.”
Jack frowns. “Uh—no. I’m good. Thanks.”
Ellis nods once and turns away, heading straight for the bar.
Robby huffs a quiet laugh beside him. “You might want to turn your hearing aids up, old man.”
Jack doesn’t even look at him. “Funny.”
“I’m serious,” Robby says mildly. “You’ve missed, what, three questions in the last five minutes?”
“I heard her,” Jack mutters. “I was just... thinking.”
Robby hums like he doesn’t believe that for a second.
Jack shifts, pushing his chair back as he sets his warm beer on the table. “I’m gonna hit the head.”
Robby’s brows lift, slow and knowing, his gaze flicking briefly toward the bar.
“Mm,” he says. “Sure you are.”
Jack does, in fact, turn toward the bathrooms first—mostly because he needs a second away from all the music and chatter to try and clear his head. To try and stop himself from doing what he really left the booth to do.
He locks himself in the accessible bathroom—not that he needs it, but it’s more private than the men’s—and stands in front of the vanity. He presses his palms into the porcelain sink, shifting his weight forward with a deep, steadying breath.
This is ridiculous, and he knows it.
He’s a grown man. He shouldn’t be acting like this.
This is trivial shit, for God’s sake. Jack is a vet. A seasoned ER doctor.
So why is a goddamn crush undoing him like this?
Why are you undoing him like this?
He lifts his head and stares at his reflection—jaw tight, shoulders rigid—trying to get a grip. Trying to remember that he is a grown ass man, not some idiot who can’t keep his shit together.
His gaze drifts across his face—the day-old stubble, peppered hair—then to the reflection of the bathroom behind him. The graffitied walls, covered in stickers and spray paint, a chaotic collection of late nights and inebriated thoughts. He wonders, briefly, how many people came in here intending to leave something behind.
Then he spots something scrawled in the corner of the mirror in thick black marker.
HESITATE AND SOMEONE ELSE WON’T.
Jack tilts his head.
That’s not exactly... subtle.
But that’s the thing, isn’t it?
He doesn’t hesitate.
Not in the trauma bay. Not out in the field. Not when it matters. Not when someone’s life is on the line and everyone else is waiting for someone to make the call.
So what the hell is this?
This… standing back. Watching. Letting it happen.
Like he doesn’t know what he wants. Like he hasn’t already made up his mind.
He drags a hand over his mouth, shaking his head once—sharp, annoyed.
“Jesus Christ.”
It’s not caution. It’s avoidance.
With another deep breath, Jack reaches for the tap and braces his hands beneath the stream. He scrubs them together—quick and thorough—then turns off the water, grabs a paper towel, and dries his hands with more focus than necessary. He tosses the towel in the bin on his way out the door, his gaze sharpening as he scans the bar—finding you immediately.
You’re still standing where you were, maybe a few steps closer to the back of the room. There’s a new guy in front of you now, closing you in, crowding your space just enough to make Jack’s eyes narrow.
The man’s hand settles at your waist, a little lower than what could be considered innocent. And anyone else watching might think you’re okay with it—but Jack knows you. He sees the small flicker of discomfort that crosses your face, the subtle drop of your shoulder as you try to angle yourself away without seeming rude.
Good thing Jack doesn’t mind being rude.
He’s already moving before he’s fully decided to. Just a few long strides and he’s there—close enough to cut through the space between you and the guy without touching either of you, his presence alone enough to interrupt whatever the hell this is supposed to be.
He looks at you. Just you.
“Hey.”
Your head turns immediately—and the shift in your expression is instant. Relief.
“Oh—hey,” you say, a little breathless.
And then you step into him. Not too close. Not in a way that draws attention or suggests anything—but enough to make Jack’s pulse jump. Enough for him to feel your warmth and the way it settles under his skin.
“Hey, man,” the guy says, holding out a hand. “I’m Trent.”
Jack ignores him.
“You alright?” he asks you.
You nod slowly. “I am now.”
Your fingers curl into the back of his shirt, just for a second—like you didn’t even think about it. Like you just needed something solid to hold onto.
Jack goes still.
Trent clears his throat. “Sorry—uh—who are you?”
You glance at him with a tight smile. “This is my attending.”
Jack likes being called your attending.
Trent frowns. “What?”
“Remember how I said I was a doctor?”
Trent just stares at you.
“Well, Dr. Abbot is my attending,” you go on anyway. “He’s like my supervisor. I’m his resident.”
His resident.
“Right,” Trent mutters, eyeing Jack. “Cool. So—you’re a doctor?”
Jack doesn’t even look at him. His eyes stay fixed on you.
“Are you hungry?” he asks. “Ellis is ordering wings—we can grab a menu.”
“Starving,” you reply, the corner of your mouth lifting slightly as you look up at him.
“Great.” His hand settles at your shoulder, firm but casual. “Let’s get back to the others.”
“Wait,” Trent says. “Are you—”
“It was nice meeting you,” you cut in, flashing him one last tight-lipped smile before Jack steers you away.
He keeps his arm around your shoulders until you’re halfway back to the booth of PTMC doctors and nurses. Only then does he pull back, clasping his hands behind his back like he needs the physical restraint.
“Thanks for that,” you murmur. “He just wouldn’t take a hint.”
Jack nods. “I noticed.”
He doesn’t look at you as he turns back toward the other end of the table, toward his seat beside Robby—because if he did, he might not be able to leave your side. From the corner of his eye, he sees Santos reach for you, already asking what happened as she pulls you into the seat between her and McKay.
And for twenty blissful minutes, Jack feels okay. The most okay he’s felt all night.
Because you’re here, at the table, talking to Santos and McKay—and not some idiot who thinks he deserves a chance with the prettiest girl in the room. In the world, according to Jack.
But only for twenty minutes—because once you finish your drink, Santos drags you back to the bar.
Another shot. Another drink. Another guy.
Jack shifts in his chair, trying to listen to whatever it is Ellis and Mateo are arguing about, but he can’t focus—not when your hand settles lightly on this new guy’s shoulder. And especially not when it slides down his bicep, flirty in a way that makes Jack want to get out of his chair.
He tells himself he’s not going to. That he shouldn’t.
But the second the lights dim and the music gets louder, he pushes out of his seat.
He finds you at the edge of the dancefloor, catching your wrist before you can disappear into the crowd.
“Hey,” he says, voice raised over the music.
Your head whips around, your brows lifting slightly in that soft, expectant way—like you’re waiting for him to say whatever it is that’s so important he had to stop you right here.
Jack clears his throat. “Have you been drinking water?”
You frown. “Um. Not really.”
“You should really drink some water,” he says, tipping his head toward the bar.
You hesitate, glancing back over your shoulder at the man waiting for you to follow him into the crowd.
Then you look back at Jack.
“Uh, yeah. Okay. Water.”
He knows he shouldn’t have done it. He knows it was stupid and petty and jealousy-driven—but he can’t help the flicker of satisfaction when you follow him to the end of the bar with the self-serve water tower.
The music is too loud for conversation—and even if it wasn’t, he’s not sure what he’d say. Not when you’re looking at him like this. A little drunk. A little curious. Your brows drawn, your skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, your lips wet from the water.
God. This has the be the finest form of torture.
Because here you are—so young and so sweet, so trusting in Jack that he’s just trying to look after you, when all he can think about is the fact that you’re not his. That they think you’re fair game. That every man in this room thinks he has a chance.
And the fact that he’s not going to let them anywhere near you.
-
The third time Jack Abbot appears at your side, he catches your elbow just as you’re about to step out the door with a man named Leo. Not to leave the bar—just for some air—but then Jack says something about Mateo buying a round of shots and guides you back inside.
You don’t mind. Not really. Especially not when a free drink is involved.
So you line up beside your coworkers and sink another shot of tequila with a grimace before Santos drags you back to the dancefloor.
The fourth time Jack Abbot intercepts you, you’re just about to start dancing with a handsome stranger Santos accidentally made you bump into—but before you can even take the man’s hand, Jack pulls you away, insisting you take a seat for a minute and drink more water.
Which, fine. Whatever.
But by the fifth interruption, you’re starting to notice a pattern.
And you’re getting a little annoyed.
“Oh my God,” Santos says, her eyes going wide as the opening notes to ABBA’s Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! start blaring through the speakers. “We have to dance. Come on!”
You barely have time to scoop your drink up off the bar before she’s dragging you onto the dancefloor—into the throng of warm bodies all moving to the beat beneath the single, sparkling disco ball.
The music pulses through the floor beneath your feet, the bass thrumming in your chest as Santos drags you deeper into the crowd. Somewhere between Mateo’s round of shots and your tenth song on the dancefloor, your jacket disappeared—and now your dress catches the light with every movement, glittering under the shifting colours as bodies press in from all sides.
The bar is still pretty full, even if the PTMC booth has already lost a few soldiers. There are still plenty of prospects—plenty of strangers who might offer to take you home and make you forget all about Jack Abbot. Which is still very much the plan.
If only the man himself would stop interrupting every interaction like he’s doing you a favour.
At some point during the second—or maybe third—chorus, Santos subtly steps away and a guy ends up in front of you. You’re not even entirely sure how. One second you’re dancing and screaming the lyrics, the next he’s there—close enough that you can feel the heat of him, his hands hovering like he’s trying to decide where to put them.
You let it happen. Because this is what you want, right?
This is the plan.
He leans in and says something you don’t quite catch over the music, but you laugh anyway—more out of obligation than anything else.
Then his attention shifts.
His eyes flick past you. And just like that—he falters.
It’s subtle, but you feel it. The hesitation. The way his body pulls back a fraction, like something just snapped him out of it.
“Uh—actually,” he mutters, already stepping away. “I—yeah. Sorry.”
Then he’s gone.
You blink, frowning slightly as you glance over your shoulder and—
Of course.
Jack Abbot, standing just beyond the edge of the dancefloor, drink in hand, eyes locked on you with a look that makes your stomach drop.
Not angry. Not exactly.
But intense. Sharp. Focused in a way that feels… deliberate.
You stare at him for a second—frustration flickering across your face—then turn back to Santos, who is still dancing with her vodka soda lifted in the air.
You lean in, raising your voice just enough to be heard over the music. “Your plan isn’t working!”
She turns to face you, frowning. “What do you mean it’s not working?”
You stare at her. “The plan to get me laid? It’s not working.”
“Why not?”
You huff out a laugh, incredulous.
“Because of him,” you say, nodding toward Jack. “Because I let him save me from one bad interaction and now he’s just—hovering. Interrupting. Scaring people off.”
Santos’ mouth twitches.
“I think he thinks he’s being helpful,” you add, shaking your head. “Like he’s doing me a favour or something, but—God, I’m never going to get a stranger to take me home with a hundred-and-ninety-pound war vet glaring over my shoulder every five minutes.”
Santos just looks at you for a second—then smiles. Slow. Knowing.
“And what part of my plan isn’t working?”
You frown. “Are you even listening to me?”
“I said I was going to get you laid,” she says, lifting her drink to her lips. “I never said anything about going home with a stranger.”
It doesn’t land straight away.
You blink at her, still frowning as you try to follow the logic—because that doesn’t make sense, that’s not the plan. If you’re not going home with a stranger, then who—
And then it clicks.
Your stomach drops.
“Wait—Santos,” you start, eyes widening. “You don’t mean—”
Santos just looks at you over the rim of her glass. Calm. Patient. Smiling faintly, like she’s been waiting for this exact moment all night.
You glance toward the side of the dancefloor again—to the man still focused on you in a way that feels far too intentional now. Arms folded, jaw set. He doesn’t even pretend to look away when you meet his stare.
“Actually,” Santos says, her hand closing around your wrist. “I think my plan is working perfectly. Now, come on—” she nods toward the booth where everyone else is, “let’s play a game.”
A game?
Before you can argue or even question it, Santos is dragging you off the dancefloor toward the booth at the back of the bar. The thrum of the music dulls the further you get from the crowd, and by the time you both slide into empty seats at the table, you no longer feel like you need to yell just to be heard.
The PTMC crew has thinned since you were last sitting here. Robby, Dana, and Donnie are gone, and McKay is holding her purse in her lap like she’d been trying to leave when Mateo cornered her with another rant about how no patient actually seems to understand the pain scale.
“Alright,” Santos announces, picking up someone’s abandoned drink and taking a sip like she owns it, “we’re playing a game.”
Whitaker leans forward. “A game?”
“Yes, Huckleberry. A game.” Santos glances around the table with a lazy half-smile. “It’s called Never Have I Ever.”
Mateo snorts. “That’s a middle school sleepover game.”
“Great,” Santos replies. “Then it should be easy for you.”
There’s a ripple of laughter around the table, but no one else seems to object.
“Can I start?” Mohan pipes up beside Santos. “I’ve got a good one.”
Santos nods. “Be my guest.”
You’re not entirely sure when Jack rejoined the table, since he’d been at the edge of the dancefloor just a few minutes ago, but now you’re suddenly very aware of his presence across from you. Like the few people that called it a night have unintentionally left a smaller, more intimate group behind—and now Jack Abbot is almost directly across from you while you play one of the most notorious, tension-raising middle school games of all time.
“Okay,” Mohan says, sitting up a little straighter. “Never have I ever… called in sick when I wasn’t actually sick.”
McKay laughs. Mateo groans. Almost everyone at the table lifts their drinks.
“Really?” Santos says. “That was your good one?”
Mohan shrugs. “I thought—”
“Never mind,” Santos cuts her off. “My turn.”
Her gaze moves slowly around the table before landing on you, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly.
“Never have I ever,” she starts slowly, “fantasised about someone else sitting at this table.”
Your pulse jumps.
McKay snorts.
Mateo leans forward. “Like, intentionally. Or…?”
Whitaker frowns. “You’ve accidentally fantasised about someone here?”
He shrugs. “Sometimes the wrong people pop up, you know?”
Santos rolls her eyes. “Oh my God. Whatever. Intentional or not.”
Mateo nods once and lifts his drink. Javadi sinks lower in her chair as she lifts hers—and you try not to look around at the rest of the table as you bring your own up to your lips.
Beside you, McKay drops her purse to the ground and straightens, clearly invested now.
“Alright, I’ve got one,” she says, grinning. “Never have I ever… faked it.”
Javadi chokes, Santos snorts, and across from you, Jack huffs out a quiet laugh.
“Never?” Ellis asks, eyes wide. “So you always—”
“Oh, God, no,” McKay laughs. “Definitely not. I just refuse to fake it.”
Laughter moves through the table again, a little louder this time, and everyone takes a second to decide whether or not to raise their drinks.
You lift yours slowly, looking anywhere but at Jack.
“Okay, my turn,” Ellis announces, shifting in her seat. “Never have I ever… hooked up with someone at work.”
The table reacts around you, a mix of laughter and quiet protest, but it all blurs at the edges when you finally glance up—because Jack is already looking at you.
Not surprised. Not amused.
Just… watching.
He doesn’t laugh or say anything. He just lifts his drink, slow and deliberate.
And something sharp twists in your chest.
“What’ve you got, Langdon?” McKay asks, nodding at him across the table.
Langdon strokes his chin thoughtfully for a moment—then sighs.
“Alright, I already know I’m going to get shit for this, but—” He clears his throat. “Never have I ever… had sex in public.”
McKay laughs, loudly, and lifts her drink to her lips without hesitation. Ellis and Santos drink too, while Mohan laughs into her hand and Javadi sinks even lower in her chair.
Across from you, Jack sips his drink again like it’s nothing.
And that sharp twist in your chest doesn’t ease.
Because of course he has. Of course there are other people. Other women.
And you—
You catch Santos’ gaze from the other end of the table—sharp, knowing, daring.
Your grip tightens slightly around your glass.
And before you can talk yourself out of it—
“Okay, my turn,” you say lightly, sitting up a little straighter.
Everyone turns to you, but you keep your eyes fixed on your glass.
“Never have I ever,” you say slowly, “…finished during sex.”
For a second—nothing.
Then the table erupts.
“What—no—” Mateo is already laughing, leaning forward like he thinks you’re joking. “You’re kidding.”
Javadi chokes on her drink, coughing as she turns toward you. “Wait, seriously?”
“Oh my God,” McKay says, half-laughing, half-staring at you like she’s trying to figure out if you’re lying.
Langdon huffs out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “Well… that’s unfortunate.”
Whitaker just blinks at you, caught somewhere between surprised and confused, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that information.
Santos doesn’t say anything. She just leans back in her seat, watching you over the rim of her glass with a slow, satisfied smile.
And across from you—
Jack just goes still.
Completely still.
His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes does—sharp, dark, focused in a way that makes your stomach flip.
It takes you a minute to remember how to move. How to breathe. How to laugh and sip your drink and keep playing the game that doesn’t stop just because it feels like your heart did.
Eventually, everyone eases off the third-degree on your embarrassingly real confession, and Mateo pipes up next with something ridiculous that makes the table groan. Then Javadi comes out with something surprisingly rebellious—and blushes hard when Mateo flashes her a wink.
And so it goes on.
You know it does.
You can hear it—voices overlapping, laughter breaking out again, someone arguing over what counts, someone else swearing they’re being misrepresented—but it all feels… distant.
Like it’s happening a few steps away from you instead of right here at the table. Because now, all you can focus on is Jack. On the way he’s hardly moved. Hardly spoken. Hardly looked away from you.
At some point, he mutters his own confession with a small smirk and everyone laughs—but you don’t catch the words. You’re too aware of everything else to hear them. Too aware of your pulse pounding in your ears, the thrum of the music beneath your feet, the way Jack’s jaw ticks every time you glance back at him.
Another round starts. Then another.
Someone groans. Someone laughs too loud. Santos says something that earns a chorus of reactions—but it all slips past you, unimportant, forgettable.
Time stretches. Blurs.
Your drink empties, refills, empties again.
People shift in their seats. Someone stands. Someone leaves.
Then suddenly—
“You ready?”
You blink.
Santos is standing beside you, brows raised.
“Ready?” you echo.
She nods toward the door. “Time to go. Most of us have to work tomorrow.”
You glance around at the empty table. “Oh.”
Santos is already halfway to the door by the time you gather your things and catch up to her. You’re still pulling your jacket on as you step outside, bracing against the cool night air that nips at every inch of exposed skin—which, in this dress, is a lot of skin.
“The Uber’s just around the corner,” Whitaker says.
“Great,” Mohan mutters, hugging her jacket tighter. “I’m freezing.”
You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or just the heat lingering beneath your skin from the way Jack had been watching you earlier, but you’re not nearly as cold as you should be.
“You sure you don’t mind if I stay over tonight?” Javadi asks, glancing between Santos and Whitaker.
Santos shrugs. “As long as you don’t mind the couch—and Dr. Shamsi isn’t going to have us arrested for kidnapping.”
Javadi lets out an awkward laugh. “Uh—no. It’s totally fine. I told my dad.”
“Are you working tomorrow?” Whitaker asks.
Javadi shakes her head. “Day off. You?”
Whitaker sighs. “Yeah.”
“So am I,” Santos adds. “And if I don’t get at least five hours sleep, I cannot be responsible for other people’s lives.”
“That’s reassuring,” Jack mutters, almost startling you as he steps out of the bar.
He buries his hands in his pockets, hardly sparing you a glance as he steps closer to the group. There’s a faint hitch in his step—something you recognise from the waning hours of a night shift, when he’s been on his feet for too long and starts to favour one leg.
“This is us,” Whitaker announces, nodding toward the car pulling up at the curb.
Mohan hurries forward first, yanking the door open and climbing into the back seat—and Javadi is next, flashing you a smile before she ducks in beside her. You step forward—then hesitate. Whitaker is already holding the front passenger door open, and Santos is standing at the curb, about to join the others in the back.
“Wait.” Your pulse jumps. “There’s too many—”
“You’re with Dr. Abbot,” Santos says lightly, her mouth twitching like she’s trying not to smile.
Your stomach drops.
“I—I’m what?”
Santos shrugs. “Javadi’s staying over and Mohan’s place is on the way to ours. Just makes sense.”
Then she climbs into the car, shuts the door, and rolls the window down.
“See you tomorrow!”
There’s a chorus of goodbyes from the others before the car pulls away from the curb—and the cool, quiet night settles in too quickly. The only sound is the dull thrum of music from the bar, and the pounding of your pulse in your ears.
For a second, you don’t turn around. You can’t. Not now that you’re alone with him.
Then—
“I’m this way,” he says, voice low and rough and maddeningly hot.
You nod, but don’t dare look at him as you start following the line of parked cars up the street.
The night air feels sharper now, cooler the further you get from the bar—and it makes you pull into yourself, arms folded tightly while your jacket barely does anything to help.
Jack keeps an easy pace beside you, not crowding you, not touching you, but close enough that you’re aware of him anyway. Of the space he takes up at your side. Of the way he adjusts slightly so you’re walking on the inside of the path, further from the curb, without making a thing of it.
Neither of you says anything.
It’s not awkward. It’s just… quiet in a way that feels heavy, like the silence is holding onto everything that happened inside instead of letting it go.
Your heels click unevenly against the pavement, catching slightly every few steps, and you’re suddenly, painfully aware of everything—the way your dress shifts as you move, the cool air against your skin, the way your pulse hasn’t quite settled.
You feel too sober. Too aware.
When his car finally comes into view, he moves ahead of you just slightly—just enough to reach the passenger door first and hold it open.
God. He’s so annoyingly considerate.
You give him a small, tight smile before climbing into the passenger seat.
The car is still warm, still holding onto the heat from earlier in the day, and it smells like him in a way that’s subtle but unmistakable—clean, familiar, something faintly sharp beneath it that you can’t quite place but instantly recognise. The seat gives slightly beneath you, softer than you expect, and for a second you just sit there, hands hovering like you’re not entirely sure where to put them.
It’s his.
All of it.
The way everything is exactly where it should be, nothing out of place. The faint scuff on the console. A pair of sunglasses tucked neatly into the centre compartment. His backpack thrown into the back seat like he’d discarded it in a hurry and never thought about it again.
The sound of the driver’s side door opening almost startles you.
You drop your hands into your lap, shifting slightly and smoothing your dress down over your thighs like that might ground you somehow.
The car immediately feels smaller when Jack climbs in. More intimate. Closer in a way that’s almost stifling.
You keep your eyes fixed out the windshield.
Waiting.
For the engine to start. For the car to move.
But nothing happens.
The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, settling into every inch of the space between you.
And then—
“You can’t say shit like that around me.”
You blink, finally turning toward him—and regretting it immediately. He’s so irritatingly handsome, so annoyingly gorgeous in a way that makes you want to be stupid and reckless and climb across the console into his lap.
“Say what?” you ask, your voice embarrassingly thin.
He looks at you—not fully, just turning his head slightly.
“You know what,” he says, his voice low and rough with something that sounds a little too close to control slipping.
And you do.
You know exactly what he means.
But before you can say anything else, he turns the key and the engine rumbles to life. The radio crackles a little before some late-night news station fills the silence—and he doesn’t move to turn it off, doesn’t even turn it down. He just drives.
The radio reporter’s voice hums through the car like white noise, talking about something you’re not really listening to as you try to focus on keeping your breathing even.
You can still hear his voice.
You can’t say shit like that around me.
The way he said it. Low. Controlled. Like it cost him something to keep it that way.
Your fingers shift slightly in your lap, smoothing over the fabric of your dress again without thinking, and your mind starts turning his words over before you can stop it—pulling at them, testing them, trying to make them mean something that makes sense.
Because what does that even mean?
You glance at him, quick, like you might catch something you missed—but he’s focused on the road, jaw set, one hand loose on the wheel like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just change everything with eight little words.
You look away again.
No. He didn’t mean it like that.
He’s just—he’s your attending. He’s responsible. Of course he’d say something. Of course he’d—
Except he didn’t say it like that.
Your stomach tightens as your thoughts circle back, slower this time, more deliberate.
The way he kept pulling you away from people tonight. The way he’d been watching you. The way he didn’t laugh, didn’t joke, didn’t let it go.
The way he said it.
Around me.
Not here. Not in front of people.
Around me.
Your breath catches slightly, and you shift in your seat, suddenly very aware of the space between you—of how close he is, of how easy it would be to just turn your head, lean in and—
No.
No, that’s not—
You swallow, gaze fixed stubbornly ahead.
You’re just reading into it. You have to be.
Because the alternative—
Your pulse jumps.
God. The alternative is too much to even consider.
But the thought lingers anyway.
It settles in the back of your mind, quieter now, but heavier—pulling at everything he said, everything he did, everything you might have missed until now. The words circle back, sharper this time—until—
The car stops—and you blink.
For a moment, you don’t move. You can’t.
Then Jack clears his throat.
“Oh—uh—thanks,” you mutter, reaching for your seatbelt buckle.
He nods once. “Anytime.”
You push your door open before you can think too hard about it, stepping out into the cool night air that hits a little harder this time. Your heart is still beating in your throat, your pulse still too loud, your thoughts are still circling those eight words—eight little words that feel like they weigh far more than they should.
You hesitate—one hand on the door, the other gripping your keys in your jacket pocket.
God.
This is stupid.
This is reckless.
This is—
“Do you—” You clear your throat, the words catching slightly before you force them out. “Do you want to come up?”
He stares at you for a second, then lets out a short, disbelieving breath, like he’s not quite sure he heard you right.
“You can’t be serious.”
Heat rushes up your neck, quick and unwelcome, and for a second you just stand there, wishing you could take it back—rewind a few seconds and keep your mouth shut.
What the hell were you thinking?
“Yeah,” you say, a little too quickly. “No, that was—that was stupid.”
You turn away before he can say anything else, pushing the door shut harder than you mean to as you step back onto the sidewalk. You don’t look back. You refuse to. You just keep walking toward the lobby door, drawing your keys from your pocket and fumbling through them to find the right one.
It takes longer than it should, but eventually you find the lobby key and wriggle it into the lock.
This door has never been your friend. It’s old, a little rusted, and the lock has always been janky—but now your hands are shaking, and this stupid old door seems to think that’s funny, because it won’t budge.
You jiggle the key and try again, but nothing changes.
Then—
“Here.”
His voice is low. Close.
Your hand stills as he steps in behind you, not touching, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him at your back—the solid line of his chest just shy of pressing into you as he reaches past your shoulder.
His fingers brush yours as he takes the key—and the lock turns easily this time.
Of course it does. Traitorous fucking door.
His arm lingers there for a second longer than it needs to—then he pushes the door open.
You don’t even glance at him as you step inside, already turning back to grab your key before the door swings shut—but he’s still holding it, barely a step behind you.
He tilts his head slightly, nodding toward the lobby. “Go.”
It’s quiet. Controlled.
Not a suggestion.
Your breath catches, just for a second, and you hesitate—long enough to feel it, whatever this is, tightening between you—
Then you turn and keep walking.
And he follows.
He follows you across the lobby, up the fire stairs, down the corridor, all the way to your apartment door. He stands a little closer than necessary as you unlock it—almost like he doesn’t think you know how doors work now—but the key turns smoothly this time.
You push the door open and step inside.
The apartment is quiet, dim, and you shrug out of your jacket without thinking. You can feel him watching you as you drape it over the arm of the sofa, and it’s a little... thrilling. Dangerous. Because Jack Abbot is in your goddamn apartment right now, looking at you like he’s a man on the edge—
And you’re daring him to jump.
“Drink?” you offer, keeping your voice light—innocent.
He clears his throat. “Water, please.”
You can’t help the small smirk on your lips as you brush past him, a little closer than necessary.
“So polite,” you murmur.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t shift—but you can feel him there, tense just beneath the surface.
You open the fridge and bend over to grab a bottle of water, letting your dress ride up the backs of your thighs in a way that’s totally unnecessary. Jack clears his throat again, just a little too sharp, and when you glance back toward him, he’s turned away completely.
You press your lips together to keep from smiling too wide as you straighten again.
“Here,” you say, stepping toward him and holding the water out.
He turns hesitantly, taking it. “Thank you.”
Your eyes catch his, a slow smile tugging at your lips before you bite the corner gently, just enough for him to notice. He looks away quickly, jaw tightening as he focuses on uncapping the water bottle.
You brush past him again, still a little too close, and move toward the sofa, dropping onto it and leaning forward to take off your shoes.
Jack takes a long swig of water, then clears his throat for the third time.
“Are you working tomorrow?” he asks.
You glance up, still leaned forward, and it’s hard not to notice the way his eyes dip from your face.
“Isn’t that something you should already know?”
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he can’t quite help himself.
“You’re impossible. You know that?”
Heat rushes up your neck at the way he says it—short, sharp, loaded—and you bite back a grin, letting your eyes glint just a little as you straighten.
“Am I?” you murmur, tilting your head just slightly. “Only one way to find out.”
He freezes for a second, shoulders tight, hand curling slightly around the water bottle—and it crackles softly under his grip. His breath hitches, just barely.
“I should go,” he mutters, voice low and clipped.
He takes a step toward the door—and you shoot up from the sofa, heartbeat racing.
“Wait—uh—before you go,” you say, stepping toward him, “could you help me with something?”
He hesitates, turning slowly, as if every second in here is costing him something.
You move until you’re almost between him and the door, looking up at him through your lashes.
“Could you help me out of my dress?”
The second the words leave your lips, you forget how to breathe.
Jack’s jaw tightens, his shoulders coiling ever so slightly. His fingers twitch around the bottle, just a whisper of movement, as if holding himself together by force. His eyes catch yours, dark and sharp, taking in the faint scrunch between your brows, the small pout on your lips, the way you’re offering him something he never thought he’d be allowed to have.
He nods once—careful, controlled—but the tension radiating off him is almost unbearable.
Your stomach flips.
Without a word, you turn, sweeping your hair out of the way while your pulse hammers in your ears.
You feel him shift, his warmth, and the ghost of his touch at the nape of your neck. And that first, tiny contact sends a shock straight through you—hot, sharp, impossible to ignore.
He pauses, just a heartbeat, and you catch the tiniest hitch in his breath.
Then he moves again, slow, deliberate, dragging the zipper down almost painfully slow, his knuckles grazing your skin—warm, rough, controlled, just enough to make your heart pound in your throat.
“How do you do it?” you whisper, voice catching slightly. “How are you always so… unaffected by everything?”
“Unaffected?” he murmurs, almost tasting the word, as if testing it against himself.
His knuckles brush the small of your back, pausing where the zipper ends—but he doesn’t stop. His fingertips graze your skin, deliberate, teasing, tracing the line of your spine upward again, slow enough that it drags your breath with it, sharp enough that heat blooms through every nerve.
“You have no idea,” he whispers, voice low and rough, almost breaking, “how much you affect me.”
Your breath catches, sharp and sudden. Everything in your chest pulls tight, something hot and dizzying blooming low as his words sink in.
You turn before you can stop yourself—and he’s closer now. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the shift of his breath, the space between you narrowing into something fragile and dangerous.
For a second, neither of you move.
And then his hand finds your neck—
Not rough, not rushed—just firm enough to anchor you there, thumb pressing under your jaw like he needs to feel that this is real, that you’re real. His other hand tightens where it still holds the loosened fabric of your dress at your back, fingers curling into it like restraint is slipping through his grip.
He hesitates, just for a breath. Like he’s giving himself one last chance to walk away.
Then he kisses you.
It’s not tentative. There’s nothing careful about it. It lands like something he’s been holding back for too long, all that control finally snapping under the weight of you standing here, asking for him, looking at him like that.
His mouth is warm and certain against yours, a sharp inhale breaking through you as you lean into him without thinking, your hands finding him just as quickly—his stomach, his chest—anything to hold onto as the world tilts. He makes a low sound, barely there, but you feel it more than you hear it, the vibration settling deep in your chest as his grip tightens.
You melt before you can stop yourself.
Your head tilts back, giving him more, and he takes it immediately, deepening the kiss with that same quiet intensity that steals the breath right out of you. His thumb shifts along your jaw, not lingering, just enough to guide you where he wants you, and the control of it—God, the way he still tries to control it after everything, after all that restraint—makes something in your stomach flip hard.
His hand at your back slips under the loosened zipper, fingers pressing into your bare skin now, warm and steady, but there’s tension in it. You can feel it in the way his grip flexes, like he’s still trying—still—to hold the line even as he pulls you closer.
It doesn’t work.
Not when you press into him like this, not when your fingers curl tighter in his shirt, not when you kiss him back without hesitation, without thinking about consequences or lines or anything except how he feels against you.
He exhales against your mouth, sharp, like you’ve just undone him, and for a second the kiss falters—not because he’s pulling away, but because he’s trying to.
You feel it. The conflict. The split second where he almost stops.
Your hand slides up to his jaw, fingers catching there, holding him in place before he can even try.
“Don’t,” you whisper, barely pulling back, your lips brushing his as you speak.
And something in him gives.
You see it in the way his eyes darken, in the way his hand tightens at your back, pulling you flush against him this time, the last inch of space gone like it was never allowed to exist in the first place.
When he kisses you again, it’s deeper.
Less restrained.
Like he’s finally stopped pretending this isn’t exactly what he wants.
It’s different now—harder, hungrier, like something in him has shifted for good. His hand slides from your jaw to your waist, gripping tight as he steps into you, crowding you back without breaking the kiss, without giving you a second to think.
Your back meets the door with a soft thud.
He doesn’t stop.
If anything, it only makes him sharper, more certain, his mouth moving against yours with a kind of urgency that steals the air right out of your lungs. You barely get a breath before he takes it again, and you let him—God, you let him—tilting into him, giving him everything he reaches for.
His hand tightens at your waist, then slips lower, dragging you flush against him again, like he needs to feel exactly how close he can get before he loses control completely.
And you can feel it—how close he is.
It’s in the way his grip flexes, in the way his breath turns uneven against your mouth, in the way the kiss keeps deepening like he can’t quite stop himself from taking more.
Your fingers find his shirt again, pulling him closer, and he breaks the kiss just long enough to drag in a breath, his forehead almost brushing yours, like he’s trying—one last time—to get a handle on this.
He doesn’t.
His hands are on you again, immediate, sliding up your sides, pushing the straps of your dress from your shoulders in one smooth, decisive motion. The fabric gives easily, slipping under his hands like it was never meant to stay there in the first place—and it falls to the floor, pooling at your feet.
His breath catches, and his gaze drops—just for a second, but it’s enough.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice low, rough—nothing steady about it now.
You meet his eyes, chest rising and falling fast, heat still sparking under your skin.
“Bedroom,” you murmur.
For a second, he just looks at you.
Something in his expression shifts—tightens—like that word landed exactly where it shouldn’t. His gaze searches yours for a moment, checking for hesitation, for doubt.
But he doesn’t find any.
He nods once—and you turn, already moving toward the bedroom. You can feel him right behind you, close enough that his hand finds your waist again before you’ve even taken two steps, steady, grounding, like he’s not about to let you get too far ahead of him.
It’s barely a walk.
More like being guided—pulled—across the apartment toward your room, your pulse loud in your ears, every step charged with the knowledge of what you’ve just set in motion.
The door barely makes it closed before he’s on you again.
Not rushed—never rushed—but certain, like the decision has already been made and there’s no point pretending otherwise. His hands find you first, steady at your waist, turning you back toward him before you can take another step into the room.
Your breath catches as you look up at him. There’s something in his expression you’ve never seen before. It’s not soft, not gentle—just stripped of whatever distance he’d been holding onto all night.
Gone.
His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate, and this time there’s nothing in the way of it—nothing to hide behind, nothing to buffer it—and the heat in it settles low in your stomach, heavy and immediate.
“Still want this?” he asks, voice rough, quieter now—but it lands heavier here.
You don’t answer. You just step into him.
And it’s all the permission he needs.
His hand tightens at your waist as he pulls you back into him, and the kiss this time is slower, deeper in a way that feels intentional—like he’s choosing it, not chasing it. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of controlled hunger, every shift measured, every breath deliberate, like he’s letting himself feel it fully instead of fighting it.
Your fingers curl into his shirt, and he exhales against your mouth, something unsteady finally breaking through.
His grip shifts—firmer now—guiding you back a step, then another, not hurried, not careless, but unrelenting all the same. You feel the edge of the bed behind your knees before you fully register moving at all, your focus too caught in the way he’s kissing you, the way his hand anchors you like he’s not about to let this get away from him.
His mouth breaks from yours just long enough to draw in a breath, his forehead pressing briefly to yours.
Not hesitation. Control.
Or what little he has left of it.
“Last chance,” he murmurs, quieter now.
You drop back onto the bed, gaze locked on his, breath still uneven.
“I’m not the one holding back.”
You barely have time to move up the mattress before he’s there, crowding over you, hands braced on either side as he follows you down. The mattress dips under his weight, the space between you gone in an instant—replaced by the solid heat of him, the firm press of his hips against yours.
His mouth finds yours again, hot and insistent, teeth catching your bottom lip just enough to pull a soft sound from you—but it’s different now. Slower. Not restrained, but deliberate. Curious, almost.
Like he’s learning you.
The way you react. The way you move under him. The way you give.
Your hands slide up his chest, fingertips digging in as heat coils low in your stomach—but they don’t stay there long. He shifts his weight slightly, steady, controlled, one hand lifting off the mattress to catch your wrist.
His fingers close around it—not tight, not forceful—just certain, guiding.
He lifts your hand above your head.
“Jack,” you whisper. “I—”
He shushes you.
“Let me do this, okay?” His voice is rough, thick with something unsteady beneath it—something that makes your stomach knot. “I’ve got you.”
And you believe him.
His hand slides down your body, slow and sure, brushing over your chest, your waist, the curve of your hip—each touch deliberate, like he’s taking his time even now, even like this. His fingers hook at the inside of your thigh, grip firm as he nudges your leg wider.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl.”
The words go straight through you.
You can already feel the damp heat between your legs, the slick fabric pressed close, but the way he says it—the way his voice drops—makes your hips shift up instinctively, chasing something you can’t quite reach.
Chasing him.
And he notices. Of course he does.
You only just catch the faint lift at the corner of his mouth before his lips are back on yours, swallowing the breath from you as your back arches, pressing yourself up into him without thinking. Your fingers curl into the sheets above your head, tension pulling tight through your body as everything narrows down to where he’s touching you—where he isn’t touching you.
His hand drags back up your thigh, slower this time. Intentional. And when his fingers finally press against you through the thin fabric, you gasp.
He takes the sound from you immediately, mouth moving against yours, deeper now, like he’s feeding off it, like every reaction just pushes him further. His fingers start to move—slow, circling, testing—while his mouth leaves yours to trail along your jaw, your cheek, the side of your neck.
With your mouth free, the sounds slip out before you can stop them.
Soft. Unsteady. Needy.
And he loves it.
You feel it in the way his breath shifts, in the way his grip tightens just slightly, in the way his hips rock—slow, controlled, a subtle pressure of denim that’s more suggestion than friction.
“Jack—” your voice catches, breaking on his name. “Please. I want—”
“Tell me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your shoulder, voice low and coaxing.
“More,” you manage, breath shaking. “Need more.”
He groans against your skin, the sound low and rough, his body settling heavier over yours like any space between you is something he can’t stand.
Then his hand shifts.
Your breath catches as his fingers slide beneath the damp fabric, dragging through your wet heat in one slow, deliberate stroke.
Your whole body jolts. “Fuck—Jack—”
The reaction pulls something from him—a sharp inhale against your neck, his mouth pressing there like he needs to ground himself for a second before he loses it completely.
You’ve never felt like this before. Never this hot, this open, this aware of every inch of your own body.
And you’ve never wanted anyone like this before.
“God,” he murmurs, voice thick, lips tracing back up your throat. “You’re so wet for me, sweetheart.”
All you can do is nod, whimpering softly, your hips lifting without permission, chasing him, asking for more without the words—and he gives it to you. Of course he does.
His finger slides inside you, slow at first, letting you feel it—the stretch, the heat—before he pushes deeper, and the sound that breaks from you is swallowed instantly as his mouth finds yours again, your back arching beneath him as he starts to move. Not fast. Never fast. He sets a rhythm instead, steady and controlled, curling his finger just enough to make your breath catch, just enough to make your hips move against him again.
And when you press into it, when your body starts to chase that feeling properly, he adds another finger, the stretch pulling a broken sound from your throat as your hands tighten in the sheets and your body rolls beneath him, helpless to it now, completely caught in the slow, deliberate way he works you open.
Every movement is intentional. Every curl hits deeper, sharper, building something tight and aching low in your stomach that makes your whole body tremble, your breath coming out in uneven gasps as you press into his hand, chasing, needing.
Then his thumb finds your clit, and the contact is immediate—devastating.
You cry out, sharp and breathless, your whole body tightening as he starts slow, deliberate circles that send heat spiralling through you, your hips lifting again, desperate now, unable to stay still under him.
You can’t answer—not when his mouth is everywhere, your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, like he can’t decide where he wants you most before he finds your lips again, and this time the kiss is different again. Hungrier. Messier. His tongue presses into your mouth just as his fingers push deeper, his thumb working harder, more deliberate now, and the moan that tears from you is swallowed whole.
“Please,” you whimper against his mouth, breath breaking. “Please, I—need you.”
He lifts his head, dark eyes searching yours, brows pulling together just slightly.
“You sure?”
You stare at him, trying not to whimper as your whole body clenches around his stilled fingers, the sudden stillness almost worse than anything he was doing before.
“Never have I ever finished during sex, remember?” you manage, breathless but steady enough to land. “You gonna fix that, or what?”
Something feral flickers across his face.
And then it’s gone—replaced by something heavier. Something decided.
He kisses you again before you can catch your breath, all teeth and tongue, the restraint he’s been clinging to snapping clean in half as he groans into your mouth, the sound dragged straight from his chest. You feel the loss of his fingers immediately, your body protesting it, but it’s replaced just as quickly by the slow, deliberate roll of his hips, the friction of denim against your soaked panties making you gasp against him.
“Fuck,” he breathes, like he can’t quite believe it.
He pulls back just enough to shift, bracing himself on one arm while the other moves to his belt, not rushed but far from steady now. There’s a hitch in his breath, a tension in the way his fingers work at it, shoving his jeans and briefs down just enough to free himself, and your gaze drops before you can stop it.
He’s already hard—fully, heavily—flushed and slick at the tip, and the sight of it sends a sharp pulse of heat straight through you, your mouth going dry even as your body reacts in the complete opposite way.
“Fuck—” he chokes, the word breaking out of him. “I haven’t been this hard in—” His eyes flick back up to yours, dark and molten, and whatever he was going to say changes. “—ever.”
It hits you low and deep, twisting something tight in your stomach that makes your hips shift under him without thinking. You finally let go of the sheets, your hands finding him, sliding up to wrap around his neck as you pull him back down, needing him closer, needing him everywhere.
Your legs come up around his waist, drawing him in, urging him forward, and his breath stutters as he presses in, his swollen tip dragging against the damp fabric between you. The contact is just enough to make your head fall back, a broken sound slipping from your throat as he tries—tries—to hold himself up, one arm braced, the other moving between you.
You can feel the strain in him now, the way everything is slipping in real time, in the slight shake of his arm, in the uneven rhythm of his breathing as his hand hooks into the waistband of your panties.
“I’ll buy you new ones,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough, almost distracted, like the thought barely registers before it’s gone. “Promise.”
And then the fabric gives.
The sound of it tearing—sharp, sudden—goes straight through you, your breath catching hard as he pulls the fabric out of the way, the last barrier gone in an instant.
It shouldn’t be as hot as it is.
But it is.
Jack Abbot—controlled, composed, always holding the line—losing it enough to rip your panties off you?
Fuck.
He sinks into you in one steady thrust, and both of you gasp at the stretch—the sudden, overwhelming closeness, the way want crashes hot and heavy between you. Your pulse hammers in your ears, that dizzy edge of fear and urgency tangling together until all you can think is him—here, now, inside you.
For a moment, you just breathe—pant, really—eyes squeezed shut, hands locked on his shoulders as your body clenches around him, like you’re trying to keep him right there, like you never want to let him go. He drops his head to your neck, breath hot against your damp skin, and you feel the way it shakes out of him.
“You—fuck—you’re so tight, sweetheart,” he pants, voice rough and muffled where his mouth presses into you. “I’m not gonna last—”
“Then don’t,” you murmur, your voice softer but no less certain. “Just fuck me. Please, Jack.”
A groan tears out of him, low and wrecked, and you feel it through his chest as he shifts above you, hips pulling back, his cock dragging against your walls in a way that makes your stomach coil tight, sparks chasing across your skin. You suck in a sharp breath, your grip tightening on him—and before you can brace, he drives forward again, deeper this time.
“Fuck—” you cry out, the sound breaking loose without warning. “Jack—”
He doesn’t stop. His hips roll back again, slower now, controlled in a way that almost makes it worse, his head lifting so he can look at you, really look at you, like he’s checking, like he needs to see it.
The anticipation coils tighter in your chest, sharp and electric, lighting up every nerve in your body until it almost hurts.
“Mhm,” you manage, breath unsteady, nodding as your arms wind tighter around his neck, pulling him closer, needing him closer, like it still isn’t enough.
For a second—just a second—you’re distracted by something stupid, the feel of his shirt between you, the barrier of it, the way you want it gone, want skin on skin, want to see him, feel him, all of him—
And then he thrusts forward again. Harder again. And the thought disappears completely.
Your body jolts beneath him, every movement knocking the breath from your lungs, and the sound that leaves you is loud—too loud—echoing back off the walls in a way that would make you self-conscious any other time.
But not now.
Right now, you don’t care who hears. Not when it feels like this.
His name spills from your lips in broken gasps, tangled with raw cries, and he answers with a rough sound against your shoulder, biting it back as his hips drive into you at a relentless pace. He’s barely holding himself up now, his weight pressing into you in a way that feels like too much and somehow still not enough, the strain in him obvious in every uneven breath, every sharp exhale against your skin.
His hand drags down your side, back to your thigh, fingers digging in as he pushes your leg wider, and the shift—small as it is—hits something deeper, sharper, your vision flashing white as your head tips back and the knot in your belly pulls tight. His grip slides to your hip, anchoring you there, holding you in place so every thrust lands exactly where it needs to, deep and unrelenting, the sound of it filling the room, wet and rhythmic and impossible to ignore beneath the broken sounds you’re both making.
And then his hand moves between you.
You feel it immediately—the change, the focus—as his fingers find your clit in the slick mess between your bodies, steady despite everything else, despite the way he’s losing himself in every way. Your back arches, breath catching sharp as his touch turns deliberate, circling, pressing, coaxing, sending jolts of sensation straight through you until it’s too much, not enough, everything all at once.
“Jack—” you whine, the sound falling apart as soon as it leaves you. “Fuck, I—”
“I know, sweetheart,” he mutters against your jaw, voice wrecked. “Come on my cock, yeah?”
Your hips lift to meet him without thinking, chasing the rhythm he’s set, chasing the pressure, the friction, the way he’s working you with a precision that feels almost cruel now. His hand doesn’t falter, his fingers moving with intent, building and building, every touch sending sharp bursts of pleasure up your spine as the tension in your stomach pulls tighter, tighter, until it feels like it might snap.
It’s never felt like this before. You’ve never felt like this before.
Your whole body tightens, back arching, legs trembling around him as your hips grind up against his, desperate, chasing something you can’t hold onto. He keeps hitting that same spot, again and again, relentless, his pace rougher now, less controlled, while his fingers stay locked on you, steady, practiced, pushing you right to the edge and holding you there.
You cry out, the sound raw, breaking from your chest as everything finally tips.
The release hits all at once—sharp, overwhelming, tearing through you in a rush that steals your breath and leaves nothing behind but heat and tension snapping loose. Your body locks up around him, tightening, pulsing, your hands gripping at him as your legs shake, your hips still moving against his like you can’t stop, like you don’t want to.
“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face in your neck, his voice wrecked as he keeps moving inside you—slower now, but deeper, like he’s chasing every last pulse of you, like he doesn’t want to miss a second of it. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”
His rhythm falters, hips stuttering, and then he loses it completely—a broken sound tearing from him as he drives into you one last time, deep and hard, spilling inside you as his whole body tenses, shuddering above yours.
You feel it—every part of it—the way he comes undone, the way he clings to you through it, like he needs something to hold onto just as much as you do. Your bodies keep moving together, slower now, instinctive, chasing the last fading edges of it as your breathing stays uneven, your chests rising and falling in sync, skin slick and overheated where you’re pressed together.
It takes a moment to come back down—a long one.
But eventually, the tension drains from him and he collapses almost fully above you, face buried into your shoulder, his weight heavy and grounding as he exhales, slow and spent. It makes it a little harder to breathe—but you don’t mind.
Not when you can feel his heartbeat against your chest, strong and real, still racing like yours.
-
For the first time in two weeks, Jack Abbot isn’t stupidly early for his shift. He couldn’t be, really. Because he’d woken up late this morning, limbs tangled with yours in warm sheets that smelled so much like you it made his head spin—and that had thrown off everything else he needed to get done today.
If it was up to him, he wouldn’t have left at all—but he had to. He had police paperwork to finish, a neighbour’s cat to feed, and sleep he should’ve caught up on before being back in charge of an entire emergency department for twelve hours. But on the bright side? He knows you have a swing shift today, which means he doesn’t need to be early to see you, because you’re going to be stuck at PTMC until at least ten p.m. tonight.
With him.
And he really shouldn’t be looking forward to that as much as he is.
“Afternoon, Dr. Abbot,” Dana says, glancing over the top of her glasses. “Wasn’t sure we’d see you today. Aren’t you usually here by now?”
“I’m on time,” Jack mutters. “I’m a busy man.”
Dana hums, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly as her eyes drop back down to the tablet in her hands.
Jack tries not to appear too conspicuous as he scans the department, glancing toward the trauma bays and South corridor as he passes the nurses’ station. He shouldn’t be this anxious to see you again—not in the apprehensive kind of way, but in the way that makes it feel like his lungs won’t quite fill until you’re near him again.
“She’s not here,” Dana says without looking up from her chart. “Wasn’t feeling well, so Ellis came in early.”
Jack spots Ellis across central, exiting one of the rooms with Santos at her side, and he opens his mouth to say something—defend himself, maybe, lie about what or who he was looking for—but he hesitates, unsure what he could say that wouldn’t incriminate him further.
So instead, he just drops his head and keeps walking, fumbling for his phone in his pocket.
He’d seen you this morning. Just this morning. You were sleepy, had a headache, so he got you water and Tylenol and kissed you before he left—but you hadn’t said anything about feeling so unwell you were going to call in sick.
Jack doesn’t stop until he reaches the lockers, then turns back to survey the ED one last time before leaning a shoulder against the wall and pulling up his text thread with you. He hadn’t texted you today because he knew he’d see you tonight and didn’t want to seem… overbearing. Even now, he’s not sure if he should—but he feels off in a way he hasn’t in years, like he’s waiting on something he can’t control and it’s making him feel sick.
What if last night hadn’t meant what he thought it did? What if you regretted it? What if it was just—
“Hey, kid,” Dana calls from the nurses’ station. “Big night?”
Jack’s head snaps up—and there you are.
The relief hits before he can stop it, sharp and instant, loosening something in his chest he hadn’t realised was wound so tight. He swallows it down just as quickly, his expression settling before anyone can clock it.
“You don’t know the half of it,” you mutter.
Dana huffs a short laugh. “I have a feeling I don’t want to know.”
Jack can’t help but watch as you cross the floor toward him, your backpack hanging from one shoulder while the other hand presses two fingers to your temple, like you could massage the headache away. There’s a smug little smile on your lips when you reach him, slowing your steps until you pause just beside him—not too close, but enough to make his breath catch.
You glance down at his phone, at the open message thread where his thumb is hovering, and your smirk curves a little higher.
“Miss me?”
Jack locks his phone and tucks it back into his pocket.
“Thought you were sick.”
You lift one shoulder. “A little hungover, so Ellis swapped with me.”
For a second, neither of you move. He just looks at you—and you look right back, like you both know exactly what’s changed, even if neither of you is about to say it out loud. Not here. Not now.
“And I missed the night shift attending,” you say finally.
Then—before he can respond, before he’s even fully processed what you said—you lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek. Only brief. Barely anything.
But it feels like everything.
And just like that, Jack Abbot is done pretending he isn’t yours.
summary: good things happen to those who are found crying in the supply closet by their hot, older, maybe flirty boss-slash-mentor.
wc: 14.5k (i have no idea how that happened)
tags/tropes: age gap (duh), slow burn with an insane amount of tension, lowkey very emotionally rife, hurt/comfort, not-so-unrealistic amounts of crying, langdonmel in the background if you squint (you don’t have to squint very hard i love them so much guys im sorry) vaguely referenced but not subtlety implied bad childhood, gratuitous and frankly ridiculous medical inaccuracies because i took a lot of creative liberty, reader is an ode to Matilda by Harry Styles and You’re Gonna Go Far by Noah Kahan, Pitt Crew becomes reader’s family :)
a/n: this was supposed to be a sort-of drabble for @leeknowpegger. idk what happened. pegger i’m sorry i’ve been so dead recently (always) will you take this as an apology. If you’d like more cohesive tags, more context, extra details, and more in depth warnings, this fic has been cross-posted on ao3, and will be linked below :]
NOT-SO-FRIENDLY-PSA: Any comments asking me to write more, post another chapter, or anything of the sort will be deleted. Please do not send an ask into my inbox either. Screaming in my inbox (not about wanting more, general screaming) is totally fine though!
ao3
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۫ ꣑ৎ
You have been the perfect day shift intern for five months. Five freaking months of listening to mostly constructive criticism, five months of adapting and learning on the go with not a single complaint voiced, five months of diligent note-taking, studying, and practice. Five months of weaseling your way into the list of interns-slash-young-doctors that your residents actually respect. Five months of grueling shifts, hard losses, and never saying no when someone needs you to do something.
Five months of being the untouchable, “perfect” intern. Robby’s newest addition to his growing list of “work-wards.”
Five months of unflinching effort and dedication and it took four hours of your third night-shift to reduce you to a miserable, snotty mess on the supply closet floor. Tucked into the space between the two shelves, just the toes of your blood and snot and god knows what else covered shoes peeking out, the rest of you obscured.
Five months, four hours, and back to back fuck-ups that escalated into Dr. Jack Abbot, the man you may or may not have had the hugest crush on since beginning your intern year, removing you from a case. Five months, four hours, and two parents screaming at Dr. Abbot, telling him that you’re not fit to be a doctor.
Tonight isn’t the first night a patient has yelled at you. Tonight isn’t even the first time you’ve been removed from a case. It’s not the first time Dr. Abbot has had to correct you, and it’s certainly not the first time you’ve made a mistake.
You’re an intern. It’s your job to fuck up, learn from it, and keep going. That’s what Dr. Mohan said to one of the other interns awhile back. They’d ended up flunking out, but oh well. It was good advice. It wasn’t meant for you, but hell if you don’t say it to yourself every night like a prayer.
But right now, the usual calming mantra is doing absolutely nothing. You’re stifling ugly sobs into the tops of your knees, arms wrapped around and squeezing as tight as you can, your chest shaking and shuddering with the force of your complete and total freak-out.
The patient isn’t dead. Despite your mistakes, they didn’t die. There’s really nothing to cry about. Nothing to hide in the supply closet for.
And yet, here you are.
Your first mistake wasn’t terrible, but it was ridiculously stupid and incredibly embarrassing. Triage room, emergency measures being taken. And you, tired and off kilter from being so used to the day-shift, broke the sterile field. Like some dumb medical student, not a fairly seasoned intern who’s drilled sterile protocol into her head until it’s muscle memory.
For a scalpel. You dropped a scalpel. Arguably the worst thing to drop. And then, like an idiot, you picked it back up.
And, well. There’s no time to re-scrub, so there wasn’t a need for you in the triage room anymore.
Your second mistake was equally stupid and avoidable, if you’d focused more. Dr. Garcia was kind enough to let you scrub in on an emergency appendectomy.
It was a test. Not your first.
And you ripped the fucking purse strings.
Once again, you were unceremoniously booted from the room (being kicked out of an OR feels a hell of a lot worse than being kicked out of a triage room) and sent back to the pit. Dr. Abbot immediately caught wind of it and demoted you to scut work until “you get your head back in the game.”
And, well. You tried really hard to devote yourself to your new task, but you had to keep blinking tears out of your eyes every five seconds and you absolutely refuse to cry in front of literally any of your coworkers, lest they think you some weak-willed weak-stomached intern who can’t handle some criticism and correction. You’re a hard worker. You’re good at this. You have to be.
So yeah. Crying in the supply closet.
You’ve always been a frustrated cryer, which is annoying on a good day and downright awful on a bad one (case in point.)
You’re just so upset with yourself. You’re better than this. You know you are. You’ve proven that you are. You don’t drop scalpels. You don’t break the sterile field. You don’t rip purse strings.
But you did tonight. And maybe one day you’ll laugh, but today is not that day.
You just don’t get it. Day shift? Incredible. Manageable. You’re on top of things, put together, and worthy of Dr. Robby’s respect.
But tonight? Quite literally the exact opposite.
You can’t be burning out, right? That’s not how burn out works. There’s like, signs, and you start to feel terrible and awful and exhausted and sure you definitely feel all of those things, but that’s because you work in medicine. And you’re an intern. You’re supposed to feel terrible and awful and exhausted. But maybe you’re not? You do enjoy your work, and it’s exhilarating, especially when you try something for the first time and execute it well, because you always do, you always get things right on the first try, obviously, so that means that this can’t be burn out. You don’t burn out. That’s not you. Right? No. Of course not.
You gasp a particularly rough sob into your knees, air feeling like knives as you inhale, making you cough horrendously. You must be quite a sight.
Unfortunately, due to your alternating hacking coughs and dramatic crying, you don’t quite hear the door open.
You do, however, hear the quiet “Oh.” that’s mumbled a few moments later.
Of-fucking-course.
You scramble upright, aggressively wiping at your face and attempting to make it look like you weren’t just crying on the ground.
“Dr. Abbot! I’m so sorry, this is very unprofessional and I know you have me on scut work but I promise I’m still working on it—“
He holds up a hand, and you slam your jaw shut with an audible click.
“Just needed some four by fours, kid.”
Always one to be helpful (especially to the guy you have a crush on who also happens to be your boss, aka the same person who professionally told you to get your shit together about forty minutes ago) you reach beside yourself and hand him the package of gauze, an awkward smile fixed on your face.
“…Those are three by threes.”
Bitch. Motherfucker. Fuck your life.
“Right,” You mumble, dragging your hand down your face. “I’ll just get out of your way. Sorry.”
You turn to walk past him, attempting to go quick enough that he might not notice the new tears shining in your eyes before a hand lands on your shoulder.
“Look,” Dr. Abbot starts. “You’re one of Robby’s adopted interns, right? Robby-Junior?”
“That is one of the rumors Santos has been spreading, yes.”
His hand is on your shoulder. His hand is on your shoulder. (!!!)
You don’t know what to do. He’s looking at you. Your boss doesn’t fluster you. You’re chill. You’re normal. You’re cool as a cucumber, yep yep yep.
“Robby doesn’t adopt interns lightly. Don’t let one bad shift mess you up. It happens to everyone.”
You purse your lips. You should let it go. Take his advice. Thank him.
The all-consuming-guilt and ever-present-need to prove yourself itches too painfully to ignore.
Dr. Abbot seems to notice, and he catches your gaze again.
“What, it doesn’t happen to you?”
A jolt of panic stabs your chest. “No! Of course it happens to me, I didn’t mean to imply that I’m like, above making mistakes or having bad shifts at all—“
Genuinely what is wrong with you. Why the fuck does he do this you. You’re a smart, confident woman who apparently chucks her brain into the garbage bin whenever her boss is around.
Dr. Abbot, probably picking up on a pattern of behavior by now, levels you with another look that shuts you up fairly quickly. He’s got a sort of impish grin on his face, and it shouldn’t be hot, but he’s got his hand on your shoulder and you’re having a ridiculously shitty night. Does anything matter anymore?
“Usually, we try to mix up interns schedules so you don’t get into a rhythm on one specific shift so that when you inevitably switch, the change doesn’t mess up your flow. But I'm sure your knack for keeping your head down and doing good work let you fall through the cracks.”
He takes his hand off your shoulder and shoves it into his pocket, but you almost don’t notice because he said you do good work.
Abbot gives you another grin. “And I didn’t stick you on scut as a punishment. Mindless work tends to be calming, which in turn helps focus your mind.”
“But I ripped the purse strings,” You blurt like a Catholic school girl in a particularly rife confessional, “Like an idiot.”
“You ripped them like an intern doing something for the first time.”
“I practiced hundreds of times to make sure it didn’t happen!”
He tilts his head, almost cat-like. “Did you also practice on a live person in a higher stakes situation while your body is messed up from a sudden and huge sleep schedule change?”
“…No?”
He snorts. “Exactly. Dr. Garcia probably won’t hold it against you. She’ll give you shit for it, but it’s not like she’s never going to give you another chance.”
You wipe the last bit of wetness of your cheeks with the back of your hand, embarrassment heating your face. Despite the awfulness of being caught crying in the supply closet, the beginnings of pleasant warmth is spreading through your chest, Dr. Abbot’s reassurances echoing in your head.
“Thank you, Dr. Abbot. Um. Sorry about the crying. I promise I don’t usually do that.”
Dr. Abbot snorts as he saunters towards the door. “Wouldn’t judge you if you did, kid.”
—
Dr. Jack Abbot is bored.
He has his work, which is great. He became a doctor after being discharged because he’s always been the kind of man that needs something to do. Something to mind, something to watch, something to fix. Robby and him and much the same in this way.
Working at the ED was enough for a while. There was a certain challenge to it, an unpredictability that itch sated, kept him sane. And, well. Now he’s an attending. Night shift lead.
He started to get restless again.
He thought a pet might work. He was going to get a dog, but it didn’t sit right with him to get an animal built for companionship and then leave it at home for over twelve hours a day. Then he thought a cat might do the trick. He looked online first, saw beautiful, well bred felines that could probably compete and win for best in show for whatever the cat equivalent is for the Westminster Dog Show.
And then he made the mistake of going to the shelter and seeing an old, one eared tuxedo cat that stared at him with something in between fear and spite and its eyes. And well. The shelter attendants assured him that the cat in question prefers being left alone and having its own space, but might warm up eventually, and he brought him home that day.
And then it was just Jack, occasionally Robby, and now his asshole cat who might not love him back.
That also worked for a while. Having Charlie was fun. It was nice having another living creature in his house that wasn’t him. Even if he did have a habit of chewing on power cords when left unattended and eventually progressed into attempting to destroy Jack’s stethoscope if he left it anywhere he could find.
Minding the cat gave him something to do that wasn’t tedious, and it was a special sort of bonus to wake up every now and then and see the cat sprawled at the foot of the bed, snoring away. He didn’t actually know cats could snore like that.
Around the time that the itch came back and Jack was considering adopting a second cat from the shelter (well on his path to becoming a crazy cat lady, as Robby said in the park over beers) he met you for the first time.
Sometimes Jack slips quietly into the ED and watches the chaos of day shift’s conclusions. He’s picked up a very special language of gauging what he’s getting into based on the body language and behavior of the rest of the hospital staff. Robby had told him about the latest intern— a motivated, stubborn sort of girl that frequently went toe-to-toe with Santos but without any of the pushback when receiving correction or criticism. He’d heard that you were smart, capable, and well on your way of becoming a great doctor.
Robby failed to mention that you were pretty.
He’d watch you, comparing notes with Mohan with a certain intense focus on your face, worrying your lip between your teeth and repeatedly tucking a piece of hair behind your ear because it’d fallen out of your disheveled pony tail he thinks ‘Oh.’
And then, a few months later, he finds you crying in a closet, subtly confessing fears of failure and falling short of expectations, and then he thinks ‘Well, there’s something to do.’
Jack tries not to think about you, at first. You, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes, bottom lip jutted out just a bit, hugging your knees. He tries not to think about how you’d looked at him when he’d assured you that you did good work, the awkward thank you, and the way that for the rest of the shift, all the annoying menial tasks that get forgotten in the chaos were all mysteriously taken care of.
He tells himself that he’s just going to keep an eye on you. For Robby’s sake. He’d do the same for Whitaker.
The next time you have a night shift, you’re clearly more prepared for the exhaustion, and when he finally sees you in true, proper action, he understands immediately why Robby likes you and Mohan frequently attaches you to her cases. Skill, patience, and focus.
When he watches you trach a patient with a certain ease that only comes from practicing hundreds of times, Ellis shoots him a knowing look. Raised eyebrows and smirk. When she passes him in the hall a few hours later, she jabs her thumb behind her shoulder at where you’re diligently filling out a chart.
“That one yours, then?”
Jack shakes his head. “It’s not like that. You make me sound like a creep.”
Another raised eyebrow. “Sure it isn’t.”
“She’s Robby’s intern.”
“Mhm.”
“She’s way too young.”
Parker shrugs. “She’s good.”
“She is.”
The senior resident cuts a glance back to you. “Think she’ll burn out?”
“Maybe.”
Parker crosses his arms. “Are you gonna let it happen?”
“She’s not my intern.”
Up to three Parker Ellis looks and counting.
“It’s an HR nightmare.”
Parker shrugs. “You just said she’s not your intern.”
He narrows his eyes. “You know what I meant.”
“Do I? It’s been awhile, Jack. No one would really judge you for having some fun.”
“Parker.”
“Jack.”
He shakes his head, walks towards the boards. “You’re the worst.”
Parker just laughs. “Sure I am.”
To your credit, he doesn’t find you crying in a supply closet again to see evidence of you doing so for a solid few weeks. But, like most things in the ED, the peace doesn’t last.
You came into work soaking wet, which is odd, considering the fact that he knows you drive, and the walk to the parking lot isn’t far enough to account how you’re shivering in your freshly changed scrubs. He brushes it off, chalks it up to freakish Pittsburg weather.
Some night shifts are relatively slow and mild. Tonight is not one of those shifts. Patients are extra irritable at late hours, which is to be expected, but what he’s not expecting is to walk by South 15 and see a 50-something year old man slap you.
Jack blinks, and in the next second he’s in the room, standing in between you and the patient.
“Excuse me, what the fuck is going on here?”
Gloria will probably give him shit for his language later, but right now all he can think about is the startled look on your face and the echo that the contact made.
“I said I want a real doctor, not this fucking—“
“Get the fuck out of my hospital.”
Shen peaks his head in. “Security’s on their way.”
Jack reaches behind him to where you’re still standing, your hand covering your cheek, and gently pushes you towards Shen, towards the door. You stumble over your feet a bit, but truly, Jack’s never been more thankful for his residents because then Parker is right there, ushering you out the door with a hand on your shoulder. Jack resolutely ignores your mumbled “I’m fine, really, he just surprised me.”
Thankfully, security doesn’t take that long to get to the room, and the second Jack is finished explaining, he’s out the door and scanning the ED for your face. Nurse Young jerks her head towards the break room, and he thinks he manages to give her what he hopes is a thankful smile before he’s beelining for it.
When he opens the door, you’re sitting on the floor again, holding an ice pack to your cheek with one hand and dabbing at your lip with a paper towel. Like you’ve never heard of medical protocol in your entire life.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
You jerk your head up, a kid caught with its hand in the cookie jar.
“Dr. Abbot!”
Lowering himself to the ground is awkward, physically. Prosthetics don’t lend to much mobility and he’s too old to be doing this, but he just. There are little beads of blood collecting and then sliding down your chin, dripping onto the leg of your scrubs. At the same angle of the split in your lip, there’s a little cut he can see peaking out from under the ice pack.
He reaches forward, fingers itching towards the deep scarlet dripping steadily. He pauses, remembering things like words and questions and sees the wild look in your eyes.
“Can I…?” Jack’s voice trails off, the words clunky and useless in this bubble that’s seemed to form around the two of you, on the probably disgusting floor of the ED break room.
You slowly drop the napkin, let the ice pack lower to your lap and nod.
“He had a ring on. I guess it caught me. I didn’t really notice until I got here.”
“Parker and Shen didn’t notice?”
You look at your lap. “I told them I was fine… And covered it with my hand. There are other patients. It’s just a little cut.”
Jack’s fingers finally reach your face, and he almost takes them back when you flinch on the initial contact, shaking ever so slightly.
But then, with noticeable effort, you relax into his palm, his fingers curling around the side of your jaw. He should grab gloves. He should get up, take his hand off your face.
Anyone could walk in right now and call Gloria on his ass.
His thumb sweeps across your cheekbone, just below the cut, which does have some faint bruising around it. And truthfully, the split in your lip doesn’t look that bad either.
But there’s still little dots and trails of scarlet and he doesn’t think he’s going to be able to calm down until he fixes it. He needs to fix something.
“If I leave you here so I can get supplies,” He starts, voice a little rough, “Can I trust that you’ll stay here and not do anything stupid?”
“Uh, yes? Should I move to a real chair though?”
Jack huffs as he hauls himself to his feet. “That’d be preferable.”
Later, when he’s at home in his bed, he’ll assure himself that the night shift wasn’t truly that busy and he trusts his residents to handle things while he’s busy.
No one stops him on his way to the medical supply closet (the irony of the location is not lost on him) and he makes it back without interruption. Upon opening the door, you have in fact moved to a chair, and it seems the bleeding slowed in his absence.
What he should do is sit down in the chair opposite of you and handle this situation like a professional, like the Dr. Abbot, night shift attending, not Jack who’s got a thing for fixing.
He does try to remove his emotions and feelings from the situation, he really does. It’s something he’s generally very good at —which is where he and Robby differ; Robby would prefer to feel too much and Jack would prefer to feel nothing at all— but you’re looking up at him and there’s something really dangerous in the air and it must’ve gotten into your blood stream or something cause it’s swimming in your eyes and he realizes that removing his feelings is not going to be possible.
He decides he could at least tone it down. You’re an intern. Robby’s intern. So what if you’re bleeding all over the break room? Jack’s just doing his job as the attending to look after the doctors and nurses under his jurisdiction or whatever. That’s all.
“Tilt your head up.”
He sets to work cleaning up the cut and split as detached and clinically as possible, even puts on gloves so there’s no skin to skin contact, just protocol, but he can feel the warmth of your skin through the latex and you keep sucking in these tiny little breathes when something stings and he can’t get the sound of the slap out of his head and it’s all just kind of a lot.
He readjusts his hand on the side of your face, sort of holding your forehead now to have better access and control over the cut on your cheek and wow. Your skin is really warm. It kind of feels like you’re burning up.
Jack tosses the piece of gauze he was using and rests the back of his hand against your forehead. Shit, you are burning up.
He thinks back to you, walking in today, soaked to the bone.
“Did you walk to work today?”
You wince. “My car kind of died? On the way here? I was only a mile away. But I called a towing company, so I didn’t just leave my car in the middle of the road.”
He blinks.
“Your car died, so you had it towed and walked a mile to work, in the rain, late at night, and didn’t tell anybody?”
You just keep staring at him, brows furrowed.
“Yeah? I carry a knife and I’ve taken self defense classes, and my car was just towed back to my place, so. I had a shift to work.”
There’s… a lot to unpack in your answer.
“Kid,” He starts, wondering why Robby never thought to give him a heads up before you started working more night shifts, “What was your plan to get home?”
“Walk, probably. I was thinking about taking the bus. Dr. King knows the bus schedule, so I’m probably going to text her.”
Jack decides to just finish cleaning you up, before he does something stupid like shake you by your shoulders and ask why you didn’t think to let your boss know that your car broke down and you’d be walking home in the rain. Or that when a patient slapped you in the face, his ring cut your face and lip open.
God.
“It’s really fine though,” You say, gesticulating animatedly with your hands. “My place isn’t that far, and it’s not the first time my car’s died. The battery’s kind of shot, but I guess my car has a weird battery, and it’s like, crazy expensive to get a new one, so. Besides, I like walking. I’ve been meaning to catch up on my audiobooks.”
He wishes you’d stop talking so he’d stop hearing things that make him want to do things he can’t and shouldn’t do. Like find out what car you drive so he can buy you a new battery. Or buy you a new car all together.
Christ, you have him wrapped around your fucking finger.
“I’ll drive you home. If you’re fine with that.”
Jack has to fight a grin at how comically wide your eyes grow at his suggestion.
“Oh no, you really don’t have to. I promise I’m—“
“Please stop saying you're fine,” He begs, “You don’t have a working car, a patient slapped you in the face, and I think you’re coming down with something.”
The smile that’s seemed permanently fixed on your face since he came into the break room falters, for a bit.
“Well,” You grimace, hands fisting the hem of your scrub top, “Things certainly aren’t… great, but I’ll survive. I’m not like, incapable, or anything.”
Jacks quiet for a bit, not just mulling over your words but the way you said them; the cadence and tone.
He hums. “Is that what you think? That I or someone else here will think you’re not competent or that you’re weak if you take a break or ask for help?”
Your face falters again. “No, no, of course not I just… I don’t know. I’m an intern. It’s my job, supposedly, to mess up and have to be looked after in case I accidentally kill someone and stuff like that. I just don’t want to be someone that people think they have to worry about. I need— internships are competitive. They’re competitions, really. And I want to win.”
Jack Abbot knows what it’s like to want to win. That need to prove yourself, prove that you’re capable and strong and unfailing.
So Jack also knows how quickly that can all go south.
“You’re a smart kid,” He says, voice ever so slightly soft in the quiet tension of the break room, empty except for the two of you, “And you’re going to make a great resident, and one day, a damn good attending. But none of that means shit if you burn out or get run yourself into the ground before you get there.”
He avoids eye-contact while he carefully applies the bandage to your cheek. “This industry will chew you up and spit you back out if you don’t take care of yourself. I get it. We’re doctors. We make the worst patients. But you got slapped in the face during a shitty day. It’s okay to… not be okay for a minute.”
You huff a watery laugh. “Isn’t that what energy drinks are for?”
He shakes his head. “What, trying to die faster?”
“Anything to shake those student loans. Can’t be in debt if you’re dead.”
“Don’t they just pass it to your family? Next of kin or whatever?”
“I don’t think they can give student loans to a cactus. I mean, I consider her my daughter, but I hardly think it’ll hold up in court.”
Jack mentally files that information away for later. What later is, he isn’t sure.
He stands, pulls off his gloves and tosses all the used gauze and shit in the trash can.
“I gotta get back out there,” He jams his thumb towards the door, “But feel free to take five. No one’s judging you. Matter of fact, as your boss, I’m telling you to take a break.”
You roll your eyes. “Whatever you say, Dr. Abbot. But thank you. For the…”
You gesture to your bandaged cheek and lip. “…And for the advice.”
He shrugs, like taking care of you hasn’t become a persona fantasy he may or may not fall asleep imagining most nights. Like it doesn’t matter, like he’s just doing his job.
“Offer for the ride’s still open. Just let me know by the end of shift.”
And with that, he’s out the door.
It’s the end of shift, and you’re staring at the double doors that lead to the outside world, and beyond that, absolutely fucking miserable weather for walking, a dead car, and cold as shit apartment.
You’re not exactly rushing out the door.
You’re clutching at the strap of your bag, regular clothes on, still damp despite the fact that it’s been over thirteen hours since you originally took them off, begging the universe to strike you down where you stand. Spontaneous lightning bolts happen indoors too, right?
The doors just stare back at you, unchanging in their miserable-ness, and after a solid ten minutes of staring, you feel rather than see Jack sidle up next to you.
“Still raining out there?”
“Yep. Looks worse now.”
“Not great weather to walk in. Especially considering the low-grade fever.”
“Mhm.”
“Did you text Dr. King for the bus schedule?”
“No. I didn’t want to wake her up.”
Jack huffs a breath, then jerks his head towards the doors that lead to the employee parking lot.
“Come on, kid.”
The ride is quiet and awkward. Well. Dr. Abbot probably doesn’t think it’s awkward, because he seems like the kind of man not to be bothered by long stretches of silence. Or silence at all.
He’d been kind enough to turn the heat on full blast (you started shivering the moment you stepped outside) and the radio is softly playing, and it’s only thanks to Sabrina Carpenter’s voice that you don’t feel like completely freaking out.
You mouth along to the lyrics, quietly humming the chorus under your breath.
“—I get wet at the thought of you being a responsible guy—“
“—Treating me like you’re supposed to do, tears run down my thighs—“
By the time you’ve realized that perhaps this isn’t the best song choice to sing along to, considering the situation and who’s car you’re currently riding in, the words “I get wet” have already left your mouth so there’s no real point in stopping.
On a completely unrelated note, Dr. Abbot starts smiling a little bit when you hum.
Pittsburgh traffic is terrible, so the drive kind of drags on. The radio is playing Chappell Roan now. Casual specifically. You’re considering changing the radio station because god.
“So,” You start, just to say anything that drowns out “knee-deep in the passenger seat and you’re eating me out, is it casual now?”, “Did you… have a good shift?”
That was a terrible question. Jesus. What the hell is wrong with you? How did you get through medical school?
Dr. Abbot snorts. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”
Ah. Right. The Incident.
“I told you I’m—“
“Didn’t I tell you to stop saying that?”
Your lap has never looked more interesting. Wow, is that a loose thread on your sweats?
He continues. “Fine or not, a patient assaulted you. Even if he didn’t leave a mark, that’s still shitty.”
“Have you been hit by a patient before?”
He huffs. “Hell yeah. It happens to everyone eventually. It’ll happen again. You get better at keeping your cool.”
“Sorry you had to step in. I’ve been hit by a patient before and I was fine.”
“Oh yeah?”
You nod. “It was during my Pedes rotation, actually. I’ve always known working with kids probably wasn’t going to be for me, but, well. Kid came in for intussusception, and she was screaming and writhing in pain, and I failed to restrain her properly.”
“What, did she slap you too?”
“Nope. Kicked me in the chin. Ended up biting almost clean through my tongue.”
“Fucking hell, kid. What’d you do?”
You shrug. “Kept my blood in my mouth until we finished sedating the patient. Ended up with three stitches.”
Dr. Abbot lets out a low whistle. “Always the patients you least expect.”
“The importance of proper patient restraint was thoroughly impressed upon me, I assure you.”
The silence after your short conversation is slightly more comfortable, and thankfully the radio station has decided to play less pointed music.
Between the warmth of the car, the smell permeating the seats that smells distinctly like Dr. Abbot, and the drumming of rain outside, it doesn’t take long for drowsiness to begin to overtake you.
Your last thought before falling asleep is that you don’t remember if you gave Dr. Abbot your address or not.
Someone is gently shaking your shoulder, and you feel like shit.
“What?” You attempt to say, but the side of your mouth is pressed against the seatbelt and your shoulder so it comes out sounding like: “Whamfgh?”
Opening your eyes is a herculean task, like someone sewed miniature weights to your eyelids while you were asleep. You’re absolutely freezing, despite the steady hum of the car's heat, still on high, and you vaguely recognize the street the car is currently parked on.
Oh right, your apartment.
“Oh,” You yawn, hauling yourself semi-upright, aiming for woman who has it together, and less disheveled swooning woman in a Baroque painting.
Dr. Abbot is staring at you with equal parts humor and concern.
You rub at your eyes. “How long have I been asleep?”
“Little over forty minutes. You looked like you needed it.”
“It doesn’t take that long to drive to my place, even with traffic.”
Your brain is moving like molasses, so it takes you a second to catch up with the implication of his statement.
“Did you just… park in front of my house? So I could keep sleeping?”
He just shrugs. “Like I said. You looked like you needed it.”
Embarrassment and a touch of something else floods through your body, hot and cold at the same time.
“Sorry. You didn’t have to wait.”
“If I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t have.”
Still moving slowly, you gather up your bag from where it partially spilled on the floor all over your feet, shoving old receipts and pads and chapstick back in with the reckless abandon of a person who isn’t nearly aware enough of social cues to be in a car alone with their hot boss.
Whilst you're grabbing and shoving, Dr. Abbot reaches into his back seat, rifles around for a bit, and then drops something rather unceremoniously over your head and shoulders. After a quiet “hey” you pull it into your lap, and then that hot feeling is back in full force.
It’s a rain jacket. Clearly Dr. Abbot’s. You can see his name written on the inside pocket. It’s nice too. Definitely not the kind of rain jacket you could afford on an intern’s budget.
“For the next time your car dies,” He clarifies, as if the jacket’s purpose is the thing that’s stupefied you, not the fact that he’s the one giving it to you, “In case of rain.”
“You really don’t have to,” your words are rushed and clunky in your mouth, tumbling over each other in your haste to say something, anything, “I mean, I can just buy my own—“
“First of all,” He cuts you off, voice smooth and rough at the same time, “Do I seem to be the kind of guy in the habit of doing things I don’t want to? And second of all…”
He tilts his head, gaze sharp. “Are you really going to buy one for yourself?”
Your mouth goes dry.
“I was planning on looking online—“
Dr. Abbot interrupts you. “Now you don’t have to.”
Like it’s that easy. Does he want it to be?
“Dr. Abbot, I—“
“Jack.”
His grin goes from mild to shit-eating as you stare at him, obviously radiating confusion.
“Jack,” you start, testing out the name in your mouth, hearing how it sounds in the air. “I can take care of myself. You don’t need to give me your jacket. I’ve been doing just fine on my own.”
“Kid—“
The prickling of perceived weakness makes anger spark in your chest.
“Don’t call me kid like I’m stupid.”
Dr. Abb— Jack seems simultaneously impressed that you interrupted him for a change and vaguely put out.
He holds up a finger, effectively silencing anything else you were thinking of saying.
“I don’t call you kid because I think you’re stupid. I don’t think you’re stupid. You’d know if I thought you were stupid, because I would tell you. ‘Kid’ is a…” He trails off, free hand tapping thoughtful rhythms on the steering wheel, “…Nickname. Term of endearment. Whatever you want to call it, but it’s not derogatory.”
Jack holds up a second finger.
“You have not been taking care of yourself. If you were, you wouldn’t have a low grade fever, and you would’ve called me as your boss or one of your friends to drive you instead of walking after your car died. You’ve been surviving. There’s a difference.”
Shame burns white hot through you— all your recent failings laid out by the person you want least to notice them. Clearly, he has.
Possibly out of pity in response to your no doubt miserable expression, Jack continues.
“Don’t beat yourself up about it. It’d be an honest-to-god miracle if any intern managed to properly take care of themself. Hell, residents don’t do it either, and neither do attendings. Does Robby strike you as the kind of man who takes perfect care of himself?”
“That depends. Is my answer going to make it back to him?”
Jack huffs a quiet laugh. “Exactly. Doctors make the worst patients, in and out of a hospital setting. Knowing better doesn’t actually make us all that inclined to do better. Terrible misconception.”
He nudges the jacket on your lap. “So just take the jacket. One less thing to worry about.”
Emboldened by his recent streak of kindness towards you and the flush of fever running through your veins, you look over to him.
“You worry about me?”
Something dances in his eyes for a split second, gone before you can blink.
“I worry about all the interns and residents on my service, but especially the ones my best friend has taken a liking to.”
Right. Of course. He only cares because of Robby. And Robby only cares so he can add another doctor to the already short-staffed PTMC. It’s not like Jack actually likes you or anything.
You clutch the jacket to your stomach, finally finding the energy to get out of the car. Jack’s car.
“Well. Thanks for the ride, Dr. Abbot. And the jacket.”
“No problem, kid.”
And if later on that evening, in the safety of your tiny apartment, you take in the deep, fresh, almost spicy smell that makes up Jack, lingering on the jacket, that’s no one’s business but yours.
—
From that night on, it feels like Jack Abbot is everywhere.
Whether it’s something he’s doing on purpose or you’ve just developed a heightened sense to his whereabouts— it doesn’t matter. Sometimes it’s a whiff of his cologne (eerily similar to Dior Sauvage, which makes you shudder. Certainly he didn’t choose a cologne similar to the number one male manipulator scent on purpose?) or seeing his handwriting on a whiteboard or his notes in a chart, he’s there.
You’re being scheduled for night shifts fairly regularly now, in addition to the 24-hour shifts you have the pleasure of being put on as an intern.
Working a double isn’t horrific, really. Exhausting, sure, but Robby and Jack’s solid presence makes the shifts more bearable. Plus, you’re quickly becoming friends with the fresher residents, Whitaker and Santos, plus some of the older residents like Mohan and King. Even Dr. Langdon gives pretty solid advice and mentorship, despite the tension in the air whenever he happens to be working with or near Robby.
Normally, 24 hour shifts are grueling, but not impossible. Somewhere around the 15 or 16 hour mark, the sleep deprivation hits, and you can just coast on stress-induced inertia and a healthy does of energy drinks and mania.
Today, though, has been particularly fucking awful. Maybe it’s the fact that the fever never really went away, or the fact that you started your period the day before (being sick on your period should be illegal.) It’s probably both of those things.
But there isn’t really anything to do but grin and bear it. The day will pass, and you have the next two days off anyways. Just survive the next however-many hours of the shift and then you can go home, dress in exclusively fluffy clothes, and binge watch tv whilst eating heart-stopping junk food.
You’re distracted from your charting, propped up on the counter at the nurses station by a light tap on your shoulder and someone saying your name.
Dr. Langdon has sidled up next you, voice hushed.
“Hey, uh. I just wanted to let you know that you seem to have… bled through.”
If a spontaneous earthquake could open a chasm beneath your feet and swallow you whole, now would be the time.
“Fuck fuck-ity fuck fuck,” You mumble, wiping your hands down your face. “Right. Yeah. Of course. Thank you for letting me know.”
In a moment that is as mortifying as it is kind of sweet, Langdon passes you a hoodie that is clearly his.
“To tie around your waist,” He clarifies, holding the object out across the meager space between the two of you, voice a bit awkward and stilted, like you might decide to spit in his face or something.
You don’t actually know what it is that Dr. Langdon did before your arrival that makes the break room go quiet when he walks in (unless Dr. King is there) but you don’t particularly care. If it was truly something horrific that you should be worried about, he wouldn’t be working here. Robby wouldn’t let that kind of thing slide.
So you take the offered hoodie with a strained smile (can this shift just be over) and speed-walk to the break room, praying no one decides to snag you on the way there.
What you should do is go to your locker where your stash of pads, tampons, spare underwear, and extra scrubs are, and then probably the bathroom to get changed, so you can keep on going but you also just saw Dr. King go into the break room and you just really need a hit of her specific brand of optimism.
The woman in question perks up when she notices your arrival, hastily eating the same snack she always eats around this time— a tiny bag of pretzels.
She watches as you collapse into the chair across from her, letting your head thunk onto the table.
“Bad shift?”
“Bad life,” You grumble. “Dr. Langdon had to give me his hoodie to tie around my waist because I bled through onto my scrubs. Like a middle schooler who doesn’t know what pad sizes are for.”
Dr. King nods thoughtfully. “He asked me if it would be weird of him to let you know and offer his hoodie. To which I replied that periods are a normal bodily function and he’s a doctor.”
“Here here,” You half-heartedly cheer, any actual cheer or enthusiasm severely lacking in your voice. “How did you survive your intern year, Dr. King?”
“We’ve been working together for awhile, you can call me Mel,”
She pops another pretzel in her mouth before answering. “But to answer your question, I mostly just kept telling myself that failing wasn’t an option. Which. Probably isn’t helpful, or good advice, but it worked for me. Something that’s nice is if you have a fellow intern or doctor that you enjoy working with. I know the other two interns who matched into the PTMC dropped out of the course, so it’s just you, but you have Dr. Robby, right?”
You nod, picking absently at a spot on the table and ignoring the way that it wasn’t Robby who popped into your head, but Jack.
Your teeny, ignorable crush on him has become a full-blown thing, with semi-weekly dreams about him in various… situations, and casual daydreams at all hours of the day of what it would be like to just be with him, or hear him, in any capacity that couldn’t be qualified as work or a boss checking on his employee. Intern. Whatever.
Hormonal and fever-ish, you suddenly feel like you’re going to explode and die if you don’t have someone to confide in right this very second. You haven’t heard Mel really talk about anyone you work with outside of professional doctor-to-doctor conversation, not even about Dr. Langdon, who she seems almost suspiciously close with.
“Mel,” You start, voice a little too thick and watery to just be talking about your stupid, annoying, one-sided workplace crush, “Can I tell you a secret?”
She seems to consider the pros and cons first, and looks fairly caught off guard, but she answers. “Um. Sure?”
“Have you ever had a crush on a coworker before? Or like, a boss or mentor?”
Mel sets down her bag of pretzels. “Is this about Dr.—“
“I have the biggest crush on Dr. Abbot and I think it’s ruining my life.”
The words burst out of you all at once, and Mel’s expression goes from shocked, to confused, before finally settling in abject amusement.
“Ah,” She says, sliding the pretzels across to you. “Um. Well I personally don’t have a crush on Dr. Abbot, but I think I understand the sentiment.”
You bury your face into your hands and groan. “It’s awful. It’s so cliche. It’s so fucking Grey’s Anatomy.”
“I’ve never actually seen that show. Becca likes it though.”
Mel allows you a few moments of wallowing and pretzel eating before she speaks again.
“Have you… acted on it?”
“No!” You snap your head up. “I mean. No, I haven’t. I’m not naive enough to think that he would reciprocate. He’s an attending and I’m an intern.”
She leans in. “But…?”
“But sometimes… I wonder? I don’t know. I’m probably crazy. He drove me home the other day, cause my car died, and it was raining, and I got slapped by a patient, and that was when I first came down with this stupid fever, and like, that’s normal, right?”
Mel nods. “Fr— Langdon drives me to work when we share shifts, and sometimes when we don’t. I think Dr. Santos and Dr. Whitaker carpool too. So maybe?”
“Right. Yeah.”
She takes the pretzel bag back. “Is there more evidence that makes you feel crazy?”
Your skin flushes hot at the memory alone.
“He gave me his rain jacket. To keep.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
Mel once again takes a few minutes, and the rest of her pretzels before responding.
“I’m honestly not the best person to ask for advice about this. I’ve been told I can be… dense when it comes to romantic endeavors.”
You shrug. “You’re a great listener, and you haven’t steered me wrong in the past.”
She brightens. “That’s good! I think my advice would be to talk to Dr. Mohan. She has experience with your… particular situation.”
Mel tosses the empty pretzel bag and heads toward the door. “I’ll let Robby know you’re taking ten, so don’t worry about someone looking for you while you’re changing.”
“You’re the best. I love you.”
The resident flushes at your gratitude, and then ducks out the door, leaving you alone to stew on her advice.
—
Talking to Dr. Mohan proves difficult, at first. How exactly do you start that conversation? “Hey, I heard you had advice on having a world-ending crush on your boss, got any tips?”
Additionally, she’s kind of hard to track down. You greatly respect Dr. Mohan’s work ethic and truly aspire to her unflinching devotion to patient care at the PTMC.
After a few days (which turns into a few weeks, because you are an emotional coward) of trying (and failing) to find a moment to talk, Dr. Mohan actually ends up finding you.
“Hey!” She jogs up to you as you’re walking to your car, a too-bright smile on her face for the fact that you both just got off a fourteen hour shift.
“Sorry to be that annoying coworker who talks to you in the parking lot, but I wanted to catch you before you left. Mel said you wanted to talk to me?”
“Right!” You stammer, slightly mortified. You admire Dr. Mohan so much and really want her to think you’re capable but you really need some advice on Jack Abbot as a whole, and it sounds like she’s the only expert around. “Yes. That. It’s a really normal question, you know.”
Dr. Mohan just nods, a smile still fixed on her face, like this is a totally normal conversation. “Uh, sure?”
There’s a beat of silence where you both stare at each other, and then she gasps.
“This is about Abbot, isn’t it?”
You groan, throwing your head back in defeat. “Am I that obvious?”
She laughs goodnaturedly. “No. Probably not. You’re just the only intern in the ED right now so I try to make it a habit to keep an eye on you. Plus, Mel is literally the only person in the world who knows about my now-dead crush on him, so. I just connected the dots.”
“He’s so hot, Dr. Mohan. I feel like I’m dying.”
She makes a noise of sympathy. “He is. It’s fucking annoying, at a certain point.”
“Thank you!” You shout, “Like it’s just so there. It should be illegal to just walk around and look like that. I should be focusing on like, studying and learning, but instead I’m just harboring this stupid crush on an attending.”
“Have you ever seen Grey’s—“
“Yes. I know. I can’t be Meredith. Meredith was like, always a mess. Am I a mess?”
Mohan purses her lips. “Well. You did just say you felt like you were dying.”
“I know,” You sigh. “It makes me feel… shallow. I like being a doctor. I was so excited to get matched into the PTMC, and this stupid crush is throwing me off my game.”
“It can’t be that bad.”
“On my first night shift rotation I dropped a scalpel, picked it back up, and then ripped the purse strings on my first appendectomy.”
She winces. “Oh. That’s not… great.”
Your hand finds its way to your comfort necklace. “He found me crying in the supply closet like some medical student, and then he comforted me. It was terrible.”
Mohan starts ambling towards the direction you assume her car is in. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I’ve been caught crying in the supply closet several times. I think it’s a right of passage. And as for that second part…”
She shrugs. “Abbot gives credit where credit is due, but he won’t coddle you. If he actually offered real comfort or advice or whatever, then he meant it.”
“That’s what he said. It just didn’t really help the whole crush-on-him part. And then there was the slapping incident, and he drove me home, and now I have his rain jacket in my backseat in case my car dies again.”
Mohan actually looks taken back.
“Okay. It sounds to me like this is a situation that is in serious need of wine. Do you drink?”
“Whenever I have a spare twenty dollars.”
She grins. “I happen to have a couple bottles at home that might do the trick. Follow me back to my place?”
“Yes please.”
Wine and, eventually, takeout at Samira’s is much more enjoyable than you expected— considering the fact that you’re an intern and she’s a resident. She confides that she doesn’t have very many friends outside of the ED and was excited at the opportunity to have “real girl-time”.
She shares how she weathered her own seemingly life-ending crush on Jack, gasps and screams at the appropriate times when you tell her about the slapping, the events that occurred in the break room afterwards, the drive home, and the jacket.
You leave her apartment feeling lighter than ever. Like life might be worth living. Like you could survive your intern year.
Maybe everything will be okay.
—
Everything is not okay.
You’re now two full weeks into a never-ending fever, you keep getting stuck with shitty shifts (how many times a month can one person possibly be scheduled to work a double?) and top it all off, you’ve been pissed on not once, but twice in the same fucking shift.
Santos snorts when she sees you go by in your third set of scrubs for the day.
You shoot her a look. “Supportive as ever, Dr. Santos.”
“I try.”
You sink into the chair next to hers, taking a moment to press the heels of your hands into your eyes and maybe, like, take a thirty second nap.
It doesn’t help much.
There’s a particular misery in watching the day-shift rotation handoff with the night shift and not being able to join in the process. Because you’re still there. And will be, until you see them again for your handoff, in twelve fucking hours.
Patients tend to get bitchier the later it gets, and it’s one of those nights where every patient bleeds into the next in a never-ending sea of complaints, pain, and fixing.
The fixing is fine. You like the fixing.
You’re just… having a hard time keeping up with everything while the fever perpetually runs you down. It’s the kind of thing where no amount of sleep can help you. Unless it was for 48 hours straight and then you got another 48 hours off after that to relax while you’re awake, and then another 48 hours to be productive.
A vacation. A week off. You’re describing taking a week off work. It’s comical, actually. Imagine requesting a week off from work. Gloria or whoever it is would never grant that. Not as an intern.
You notice Jack lingering around your general vicinity, which is fairly normal on a night like tonight. Technically, as the only intern on shift, you’re the only liability he has to really worry about.
Somewhere around the eighteen hour mark, he slides into the chair next to you while you’re charting.
“You’re flagging.”
Your eyes burn as you tap information into the tablet, then check on the computer in front of you. “I’m fine. I just need a Redbull or something.”
He slides the tablet out of your hands. “Part of being a good doctor is knowing when to take a break. Can’t be a good doctor if you’re falling asleep during the exam, right?”
“I would never fall asleep during an exam.”
He shrugs. “I’ve seen it happen.”
Jack jerks his head towards the break room. “Take five. Get an energy drink or whatever. Then I want you on chairs for at least an hour.”
“Yes sir.”
He rolls his eyes. “Get going.”
Chairs don't prove to be as uneventful as you (and probably Jack) hoped it would be. You get vomited on by a teenage girl, who apologizes profusely when she finally manages to stop throwing up, narrowly avoid a swing from a patient that quickly becomes a behavioral case, and become an unwilling participant in another patient’s doctor fantasy.
Security had to get involved with that last one. It was. Something.
Your shift ends with little fanfare. It’s honestly a miracle you survived. You’re exhausted, achey, and still feverish. The only thing you can think about is crawling into your bed, indulging in a rare expense of turning your heat up, and sleeping until your next shift.
Walking into your apartment ends up being a slap in the face. First of all, it’s fucking freezing. As if you left every single window open while you were gone. Secondly, it’s dark. Like, not even the clock on the microwave is on.
“Fuck,” you mumble under your breath, tears beginning to burn with unshed tears digging through your bag and fumbling with your phone, about to text your landlord when you see that he’s already texted.
Eric (Landlord): Power and AC is down. Might take some time to fix. Power should be back on by tonight.
And that’s just the last straw, really.
You slam the door behind you, not even bothering to go inside your apartment at all, chest tight and face hot, you race down the stairs, trying to find Samira’s contact through blurry eyes. When you think you’ve found it you click call, collapsing on the curb with your body doubled over, crying like a crazy person into your knees, at something like nine in the morning.
The phone rings for a bit, and you’re about to give up when the line finally stops and somebody picks up.
“Hello?”
It’s not Samira who answers. It’s Jack.
You sniffle. “Why are you answering Samira’s phone?”
“I didn’t. I answered my phone. Because you called me. Are you okay?”
“Oh,” You decide to ignore his question, “I meant to call Samira. Sorry.”
“Wait,” Jack’s voice comes out all rough and tinny through the speaker, but even distorted through a phone, you could listen to it for hours, “Answer the question. Are you okay?”
Your bottom lip wobbles dangerously.
“The power’s out in my building. And the heating went out too. My landlord said the power won’t be on until tonight, and I just wanted to go to sleep, but it’s cold and I'm tired and this stupid fever won’t go away.”
“Do you have a place to stay?”
Always a man of action, Jack is.
You shrug, then make a non-committal noise when you remember he can’t see it. “I was supposed to call Samira and see if she’d let me sleep on her couch.”
“I have a guest bedroom.”
The statement hangs in the crisp morning air. You think of Jack’s encouraging advice, Jack’s steady presence, Jack’s warm car and his nice smelling rain- jacket. Jack, Jack, Jack.
“Jack?”
“Yes?”
“What’s your address?”
The drive over involves bawling your eyes out to Vienna by Billy Joel. It’s just that kind of day.
You have no problems finding parking (miraculously) and no one stops you as you head up to Jack’s apartment as directed.
It’s… fancy. Like, polished floor lobby, lounge area adjacent to the front desk fancy.
The actual building itself isn’t very tall, nothing like a skyscraper, so it’s not exactly surprising that Jack’s apartment is the penthouse. It’s just suddenly very awkward standing in front of the door, in the same sweatshirt you’ve had since high school, sweats that have seen better years, looking exactly like the kind of girl who sobbed on the ride over to Billy Joel.
Jack opens the door almost immediately after you knock, and.
If seeing him in scrubs was bad, it doesn’t hold a fucking candle to him in a tight, army green shirt and grey sweatpants. Grey sweatpants. That couldn’t have been intentional, right? Is he online enough to know these things? God.
His features soften when he takes in your tear-streaked face and disheveled appearance.
He makes a low noise in his throat.
“Oh, you poor thing. Come here,”
Jack had actually been gesturing to the apartment, saying ‘come inside’ but the dam breaks the moment he says “poor thing” and you don’t have the wherewithal to think anything more complex than “Jack=Comfort and Safety".
Your bag drops with a dull thud onto the ground and then you’re crashing into him, face pressed into his chest and arms wrapped around his middle. You can barely find it within yourself to be embarrassed.
Jack doesn’t react at first, going completely stiff in your hold, and you think maybe you’ve gone and fucked this up too, like everything good in your life, but right when you move to pull away a hand finds its way to the back of your head, and another rubs circles on your back.
“Poor girl,” he murmurs, voice a soothing rumble with your ear close to his chest, “They been running you ragged?”
You nod uselessly, feeling raw and cut open— like you’ve been smashed against a rock and everything you keep tucked inside is spilling out and you can’t stop it.
“I’m so tired.” You half-mumble-half-sob into him, a sentiment that feels too light to convey everything that’s happened since you became an intern at the PTMC, and everything else you don’t talk about that happened before.
“I know sweetheart, I know,” Jack is solid beneath your cheek and arms, a lifeboat in a storm. “How about we get you inside and get you warm, huh? That sound nice?”
At the promise of warmth you finally detach from him, shame burning through you when you eye the wet spot on his shirt.
“Sorry,” You say, voice barely above a whisper. “I think I got snot on your shirt.”
“Trust me kid, it’s seen worse.”
He grabs your bag before you can even make a move for it, and you trail behind him into his apartment, attempting to ground yourself by looking around his apartment.
It’s nice. Lived in, not sterile. It doesn’t, actually, look the inside of a dentist’s office, like you were half expecting. Most new apartments have that doctor’s office lobby feel. Not exactly comfortable when you’re a doctor and the goal of home is to not remind you of your job.
Jack hangs your bag on a hook by the door, right next to his own. Something twinges in your chest at the sight.
There’s a feeling under your skin you can’t place as you shuffle into his apartment, something warm and skittish that aches for this to not be a one time thing, to be able to compare the pale morning light you’re watching now to late afternoon sun. To know where he keeps his mugs, what drawer the silverware is in, if he’s got a junk drawer with random shit in it, and what the random shit is. What it feels like to be in his kitchen, shoulders brushing.
But that’s a lot of complicated things to name or voice just past the threshold of the foyer, so you wrap your arms around yourself and toe your shoes off, then pad quietly after him.
Jack is— inviting, or maybe enticing; all those words that beckon the skittish thing closer and it feels just on the tip of danger to obediently sit on the couch he ushers you to.
“By the way,” Jack says somewhere behind you, maybe in the kitchen? “I have a cat. His name is Charlie. He probably won’t come near you, but be warned, he’s an asshole when he wants to be.”
“Oh, that’s fine. I like cats. Especially the asshole ones.”
“That explains a lot of things.”
His statement is kind of loaded, chock full of subtext you don’t care to parse through at the moment.
“Um,” You start, feeling a bit unsteady, “Is— Do you mind if I shower? I kind of smell gross probably, and I feel… grimy. Your apartment seems clean and I’d hate to get my hospital grime on anything.”
Jack just chuckles. “One, I wouldn’t care if you got ‘hospital grime’ on anything because that would be a very hypocritical thing to care about, and two, of course you can shower. Do you have spare clothes?”
“I might’ve forgotten to grab those.”
Another huffy laugh. “That’s fine. You can borrow some of mine. I’ll leave them on the bed.”
That’s like. Wow. Yeah. You’re just gonna borrow some clothes from him. From Jack. You’re going to shower in Jack’s shower and use whatever bodywash he has (hopefully not 5-in-one) and then put on his clothes and you are totally capable of being Completely Normal about these things.
“I already started on dinner when you said you were coming over. Should be done by the time you get out of the shower. Chicken noodle okay?”
Damn Jack Abbot and damn your shitty emotional regulation and damn your life for putting you in these situations.
“Yeah,” You croak, thinking about things like soup and family and being cold and strong and alone, “Yeah that’s fine. Thank you.”
Jack politely does not comment on the fact that soup is reducing you to a tangled heap of emotions and tears, and instead directs you to where his shower is and says to use whatever you want and take however long you want. He says want, not need. You’re not sure if there’s an intention behind the word choice.
Once in the shower, you allow yourself time to cry, to feel awful and self-pitying and all those things that are terrible to go through in front of another person. His shower is expensive and the water is warm and he does not have 5-in-one. There’s a litter box nestled next to the toilet, and it’s not funny, but it kind of is, because Jack would be the kind of guy to look at a litter box and put it right next to the toilet. Everything in its place.
Maybe that’s your problem. You haven’t felt like anything is in the right place in years.
You want to stay in the shower, in the bubble of protection it provides, but the idea of running up Jack’s water bill is enough to guilt you into getting out. You shiver, dry, aggressively attempt to make yourself look less like a wreck at the sink, and then tip-toe into the attached bedroom and carefully pull on the clothes Jack left for you on the bed; a faded, oversized college shirt, and a comfy pair of sweatpants.
They smell like him. You smell like him, like his body wash. The house smells like him. Everything you take in is a pleasant assault of Jack, Jack, Jack.
Enough guilt to fuel an entire room of ex-Catholic’s is the only thing keeping you from snooping around his room. The idea of stumbling upon something private or hidden away makes you feel slimy and gross, so you exit the bedroom and pretend like you don’t feel like a foster dog on its first night home from the shelter.
(Do shelter dogs miss the shelter? Do they miss its familiarity? Do dogs miss anything at all?)
The apartment smells of more spices and good smelling food than you privately thought Jack capable of. You’d read him as the kind of guy to subsist on takeout and maybe like, protein bars. But he’s dutifully stirring a metal pot with all the diligence of the military man that he once was.
Quietly, as if he might throw the wooden spoon he’s stirring with if you make too much noise or take up too much space, you carefully pull out a barstool in front of his kitchen island, the one closest to the door, and haul yourself onto it.
He gives you an examining glance over his shoulder, turns a knob on the stove, then rests his forearms on the island counter across from you. His rather delicious looking forearms, you might add.
“Feeling better after your shower?”
You hum an affirmation, folding your arms and resting your chin on them.
“Isn’t it kind of weird to make soup for breakfast?”
He shrugs. “It’s dinner for us. Or, well, me. I’m not sure your body knows what meal it is.”
He taps a pointer finger rhythmically on the counter. “Any word from your landlord?”
“No. Sorry for… all of this. I know you’re tired.”
“I wish you’d stop apologizing for things I don’t mind doing for you.”
You don’t really know how to respond to that, or what to do with how it makes you feel, so you elect to save it for later. Good at compartmentalizing, ED doctors are.
You clear your throat. “I can call Samira whenever. She’d probably be excited to have girl time. So you know. Don’t feel like— I have other options. If or when you want me to leave.”
“Do you want to leave?”
You wish he’d stop asking questions you don’t want to answer.
You try to play it off, smother your fear and exhaustion with humor. Robby’s kid, through and through.
“Well, I can’t have you getting sick of me. You’re the only person I know who has a very rob-able house if this whole internship doesn’t pan out.”
Jack straightens, shoulders pulling and flexing. “Who said I’d get sick of you? Maybe I like the idea of you in my house.”
“Do you?”
You ask the question before you’re aware of how terrified you are of the answer. But you’ve already said it, and it feels nice to be the one asking the hard question instead.
Jack, likely experienced in this sort of thing, doesn’t look outwardly bothered by it, but he gets a sort-of-sad look on his face, almost like he’s disappointed that you had to ask.
“Have I given you any reason to think otherwise?”
“I don’t know,” You look down, picking at a hangnail to avoid his expression and his eyes and his everything, “I don’t want to assume anything.”
“You’ve already assumed quite a bit.”
You scrunch your face. “That’s different. Those are safe assumptions.”
“Are they?”
“Obviously, it’s safer to assume that you don’t want me to stay here, or at least not for very long, because if I assume that I do I’ll bother you and I want you to—“
You cut yourself off, jaw shutting with a firm click, but the end of the sentence hangs in the air unspoken anyways. It’s not hard to figure out what you were going to say.
I want you to like me.
Jack sighs, and alarm blares are going off in your head and your chest starts to feel tight and cold despite the warmth of his apartment, and then he’s rounding the island and you turn your body to follow him —never turn you back, never let your guard down— and then he’s standing in front of you, over you, and you’re not sure if you want to run or metaphorically curl up at his feet, tail tucked.
It’s pathetic. It’s embarrassing. It’s impossible to ignore.
(What does a shelter dog think, on that first night? Do they hope? Do dogs hope?)
He raises a hand, slowly, giving you a chance to lean away, and when you don’t, it comes to rest on the side of your face, his thumb swiping at the barely-there wetness from earlier tears.
It’s cleaning the cut from the slap, it’s a kindness you can curl into, and it might be a threat. Might be bad, might turn harsh and painful, might leave without a word.
Unlike that day in the break room, there’s no fluorescent lights to suck any heat out of the room and no gloves as a barrier; as a reminder of who he is, of what you are, of how things work.
It’s just you and Jack, in Jack’s apartment, wearing Jack’s clothes, and pretty soon you’re going to eat food that Jack made. Just for you.
And you think maybe, possibly, if he stops here you could kind of hold onto this moment for the rest of your life and it would get you through being alive and strong and alone, and you’d make it through this, whatever this is, if he stops here.
He doesn’t. He starts talking.
“I like knowing that you’re safe. That you’re taken care of. I like knowing with certainty that these things are true because I’m the one making sure of it.”
Your breath hitches in your chest.
“That’s kind of a lot of work, though.”
He hums. “It is. Luckily, I just so happen to be a pretty hard worker.”
Everything about the current situation is a lot and your nerves are over-taxed and dialed up to hundred, so it’s not surprising that you start crying again.
Jack brings up a second hand to the other side of your face and gently wipes away the tears as they come. It feels sort of like the physical version of everything he’s been doing for you since that day in the supply closet.
“You don’t have to do anything, or say anything, or make any kind of decision right now, okay? We can do whatever you want. I’ll do whatever you want.”
There’s the word choice again; want, not need. Is there a difference? What does the difference mean to him? What does he mean? Why is he doing any of this?
Jack's phone goes off in his pocket, and he steps back, drops his hands, and goes back to the stove.
Jack said you don’t have to make a decision right now, but you kind of feel like if you don’t do something you’re going to be sick with everything that’s swirling and clawing inside you, threatening to burst. Like the very essence of you is going to explode, and your soul will be painted on Jack’s perfectly decorated walls.
That would be something, wouldn’t it.
You stay seated at the island, turning to stare at Jack’s back while he adds the final touches to the soup. He doesn’t talk anymore, but he keeps looking back every few minutes, like he’s making sure you’re still there.
Eventually Jack turns the stove off, dishes up a bowl of soup for you, and sets it gently in front of you. He uses his pinky to cushion the placing of the bowl, so there’s no loud clinking noise when he sets the bowl down.
There’s a tiny sprig of parsley on top of the soup, right in the center. Like a Panera ad for soup in September.
You start crying again, in earnest.
“I’m sorry,” You gasp, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m— I don’t know. I don’t know.”
You’re hoping the last sentence encompasses an entire lifetime of events, accidents, mistakes, and memories that have never been able to find a place in your head except dead center, at the forefront of your mind at all times, stamped on your forehead for anyone with eyes to see.
Your life hasn’t been wants or choices for a very long time. And here Jack is, giving you an array of both, and saying things like he wants you to want.
“I’ll do whatever you want.”
“Hey, hey hey hey, shhh,” Strong arms wrap around you, tucking your head into a warm chest, effectively shutting off all sensory input that isn’t Jack. “You’re okay, you’re safe, you’re okay, I got you.”
He rubs circles into your back, then switches to tracing shapes, and he lets you cry into him again and he doesn’t tell you to stop, or to calm down, or you’re being too much too fast.
“You’re okay, you’re gonna be okay sweetheart. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
—
You, embarrassingly, fall asleep right there, sitting at the kitchen island over a bowl of soup and twenty-something years of holding up your life with hands that never quite seemed big enough to do it.
You wake up in Jack’s bed, his comforter pulled up to your chin and the clock at the bedside table reading 8:17 p.m. There’s the muffled sound of several voices coming from beyond the door.
Holy shit. What the fuck.
Deciding to ignore the implication that Jack carried you to bed, you mentally take stock of what’s around you.
In front of the clock is your phone (plugged in to charge), a glass of water, and a note with Jack’s handwriting on it.
Kid-
I’ll probably be in the ED for the night shift by the time you wake up. I called Mohan (who called Mel, who was with Langdon, for reasons unknown) to go to your place and grab you some things. There may be people in the apartment when you wake up. You are in no way obligated to interact with them. They have to leave eventually.
Charlie is in the room with you because he hates strangers, but he probably won’t leave the bathroom. Probably. Drink water and eat something, if you can. Text me if you need anything.
The voices beyond the door are, more than likely, the aforementioned individuals who have now seen the glorified closet you call home. It’s not ideal, but you’re wrung out and don’t have the energy to really care. Besides, Samira and Mel are too nice to judge you that hard (you hope) and from what you’ve heard, Langdon isn’t really in a place to say anything.
On one hand, going out there requires socializing. Which, ew. On the other hand, Samira and Mel are the best. Langdon is maybe okay.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you shuffle out of bed and then continue shuffling to the door, hoping that whatever you look like isn’t too terribly awful.
Samira, Mel, and Langdon are standing around the kitchen island, various takeout containers and bottles of alcohol littering the space. For some reason, Trinity, Dennis, and Robby are also present.
Samira and Langdon are engaged in what looks to be a rather animated discussion-slash-argument, and Mel is standing just a little closer to Langdon than what could be considered normal for friends. Trinity is very obviously ignoring Langdon’s general existence, bickering with Dennis on the couch, and Robby is seated in the armchair by the window, nursing a beer and watching both conversations unfold.
You sniff aggressively, and all heads snap to you.
“There are more of you here then there’s supposed to be,” You grumble, scrubbing at your face. “Why are you all here?”
Mel is the first to speak.
“It was Frank actually!” Trinity rolls her eyes, and part of you wants to share the sentiment, “He figured Trinity would be upset that something happened to you and he knew and didn’t tell her, so Trinity decided that me and Samira would get your stuff while everyone else stayed here in case you woke up before we came back!”
Wow, okay, that’s. A Lot.
You squint. “That doesn’t explain why you’re all here. I mean it does, but only like, why you’re here physically.”
Robby frowns. “We heard that you were going through a rough time and you had to stay with Jack, so we came.”
Trinity snorts on the couch and Dennis, next to her, looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm.
Robby shoots her a look, but continues. “We care about you. We— I don’t want you to feel like you have to do everything on your own. In or out of the ED.”
Trinity blows out a loud sigh and low whistle. “Jee-zus Robby, give the woman some time to wake up before trying to induce tears again.”
Robby does look a little apologetic, maybe a teensy bit chastised (and annoyed that Trinity was the one doing the chastising) and turns his deep brown eyes back to you.
"Sorry. Can't help these Dad tendencies, you know."
Your face gets hot, maybe a tiny, wet prickle behind your eyes forms while Robby smiles, and the tension leaves the room all in one go, and you start to think that maybe things are in the right place.
–
At the ED, Jack Abbot, who's been checking his phone whenever he gets a free moment like a highschooler with a crush, opens the first text that pops up on his screen after hours of waiting.
It's a picture from Robby. You, with your head thrown back in a cackle of a laugh, not a single bit of stress evident in any of the lines of your body. There's one text accompanying the picture:
Please don't make me give you a shovel talk. I think you already know what's at stake here.
Jack snorts and pockets his phone, because yeah, he does.
–
When Jack finally gets back to his apartment, he's half-expecting to see the kind of mess that a large grouping of obnoxious people leave behind. Trash, maybe a few red solo cups, empty takeout containers, someone asleep on his couch, someone passed out on the floor.
He's not expecting to see a clean space. The only evidence that people were there at all is some rearranged pillows, a half-empty bottle of wine on the counter, and some new takeout menus on his fridge.
And then there's you. You're lying on the couch, eyes glued to the TV, watching a show he doesn't really recognize. There's a well-loved backpack on the floor, just under the coffee table. The shocking bit is Charlie, his resident asshole, is 'loafing' right on your chest, purring away.
You lift your head when you hear the jingle of his keys, a smile immediately brightening your face. He mentally takes a picture, right there, so he can remember this exact moment forever.
"What'd you bribe him with?" Jack says instead of something much more neurotic, like 'You don't have to go back to your place when the power comes back on.'
You shrug, unaware of his emotional and romantic pain. "You were right. He came out from under the bed after everybody left. He kind of growled at me for a little bit, but once I settled down here he just kind of... came right up."
You plant a little kiss to the top of his head, right in between furry ears. Great, now Jack's jealous of a senior cat with one ear who licks his own butt. "How could I resist this face? I see why you brought him home."
Jack rounds the end of the couch, shuffling by, and Charlie opens his eyes just enough to shoot him a look that Jack takes to mean: If you make her get up and move me, I will kill you in your sleep.
Jack does not disturb his cat as he sits down on the couch. There's a moment when things almost get hairy- you pull your legs back when he goes to sit, slightly jostling The Asshole, who pins his only ear back in annoyance.
Jack solves this problem by taking your legs, clad in some soft flannel pajama pants and pink fuzzy socks, and lays them across his lap. There. Problem solved.
The warmth of your legs on his lap and the look on your face is reward enough for him. He can't think of a way he'd rather spend his time.
Jack, in a rare show of mercy, does not tease you, and decides that you've probably had enough excitement for one day.
"So," He says instead, looking up at the TV and grimacing at the mutilated corpse on the screen, "What are we watching?"
He watches you shrink into yourself. He hates it when you do that. He hates that you feel like you have to.
"Uh, Bones. I can turn it off, though. I'm sure you don't want to watch this."
He doesn't answer the question you've not-subtly voiced, instead choosing to redirect the conversation.
"Why did you put it on?"
You start chewing on your lower lip. Your signature 'I don't want to answer this question so I'm going to think really hard about it' move.
"It's kind of my comfort show? I don't know. I watched it a lot growing up. We didn't have cable, but the hotels I stayed at sometimes did. I'd wait until my dad fell asleep and then I'd turn on the TV and watch from the sci-fi or drama channels. Watched a lot of Bones. Supernatural too, and sometimes Doctor Who, if it was on. But Bones was my favorite."
The characters on the screen are involved in some sort of car chase now, police siren flashing on a black SUV. Jack isn't paying attention to that at all, because this is the first time since the day you walked into the PTMC and introduced yourself that he's ever heard you talk about your childhood.
"How come?"
"I don't know. I've always liked procedural shows. Had a huge House MD phase. Death and bones and corpses and stuff has never really grossed me out, which is part of the reason I became a doctor. But also..."
You point to the male character. "You see him? That's Booth. Seeley Booth. They all have kind of crazy names. He's an FBI agent, and his partner is that woman there. Temperance Brennan. Booth calls her Bones."
"She doesn't look like an FBI agent."
You smile. "She's not. She's a forensic anthropologist, but she consults on murder cases and stuff like that because she's kind of a genius. She's smart, strong, and capable. She and Booth don't always get along, because they both can be headstrong and stubborn. But he respects and trusts her, implicitly. No matter what. They love each other."
Your throat bobs, but your voice is steady when you speak.
"And when Brennan needs him, if she's in trouble or she needs him by her side, even if she doesn't know she does, he's always there. He always saves her."
Jack can picture it, in his mind. You, small and alone, watching these characters on some shitty hotel TV and getting it into your head that this kind of thing only exists in TV shows. He pictures you dreaming of having a Booth, of having someone to be there for you, to pick you up when you fall. He thinks of you crying in the supply closet and how quietly you'd done it. Almost silent.
He thinks of what happens to a person to make them learn how to cry without making a sound.
He rests a hand on your ankle, fingers instinctively drifting towards the pulse point there- posterior tibial. He keeps two fingers on it, even though he can't feel it through your fuzzy socks. With his thumb he makes circles, because he's seen how you lean into Robby's shoulder grabs, how you preen at physical and verbal praise, how you'd slumped like a marionette with its strings cut into his arms just yesterday.
"Jack?" Your voice is tentative, unsure.
"Hmm?"
"Am I..." You start chewing your lip again, "Are you— I don't to assume anything. So if I fuck this up and make you uncomfortable—"
"I want to kiss you."
Jack has learned how to speak fluent you. He knows how to stop an incoming spiral, how to soothe old wounds rearing their heads.
He continues when you don't speak.
"I want you to wear my clothes. I want to take care of you. I want you, in whatever way you'll let me."
"Oh."
"I was laying it on pretty thick, kid."
You look away from him, and this is another moment he'd like to keep forever.
"I thought I was just reading into things!"
"Do you think I call every intern sweetheart?"
Jack is positive Charlie's presence on your stomach is the only thing keeping you from actively squirming in place.
"I thought maybe you were just one of those guys. Samira said it was possible!"
He rolls his eyes. "You can't ask Mohan for romantic advice. She's you in a different font."
"I'm going to take that as a compliment."
You turn back to your show, losing yourself in the plot for a while. When the murderer has been caught and the credits are playing, you look at him again.
"We don't. Um. Can we just keep doing this? For now?"
For the first time since meeting you, Jack gets to say exactly what he's thinking.
"We can do this forever. We can do whatever you want."
summary ﹏ having jack abbot as your neighbor might be heaven on earth: he's always here to help and especially with your garden. though, on this beautiful summer day, when jack asks if you need help with putting sunscreen on your back, he has more naughty thoughts than mowing your lawn.
The sticky smell of vanilla and coconut hit your nose deeper as you shift your head, nostril now closer to the crease of your elbow; where you have been putting sunscreen a while ago.
The sun is hitting your skin, making it warm and glowing all the right ways from the sparkles you had sprayed yourself with earlier. A mix of gold, pink and purple that reflected the light so perfectly, making you look like a goddess directly out from a magazine. And that’s also what your neighbor, Jack, thought.
He had been the nicest older guy in the neighborhood since you moved in two years ago; always a smile on his face, always the help you needed, always the strongest arms and the prettiest face and the big thighs and… And God, you couldn’t deny the perverted crush you had on the guy, even though he was way older than you.
And today, it was even worse. The summer had been quite harsh since the season had started; and when Jack gently asked if you needed help with mowing the lawn and taking care of your garden, you so gladly accepted—knowing damn well that you were going to see him shirtless, sweaty and smelling like that cologne he uses all the time. It wasn’t your first time seeing him shirtless, no, but the effect was still the same: heat pooled in your lower-belly, you became breathless and your thighs often clenched at the view.
Your body shifted on the sunlounger, eyes trying to take a glimpse at Jack’s shirtless back from above the lens of your sunglasses. His muscles were working, contracting as he pushed the mower around. Sweat dripped from the curls of his salt and pepper hair and onto his freckled shoulders and you found yourself wondering what taste his skin would have at that moment. You groaned, trying to ignore the feelings blooming in your lower-belly and how you felt yourself getting warmer at the thoughts of him around you.
You preferred to think about the sun hitting your skin, the cute little tan lines that would soon be created by the UV and the small bikini you were wearing. That one with the pretty pink, orange and yellow color, the one with hibiscus flowers as prints. The one that didn’t hide much of your assets and the one you obviously had been wearing around Jack on purpose for him to look at.
If only he could see the damp patch forming at the crotch area already, just from the view of his sweaty, shirtless body.
The sound of boots hitting the poolside broke you out of your thoughts and you hummed as a shadow covered your back for a moment. “Did you put sunscreen on your back?” Jack asked suddenly and you pushed your upper body on your elbows, turning your head to look at him from above your shoulder. “Nope, my arms aren’t long enough.” You reply to him, a little smile on your face as you understand what his mind is going through. He hums, nodding his head. “Lay back down.”
You do as he says, crossing your arms on the sunlounger again and resting your head there, giving him access to your back. Neither of you speak for a moment as Jack sits down on the edge of the sunlounger, taking the sunscreen from under the furniture.
“Sunscreen is important for your skin, you know that, right? You could get cancer or something.” He ends up saying, and you try to not chuckle at him, because of course you know that already. It’s not like you had done that on purpose to see if he’d be nice enough to help you out.
“I know, I know, Doctor Abbot.” You whine out at him, using his profession as a title to tease him. He doesn’t say anything about him but you can swear that he has a smirk on his face now. The weight on the sunlounger changes for a second before you feel Jack’s cold hands on the skin of your back. It’s a bit oily, that sunscreen; it glazes your skin immediately, leaving a shimmering effect that looks so pretty when hit by the sun. You moan quietly at the feeling of his strong hands massaging the skin of your back to apply the protection.
“That feels good?” He suddenly asks and you hum. “It does. You’re good with your hands, Jack.” You voice back at him and he chuckles, his hands lowering to the dimples of your lower back and over your waist to make sure the sunscreen is applied everywhere. “Of course I’m good with my hands, I’m a physician, I need to be, pretty girl.” He replies to you and you keep silent after that. The sun is shining so brightly now, warming your skin, making it glow.
Jack’s hands are so good on your body, making you moan as he caresses the skin of your back. You swear it’s over, that he has applied sunscreen everywhere now, but his hands don't leave the warmth of your skin. They actually lower, until resting at the top area of your butt, above the tiny bikini bottom you are wearing. “Have you put some of those thighs?” The older man asks and you hum, shaking your head. “No yet. Want to help me?” He doesn’t reply with words, but grabs the tube of sunscreen again.
The contrast of temperature between your skin and the lotion creates goosebumps along your body. Jack’s hands move to the back of your thighs now, applying the sunscreen there very slowly, taking his time to layer it everywhere needed.
He exercises a gentle pressure on your skin, making you moan quietly in contentment and squirm toward his hands. For a second, all his thoughts are focused on you—on that shiny skin, on that small bikini two-pieces you are wearing, of that sweet cunt so close to his hands. Without even realizing, his palms lift to the fat of your ass.
“There’s no protection here either.” He says, and you smile to yourself at those words. His strong hands start to grope your ass, playing with the fat while trying to make it look like he’s only helping you put on sunscreen. His fingers squeeze the fat of your ass before spreading your cheeks apart, making your bikini into a thong and it makes you moan out loud. Jack can feel his cock throbbing inside his pants, but he prefers to focus on you. What a pervert.
He makes the fat of your ass jiggle in his palms, brushing his thumbs under the fabric of your bottoms until his digits get to the start of your cunt. He stops there, not trying to get more intimate than he already is. A quiet sigh escapes him, and he tries to move his hands away before your voice is heard. “I don’t think I’ve put sunscreen there either, mind giving me… a hand, Jack?” Your words break him from his thoughts and he groans, thinking about if he should really take the risk.
The idea of your sweet cunt squeezing his fingers is enough to make him speak up. “Yeah, yeah, of course I can help you. Let me see that.” The physician says before moving his hands lower toward your pussy, one finger hooking in the fabric of your bikini bottom to push it to the side. Your pussy is already drenched; wetness pooling at the entrance—a thread of thick essence connecting your folds to the bikini.
Jack curses under his breath for a second. “Yeah, you definitely need the help of a hand here, pretty girl.” He ends up saying, shifting to face your body more.
Your head shifts on the sunlounge just to see him, the older man’s eyes focused on your slick cunt. You can only moan when his hands move and his fingers start to massage your puffy folds, pushing them together before spreading them apart. Your hole is left gaping for his eyes, wetness leaking to your clit and making it all slick. “Jack—” You moan out, but he ignores you, fingers playing with your puffy folds. His thumbs caresses all the way down to your clit, rubbing it a few times before only one lift up again.
Moans are left escaping your parted lips as the older man rubs your clit with the pad of his thumb. Your hips jerk softly backwards, trying to get more of his touches, which happens faster than you would have expected. A digit is pressed against your sloppy hole before pushing inside it, making your walls clamp around it. “Fuck, that pussy’s tight.” You hear him say, which makes you whine out. His finger is easily filling you up to the knuckle, and Jack moves his body for a better position. All you can do is grip on the headrest of the sunlounge, cheek pressed against the fabric.
Your thighs shake, spreading to give him more space to finger you and play with your clit. “That’s it, good girl. Let me take care of that pussy, yeah?” He says and you nod, which is enough of an answer for him to start pumping his finger inside your cunt.
He curls it, making the tip rub against your velvety walls. The wetness creates squelching noises already, essence leaking to damp the fabric of your bikini bottoms. “So fucking warm inside, so fucking tight.” Jack says quietly, and you whine at his words. “Jack, fuck, please—” You can only whine.
He must understand, as he pushes a second finger inside your tight cunt, joining the first one. The feeling makes you gasp, hips arching slightly toward him, showing off your sloppy hole to his eyes. His thumb presses harder against your slick clit at the action, rolling and rubbing to create friction. Your eyes end up closing at the feeling, you can feel sweat starting to form at the base of your nape. A few seconds pass in silence before Jack starts to thrust his fingers in and out of your sweet pussy, wetness smeared around your puffy folds and making a mess of your sticky skin.
“I bet that feels good, doesn’t it? Getting your little pussy taken care of.” Jack says, curling his fingers inside your pussy each time he thrusts back in. He buries them to the knuckles, trying to find that spot that would make you see stars. “Yes, yes—It feels so good.” You can only reply to him, hips squirming to get more of his fingers.
Jack groans as he realizes, his pace becoming faster. Then, he speaks up. “Want a third one, sweetheart? Want me to fill that cunt with my fingers?”
You automatically nod your head, gasping. “Yes, please… Please, give me a third. I want to feel full of you.” Your voice is a sweet melody in the summer for Jack, and all he wants is to make you come around his digits, so he doesn’t waste a second before very slowly, carefully, pushing a third finger into your sloppy hole. It burns just slightly, giving an uncomfortable feeling that slowly disappears as Jack waits for your approval. You whine, rubbing your thighs together to feel his fingers deep inside your cunt. Only then, you nod at him.
“That’s a good girl. Fuck, your pussy is squeezing my fingers so good. I wonder how my cock would fit in there.” He groans, moving his digits and curling them just enough for the tips to rub against your walls.
You gasp, his thumb relentless around your clit, rubbing it just the perfect pace. There’s drool leaking from the corner of your mouth now, damping the fabric of the sunlounger beneath your head. The physician starts to pump his three digits in and out of your wet, sloppy cunt, creating more squelching noises that echoes in the open space.
Your pussy hungrily squeezes his fingers inside, but Jack is good at what he is doing, and he ends up finding that sweet spot of yours after a few thrusts of wrist. You moan out, ass arching up in surprise while hearing Jack chuckle. “There, babygirl? It feels good when I touch there?” He says, while relentlessly rubbing that one spot you love so much. Your grip is strong on the headrest of the sunlounger before replying. “Fuck, yes! Please, right there, Jack…” He hums at those words, thumb rolling against your slick clit.
Your wetness is now coating his knuckles and palm, leaking from your sweet pussy to your inner-thighs, making a mess of everything. Jack groans at the view of your hole squeezing his fingers. “Wanna come for me? Wanna be a good girl?” He asks, and your thighs start to shake when heat blooms in your lower belly. A loud gasp escapes you, a whine soon following and a moan. “Jack! Please, oh my God!” Those are the words leaving your mouth as you come around his digits.
Your walls clench, your muscles contract, your eyes roll backwards as you moan. The older man doesn’t stop immediately; he keeps rubbing your clit, keeps fingering your cunt, keeps praising you. “Yeah, that’s it, pretty girl. Squeeze that pussy for me, let it go. It feels good, yeah?” You can’t even reply, can’t even think of his words as you come strongly.
It lasts a few more seconds before the climax slowly disappears and Jack pushes his fingers out of your leaking hole.
Gently, he replaces the fabric of your bikini to hide your butt and cunt, and gives a soft slap to the fat of your ass. There’s a smile on his face as he presses the three wet fingers against his tongue to clean them. A moan echoes from his throat at the salty taste before they leave his mouth in a loud pop noise.
Jack leans over to you, presses a kiss to your sweaty forehead (it smells like coconut and shea butter). “Good girl. I need to finish mowing your lawn, but if you need more help with applying sunscreen, call me.” He says before standing up, smirking at your face while your eyes follow his figure.
“I definitely will, Doctor Abbot.” You say back, chuckling one last time as he gets back to his previous work: helping you take care of your garden.
♡ synopsis: what begins as a good day with a service dog visiting the pitt because it's still in training nearly ends with you being admitted as you spiral during a horrible panic attack outside, due to believing that you're going to soon be without a place to live. until jack rectifies the situation.
♡ content: angst, hurt/comfort, reader has a panic attack, a sweet doggy, jealous robby (i am truly a slut for it), abbot coming to the rescue in every way he can
♡ a/n: requested by @styx03, ty!
A service dog has been brought in by a trainer to grace the Pitt today. A friendly golden retriever with an endlessly wagging tail and shimmering flaxen coat. Its purpose being, you've been told, to aid an individual with chronic anxiety and panic attacks once she's been deemed fit for service. Being an ED, one may wonder why it would be allowed in such a place, hectic as it is. But that's precisely the reason: so she can become accustomed to true chaos, as opposed to that of the simulated kind. Because while such a setting may send its owner into a spiral, Honey—that's her adorable name—will need to otherwise remain vigilant.
A soft paw plants itself atop your lap, causing the corner of your mouth to twitch.
"I'm trying to chart, girl," you say quietly while giving her a scratch on the head.
Once Honey has dropped her paw, your leg goes back to bouncing at the speed of light. Compulsive habit. Like a subconscious tick that can't be helped.
You've only gotten halfway through your current patient's workup before the paw returns.
"Yes," you mutter. "I have anxiety. No one is more aware than I am."
Especially now. Last week saw your world upended when you received a notice from your landlord via email that starting a month from now, your rent is to be raised another $250 more per month. A cost you cannot feasibly pay without plunging your bank account into the negative, which will only serve to harm you further when they proceed to then hit you with an overdraft fee.
You'd tried talking to your landlord over the phone during your break that same day, desperate to stop your downward spiral as you envisioned yourself living out of the back of your vehicle and freezing to death in it come winter, but they wouldn't budge. Not an inch. "Cost of upkeep in this economy" had been the bullshit line they fed you.
So in every spare moment you've had, you've been scouring the internet, and even the damn newspapers, for cheaper apartment postings.
You've found one which is hopeful. Not exactly in the best part of town, but only a hundred more than what you're currently paying now. Yes, you're already on a shoestring budget, and such an extra cost will leave you with no money left over whatsoever after pay day, but at least you'll have four walls and a roof over your head.
Honey lifts her paw, then pats your thigh once more.
You roll your eyes.
You think it sweet that she's here, but her presence beside you is only serving to distract, if not overstimulate. Attempting to concentrate in such loud and busy environs is bad enough, but being continually touched by a panting dog on top of it all is about to see you lock yourself in the women's restroom for a bit of peace and quiet.
"Think somebody is trying to tell you that it's time to take a break," remarks her handler, Joyce. She left Honey with you when she went off to the restroom herself just a moment ago.
"Can barely afford to take our scheduled ones around here," you reply. "Taking an extra just because she wants me to is sort of out of the question. But I appreciate the concern."
You never look up from your desktop when you reply.
Honey lies her head in your lap and you shake your own while biting back a smirk. Something is oddly comical about her behavior. Meanwhile, she probably finds your own perplexing. Or maybe distressing in that she probably feels like she's failing at her job to calm you.
"Sorry," you mumble. "But I really do need to get this done, Honey."
Your chest has grown impossibly tight and the breath in your lungs short. With a weakened grip, you keep your cellphone pressed to your ear. "Please," you choke. "I'm begging you. Time is running out at my current residence and I can't afford—"
"I truly am sorry, miss, but the decision was made by those well above myself."
Your chin wobbles. "I'll be homeless," you whisper. "And if the police decide one day to impound my car because they don't want me living out of it, I'll be on the streets."
From inside the Pitt, Honey sits patiently at Joyce's side—her wagging tail practically sweeping the floor around her as it oscillates from one side to the other. Then her head suddenly turns toward the glass doors which lead to the ambulance bay. She stands at alert, then tugs against her lead.
Joyce glances behind her, but the path between where they stand, and where the doors are located is clear. No patients are currently in the way.
Shrugging, she returns to her conversation with Javadi.
Honey tugs again in earnest, then barks.
Robby swiftly exits the exam room he's only just relocated a patient to and shakes his head while converging on Joyce. "Uh huh. We can't have any of that. PTMC is doing you a favor by letting you bring her here today, but—"
Joyce narrows her eyes at the glass doors, ignoring his directives to remove Honey from the ED before she causes a scene. Nodding her head toward them, she turns to him. "I'm going to check if someone is out there. She's after something."
"Probably dinner," Santos mutters from behind the nurse's station.
Barely dodging a supply cart, Jack wraps his stethoscope around his neck, speaking to Robby as he steps past. "130/95. Diastolic especially is way too high. He did say tachycardia is normal for him, but I still want to try and get his pulse down, too."
Nodding, Robby jerks his head toward the ambulance bay while pulling on a pair of sterile gloves. "Joyce seems to think somebody's out there. Can you—or just anybody—go and check before that dog eats a hole through the ED's walls?"
"On it," Jack quips while heading that direction.
Clutching at your chest, your phone slips from your grasp and clatters against the ground. Great. What if you just broke the screen? You certainly can't afford that now. You can't afford anything. You're going to be unhoused soon. That is the priority: keeping a roof over your head.
You'll lose your job here when you can no longer afford the gas to get you back and forth from... Whichever Walmart parking lot you decide to camp out in at night, you realize. And if someone breaks into what will be your new makeshift home? Where...where will you keep your belongings that you currently own? Your furniture? It took you years to accumulate it all, only to what? Sell it?
No, no, no. This can't be happening.
You double over and gasp for breath, but none is to be found.
You're having a heart attack! Oh God, how will you pay the bills? You can't let anyone see. It'll pass. It has to—
"Y/N!" Jack shouts, rushing out to meet you. Crouching in front of where you sit atop the half wall outside—balancing only on the balls of his feet—he reaches up and takes your face between his hands, forcing your focus to remain upon him, and him alone. "Tell me where it hurts."
Clutching at your shirt, you pat between your breasts. "Can't breathe," you wheeze.
Swiftly removing his stethoscope from round his neck, Jack situates the apparatus in his ears before pressing the chestpiece to your heart.
You grip his shoulder in an attempt to keep yourself upright and alert. Sweat pours from your forehead while your limbs begin to grow numb and tingly. Just stay conscious, you command yourself.
Draping it back around his neck, Jack returns to keeping a firm hold on you. "Your heartrate is elevated, but I don't hear anything which gives me cause for alarm."
Pushing down on his knees, he stands with a groan before seating himself beside you. Jack swings his leg over the side of the wall before settling a palm against your breastbone and the other at the small of your back. "Honey was starting to lose it in there, so I'm assuming that it's a panic attack. But about what?"
Slapping your hand over his, you dig your nails into the back of his hand. Loosing a ragged gasp, you shake your head. "I'm going to be fucking homeless," you spit, slowly coming back to yourself.
Jack's brows knit together. "What? Are you being evicted, or—"
You shake your head in exasperation. "My landlord is upping the cost of my rent, which I can't afford. I thought—" You fight against an ugly sob which wrestles its way up your constricted throat. "I thought that maybe I had found another apartment, but I just got off the phone with their office. They chose somebody else."
Staring at him through blurry eyes, your hand slips away and plops uselessly into your lap. "I don't...know if I'll be able to keep working here."
Jack rests his hand atop yours, gripping it sternly. "I'm not gonna let that happen."
Rolling your eyes in irritation—not necessarily at him, but rather from the dire situation you now find yourself in, which has surpassed making you panic to instead set your blood to boiling—you stand. "There's nothing you can do," you state while standing and brushing debris from the back of your pants.
You feel as if you skipped a couple steps in the five stages of losing your place of living as you finally accept defeat.
There's something sickly freeing about the thought of it, though: not having an apartment or job or any other form of responsibility to tend to.
Perhaps you've gone off the deep end.
"I have a spare room," Jack says reassuringly while running a calloused hand down your arm. "Only use I've made of it is throwing boxes inside that I should've really taken down to the basement instead."
He grins. "I got lazy. Stopped bothering with going downstairs." Jack shrugs. "Old knees, and with my leg it can be a pain in the ass."
A pang of sympathy spreads through you. "I'm sorry," you whisper. "But I can't. Living with my attending..." It's unthinkable: the prospect of sharing a home and common living spaces with him. Such as a fridge. And a bathroom.
Your eyes flit to his, then immediately away. Oh, do not picture him washing up in a steamy shower. You have bigger fish to fry right now.
"I'm not asking," Jack declares with a shake of his head. "You need a home and I have one to provide. You're going to let me be that for you. End of discussion."
You open your mouth to rebut, until he takes a step forward, crosses his arms, and stands at full height, forcing you to lean your head back to meet his eyes. "Don't argue with me." He jerks his head toward the Pitt. "Get your ass back inside." He smiles softly. "Honey's probably looking for you. Had her worried, you know?"
Lowering your shoulders in defeat—but with an unspoken, blossoming sense of appreciation growing in your chest, superseding the panic you'd felt just moments ago which Jack has now calmed—you obey.
Robby steps forward, flipping the stop switch on the elevator, halting the metal box in its tracks between floors. He waits until the annoying ringing overhead ceases before speaking. "You can't do this, Jack. It's unethical."
Grinding his teeth, Jack counts backwards from ten before replying. "And letting her live out of her car, or on the streets, or under a fucking bridge isn't?" He snaps from over his shoulder.
Robby leans back against the wall to Jack's side and slides his hands in his pockets. "That's not what I'm saying—"
Jack pivots on his heel to face him. "What are you saying then, Robby? Enlighten me."
He raises a brow. He never thought he'd ever see Abbot so testy, and over one of his subordinates, at that. "You're putting yourself at risk of scrutiny. And every time she climbs another rung in this place, everybody is going to assume it's because she's warming your damn bed."
Jack chews the inside of his lip. "What is this really about?"
Robby's brows draw together. "I don't know what you—"
"Ever since I told you, you've been avoiding me. When we do talk it's short—straight to the point. No more bullshitting or—"
"Because I'm trying to do my fucking job, Abbot. I don't always have time to stand around gossiping," he shoots back with vehemence
"Oh, Abbot now, is it?" He pinches the bridge of his nose. "I can't believe we're actually fucking arguing about this," he mumbles before lifting his head again. "This has nothing to do with me and everything to do with the way you feel about her."
Robby opens his mouth to retort, until Jack lifts a hand before slapping it down on his opposite one again. "I see the way you look at her. How you favor her." He chuckles, but it's devoid of humor. "I get it, because I do the same damn thing. It's why I think this entire conversation is stemming from a sense of resentment on your end."
"Resentment?" Robby scoffs with a humorless grin.
"That you didn't go out there instead to check on her. If you had, maybe it'd be your house she's moving into instead."
Robby snaps his mouth shut and glowers at Jack—all but confirming that he's laid bare what Robby has been trying so hard to hide.
He flips the switch back into place, and with a soft jolt, the elevator begins moving again.
Once they've reached the Pitt, Robby brushes past him. "Just trying to look out for you both. But you do what you want."
Standing at the threshold of your new bedroom—Jack even went so far as to give it a fresh new coat of paint; a rather pleasant color which you picked out, in fact—your eyes water.
Jack pads toward you from behind, then wraps his arms around your shoulders, pulling you against him until his chest is flush against your back. "Think we did an alright job?"
You trail your eyes along your newly situated furniture, appreciating the way soft afternoon light streams in from the floor-length window across the room before spilling across your fluffy duvet. You nod softly. "I do."
He gives you a peck on the back of your head, ignoring the way Robby's voice rings true in his head. Ignoring how...his reasons for moving you into his home and fully into his life weren't entirely selfless.
He steps back and releases you before turning to head in the direction of the kitchen. "I get any luckier and one day I'll have you saying that under an entirely different context."
Your brows furrow as you stare at the rug at the foot of your bed, wondering what he could mean— Oh.
Turning and facing the way which he's heading, you stare at his back with wide eyes, stemming from a complete sense of shock. "Wait. What?"
He chuckles while rounding a corner. "You heard me."
Summary: Abbot’s mildly annoyed when he doesn’t seem to be his favorite resident’s favorite attending — he’s pissed when he finds out she’s considering leaving the Pitt.
Warnings: general medical things, mentions of a past MCI (not detailed), did Some Research for this but I’m sure it’s still all wrong
Author’s note: Long live Shen and his dunks!!! 🥤hooah!
—
It starts the way things on night shift at the PTMC emergency department often do — with Dunkin’ Donuts.
Dr. Jack Abbot is speaking to an MS3 who’d just arrived for his first rotation when he sees the other attending on shift, Dr. John Shen, stroll in through the ambulance bay doors with his usual pre-shift coffee.
It’s hardly a rare sight at the Pitt, and Abbot only nods in greeting as he goes back to running the new kid, Wells, through what to expect on his first night shift.
What does surprise him, however, enough that he almost doesn’t hear what Wells asks him next as he head snaps back in the direction of the bay, is that you’re smiling at Shen’s side, a matching pink and orange cup in hand.
“Dr. Abbot?”
“Uh, yeah,” Jack says, shaking his head, back to the task at hand. “Sorry, dude, what’d you ask?”
“Will it be a while before handoff?”
Jack checks his watch. “Probably. We get started when all of the residents are here. Have you done any rotations in an ED before?”
“This is my first. I just got done with derm, IM and peds,” he says, then smiles. “Love peds.”
“Well, you’re very lucky to be learning from all of these guys. But you’ll probably be overwhelmed,” Jack says, honest. He almost can’t believe they sent a first-timer to nights; it must be a busy rotation. “Try to keep up best you can, eat whenever you have a millisecond. Let me or any of the residents know if you need help.”
Wells nods, looking serious suddenly. “Yes, sir.”
Jack opens his mouth to tell him to cut that shit out immediately, almost forgetting what had called his attention only a few seconds ago until it appears at his side.
“You and me tonight, Jack?” Shen says, shattering that illusion as he sips from his coffee. “And who’s this?”
“Dr. Shen and Dr. Y/l/n, this is Student Doctor Wells joining us on his first emergency med rotation,” he says. “Dr. Shen is the other attending on shift, and Dr. Y/l/n is our senior resident tonight.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” you say, immediately shaking his hand. Jack saw your eyes light up the moment you heard there was a new student on shift. You loved working with the new kids. “Welcome to the Pitt.”
“Thanks,” he says, shaking Shen’s hand enthusiastically s well. “Aw man, Dunkies? That’s such a good idea.”
Jack rolls his eyes outright, feeling his mouth screw to the side in annoyance while you sip from your cup.
“Dr. Shen bought donuts for everyone, too. They’re in the break room,” you say, checking your watch, a strand of hair falling out of your ponytail with the motion. “C’mon. I can show you before we start handoff.”
Wells looks at Abbot, who shrugs. “Like I said, eat when you can.”
You laugh at that, before your eyes find Wells again, tipping your head in the general direction of the break room. “He’s right. Let’s go.”
Abbot watches the two of you leave before directing his attention back to the chart of the patient he’s taking over from Robby in Trauma 2, familiarizing himself with the results from the tests they’ve been running on day shift.
He hears Shen put down his coffee, the offending cup bound to leave a ring of water on Jack’s preferred charting station at the central hub. It’s never bothered him before — the ED is messy enough as it is — but everything about it is pissing him off tonight.
“Is that something I need to know about?” he asks quietly.
“What?”
Jack looks up. “You and Y/l/n. Coming in here holding hands after a coffee date.”
Shen glitches for a second, frozen where his backpack is halfway off his shoulders.
Then he scoffs.
“It was not a coffee date,” he says. There’s amusement in his eyes.
“Hm,” Abbot says, holding onto his stethoscope while he rolls out his neck, tablet forgotten on the desk. “If you say so.”
“Uh, I do,” Shen insists, still entertained.
“I’m just saying, I’d rather know now, y’know, before upstairs buries us in paperwork,” he says, sniffing, glancing around his department. Robby beckons him from Trauma 2. “See how we can get ahead with admin. That’s all.”
“Jesus Christ, Jack,” his co-attending laughs. “Nobody is doing any paperwork. She just wanted to talk about, like, career stuff.”
Jack’s eyebrows furrow. “Career stuff?”
Shen shrugs, tugging a few pens out of his bag, clipping his badge onto his scrub pants. “She’s applying for fellowships right now — you know this. She just wanted some advice. She’s going around to all the attendings — I’m sure you’re on the list somewhere, dude. Chill.”
“Abbot. Shen,” Robby calls. “I’d really love to leave before puck drop.”
“Coming!” Jack says, before turning back to Shen. “I am chill. I just wanted to know if — hold on. She’s going around to everyone, and you somehow beat me in the order?”
Shen grins around his straw, already bitten beyond practical use, as slimy condensation ring on the desk right next to Jack’s phone. Then he shrugs. “I probably just give off better mentor energy than you do.”
“Right now, I need you to give off attending energy for this handoff,” Jack bites. “Can you do that?”
Shen laughs again, passing Jack on his way to Trauma 2. “You’re on one tonight, old man. Wells better stay out of the way.”
—
A pediatric broken arm comes in only half an hour into your shift.
You grab Wells, who follows you obediently while Olive wheels the 8-year-old to the room number Lena calls out, speaking with her mom about the injury.
The child’s cries are awful, and you briefly doubt if this was something to bring a med student in on so quickly. Kids were hard for you at first.
“What’s this?” Dr. Abbot says from behind the central desk.
“Broken arm. Playground,” you say over your shoulder.
“Wells stay on it. I’ll be in there to check in a few,” he says, nodding at you. You nod back, pursing your lips in the absence of a smile given the scenario, feeling reassured all the same.
“We are a teaching hospital, Mrs…” you trail off, waiting for mom to supply her name as Wells and Olive help her daughter onto the bed in Central 11.
“Redford,” she says. “You can call me June, though. This is Penny.”
“And what’s your name?” you say to the younger boy who’d been clutching his mother’s hand the entire time, tucked behind one of her legs. You crouch to his level.
“Aaron,” he says, his eyes bloodshot.
“Nice to meet you, Aaron. I’m Dr. Y/l/n and this is Student Doctor Wells. We’re going to take real good care of your sister, okay?” you ask.
He nods, sniffling into his mother’s Lycra pants.
“Okay,” you say, standing back up. “Like I was saying, this is a teaching hospital, so I’ll have my med student here with me today, if that’s alright with you, Mom.”
“Sure,” she says, smiling tightly at Wells, her worry still evident, nodding nonetheless. “Is it broken?”
Turning your attention back to Penny, her left arm is lying limp and awkward. “We won’t know for sure until we do some imaging, but we’ll give her something for the pain and bump her as far up the list as we can if she needs an x-ray, okay?”
Mrs. Redford breathes. “Okay. Thank you.”
“Sound good, Penny?” you ask. She nods.
You speak with Olive about starting ibuprofen and an order for an x-ray. Wells seems to be doing okay at Penny’s bedside, his eyes already scanning her injury.
“What would we do next?” you ask, joining him bedside.
“After pain management, X-ray?” he asks.
“We could,” you say, smiling at both Penny and her mom as you both turn away slightly to deliberate. You look at him expectantly. “But pediatric fractures are also a great candidate for…?”
Wells is still locked in on her arm, but then he looks up for a second, a look of recognition passing on his face.
“Ultrasound,” he says. “Of course.”
“Right,” you say, smiling again. “Good job. Didn’t wanna spoil it, but Olive probably already sent for a machine.”
“Nurses, man,” he says, appreciative.
You finally settle on the stool at Penny’s bedside, getting a closer look.
“What happened?” you ask, looking between both of them.
“I fell from the monkey bars,” she says.
“The monkey bars?” Wells asks, his tone light and happy. He did say he had some peds in him. “Oh no! Were you racing your brother?”
You roll to the side as Wells keeps talking to Penny, and her mom directs her attention to you. “I was watching them, I swear I was, but her dad called, and she’s just so fast—”
“It’s alright,” you say immediately. You weren’t at all worried about this case from a social perspective — both children presented clothed, well-fed and clean, and mom was caring and cooperative to start. You could keep an eye out through the rest of the exam, and you catch Wells’ eye when she’s not looking.
But with Penny comfortable and the room calmed down slightly, Aaron sitting at the end of her bed, you let June know she could take her son to the family room if she wanted.
“No, that’s okay. We’ll stay with her at least until her father is here,” she says.
“Okay,” you nod, watching Olive pull back the curtain to wheel in the ultrasound machine.
A blur of movement and an audible commotion near the hub catches your ear, but you and Wells remain focused on the task at hand.
Olive is leading him through the set up of the ultrasound, so you keep your ears open, staying aware of your surroundings, noting already where Dr. Abbot’s standing in front of the board at the central hub.
Then it’s Lena’s voice, followed by a man’s.
“Sir, you can’t just barge back here—”
“My daughter’s back here! June? Penny?”
A man enters the bay suddenly, his chest heaving and eyes wild, pushing past Olive on his way to Penny’s opposite bedside. Father.
“Oh, Pen,” he sighs, shrugging off his suit jacket. “What happened?”
“I fell off the monkey bars,” she says, a fresh round of tears springing.
“Is it broken? Has she been for an x-ray?” he asks, shifting his attention to you.
“Hi, Mr. Redford,” you start, nodding for Wells to begin smoothing the gel over Penny’s arm. “We’re beginning the ultrasound now. I’m Dr. Y/l/n, and this is—”
“Ultrasound?” he says, his face screwing up immediately. His suit jacket discarded in his wife’s lap at some point, he loosens his tie. “Isn’t that for babies? Her arm is fucking broken.”
The atmosphere in the room changes on a dime, you feel Wells still beside you, and Olive freezes, too, where she’s checking Penny’s chart at the monitor again.
“We suspect so,” you say, taking a measured breath. You make sure Wells has a good enough view of the monitor, handing him the wand with a reassuring nod. “We’re doing the ultrasound to see what kind of break it is so we can properly set it, then recommend her a cast or a brace depending.”
“How long has she been waiting here in pain while you guys are fiddling with this machine?” he asks. He turns to his wife, who has also fallen silent at this exchange. “Babe, why didn’t you push for an x-ray?”
June looks to you, suddenly helpless. “Well, she said—”
“No, no,” Mr. Redford cuts her off, his eyes squinting at you. “I want a different doctor in here right now.”
Wells, to his credit, is focused completely on the machine, moving the wand over her arm. You lean in closer.
“Keep going. Try to identify the type of fracture,” you say softly, before turning your attention back to the father.
“Mr. Redford, on fractures such as your daughter’s, an ultrasound gives us a quicker diagnosis, and then we don’t have to expose her to radiation,” you explain. “On injuries like this, where the hand goes out to catch the fall, ultrasounds are very common.”
But you see this all the time. Tensions run high enough in the ED, way before a kid is involved. You can tell nothing you’ve said has carried any weight as his frustration grows.
Abbot is still visible over his shoulder, now focused on a chart on his tablet but inched a few feet down the counter at the central hub, marginally closer to the bay you’re in.
“What is this place?” Mr. Redford says, his volume growing. Olive looks to you, a question in her eyes, and you nod. “My wife rushed my daughter here an hour ago and she’s still not in a fucking cast?”
“We’ll get her in a cast as soon as Student Doctor Wells and I—”
“And you’re letting a student touch my daughter?”
“Greenstick,” Wells says quietly. You pull your attention away, checking the monitor, and nod at him.
“Good. We’ll want Ortho down here to be sure,” you say.
“Hey!” the father shouts suddenly. Your eyes shoot to both of his children, their faces scared. His wife is standing at his side, a hand on his arm, pleading, but he surges on. “I’m fucking talking to—”
“S’there a problem here?”
Jack appears with Olive behind him, his jaw set as he looks around the room. His eyes don’t go to Mr. Redford first, but to you. He glances at Wells, too, who still has his head down, even if at some point he had moved himself slightly in front of you, in between you and the father.
Only then does Dr. Abbot speak, pointing at Mr. Redford. “Dad, out here with me. Now.”
Mr. Redford scoffs. “Oh, are you in charge? Do you want to explain to me why you’re letting college kids run rampant around your ER?”
“Buddy, I wasn’t asking,” Jack says. “Or I can get security involved if I need to. How’s that sound?”
That seems to register with the man, who finally detaches himself from the beside, stalking over to where Dr. Abbot grips the bay curtain. Which is promptly shut as soon as he’s on the other side, but not before he meets your eyes one last time.
“You need to calm down. You’re scaring your daughter, and your son, too, for that matter,” you hear him say.
“I’ll calm down when she’s been properly seen—”
But Jack cuts him off. “Your daughter is in the care of a very talented, knowledgeable and experienced senior resident, and your wife consented to a student doctor on the case.”
“I didn’t consent to that.”
“But you weren’t here, and that’s none of my business,” Jack says. “What is my business, is my ED and my staff. And you cannot talk to my staff that way unless you want to be removed. Got it?”
Silence for a bit longer, and then the curtain wooshes open again. Dr. Abbot lingers, hands tucked behind his back, as Mr. Redford returns to his daughter’s bedside, looking dejected.
Jack nods at you.
“Okay,” you sigh, a smile on your face again, trying to breathe a bit a life back into the room. June is beet red. “Olive, can you please call an Ortho consult?”
“I did earlier,” she says. “They’re sending Park.”
You whistle. “Lucky you, Wells, meeting Park the Shark your first day.”
—
After you explain the next steps to both parents, Dr. Park arrives to assess the fracture, fist bumping Dr. Abbot, who then takes his leave, one more nod at you. You wave him off.
Park ultimately agrees with Wells’ diagnosis, telling him not to get too excited over a simple pediatric greenstick under his breath when Wells smiles at you proudly.
Park orders Penny moved up to Ortho to cast her, noting that the swelling isn’t too severe and that she can go home with a new cast tonight. And that yes, that she can pick whatever color she wants.
Kids always bring out a a different side of even the most intimidating doctors, and you smile when Park promises to have the pink options set out for her.
“See ya, bottom dwellers,” he says, snapping his gloves into the trash once Penny and her family have been moved out of the room and sent upstairs.
“Thanks,” you say sarcastically. “That one is all yours. Dad’s a lot. You were warned.”
When he leaves, you check in with Wells, who seems a bit overwhelmed by everything that just occurred as you both sanitize.
“Is that kind of thing normal?” he asks. “You were so… calm.”
“Sadly,” you say. “Yeah, it is. You just have to focus on the patient. Escalate if you need. You’ll learn.”
He follows you to the board, brand new Hokas squeaking along the floor. “Dude’s a badass.”
“Who, Park?” you laugh. “Yeah. He knows it, too.”
But Wells shakes his head as he joins at your side. “No, Abbot.”
You quirk a brow, thinking back to the scene, hating that you have to force yourself to relive it to remember the details so quickly, because you’re that used to those kinds of things happening to you.
You’ve gotten so good at packing it up and picking up the next patient, to the point that it almost scares you sometimes.
Maybe not the exact wording you’d choose, but Dr. Jack Abbot is a badass.
Because it’s true, that you’d sought his reassurance on bringing Wells into the room almost as soon as you’d decided to do it.
That when a man entered the picture with a raised voice, aggressive posture and foul language, you ran through escalation procedures in your head and looked around for anyone who could help, but your eyes were really only looking for him.
That when Olive had raised her eyebrows at you, you knew she was silently asking if you needed Dr. Abbot, not anyone else, and that you were nodding before you could even properly consider it.
That when he did arrive, seconds later, you felt steady once again, properly able to focus on treating Penny as quickly as possible while still letting Wells learn when it was appropriate.
That when Abbot called you talented and knowledgeable, it wasn’t even the first time you’d heard it from him — because he was usually saying it to your face — but hearing it for the benefit of someone else had doubled its impact on you.
And that when Jack lingered until Park arrived from Ortho, caught your eyes one last time while you began presenting to the surgeon, you felt yourself trying not to preen.
And most of all, that all of these things point to one irrefutable fact that you’ve spent weeks, months trying to ignore, white knuckling your way through brushed shoulders, reassuring words and touches to the small of your back, only feeling like you can breathe again when it’s time for your next elective elsewhere — which is that you have the biggest, most inconvenient, unprofessional and distracting crush on one of your attendings.
“Yeah, he’s — he has our backs,” you say, considering your next words carefully. “So does Shen.”
“He just came in there all ‘you, with me, now,’” Wells imitates, which succeeds in making you laugh, forgetting your grief momentarily. “Shut him up real quick. So sick.”
“Yeah,” you sigh, rubbing a hand over your face, looking back to the board for the newest arrival waiting for a doctor. “So… so sick.”
—
Hours later, Jack finds you finishing up charts at your favorite desk, on the north side by the family room. You hadn’t seemed rattled earlier by any means, but he still had to check on his resident.
“Hi,” he says softly, tapping his fingers on your desk as he approaches.
“Hi, Dr. Abbot,” you smile. You stretch your arms over your head, your scrubs exposing a strip of skin as you lean back.
He looks away, pretending to suddenly study the chart on his tablet, clearing his throat. “How are you? How’s the kid doing?”
“Penny?”
“No,” he laughs. “Sorry. Our MS3.”
“Oh. Wells is doing good. Great on peds. We’ve been needing that on nights,” you say, your smile growing. “He was with me and Shen on that MVC, and now I think Parker has him with her on scut.”
Jack nods. “Good. I’m gonna tell him to stick with you, if that’s alright.”
You nod enthusiastically before you go back to typing and he keeps looking at his own charts, a beat of silence shared between you two before he speaks again.
“You handled that really well earlier.”
Your smile from earlier diminishes as you sigh.
“Thanks, I guess. He didn’t leave us alone until the big scary attending came in.”
“Men like that don’t always tend to respond to receiving expert medical advice,” he says. “You know that. But you sent for help and kept the exam rolling, keeping the rest of the family calm and making sure your student got some time. You did everything right.”
Your smile is back, and he feels his own face fit to match yours against his better judgement. The feeling evaporates when you reach for your Dunkin’ cup only seconds later.
It’s quiet for another moment as you sip and tap away at your keyboard, Jack still fiddling with his tablet, beginning to think about handoff. He’d really love to be able to admit both cases in BH upstairs before Robby gets in.
“You still thinking of that pediatrics fellowship?” he asks, setting his tablet down, resting his hip on the desk. “You know there’s an attending offer coming.”
“I don’t know,” you say, swiveling in your chair to face him. “Kids are great, but parents are… I think I might be too soft.”
“You are not soft. Did someone tell you that? Who told you that?”
You look surprised, and Jack wonders if he’s said the wrong thing or came across as overbearing — just as soon, he realizes he doesn’t care.
But you just shrug, tucking a leg under you in your chair. “Nobody said anything. Fellowship’s still on the table. I’ve just got a lot to think about.”
“Again. That offer is coming,” he reminds you. “If you’re sick of school.”
He expects a quip back. Maybe ‘never’ with an offended face.
But you just nod seriously, logging out of the computer. “Yeah. That’s a whole other thing to think about.”
“Hey. Let me know how I can help, yeah?” he asks, tracking your movements, the way you wipe your hands on your pants as you stand.
“Thanks Dr. Abbot,” you say, reaching for your tablet. “I’m sure I’ll come knocking for a letter of rec or two.”
“Right,” he says, still stuck at your desk, even as you walk past him, heading toward the nurse’s station. But you stop, his hand reaching out for your shoulder before he can decide on a better tactic.
You pause, looking up at him, no idea how fired up he is over that coffee.
“If you ever wanna just, like, talk. I’m here for that, too,” he says, hoping it comes across nonchalant, laid-back. The exact opposite of how he feels saying it.
But you don’t say anything, just nodding with a slightly confused expression as you leave him, his hand falling from your shoulder as he tries not to turn and watch you go.
“Oh, that was painful to watch.”
Jack whips his head toward Shen, who’d supposedly been watching the interaction from the nurse’s station, with that stupid coffee still in hand.
Jack had skipped the box of donuts in the break room earlier purely on principle.
“Will you finish that fucking coffee already? It’s been hours.”
—
The next blow is arguably worse, because it comes from his best friend.
“I had coffee with your resident over the weekend,” Robby says offhandedly, just a footnote at the end of sign-out.
Jack raises his eyebrows. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Robby laughs, tucking his glasses into his jacket pocket and slinging his backpack over his shoulder, handing the tablet he was carrying over to Jack. “You supervise how many residents and you’re not even gonna ask me who?”
“I know who,” Jack grumbles lowly.
Robby grins tiredly. “She said she was asking all of the attendings, some of the seniors — talking with other specialities, too.”
Jack feels his jaw tick, glad you were requested for a follow-up at triage first thing and aren’t anywhere near this desk right now.
“Jack,” Robby says.
“What?” he bites out, frustrated. Why couldn’t his resident just fucking talk to him?
“I didn’t know she was considering other fellowships,” Robby says.
Jack shakes his head. “If she does one, it’s peds. We talked about it last week.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Robby says, sucking his lips to his teeth, his knees bending. He feels awkward.
Abbot looks up from his tablet, not saying anything.
Robby continues quietly, “Ultrasound. She even threw out crit care. And I told her she should ask Langdon about education.”
Jack sets the tablet down on the hub with a thunk, collecting his thoughts silently for a second, his eyes not leaving Robby’s.
“We don’t have any of those here.”
“No,” Robby says slowly. “But Presby has ultrasound and education.”
Three years at the Pitt, an attending offer with your name on it, and you wanted to go to Presby?
Jack sniffs, turning away as he looks back at the tablet. “Well that’s news to me. Who even has crit care? Westbridge?”
Robby shakes his head.
“Oh,” Jack says in realization, his attempt at looking at his charts useless.
Not PTMC, not Presby or Westbridge.
Not Pittsburgh at all.
“Brother, I hope you know what you’re doing with that one,” Robby sighs.
“I can assure you that I fucking don’t,” Jack says lowly. “I don’t get why she won’t just come talk to me.”
Robby shakes his head. “You’ll figure it out.”
As he watches Robby leave, a pitying smile on his face, he catches him nodding in greeting to you near the Chairs entrance, your hand thankfully free of the offending Dunkin’ cup tonight.
But as welcome of a sight as you are, it does nothing to quiet the voice in his head telling him that in a few short months you might not even be here. That he might not be treated to the sight that he’s come to realize is more than half of what gets him out of bed at 5pm every day.
His dilemma — teetering so hard toward the personal that he’s beginning to forget it was ever professional in the first place — all fades away as soon as Jack sees you talking with another man, recognizing him immediately as the agitated father from the pediatric broken arm the other day.
Someone, he hasn’t the faintest idea who, tries to get his attention behind him. “Dr. Abbot—”
“One sec,” he says, already pushing his way past nurses, his steps quick to the other side of the central desk.
The closer he gets, he sees that the daughter is with him, too, and he slows his pace. Everything looks calm, but he waits near the edge of the hub.
“Penny was hoping her doctors would sign her cast,” Mr. Redford says. “Her doctor upstairs said you guys would be back around this time.”
Jack busies himself reassigning charts to night shift on the station he’d ended up in front of, busy work that he can do while still listening, unable to remember if he’d given the stomach pain in South 18 to Parker or Nazely as he listens to your every word, his fingers slipping while he splits his attention between his monitor and your interaction.
“We’d love to!” you say, bending partially out of his sight in order to sign her cast. “I love the color you chose. Very pretty. Wow! You got Dr. Park sign, too?”
Jack makes eye contact with Mr. Redford while you’re distracted talking to Penny, who’s in much better shape than she was last week. To his minor, minuscule credit, the man looks sheepish.
“And also,” he says, looking back to you and clearing his throat. “I wanted to apologize. To you and your student, if he’s around. The way I acted was unacceptable.”
“Oh,” you say, and Jack hears the surprise in your voice, watching you tuck Penny out of the way as a gurney comes racing by. “Thank you for saying so. It happens. It’s scary to be in here for your kiddo.”
Don’t dismiss it, Jack thinks. Don’t let him off.
“I’m really sorry,” he says again, his hands back on his daughter’s shoulders. Nowhere near you.
Jack breathes.
“I hope you can remember this in the future, whenever you interact with healthcare workers,” you say, so quiet that Jack can barely catch it over the noise in the ED. Probably so Penny can’t hear. But it’s firm, and your voice doesn’t waver. “This is a very stressful system, but we all just want what’s best for the patient.”
Jack hears you direct the man and his daughter toward where Wells should be, and fully locks back into what he’s been pretending to to be doing for the entire interaction.
He definitely assigned that stomach pain to Henderson, now that he thinks about it.
“You saw that, right?” you ask, peeking over the front of the desk, bringing a whoosh of your perfume over his senses.
“I saw,” Jack nods, clearing his throat before taking his time looking up at you fully.
When he does, you’re almost breathless, beaming with pride, your nails tapping on his desk.
He’d sooner die than let that smile go to Presby.
“Told you,” he says, weighted. He shakes his head. “You’re not soft.”
—
“You’ll definitely get in.”
“Yeah?” Crus says, pressing the crosswalk sign, the two of you slowing to a stop as you wait for the signal. The air’s nippy for April, your fleece pulled tight around your shoulders. Your hand freezes where it’s clutched around a plastic cup of cold brew. You’d never give up your iced drinks, weather be damned.
You’d asked Henderson for coffee before tonight’s shift, and he’d recommended meeting at his favorite spot that was walking distance from the hospital. The coffee was alright, but the cinnamon buns were just as good as he said.
“I appreciate that,” he continues. “I’d miss this place, though. What about you?”
You sigh, rolling your neck out as you see the top floors of the Pitt over the trees, a chill going down your spine, and not from the weather. “Million-dollar question these days, isn’t it?”
“I thought you wanted peds. You thinking of going straight to community?” Crus asks, his expression curious.
“Not really,” you admit. “I could. But I still want to do something else. I just don’t know what anymore.”
“So not peds, then?” he presses.
“Peds is… I love it. But it’s so hard sometimes,” you sigh, your lip worried between your teeth. You don’t need to speak the reasons why out loud — it’s obvious. Crus has been by your side since you started, and he’s been gloved up with you for some of your worst cases. “So I just wanted to look around.”
“What else are you thinking, then?” he asks, eyeing you suspiciously — like it’s absurd that Dr. Y/l/n could land anywhere but at PTMC’s emergency pediatrics fellowship next year.
“Well, you’ve fully tanked my ultrasound chances at Presby,” you joke. “But that’s okay. I’ve thought about critical care, too.”
“I don’t know. I heard you were coming for my spot on that broken arm a few weeks back,” Crus laughs, the two of you finally making your way across the street once the walk sign flashes on.
“I learned that from you.”
“We learned that. From Abbot,” he corrects.
You don’t respond, the two of you quietly walking lockstep down the ramp to the public entrance. You revel in the last few moments of normalcy before everything starts to scream at you for the next 12 hours.
“I’m surprised you haven’t considered emergency med education,” Crus says. “You couldn’t do it here, but. We’d see each other around at Presby, I’m sure.”
You look up at him as he holds open the door for you. “Yeah?”
“Wherever we go, co-res. I hope we stay in touch,” he smiles. You feel a surge of fondness for him — feeling slightly less anxious after everything you’ve discussed. That was the point of these talks, anyway, to hear from the people who know you, who’ve taught you everything or learned alongside you these years.
There’s just one you know you can’t bother with, even if it kills you.
You both flash your badges toward security as you bypass the line, and you smile at your favorite guard working the screening today.
“I would miss this place, too,” you say.
“Can you imagine us ever saying that on our first day here?” he asks.
You think back to yours and Henderson’s first day as interns. You’d been a ball of nerves, fresh out of med school in Virginia. If he was as nervous as you, he didn’t show it.
“Hm. Would it have been before the debridement or after the MCI?”
He winks.
“We better head in. Abbot’s gonna be all over me if I make you late,” he says, waiting for you to scan your badge into the ED before he does. “Shen said he gave him a hard time the other day.”
You stop walking at his words, hugging the wall just inside the doors, suddenly nervous to even catch a glimpse of the aforementioned attending now. “What do you mean?”
Crus chucks his empty coffee in the trash and crosses his arms, his voice dropping low around his next words. It’s not hard to go unheard in a room this loud and busy, but it’s just as easy to accidentally be overheard. You lean closer.
“You could talk to him, y’know,” Crus says. “He knows you the best. He could tell you what he thinks.”
You shake your head, the idea impossible. “I already know what he thinks. He wants me here.”
“Well, that doesn’t surprise me,” Crus mutters.
You have no time to ask him to expand, unsure if you’d even want to, your stomach so turned over at every underlying implication. You hadn’t eaten enough before shift and you were starting to get shaky from the caffeine, your hands clammy.
“All this coffee coming in these days, and yet nobody is asking for my order.”
The source of your anxiety had arrived through the ambulance bay doors at some point, his backpack slung over his shoulder as he stands staring between you and Crus, his eyes trained on your cup, before he looks to your face, eyebrows raised.
His scrubs don’t even match today, and he’s gone and worn the top that’s just a bit too big for your liking — the one that doesn’t accentuate his arms like they deserve. Maybe that’s a godsend today. Your eyes trail over his freckled forearms anyway — it’s useless.
“They don’t serve break room sludge at my spot,” Henderson says, before turning back to you. “Y/n/n, think about what I said.”
Crus walks off, and you smile tightly at Jack as you attempt to walk past him as well, but he starts to trail just a pace behind you.
“What’d he say?” he asks.
“Just helping me talk through some fellowship apps,” you answer, stopping at the central hub to glance at the board. He stops too, leaning his arm on the desk.
“Yeah? How’s that going?”
“It’s… fine,” you nod, hiking your own bag up higher on your shoulder. “Finishing up soon. Hopefully.”
“Good,” he says. “That’s good. Deadlines coming up, right?”
“You keeping an eye out?” you joke, but your hand twitches around your cup.
“You’ve just been… drinking a lot of coffee lately,” he accuses.
Your mouth falls open in protest. “What do you —”
“You’d let me know, right?” he asks, turning to you. “If you needed any help? And I don’t just mean a letter, Y/l/n. Seriously, anything.”
You’re nodding on autopilot, even if his words have hit you in the deepest part of your chest. His words so earnest, you’re attending so unaware of the impact he’s even having on you because that’s just who Jack Abbot is. He looks out for everyone in his department no matter how long he’s known them, and he gives his heart over and over to patients until he has nothing left in him but a trip to the roof at daybreak.
It’s ironic, in a sad way, that watching him all of these years has made you unable to even let him in like he’s asking you to. Because he just doesn’t know what it means to you, and he never will.
“I know, Dr. Abbot,” you say. “Thank you.”
If he’s convinced by your answer he doesn’t look it, and he sighs as he unzips his backpack. “Go drop your stuff. Sign-out is in five.”
Dismissed, you toss your half-full cup of coffee in the trash on your way to the lockers. Your nerves are shot enough.
—
Abbot is overseeing you, along with your now near-permanent sidekick in Wells, on a traumatic amputation later that night. Motorcycle accident turned nearly deadly — he files a mental note to sign this patient out to Robby.
He lingers where he usually does when you’re leading on a patient, hands tucked behind his back near the doors, in a paper gown that you’d tied on for him in case he needed to hop in, even if he knew he wouldn’t. Once Ortho had come down for a consult, he felt even less of a need to be actively involved. You could do this in your sleep.
“You a third year?” Park asks, watching Wells flush the limb with saline.
Wells looks bewildered. “Who? Me?”
“I’m looking at you, aren’t I?” he spits.
“Yeah, I am, um — is this not…” he gestures toward the limb, shaky. “I’ve never done a saline flush before.”
Park nods. “It’s fine. Come back for an ortho elective next year.”
Jack watched as Wells looks over to you immediately, and you just raise your eyebrows at him, nodding. Jack can practically feel the pride emanating from you like a force field around the kid.
“Uh, yeah,” Wells says, turning back to Park, then back to the limb. Back to Park again. “I hadn’t thought about it. But I will.”
“You stealing my med students, Park?” Jack quips, hands on his hips. “Arm’s not even reattached yet.”
“Your residents, too,” Park grins, before turning to you. “We still on for — what’d we say, tomorrow?”
Jack’s stomach sinks.
You sigh, still holding your gloved hands up. “Uh, shoot. Can we do Thursday instead?”
Park cocks his head. “Before nights? Sure.”
“I was thinking we could just hit the caf? It’s easiest, especially if we’re already coming in earlier,” you say.
“Re-attachment’s favorable,” he tells one of the OR nurses who appears in the room, ready to bring the patient up. “Can you call up and book the OR they were holding? Wells, you coming up?”
“Hell yeah,” he says, standing quickly, the stool he’s sitting on skidding into the wall behind him. You stifle a giggle, and Jack can feel you turn to him, but he can’t bring himself to share in your amusement.
“Okay, well make sure you bring that,” Park says, pointing at the arm. He turns back to you. “I’m not doing the caf. Get my number before you leave in the morning and we’ll figure it out.”
Jack doesn’t hear the rest, shedding his PPE into the corner bin and shouldering the trauma door open with force, muttering an excuse toward one of the OR nurses that’s inadvertently stood in his way, aggressively rubbing sanitizer into his hands as he stalks back to the central desk.
He stares at the board as new arrivals filter in, but he can’t process any of it.
Because — fucking Park? It sits in his stomach like a rock — the knowledge that you’d sooner turn to an attending on a different floor, in a completely different speciality, than you’d come to him for anything.
Robby and Shen had hurt, too. Henderson he didn’t even mind — he was glad his residents had a close relationship, happy that you had an equal to turn to. Because Jack prided himself on his mentorship. It’s been one of the most rewarding things of working at this hospital, the never-ending parade of new kids coming to check a box for med school that ended up discovering their passion. It was few who’d actually have the chops to stay.
But you were always supposed to be one of them. From the day he’d met you, he knew he wanted you to want to stay. He’d held his breath every time you came back from an elective, bright-eyed, explaining everything you’d learned with a new-found enthusiasm he was worried the Pitt had long ago stolen from you. And then he’d feel selfish, realizing his biggest fear is that you’d fall in love with something else and leave him and this place behind, when he knew he should just want you to be the best doctor you can be.
So Park feels like a slap in the face, like ice-cold water poured over him in the middle of Trauma 2.
Jack had spent three years watching over you — he knew your tells. He knew you were stressed the last few months, your anxiety not impacting your performance, but definitely his own mood. Maybe it made him feel inadequate as a leader that his resident was clearly struggling and wouldn’t talk to him about it. Or maybe it just worried him in a way that he’d realized long ago that he shouldn’t be worrying for you.
—
Nearing the end of his rotation, Wells had become a presence you realize you’ll miss having around. But you have a sneaking suspicion he’ll be back.
“How’d you feel last weekend?” you ask, walking with him toward the break room.
“Oh,” he says holding the door once you swing it open. “Yeah. That sucked.”
“Did you end up getting to talk to your niece?” you ask him quietly, the two of you loitering at the coffee pot now. Not really enough time to sit down, but just enough to duck away for a second after walking him through some sutures.
“Mhm.”
“Did it help?” you ask.
He shrugs, titling his head side to side. “Maybe? I think a little.”
“Good,” you nod. “It’s good to have people you can reach out to outside of all of this that remind you why. Even if we’re here for you, too.”
Wells talks about his next rotation, in psych — which he’s told you many times by now he’s not particularly excited for. But you told him it might surprise him; you remember enjoying it back in your MS4 year, after you’d avoided it as long as possible.
“You’re coming back for that Ortho elective though, aren’t you?” you say, idle chatter.
The NP that had been taking their lunch leaves, and it’s just the two of you after a while. Wells immediately angles his body toward you.
“Listen. I have a question. It’s kinda embarrassing,” he starts.
“Oh?” you blink, shaking away the cobwebs that crowd your mind in the dead hours of this shift. The microwave tells you it’s almost 6am.
“What are the moral implications of me asking out a nurse? Even if she’s on day shift?”
You can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of you.
“Is it that bad?” Wells asks, distressed.
But you cover your mouth, clearing your throat to stop your laugh but unable to fight your smile. “It’s Emma, isn’t it?”
“How’d you know?”
“I have eyes.”
His cheeks flame red, a feat considering how pale he’d just been. “Well, yeah. It is her. Is that, like, kosher? Is there a policy?”
You pat his shoulder. “Oh, Wells. If a doctor got in trouble every time he hit on a nurse around here we’d be a skeleton crew.”
“So it’s fine?” he says, his tone hopeful.
“Sure. Some personal advice, though,” you wince, thinking back to an elective last year when an EMT asked you out your first day. You’d avoided the ambulance bay for four straight weeks after you’d kindly rejected him. He was cute, built in the way that a lot of EMTs are, and he never held it against you. Your heart was just a little locked up at your home hospital. “Wait ‘til after your rotation ends.”
He nods seriously. “Got it.”
“C’mon, loverboy, we should go,” you tell him, reaching for the door handle as you make for the exit.
“Thanks, Dr. Y/l/n. I figured you’d know.”
You pause, your hand releasing, letting the door shut again as you turn back to him, skeptical. “Why?”
Wells tilts his head down at you, his eyebrows furrowed. “‘Cause you’re… dating an attending?”
Your heart begins to hammer in your chest. He hadn’t specified, but you know who he’s talking about. And if an MS3 can clock you after a few weeks on shift, you were worse off than you’d thought.
“I’m not dating anyone,” you say, simple denial that you hope he’ll buy.
You curse the casual relationship you’d built with Wells over the last few weeks, because he knew by now nothing was out of bounds. He knew he could talk to you — something you’d have been proud of an hour ago. Something you were proud of when he asked you about hospital dating policy.
“Wait, so you and Abbot aren’t…”
“Wells,” you say quietly. “No.”
“I’m sorry!” he whisper-shouts, his eyes wide. “I’m so sorry, I just figured — the way people talk about it, I just — ”
Your body goes cold, your back finding the wall of the break room. “What do they say?”
“Uh,” he says sheepish. “Just that — ”
But you raise your hand, cutting him off when Shen walks in, nodding to you both on his way to the fridge.
“Actually, no. Um,” you clear your throat, trying to collect your thoughts, painfully cognizant of the other attending who’s now within ear shot of your on-set panic. “Anyway. Like I said, wait until you rotate. Or don’t. You’re fine. You’ll be fine.”
You’ve probably gone as pale as you feel, as pale as he’d been at the beginning of this conversation, because Wells looks concerned. “Dr. Y/l/n?”
“I’m gonna step out for just a sec,” you mutter, avoiding eye contact with Shen, who now seems curious over Wells’ shoulder. “Check back in on our South patients. Then Shen can take you. Or find Ellis.”
“Y/l/n,” Shen calls. “You good?”
“Just gonna get some air,” you say over your shoulder, opening the door again, not waiting for Wells or, god forbid, Shen to follow you out as you let it swing shut, hoping more than anything you can make it up to the roof without running into Jack Abbot.
—
You manage to avoid him, even if you almost barrel full-speed into Crus on the floor and are forced to share an elevator with Park on your way up to the roof, mad at your past self for just trying to make connections with your coworkers, who can now recognize when you’re in the middle of an existential crisis and horrifyingly both ask if you’re alright.
It’s cold on the roof, even as the sun rises in pink and orange tones. You don’t cry yet, but you feel it coming, your elbows resting on the railing, palms pressed into your eyes. You think you might need to sit down soon.
When the door squeaks open a few moments later, you don’t turn, but you recognize the gait of the footsteps before they’re even halfway to joining you at the railing.
“I’d ask you what’s wrong,” Jack starts, and his tone is steeped in frustration. “But would you even want my help?”
You’re bewildered, lowering your hands, turning to see him, his arms crossed stubbornly over his chest with one of his eyebrows raised. “What?”
“Nothing,” he shrugs. “Just feels like my senior resident has gone around to every doctor in this hospital before coming to me even once.”
“Dr. Abbot—”
“You know I begged Robby to let me have you on nights?”
You’re slow to stand up straight. “What?”
“You came to me as an intern, Y/n,” Jack says. “I saw what you were capable of the first time you swung shifts.”
“But I—”
“Night shift is hard,” he continues. “Pacing is weird. Patients are weirder. It’s not for everyone. But I watched you, and I just — I knew you could find your place here.”
It’s a streak of pride, you realize, underlying all of that tension.
“And you have. So what I can’t work out is why you’re going to leave Pittsburgh without even talking to me about it, when you and I both know…” he continues, he tears his eyes from the sunrise, looking unsure suddenly, finally meeting your eyes. “You know you have a place here with us, don’t you?”
He’d made that clear enough since you started your third year. Unfortunately for you, that was right around the time the line had started to blur.
“But that’s it, Jack, I don’t — I don’t know anything anymore. Because this place is — it’s you,” you accuse. “I’ve tried so hard to make my own lane and you’re just all over it.”
He balks at that. “It’s my fuckin’ shift. I brought you on it so you could make that lane. And you have.”
“But you’re my attending,” you say, begging him to understand. If Wells could read between the lines after four weeks, surely Jack had, too. Maybe he had been doing that all along if the hospital really was abuzz about it. You cringe, thinking about him discussing this with anyone else.
“Right. So you come to me when you need help,” he says, his hands on his chest. “Not Robby. Not Shen. Surely not fucking Park.”
“I can’t,” you plead, feeling tears brim at the back of your eyes. “You know I can’t.”
“Why not?” he says, moving closer. You wish he wouldn’t — you wish he’d go downstairs and just let you freak out like you’d been needing to for weeks.
You wish above all that you didn’t have to leave the place you loved so much because you love the man in front of you more.
“Why?” he repeats, his hand reaching for you. Your breathing stops, your eyes finding his again. His eyes are dark as his hand rests on the side of your jaw, making sure your gaze doesn’t stray again. “Just talk to me for once. Please.”
You feel a giant tear leaking out of your eye, racing a hot path toward his calloused palm. He catches it with the side of his thumb.
“I always thought that I’d move right back to Texas after residency. And then I came here,” you admit. His left hand finds the other side of your face, and you realize you’re fully crying only by the movement of his fingers. “And I met you.”
Realization across his face, his brow unfurling, his lips parted — to be quickly followed by his touch gone from you, you’d assume. Maybe an awkwardly offered tissue and a promise to forget all of this. Another reminder about getting a letter of rec before the door swings open and closed again.
But the whipping cold doesn’t bite at your cheeks. You actually only get warmer as his body moves closer, your chest touching his; you’re worried he’ll feel your heartbeat soon if he presses any closer.
“Y/n,” he says slowly.
“I love this place, Jack,” you continue, swallowing around a new set of hot, ugly tears that fall anyway. He tracks the movement of your throat. “It breaks my heart every single day but I love it. And I looked up one day and realized I hadn’t even considered a program outside of Pittsburgh in years.”
“No. Don’t bullshit me anymore,” he says, shaking his head. “Robby said you wanted to leave.”
“Because of you, Jack,” you whimper. “Because—”
“No,” he says again, shaking his head with more vigor. “No. You take me out it. Now.”
“What?”
“I’m here. I’ll be right here after you’re done,” he says, his voice steady and his words precise, like he’s walking you through a procedure or explaining to a patient their options. “I’m yours, whether you stay here or not. Wherever you go. I’ll be here.”
“Jack,” you breathe. “What are you doing?”
He moves closer, his breath fanning over your face; the warmth welcomed as the cold cools your tears. His hands tilt your head up slightly.
“You still need me to spell it out for you sometimes,” he asks, not an ounce of mirth or amusement, not longer just asking. Begging. “Don’t you?”
You nod.
“You’re an amazing doctor,” he says with conviction. “I don’t know if this is gonna help your situation or not. But…”
His nose nudges against yours, and his ribcage heaves against your chest. Your eyes flicker to his lips, and you don’t know if this will help you either.
“Please,” you say anyway.
Jack Abbot is a bit of an asshole — the edge to his personality that he needs in order to run a place like this bleeds through on some nights more than others. He can be stern, more stubborn in the midnight hours.
And he kisses you just the same. You pull away after a moment, somehow finding the mental space to be worried people will notice you’re both gone.
“Jack,” you breathe into his mouth, your head spinning. “We should—”
“Nuh-uh,” he speaks through spit-slicked lips, his mouth finding yours again quickly. “Come here.”
—
“You’re not getting out of a coffee chat with me. You know that, right?”
Jack watches you freeze where you’re digging through his dresser, your hands paused on an olive green t-shirt. You hold it up to him in question and he nods.
“What do you mean?” you ask, pulling it over your body, kneeing your way back up the bed, settling back at his side. Your hand finds where his is outstretched.
He checks his watch where he’d discarded it on his night table after shift, your PTMC badge right next to it. “Coffee pot’ll go off in like two minutes. And then you’re gonna talk to me about your fellowships.”
“Yeah? That’s what this all was?” you ask, your eyes trained on where your fingers trail up the inside of his forearm, tracing the lines of his veins. He grabs your hand when it’s back within his reach.
“Talk me through it,” he says.
You rejoin him in bed minutes later, carrying two cups of coffee from his kitchen. You’d asked him how he liked it before you went down the hall, wrinkling your nose when he says black with a little sugar from the tin on the counter. He’d enjoyed the view anyway as you sauntered down his hallway, bare except for his old ARMY shirt.
“No almond milk for me?” you accuse.
“I’ll add it to my list for next time,” he says, sitting up against his headboard, accepting the cup offered to him. You hand him your cup too, which he sets to the side with confusion.
He notices then the black leather notebook tucked under your arm, that you must have grabbed from the bag you’d discarded in his entryway last night.
“What is that?”
“Where I keep all my notes,” you say, bashful, flipping it open, a PTMC waiting room pen jammed between its pages. “From talking to people.”
He’s silent for a moment.
“What? You said—”
“No. Go ahead,” he says. “You’re so hot right now.”
He bends his leg, which you immediately lean on, hiding your smile in his knee. “Stop.”
“Go.”
You sigh, flipping through your pages, biting the pen between your teeth. “Ultrasound at Presby is out. Crus’ll get that for sure.”
“Nope. I haven’t finished his letter of rec yet,” Jack says. “I’ll tank his chances if you say the word.”
“I didn’t even want it,” you admit with a one-armed shrug. “It’d be really cool, but…”
“Not your thing,” he finishes. You nod.
“Then, I talked to Park about peds,” you say. “I knew he did a peds fellowship. For ortho, obviously. At PTMC, too.”
“What’d he say?”
“That I’d be stupid not to do it,” you deadpan.
Jack grumbles. “He’s right.”
You flip to the next page, giggling. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”
“Trust me. He will never hear it in my ED.”
A glint in your eyes, like you see right through him. You remember that interaction that had knocked him off-kilter a few days ago. You see it differently now.
“And then, oh — Robby, Shen and Crus all talked to me about emergency med education,” you say. “Robby’d write my letter.”
“I already wrote your letter,” Jack admits. “I’ve been waiting for you to bring that fellowship up for weeks.”
Your pen falls to the pages, your mouth twisted in confusion as you tear your eyes away to look at him. “Why didn’t you?”
“You’re smart enough. And I knew you’d love peds just as much,” he says, tugging your notebook out of your grip, the pen, too. He tosses it aside. “But only one of them is at my hospital. And I didn’t wanna… It’s all yours for the taking, baby. Anything you want.”
He sees your eyes trail his bare chest, the skin of his legs where his thighs are peeking out from beneath his boxers, still tangled up in the sheets. “All of it?”
“You mean me?”
You nod.
“For a long time now, Y/n,” he says. “And you don’t need to write that down.”
“Why?” you ask, rising up to your knees, his free hand finding the back of your thigh, helping you swing it over his lap.
“‘Cause I’ll never let you forget it,” he promises, tilting his head up to you.
“Put your coffee down,” you command, settling in his lap, your hands finding his cheeks.
“Why?”
“‘Cause I’m gonna spill it,” you warn.
He turns his head, nudging your discarded phone out of the way with his mug to make room. Your things all intermixed with his so naturally, he feels silly thinking back to how this all even started. “How does my wisdom measure up to the other—”
You cut him off mid-sentence, your lips slotting over his open mouth. You taste like his toothpaste and the shitty coffee he buys pre-ground at the grocery store. The skin on the back of your thighs is so damn soft, but he already knew that. Your jeans are in his living room.
“They don’t even compare,” you murmur.
“No?”
You shake your head, before eyeing the cups of coffee on the side table. Your face twists.
“But we have to get you a new machine, Jack. What the fuck are you drinking?”
—
A few weeks later, you walk into work with Jack, a cold brew with almond milk in your hand and a drip coffee with one raw sugar packet in his.
The closing baristas had already memorized your pre-shift orders at the shop you’d found near Jack’s place that has quickly become his favorite spot — not Crus’, Robby’s or Park’s.
And for the love of god, not Dunkin’.
The matching logos leave no room for mistakes to be made by anyone who’s paying attention — and as Jack had recently discovered, they’re all paying attention.
You leave him at the central hub for the lockers, just a smile in parting. You were professional enough. And you’d already kissed him enough in his car, his lips still tasting like coffee and your coconut lip balm.
You received two fellowship offers earlier that morning, only a few hours after shift. Peds at PTMC or education at Presby.
Both in Pittsburgh.
But the choice was yours, which he made sure you knew before he helped you celebrate properly.
“Is that something I need to know about?”
Jack looks up from where he’d been yanking pens out of his bag, depositing them into his scrub top pocket. Your pen had somehow made it into his backpack; he could tell from the bite marks.
Shen is leaning against the back of the central desk, slurping the remnants of his coffee through his straw loudly. Lena is pretending, very poorly, not to listen.
“What do you mean?” Abbot says, unamused.
He takes another much-needed sip of his own coffee — you were so far proving detrimental to his post-shift sleep schedule.
He turns his head from Shen to find you across the room at West 12, already seated bedside, nodding along to whatever Langdon is saying about the patient present.
You catch Jack’s eye, your lips pulling up around your words, and he decides he’ll be fine even if that smile goes to Presby.
Because it’s still coming home to him.
“It’s just,” Shen continues, waving his cup around, his grin mischevious as Jack turns back. “I just seem to recall there being a concern about — what was it, being buried by paperwork?”
summary: when jack abbot runs into you at a bar after your shift on the fourth of july, he teaches you what it means to unwind and you teach him what it means to feel loved again. (6k)
characters: jack abbot / fem!loser!reader, trinity and mel at karaoke, baran al-hashimi
contents: friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, jealousy, age difference, power imbalance, so much yearning, jack abbot hasn't had sex in eight years confirmed cw for mentions of trauma and grief, and smut 18+ (MDNI)
( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )
The bar pulses like a living thing with a heartbeat. The buzzing of a hundred different conversations and the wailing of a distant guitar sting overhead presses hard on either side of you. If you concentrate real hard, you think you can still hear Mel and Trinity butchering another Alanis Morissette song back in the private karaoke room — which isn’t nearly private enough, considering the way their drunken devotion bleeds out into the main hall.
You left them a while ago to order a drink, which melts slowly in the sweaty glass between your fingertips now. You bring it to your lips and try to take a sip, but something in your throat refuses. The taste feels wrong; the burn feels wrong. Actually, the more you think about it, everything feels wrong — like your body is still calibrated to the relentless rhythm of the ER, to the work you can never quite seem to leave behind.
Even now, as your eyes meet your reflection in the mirror behind the liquor bottles, you look like something you don’t quite recognize — dressed in a velvet red number pulled from Trinity Santos’ closet instead of your usual scrubs; with your hair done instead of carelessly shoved back. It’s like looking at a stranger wearing your own face.
“Long time, no see, Doc—” A masculine voice cuts in, so familiar that you wonder if you’ve been thinking about the PTMC so long that you’ve begun to hallucinate your coworkers.
Your head snaps over your shoulder. Your tired eyes widen at the sight of your attending sliding in beside you. Jack Abbot is still donned in his scrubs, you find, as he leans against the bar — black uniform, brown undershirt, and navy pants — like he dressed himself in the dark before he came into work. His freckled biceps strain against the short sleeves as he folds them across the polished wood.
There are two glasses half-full of amber liquid before him. He lifts one in his right hand and eyes you over the top of it. “How long has it been?” he quips with narrowed eyes before taking a quick sip.
You blink away the shock of seeing him here, all casual, like he wasn’t just elbows deep in a trauma with you.
“About…” You lilt and glance at the clock behind the bar. “Half an hour ago, I think?”
His mouth curves with a slow, suspicious smile as his steady gaze refuses to waver. “What are you doing here all by yourself, huh? Gotta hot date I don’t know about?”
You scoff a quiet laugh and turn away, looking down at your untouched glass as you spin it in an anxious hand. “Yeah— If that’s what you wanna call watching Trinity and Mel butcher Alanis Morisette’s entire catalog…”
Your head tilts to your shoulder to flash him a lazy grin, which falters at the edge when you catch his unflinching stare. You clear your throat, remember that you’re talking to an attending, and stammer out, “Uh, what— What about you?”
Jack bounces a lazy shoulder and lifts the glass in his right hand. “This was the nearest place to get a good whiskey, so…” he trails off before taking another sip.
His eyes never leave yours as he peers at you from over the rim of the glass, studying you almost, analyzing you in a way that makes your skin feel too tight.
Your nose scrunches in protest of his staring. “Why are you looking at me like that?” you wonder through a breathless chuckle.
“I don’t know…” he admits, quieter now. “It’s just the first time I’ve seen you out of your scrubs…”
His light eyes flicker over your form again — from your bare shoulders and exposed chest, to where your dress clings to your ass and stomach.
“It’s different…” he hums. “A good different…”
Heat crawls up your neck. You turn away on instinct, finding it very suddenly difficult to meet his stare, as a disbelieving laugh slips from your mouth.
“What are you laughing at?” Jack presses with a chuckle of his own.
“Nothing,” you dismiss with a shake of your head. “I just… I think you might be a little tipsy there, Dr. Abbot…”
“This is only my second glass, I’ll have you know,” he argues, playfully offended. “What? You think I can’t handle my alcohol.”
He straightens slightly and takes a step closer. Still leaving several inches of space between you, though it takes a lot of strength from you not to slide off your bar stool entirely.
“No! I just—” You stumble over yourself as the words tangle on your tongue. “I just feel like you probably wouldn’t be talking to me like this otherwise.”
“I talk to you every day,” he scoffs.
“Well, yeah, but you don’t flirt with me every day.”
His brows raise as something short of amusement flickers across his face. “Oh. So you think I’m flirting with you?”
An awkward silence drops like a leaden weight upon you, like an anvil in one of those ancient cartoons. It knocks the breath out of you accordingly.
“…No,” you answer after a few long moments. “Of course not.”
Your grip tightens on your drink as you turn away from him again. You hardly think twice before bringing it impulsively to your mouth, downing two long sips of the watered-down gin and tonic. Your face screws at the bitter taste and at the burning sensation on your tongue, which turns into a dull sparkle when it settles in the pit of your stomach.
“Well, I was, so…” Jack quips, too casual for his own good. “I guess I’m gonna have to try a little harder now, aren’t I?”
His eyes cut to you, expecting you to laugh at him, or to stammer out another one of your painfully shy replies. You forget to respond entirely, though, too focused on the way the alcohol singes your tongue. (You spend a long moment debating whether or not it’s numb or swelling in your throat with a thousand-yard stare.)
Your silence is not reassuring.
“Unless—” Jack’s voice tightens slightly as he clears his throat. His charming resolve slips as he stammers, “Unless you don’t want me to. Obviously. Then I can just, you know, fuck off—”
“No, it’s not that!” you blurt. “It’s just…”
He leans in, just slightly. “Just what?”
You hesitate for a moment, calculating the words, though they seem to slip off your tingling tongue before you can stop them.
“I feel like I haven’t… learned how to be a real person yet, you know?” you confess with a sheepish, lopsided grin. “Like… People my age are supposed to go out for drinks, and sing karaoke with their friends, and flirt with cute guys—”
You don’t notice your slip-up, but Jack does, and he hides his smile behind his glass.
“But I think I’ve just been working so much that… That I don’t know how to do anything but work, you know?”
“Yeah…” he hums softly. “Trust me. I know the feeling—”
There’s a distant call of his name. A faint “Abbot,” half-swallowed by the thrumming music and surrounding conversation. Your head turns in the direction of the sound to find Dr. Al-Hashimi appearing from the crowd. Her fluffy brown curls are out of their usual clip, languishing now at her shoulders. Her lavender jacket is gone, too, to reveal her lean body beneath her slim scrub top.
You blink owlishly at her for a few moments, unused to the sight of her outside the white walls of the E.D.
“You were supposed to be bringing me a drink,” the woman quips drily, smiling as she reaches for the touched whiskey next to Abbot. “Not holding it hostage.”
“Shit…” Jack exhales. “I’m sorry. I-I got distracted…”
“Dr. Al,” you greet with a waver in your voice. “I… I didn’t know you were here.”
“Yeah, well…” she shrugs. “I heard this was the best place to get a glass of whiskey, so…”
You nod slowly, suddenly unsure of yourself — of what to do with your hands, your voice, with Jack. You swallow hard as your eyes flit wildly between the two attendings standing before you. You struggle to shake the feeling that you’ve interrupted something.
“I’ll, uh— I guess I’ll get out of your hair then…”
You muster an artificial smile and abandon your gin and tonic as you slide off the bar stool.
Jack calls your name, but it gets lost in the crowd that swallows you whole as you disappear out of sight.
You stomach through one and a half more songs that Mel and Trinity shout into the void of the private karaoke room. They take a quick break from “You Oughta Know” to sing a strikingly heartfelt rendition of “Head Over Feet” that very nearly brings a tear to your eye.
It’s not their sloppy singing, exactly, but rather the reminder of how alone you feel just now — the only audience member on the pleather sofa, bathed in the strobing neon glow from the overhead lights, watching the fun from afar while your friends forge an unlikely bond.
While Jack and Dr. Al laugh over drinks together—
You rise abruptly and catch them between verses to tell them you’re heading out for the night. Their protests come wrapped in song.
“But we’re having so much fun!” Trinity whines in drunken slurs, then locks in when the chorus hits. “You’ve already won me over, in spite of me! So don’t be alarmed if I fall, head over feet—!”
The song follows you the entire way out of the bar, where the night air outside washes over you like fine silk. You catch yourself humming the tune as you shrug on the brown bomber jacket you borrowed from Trinity’s closet — just in case you felt the need to hide. You falter when your fingers brush something in the front pocket.
You reach in with a pensive twist to your features, surprised to find a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a silver lighter shoved inside. You stare at it for several long moments and wonder briefly what it would feel like to smoke one. (You’re unable to shake the impulsive thought from your brain until you’ve done it.)
You pull one cig free and stick the orange filter between your lips. You flick the lighter three times before it finally strikes. You hold your free hand over the flame like they do in the movies and inhale when it finally lights.
You regret it instantly.
Grey smoke billows from your mouth as you cough. You double over on the worn sidewalk like a total loser, eyes watering and chest burning as your lungs rebel against your very poor life choices.
“Those things kill, you know—?” Jack’s voice cuts in again.
(He has a way of finding you in the most embarrassing situations, it seems.)
You blink away the tears in your eyes and turn to find the older man standing just a few feet away with his hands in his pockets. He watches you attentively, with something close to amusement twisting his scruffy face.
“I can tell—” you rasp as your coughing fit ebbs. “There’s no way this is enjoyable for people.”
“Eh,” he shrugs. “It’s not so bad when you get used to it.”
His sneakers scuff the cracked pavement as he saunters over to you, holding his hand out with a glittering look in his eye. “Can I?”
You don’t think twice before passing him the lit cigarette.
“By all means...”
Jack pinches the stick between his thumb and forefinger. He places his mouth around the filter, inhales once, holds the breath, and exhales through his nose a second or more later.
You can’t seem to stop staring at the silver hair on his tilted chin; or the tendons in his corded neck; or the singular vein in his freckled forearm when he snuffs the cigarette out on the brick wall. He drops it into the receptacle there when he’s done.
“So…” He exhales the remaining smoke from his mouth, which leaves in grey wisps that hang in the air between you for a few lingering moments. “I guess you’re headed out now?”
“Yeah…” you sigh. “Guess so…”
He observes the empty sidewalk for a moment before wondering casually, “Want me to walk you home?”
“No, it’s okay,” you shrug. “You’re busy, and I… I only live, like, a block down the road, so—”
“So, then, it’ll be quick?” Jack presses with raised brows.
Your eyes narrow. “…You’re not gonna take no for an answer here, are you?”
Jack shakes his head, lips smoothing into a knowing grin. “Not this time, kid. No.”
The walk back to your place feels borderline suffocating, though you can’t exactly place why. The air is made of thick satin as the heat of the day washes away, leaving something silken and breathable in its wake, as the wind ripples in your dress. Everything smells very distinctly of summer — of dewy grass, and gunpowder from distant fireworks, and the faint sweetness of something that’s just been barbecued.
You can hear the fireworks crackling somewhere in the distance, though you struggle to see them from the buildings overhead. You can feel each thundered boom in your chest, along with the heavy bass of a passing car playing music far too loud as it barrels by.
There’s something oddly peaceful about it. Intimate, even, as your shoulder brushes Jack’s broader one with each step. The silence is not particularly awkward, but you can’t shake the feeling that you should say something. You rack your brain for a conversation starter, and end up blurting out the one thing you didn’t want to say out loud—
“So…” you lilt, tripping over the conversation like a loose wire. “You and Dr. Al…?”
“…Are very good coworkers, yeah,” Jack nods, silver curls turning gold beneath the amber streetlights. He catches your uncertain gaze and shrugs. “She had a tough first day, you know? Figured I’d treat her to a few drinks.”
“That’s nice…” you murmur with an averted gaze.
“It was nothing,” Jack assures you.
Your apartment building comes into view around the corner, painted a garish canary yellow with vivid orange doors, aptly named Sunset Tower. It used to be a motel, you assume from the layout, probably before you were born; and was renovated into an apartment complex likely not too long after you were born.
You don’t think twice before starting up the rusty staircase to your third-floor apartment — not until you notice the slight hitch in Jack’s step as he follows behind you, favoring his prosthetic limb more than he realizes. It must be hurting him, you figure, after being on it for hours at the PTMC.
“Shit,” you huff. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you.”
“Told me about what?” Jack scoffs despite his grimacing as he swings his leg another step. “I can handle a few stairs…”
“I can’t make it up on my own, if you—”
“Hey,” he snaps, a little harsher than he means to, as he glances in your direction. A far-off firework glimmers in your gaze, soft and sympathetic around the edges in a way that makes his chest ache. “I’m good. Don’t worry about me, alright?”
You continue the ascent despite your better judgment, despite the way Jack’s steps lose rhythm just beside you. You catch him stumbling in the corner of your eye when he steps up a beat too early. His prosthetic twists unnaturally, angering the already raging skin of his amputated knee.
You’re at his side without blinking. Your hands reach for his arm, steady him with your fingers cradling his wrist and elbow.
Jack nearly protests, but stops himself short.
You hold onto him the rest of the way up.
Your place is exactly how he imagined it would be — not that he’d been picturing what the inside of your apartment looked like, of course, because he’s not a total creep. He just finds a very apt representation of you wedged with the quaint walls of the old, old building. It’s cluttered but not messy; with numerous blankets and books and potted plants strewn about. There are half-used candles littered on just about every surface, filling the air with a sweet scent of musky-vanilla-raspberry.
The grass green couch pushed against the wall caves under his weight when you ease him down onto it. It smells like a mixture of your perfume and the side of the road you must’ve pulled it from when you moved in.
“Wow…” Jack hums, if only to conceal his wincing as he adjusts himself on the cushion. “Nice place…”
“No, it’s not,” you scoff an awkward laugh and stand to full height above him, adjusting the skirt of your dress from where it had ridden up. “Do you, uh— Need anything?”
“No. I’m good.”
“‘Cause I have some first aid supplies if your prosthetic is bothering you—”
“Really. I’m good,” he echoes. “You don’t mind if I take it off, though, do you?”
“Of course not!” you blurt. “I’ll, um… I’ll go get you some water.”
You scurry the short distance to the kitchen. The hissing faucet pervades the silence as you fill two glasses at the sink, along with the soft clanking of the heavy prosthetic as Jack unscrews it from the limb. You find him massaging the scar when you return.
“Do you— Do you need me to call you an Uber, or…?”
Jack tilts his chin to smile up at you. A playful laugh tumbles from his mouth. “Wow… Trying to get rid of me already, huh?”
Your face floods with horror. “No! O-Of course not! I just— With your leg, I— I don’t want you to walk all the way home, you know?”
“I think I can make it, sweetheart,” he tells you, and only vaguely notices his slip-up. “I just needed a second… Thank you—” He nods in appreciation when you set the water down on the coffee table in front of him.
You keep several inches between you on the sunken couches as you sit gingerly at his side — very palpably tense, like you’re a stranger in your own home. You wring your clammy hands together in your lap as a long silence stretches thin between you.
“And I wasn’t— I wasn’t trying to… kick you out. Or anything,” you add, softer now.
“I know, kid,” Jack assures.
“Good…” you breathe a sigh of relief. “‘Cause I— I don’t want you to leave… Wait, that sounded weird— I just meant that… I like your company. I’m not, like, trying to hold you hostage or whatever, I swear.”
Another awkward laugh spills from your mouth.
Jack’s lip quirks with a smile as he sits up straight again. “I wouldn’t mind it if you were, to be honest…” he hums, only halfway joking. “But unfortunately, I do have SWAT early in the morning, so… If you could free me around 6 a.m, that’d be great.”
“Oh, right,” you scoff and bring your water to your mouth. “The side hustle where you get shot at for fun?”
“It’s good to have a hobby,” Jack shrugs and leans back against the sofa, throwing a strong arm around the back of it, as he studies you with narrowed eyes. “What do you do for fun, hm? Outside of work, I mean.”
You think for a long moment, spinning the glass between your fingers. “…I once watched Love Island for thirty-one straight hours. That was pretty fun.”
Jack snorts. “So what I’m hearing is, you don’t have any hobbies?”
“Work is my hobby.”
“So what do you do to… unwind?”
“…Have panic attacks in the supply closet at work,” you confess. “What about you?”
“Get shot at,” Jack quips in the same gritty tone.
“Well, at least you get to do something outside of the E.D…” you monotone with a far-off stare. “This is the first time in months I’ve been somewhere other than here and the PTMC. I mean, I have my groceries delivered now— I’m too boring to even go shopping...”
“What do you mean?” he scoffs. “You’re young— You should be going out every weekend.”
“Well, I don’t…” you huff mournfully and slouch back against the sofa. The thin sleeve of your velvet dress slips off your shoulder, giving Jack a brief glance of the top of your breast before you adjust it back over your collarbone again.
“What about dates?” he presses with his chin to his shoulder. “You don’t go on any of the apps?”
“Well, first of all, no one calls it the apps. And second of all, god no,” you laugh drily, then flash him a sheepish look from the corner of your eye. “What about you?”
“Nah…” Jack shakes his head. “I haven’t been on a date in about… Eight years—”
“Eight years?!” you blurt before he can properly get the words out, leaning forward with wide eyes. “Jesus. How does a guy like you go around without getting hit on for eight whole years?”
(You’re starting to think those three sips of gin from before are getting to you now.)
“Well, it’s a lot easier than you think,” the older man deadpans. ‘Cause it’s not like he was actively avoiding dates; he just wasn’t exactly seeking them out.
He lost the urge to after his wife died, and then, when the urge to live came back around, he’d catch himself flirting every now and then, but never wanting to do much more than that. Then he blinked, and eight years had passed without him noticing.
Eight years with nothing but his own hand to get himself off — though, it only starts to seem pathetic when you look at it that way.
“What about you?”
“What about me?” you scoff. “The last time a guy showed even a modicum of interest in me was… in med school, probably.”
“Okay, well, that’s just not true,” Jack argues. “That vitrectomy patient from earlier definitely had a crush on you.”
Your eyes narrow in a cynical squint. “He was drunk. With half a bottle rocket stuck in his eye. That hardly counts.”
“Well, I’ve had… About a whiskey and a half,” Jack calculates. “Do I still count?”
The air thins in an instant, or maybe his words have just knocked it all straight out of your lungs.
Your skin burns red hot beneath the dress that feels suddenly way too tight, ‘cause you think he must be joking — that taking the piss out of your obvious crush on him is his idea of playing around.
“That’s not funny,” you tell him with a wavering smile.
“I’m not trying to be funny,” the man insists with a scoff. “I haven’t been funny since 1994.”
Another laugh sputters from your mouth. A real one this time — not the fake ones you’ve been giving him just to fill the silence, or to try to seem less nervous than you really are. It makes him smile wider than he probably realizes.
“There you go…” Jack hums with a proud nod.
“There I go, what?”
“You’re unwinding…”
You scoff, still grinning wide despite yourself. “Am I?”
“Yeah,” he hums. “And you’re doing a great job so far— a solid B-minus.”
“B-minus?” you echo. “I’ve had a 4.0 GPA since I was in fourth grade.”
“Well…” Jack shrugs with a knowing grin. “Better step it up then, kid.”
Something inside you tips in that moment. It’s his teasing, maybe, or just the way he’s looking at you. Either way, you catch yourself leaning forward before your brain has properly thought it through. You close the distance between you in a flicker — brushing a chaste kiss to his mouth before pulling away just as fast.
You can feel your pulse pounding in your throat as you quip, “What does that get me?”
Jack blinks for a second, momentarily caught off guard. He fights the urge to lick his lips, to try and actually taste you. “Probably a couple HR violations?” he jokes after a few moments.
Your stomach drops. You find yourself praying that this old couch swallows you whole, or that the world would just end altogether, because even that would be a kinder fate than this.
“Oh. Shit. I-I thought that— I thought we were... Fuck, I totally misread this whole thing—”
You turn away entirely and drop your face in your hands, utterly mortified.
His laughter doesn’t make it any better.
You feel the sofa caving beneath you as Jack shifts to your side. His hands are warm and softly calloused as they cradle your wrists in a firm and gentle grip, urging them downward so he can see your face again. He ducks his head to meet your wet eyes and flashes you a reassuring smile.
“You didn’t misread a damn thing,” he assures you with a shake of his head, voice lower and smoother than honey. “Of course, I want to kiss you— I always want to kiss you.”
The mournful twist in your features never wavers. “Then why don’t you?”
“Because it’d be wrong,” he shrugs. “I’m your attending. I wouldn’t want anyone thinking that I— that I pressured you into something.”
“Well… We both know you didn’t, right?” you argue softly, eyes glittering with hope as they dart back and forth between his. “And, I mean… It’s not like anyone else would have to know. We’re not getting married, we’re just… unwinding. Right?”
“…Yeah,” Jack hums, softer now, with something mischievous squinting his gaze. “Right...”
You’re not making it easy for him.
Jack’s trying not to cum in his pants before you’ve ever even touched him, and you’re making it damn near impossible.
He drags you into his lap when you lean in to kiss him again — for real this time, licking sweetly into his mouth so he can taste you truly — and you knee him right in the thigh before you can straddle him properly. You pull away with a smack when he groans in pain against your mouth.
“Shit…” you pant with his spit still on your lips. “I’m sorry.”
Jack shakes his head until the words catch up to him. “It’s okay,” he assures through uneven breaths, knotting his fingers in your hair to pull you into him once more. He kisses you again, hard, like it’s muscle memory for him — from a life he hasn’t let himself live in a long, long time.
He cradles one hand over the crown of your head and the other just over your spine, where your dress dips down in the back. He keeps your warm weight pressed flush against him while the kiss turns languid and heavy, full of tongue and teeth and spit. You curl your fingers into his greying curls to keep him impossibly close all the while.
You feel his chest hitch with a startled breath beneath you when you grind down over his lap. Your velvet dress rises over your hips from the angle as you move down his thighs and up again — you can feel the ghost of his erection hardening beneath his scrubs with every pass.
There’s a noticeable hesitance in the way you move. It’s not graceful or entirely practiced. It’s laced with a palpable uncertainty, rather, as you struggle to navigate the honeyed moment you’ve stumbled so suddenly into.
And Jack can hardly take it. ‘Cause hasn’t let himself want like this in years; he hasn’t let himself reach out for anything other than his grief or his work. For so long, his life has been defined by restraint and the careful art of not needing anything. And now you’re here, moving clumsily on top of him, completely undoing him.
It hits him all at once, how suddenly sensitive he is, after so long ignoring the touch of another. The friction, the pressure; the smell of you, the taste of you. It’s all too much. He knows he won’t last long if he keeps going this way, so he pulls back.
And he hates himself for it.
“Hey—” He clears his throat when the word comes out a little rough. His adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows. His glassy eyes dart back and forth between both of yours as he peers up at you through a layer of honey. “Hey, you… You have condoms, right?”
You blink back at him for a long moment, slightly dazed at the sight of your spit on his rosy mouth. You nod with a stuttered breath. “Uh, yeah. Yeah— I think— Somewhere…”
(There’s an unopened box collecting dust under the sink in the bathroom, but he doesn’t need to know that.)
He mourns your warmth when you slide off his lap, rushing off down the hall with your dress still caught around your hips. The sight of your plain cotton underwear cradling the curve of your ass makes his chest tighten as you disappear down the dim hallway. You toe off your shoes halfway down, and the sound of your padding footsteps echoes in the quiet.
“Jesus Christ…” Jack huffs and slouches further into the couch.
He drags his hands down his face and tries to regulate his breathing, tries to think of anything other than the aching erection in his pants. He stares up at the ceiling and attempts to will his body into something resembling composure when you return.
Your dress has fallen back down over your hips, but the right sleeve is still slipping down your shoulder when you stand before him. You’re not sure what to do with the condom in your hand, so you toss it to him over the coffee table. Jack catches it against his chest.
“Take that dress off…” he tells you with a voice like honey. “I wanna see you.”
You try and fail to reach for the zipper, which Mel had helped you with at Trinity’s place before you left for the bar. So, instead, you worm your arms out of the sleeves and shove the fabric down your hips with trembling hands. It hits the floor around your bare feet with a dull thud, leaving you in a heart-patterned bra you’ve had since high school and a pair of plain pink panties.
You’re hardly a thing worth looking at, really, but Jack didn’t seem to get that memo.
He beckons you forward with heavy eyes. “C’mere…” he murmurs.
You take slow, tentative steps towards him.
His calloused hands are warm and slightly trembling when they curl around the backs of your thighs. He leans in to press his mouth to the silk bow in the middle of your underwear, and his mouth waters at the wet spot gathering in the center of the cotton.
His scruffy chin brushes your stomach when he turns to look up at you, lidded eyes glimmering with a desire you didn’t know you were capable of drawing out of a person.
“I wanna make you cum with my mouth,” Jack murmurs. “Can I?”
You nod wordlessly, and can’t shake the feeling that you’re dreaming when his pointer finger hooks through the hem of your panties. You feel a little cold when he slides the cotton to the side, only for him to press his warm mouth there a second later.
Your knees threaten to buckle when his tongue slots through your silken folds, and Jack doesn’t miss a beat. He braces your ass in one wide hand while his other slips down to the bend of your knee, urging you to prop your foot on the couch beside him. Your moan swells throughout your empty apartment at the new angle, which allows him to lick at your sensitive clit with greater precision.
He forgets to take things slow with you, too busy trying to make up for this time. He drags an orgasm out of you like the world’s soon to end, and the last thing he wants to do on this earth is to taste you on his tongue.
You cum on his mouth with your head tipped back and with your fingers knotted in his hair. He’s wearing your glittering slick down to his chin when he’s done with you.
You fall gracelessly into his lap when your legs turn to jell-o. You straddle his waist, ball his shirt into your fists, and bury your burning face into his neck — still whimpering as your high is slow to ebb.
Jack cradles you against him the entire length of your comedown, running his warm hands up and down your spine. His scruff brushes the delicate skin of your shoulder when he presses a chaste kiss there.
“That wasn’t too much, was it?” he pants into your ear.
You shake your head until the words catch up to you. “No… No, it was— It was good…” you stammer through uneven breaths, and pull just far enough away to meet his eyes. “I wanna ride you now… Is that okay?”
And who is Jack to deny you of a damn thing?
You brace yourself on his shoulder with one hand and use your free one to line his bulbous tip at the entrance of your weeping pussy. His cock drools an embarrassing amount of pearly precum — he can feel it all underneath the condom — and he’s momentarily grateful that you can’t see any of it.
You exhale a wavering, punched-out breath as you sink down over him and take a long moment to get used to the distant stinging sensation.
Jack’s grateful for that, too.
His jaw hardens to choke down the groan that rumbles in the bottom of his throat. He tilts his head against the back of the couch and squeezes his eyes shut to fight away the overwhelming desire to explode entirely. He holds you in place when you try to move again, with fingers that threaten to leave bruises on your thighs.
“You okay?” you pant, eyes darting wildly over the pained twist on his scruffy features.
Jack nods, jaw clenched tight. His words come out half-strangled.
“Yeah, yeah. I just… I wasn’t lying about the whole eight-year thing.” He exhales a hard breath through his nose that’s supposed to be a laugh, though there isn’t really a smile to accompany it. “I don’t wanna… I don’t wanna cum too soon, you know? I wanna— make it good for you. That’s all.”
Your fingers brush over his temple and through his silver curls, in a touch so gentle it nearly makes him cum right then.
“It’s already good for me,” you assure him. “I want it to be good for you, too.”
You grind over him with the same hesitance from before, down his thighs and back again, slowly finding your rhythm. Jack’s hands grip hard at your hips, like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered. He can just barely find the strength to keep his eyes open to watch you chase your orgasm on top of him.
His eyes flit from your blissed-out features to where his cock disappears inside of you. The thatch of curls above his cock glistens with your honey — he can feel it wetting the hem of his scrubs from where they’re shoved beneath his heavy balls. You’re bound to cum just as quickly as he is, no doubt.
He can feel it in the way your pussy flutters around his twitching length — in the way your pacing falters slightly on top of him.
“Nuh-huh. Don’t run away from me,” Jack mutters in your ear as he shifts underneath you, slouching further to hit somewhere deep inside of you. He cradles your head with one hand and grips hard at your ass with another, helping you move on top of him.
Your whine gets buried in his sweat-slick neck.
Jack smiles into your hair. “Yeah. There it is, honey. There you go…”
He feels a little proud of himself when he manages to hold off just long enough to feel you cumming around him, twitching against his chest and tugging hard at his silver curls. He follows right after — going rigid underneath you a second later as his cock jerks wildly within your fluttering confines.
His groan mixes with your whining as you milk him of his orgasm, in a sinful symphony that swells throughout your silent apartment.
Then the room goes quiet, with only the sound of your heavy breathing to fill it. You rise and fall with each of Jack’s panted breaths beneath you. Your limbs are loose and borderline boneless; tension ebbs from your body like an unwinding thread. You think you’d turn into a puddle on top of him without his hands smoothing up and down your back, molding you back together again.
It’s the only way Jack can stay anchored, really — with his hands on you, and with your weight settled on top of him. It’s foreign and familiar all the same: the strange absence of urgency he feels underneath you. The way his body, usually wound tight with panic, dissolves in time with yours. For the first time in eight years, he feels his heartbeat finally steady.
Until a far-off firework rattles the walls and sends the two of you jerking against each other.
The honeyed moment shatters in an instant. Jack holds you tighter when you flinch on top of him, laughing through a grumbling moan as you clench instinctively around his softening cock.
“You okay?” Jack mumbles against you, before pressing a brief kiss to your temple.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay,” you nod, half-breathless, as you pull away from him for the first time in several minutes.
You blink away the haze of your dwindling orgasm while Jack swipes drool from the corner of your mouth with his thumb. You lean instinctively into his palm and exhale a breathless laugh.
“I just… I don’t know what normal people do in this situation…” you confess through uneven pants. “Like, I feel like we should… high-five or something.”
Jack scoffs a tired breath but doesn’t say a word.
There’s a fleeting moment, then, where you worry you’re maybe being too much. Your stomach aches with it, too, because you think your stupid half-joke would’ve ruined the moment for anyone else. Anyone other than Jack. His hand slips from your back and lifts lazily for a high-five without a second thought.
You cage your bottom lip between your teeth and clap your palm against his.
Your breathless laughter fills the quiet apartment.
“We make a good team, don’t we, Doc?” Jack hums with heavy eyes.
“Well, you make a good teacher…” you answer sheepishly, pulling at a rogue thread in his scrub top. “You know, helping me unwind, or whatever…”
“Right, well…” Jack trails off, mouth curling into a sly half-smirk as his eyes narrow into thin slits. Your stomach pools with red-hot warmth once more at the look he gives you, then, and at the words that spill from his lips like honey. “I think I still got a few more lessons in the chamber, sweetheart…”
synopsis: jack doesn't realize how close you are to the day shift residents until they start stealing you from him. but he is definitely not jealous, no matter what the rest of the night shift thinks...
- or -
the 5 times day shift covers nights and the 1 you're asked to cover days
contains: jack is down BAD, santos/langdon twins propaganda, bsf samira mohan AND bsf night shift crew, me pushing my mowalsh agenda, jack has adopted the pittlings at this point, a l o t of blurred lines between people, age gap (reader is in her 20's), suggestive at times, everyone calls reader sweets, no use of y/n, this part is LONG it grew a mind of it's own (15.7k words i'm so sorry)
note: FIRST, happy s2 finale day!!! idk what i'm gonna do with myself but I have two other seperate fics in my drafts ready to post at the drop of a hat depending on how tonight goes
-now, most importantly, i'm SO serious when i say i read every single comment, tag, and reblog on part 1 a million times over, i love every single one of you that read it and showing it love with my whole entire heart :')
-this part when through soooooo many changes, it took forever for me to be happy with it and i hope it lives up to the unreasonably high standards i've set for it, there's so many jack x sweets moments I removed from this I might just put them in their own little world of mini fics at this point maybe?
-this also STILL isn't the part i orginally set out to write so there is at least one more addition to the jack x sweets universe if anyone's interested
-ENJOY <3
technically part 2 to this fic but they're both completely standalone, you don't have to read one to get the other
dividers by @uzmacchiato <3
1. Cherry Limeade Sweet Tea
The night shift could be…territorial. And that was putting it nicely.
It was just different from days. You had to be hardwired a certain way to make it through full moons and haunting hours and eerie mornings when the world was deciding what it was going to be that day. There was a certain attitude, a very particular personality, you needed to have in order to stay sane. It definitely wasn’t for the faint of heart.
The residents tended not to acknowledge that until they actually experienced it firsthand. Shen and Ellis, who had been some of the only ones to master it and seen others crash and burn, called it trial by fire. Crus, who’d proven himself to be a fast learner, was more optimistic, said they just needed to keep an open mind. Jack thought they were mostly just overconfident. The constant buzz of the day shift, the ever present thrum of consistent questions, was absolutely nothing like the unpredictable chaos of the night shift. Most residents didn’t understand that.
Dr. Samira Mohan, to your incredible delight, was one of the ones who thrived during the night.
She understood. She could adapt. She was your best friend, your closest confidant, the one you’d attached yourself to within a couple days of being at the PTMC. She was what you missed most about days. And you were what she loved most about nights.
So when Ellis needed someone to cover for her one night she jumped at the chance.
It started immediately.
You’d left yours and Jack’s place early. Kissing him slowly on your way out the door as you shoved your scrubs in a tote bag larger than the one you usually carried, telling him you’d see him at work. He tried not to be offended when you told him Samira was waiting for you outside, you guys had an early dinner reservation before your shift.
It was fine. That was perfectly normal. The world wasn’t going to crash and burn just because he had to skip his usual routine with you. He wouldn’t spontaneously combust because you weren't there, he wasn’t that addicted to you.
But then you walk in with Samira and barely look at him. You continue your conversation with her even as you walk up to him and hand him his drink. You flash him a smile and kiss his cheek quickly before walking around the desk to set your drink in your usual corner.
“Seriously I don’t know how you do it,” Samira waits for you. She lingers on the opposite side of central and takes a sip from a large drink in her hands. “I didn’t even know I could want this. What is it again?”
Any other time this would be fine. Jack was not addicted or clingy or, god forbid, possessive. He liked to think he wasn’t like that. But you smile at her in that gentle way he craves constantly. And then Jack recognizes the logo on the pastry bag in Samira’s hand.
It’s from the bakery you’d told him you heard about online. One you’d tried only once before and became obsessed with. You’d been talking about the memory of their donuts since he’d taken you to try it. It was out of your way so you rarely had it, usually saving the experience for special occasions. It’d been a while since the two of you had stopped by.
But now Samira was handing you the bag from that exact bakery. She’d driven you all the way there. And she was holding a drink from your favorite cafe. You’d bought her one too when you bought him his. You were beaming when you looked up at her and started walking towards her. You’d barely even glanced at him.
There’s a feeling that settles deep in his gut. This burning that feels like it’s poisoning him from the inside out that not even the drink you brought him can make go away. He feels the urge to make you look at him. Remind you that he was right there, that you didn’t need anyone else.
Jack stabs his straw into his drink a little too harshly and takes a sip, swallowing back the jealousy he’s trying to pretend he doesn’t feel.
“A cherry limeade sweet tea,” You wind your arm through Samira’s and start walking towards the locker room with her. “It’s got some added guarana extract for -”
“Extra natural caffeine. Slower absorption so you don’t feel the crash as badly.”
“Exactly,” You face her as you walk, excitement taking over your features in response to the fact that she understands your choice exactly. Your head falls on her shoulder. “I missed you, I’m so glad you’re here.”
Samira rests hers on top of yours, she really needed this after… well, everything. “I missed you too.”
And it only gets worse from there.
“This is torture,” Shen drops his head on the counter at central. “It’s like I’m not even here, Sweets hasn’t noticed me at all.”
“Tell me about it,” Jack mutters from where he’s standing a few feet over. His head is resting on one hand as he slowly clicks buttons on a keyboard one by one.
“Aren’t you two needy today.” Lena says without looking up at either of them.
“We have a routine, okay?” Shen frowns as he finally looks up. “The two of us are supposed to be out in triage together right now. Who else am I supposed to tell every detail of my day off to?”
Lena shakes her head, barely glancing up over the rim of her glasses. “You’re allowed to not be attached at the hip 24/7, you know that right?”
“I know that,” Shen rolls his eyes at that and points in the direction of where you and Samira are walking out of South 18. “Do they know that? I mean did they even get anything done on days?”
Jack is staring at the corner where your drink always sits. His own is turning room temperature right next to it. He’d left it there soon after you had handed it to him, a silent hope that maybe he’d get to steal a moment with you later. He doesn’t realize Shen and Lena are looking at him until he looks up again. He sighs.
“I actually think days was the most productive when they worked together,” The stolen moment with you he needed for his mental wellbeing was disappearing right before his eyes. “Unfortunately.”
His attention shoots across the ED at the sound of your laugh. It wasn’t even 10:00 PM yet and he already felt like he was going through withdrawal.
And to make it worse Mateo had apparently found a way to slot himself right beside the two of you flawlessly. He finds you guys and then suddenly the three of you are in the middle of laughing about something together. He swears he’s never seen any of you look so alive.
Shen seems to notice the same thing. “Okay, that’s just not fair.”
“You know, either one of you could easily go and make conversation.” Lena shakes her head at them.
“That’s crazy,” Jack shakes his head as if it was obvious. “I’m not gonna go interrupt their time.”
Lena rolls her eyes and she’s already mentally preparing for it. It was gonna be a long night for all of them. Most of them anyway.
****
Emery Walsh was having the absolute time of her life.
“Why so sad?” She leans on the counter next to Jack where he’s entering orders for an echo for one of his patients. She gives him a mock pout as she tips her head to the side. “Girlfriend ignoring you?”
“She’s not ignoring me,” Jack immediately shoots her a glare. “We’re just busy tonight.”
Walsh looks around the ED. There’s not a single person in the hall and three whole empty beds. She even thinks there might be a couple empty chairs in the waiting room. “Are we in the same ED right now?”
Jack rolls his eyes. It’s an instinct that comes naturally whenever Emery’s around. He respects her, he does. She just has also mastered pushing his buttons like nobody else does. It’s a talent, really. “Is there a reason you’re down here?”
“To see Samira, obviously.”
“You don’t have a surgery to perform or something?” Jack picks up the tablet with his patient information and turns away from her. Maybe she won’t see the irritation in his eyes.
“No? Your doctors don’t spend time moping around like you do. They’re actually good at their jobs which makes mine easier,” She falls into step next to him as he starts walking away from her without another word. “And I’m taking advantage of it to finally make my move.”
“I repeat, don’t you have a job to go do?”
“I’ll do it after I talk to Samira,” Emery sighs when Jack doesn’t even give her some smartass quip back at that. So she grabs his arm and stops him from walking away from her. “Look, I’m in a good mood -”
“Congratulations.”
“I’m gonna choose to ignore your tone,” She also ignores the glare Jack shoots at her. Again. “Why don’t you let me help us both out?”
Jack’s willing to try anything at this point. “I’m listening.”
She gives him one of those smiles he hates. One that means she’s clearly plotting something in her head. He’s convinced she could be a criminal mastermind if she wanted to.
“Hey,” Walsh grabs Shen as he walks past them. “Sweets and Lover Boy over here are gonna make a run to the good vending machines at L&D, can you grab Mateo and cover her and Mohan’s patient in North 4?”
“Deal,” Shen lights up immediately and looks at Jack. “Bring me back some of the good gummy bears.”
“Ooh, I want some of those too,” Walsh starts walking backwards towards where she’d last seen Samira. “And a pack of those cookies, the really soft ones.”
Another eye roll. “Anything else? Maybe a steak dinner while we’re at it.”
“Hey, cut the attitude,” Walsh points at him, a silent warning. “I’m getting you your fix, aren’t I?”
He knows he can’t argue with her there. He watches as she walks into one of the patient rooms. Seconds later she’s sending you out. Alone. For the first time all night.
Jack is making his way towards you without a second thought, rushing before someone can pull either of you away again.
Your eyes light up when you see him and he thinks he could melt at the look you give him and the way you say his name. “Hi.”
“Come on.” He takes your hand and starts pulling you in the direction of the elevator.
“Where are we going?”
He doesn’t say anything else until the elevator doors close behind you. That’s when he grabs you by your waist and gently pushes you back into the corner.
“What’s gotten into you?” You giggle a little bit as you bring him in close. He only shakes his head, silently taking a second to just look at you. To memorize everything, your smile and how you feel against him and the glimmer in your eyes when he finally forces himself to look back at them instead of at how plush and soft your lips look right now.
“Nothing,” His voice goes low, dropping in the silence of the elevator. You’re the one who leans forward to kiss him and he has to try really hard to bite back the moan he can feel building inside him. He forces himself to pull away, letting his forehead rest against yours. “Just missed you.”
“You’re cute,” The elevator doors slide open and Jack’s never hated a machine more. You push yourself off the wall, pressing yourself closer to him as you do. You squeeze past him and start walking out the elevator, glancing back at him over your shoulder. “You coming?”
Jack makes it through the rest of the shift just fine. Until he goes to try and find you after rounds. He finds you and Samira together again. Walsh’s solution wasn’t viable long term, as it turns out.
“Hey, I have tomorrow off. Do you wanna go to that place we’ve been wanting to try?”
“Only if you’re up for it. God, you have to be exhausted.”
“I actually think this might be the most alive I’ve felt in months.”
At least he has time to practice his perfectly neutral response by the time you find him to let him know you’ll meet him back at home.
“Have fun,” He kisses you in the safety of the locker room, sneaking his credit card in your bag as he does. “I’ll wait up for you.”
You don’t bother arguing with him, knowing he wouldn’t listen to you either way. Jack is left watching you walk away, sighing deeply as he does and screwing his eyes shut to make an attempt to ground himself.
At least this was a one time thing. Everything after this would be perfectly fine.
2 & 3. Cucumber Mint Lemonade & Brown Sugar Shaken Espresso w/ a quad shot, extra hot
So maybe Jack had turned to the dark side. He’d taken a page straight out of Emery Walsh’s playbook. Not that he’d ever admit that to her.
He was scheming. Just a little bit. Not enough to be diabolical but enough for Mateo to definitely catch on and bribe Perlah to stay a bit later to linger so she could watch it play out and update him.
This would work. It had to. It was going to. If there was one thing he could do right it was plan and he’d thought this through. Briefly. In the few seconds it took him to walk from the locker room to where all the day shift residents were hovering by the computers finishing their charting. It was good enough.
He had to do it now while you were distracted. Emma had pulled you away to get a second opinion on a patient, this was his best chance.
“Shen needs a few of his shifts covered. I have four of them and need some takers,” He announces himself, making most of them look up. Samira’s about to say something and he puts a hand up. “Someone who isn’t Mohan.”
Jack doesn’t know if Whitaker does it subconsciously or on purpose but he watches it play out in slow motion. For just a moment Whitaker looks at him. Then his eyes find you across the ED and flick to Samira quickly after. Finally they flicker back to him and maybe it’s the guilt but he swears there’s a ghost of a smirk that Whitaker flashes him. He’s perceptive, Jack will give him that.
He looks a little smug when he asks, “Why not?”
“You all need to cover a night shift eventually,” The answer comes out quickly as Jack crosses his arms in front of him. “You can’t keep sticking them all on her.”
“I don’t mind.” Samira is quick to respond. If she wasn’t in her last couple months of her residency she’d have asked to move to night shift the second you had transferred.
“I know. And we appreciate you,” Jack definitely feels just a little bit guilty. “But it’s also good for their experience as doctors.”
It was technically true. On top of that, he also couldn’t afford to be down an attending. If day shift didn’t have enough coverage half the time then the night shift definitely didn’t. Most of the residents were reserved for the day shift and his new one had only just started. And as much confidence as he had in Ellis and Crus to pick up the extra work, he didn’t want to put it all on them. Maybe he’d even get lucky and one of the newer residents would like it enough to stick around long term.
“I say we go top to bottom,” Santos leans back in her chair, gladly giving her eyes a break from her charting. She stretches in her seat before motioning beside her. “Langdon’s the only one besides Samira who’s got seniority here. Which means he gets to be our sacrifice to the night shift gods.”
“Oh, no,” Langdon’s eyes go wide and he shakes his head quickly. It’s comical watching him make an attempt at disappearing behind the screen he’s charting at considering how much he towers over it. “I-I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
That statement paired with the horrified look that flashes on Jack’s face is enough to intrigue every single one of them. They have to know everything immediately.
“How come?” Santos looks more amused than she’s ever been, suddenly much more awake than she had been.
“I can’t do nights, I've tried,” A visible shudder runs through Langdon at the memory. “It did not go well.”
Jack figures he should disagree. He figures that as an attending, a chief attending, he should use it as a teaching moment. Tell them that they could never underestimate their jobs or whatever. But the memory of the absolute week from hell set off by Langdon’s presence in the ED past 9pm was something he didn’t think would ever stop haunting him.
They still pretend it didn’t happen and calmly start ushering him out the second it starts getting just a little bit too late. So maybe they were a little bit superstitious. It came naturally when working nights.
“You weren’t,” Jack refuses to look at Langdon when he says it. “You weren’t that bad.”
Langdon frowns, “You hesitated when you said that.”
There’s silence for a second while Jack just looks slightly haunted. He can’t relive that week. Not right now. Or maybe ever again. So to change the topic he tells them, “If you guys can’t decide, I'm picking for you.”
“Sorry, dad,” Javadi gives him a look that perfectly resembles a bratty teenager at the statement and Jack only rolls his eyes at her. He thinks that look alone might’ve aged him a bit. "Where's Shen off to that he needs four days off anyway?”
“Back home,” Jack looks around for any sign of Shen and relaxes a little when he doesn’t see him, not wanting to set off another passionate ramble just yet. “He leaves on Thursday. His sister got last minute tickets to a concert he wanted to go to. Some pop star he hasn’t stopped talking about.”
“I can cover a night for him,” Mel barely takes a break from her charting to look up at Jack. “My day off is on Friday and Becca has plans all weekend anyway. I don’t mind staying and pulling a double.”
“Perfect,” And it really is. Mel had covered a couple nights before and she was good at it. There was definitely no possible way this could go wrong for him. He turns his attention to Whitaker, Santos, and Javadi. “I’ve got three more to cover.”
“I’ll take one,” Santos offers herself up next. “If only to prove that I’m better at nights than Golden Boy.”
“Okay,” Langdon spins in his chair to look at her and Santos copies the motion. “It wasn’t all my fault.”
“You sure about that?”
Jack doesn’t quite like the phrasing of that. He could already feel it backfiring on all of them. He stops their bickering before they can really fully start. He’s talking mostly to Santos when he says, “Night’s aren’t easy, you know.”
“Please,” Santos crosses her arms, already pushing for a challenge. “How much harder than days could it be? Most people are sleeping already, what could possibly be different about it?”
“Oh my god, wait!” Javadi sits up then, cutting off the comment Jack had been about to make.
She’d spent the last few moments recalling every single bit of information she knew about both John Shen and also every major pop star. She knows exactly who he’s talking about immediately.
“I’ll take the last two but tell him he has to bring me back some merch,” She’s typing something on her phone as she says it and Jack swears he hears Shen’s ringtone go off from somewhere. “I want the pink t-shirt, he’ll know which one I’m talking about. I just sent him the money for it so he can’t say no.”
And that covers it.
Sure, you’d worked days with all of them before. And okay, maybe Jack hadn’t actually realized how close you were to the residents until they’d started showing up at his place one by one on your nights off.
But this was different. This was work. And not all of them were Samira Mohan, the one person you trusted as much as him, maybe even a little more.
It’d be fine. It was only four days. How hard could it possibly be?
****
At first it really isn’t that bad.
Mel is perfect. She’d done a week on nights a few months back and fit in seamlessly. Every now and then she’d pick up another night shift. And even now, in the middle of a double, she’s doing great.
You bring her a drink at the start of your shift, a Cucumber Mint Lemonade, and at first nothing is different to how the night usually runs.
And then Jack notices that you are not letting him cling to you the way he tends to.
It isn’t even on purpose most of the time. You’re just always there. You take whichever cases need you most, sometimes extras on top of them, and it’s the same way Jack picks up his. He’s used to maneuvering around you, a hand on the small of your back as he moves past you or feeling your hand on his bicep as you do the same. It just happens. He never notices how much he needs that until it isn’t happening.
You spend almost every second of downtime during Mel’s shift at her side. The two of you spend all night talking about one of the shows you both watch, theorizing and debating and admiring. It keeps her mind awake and it keeps you busy, it’s a win win.
For everyone except Jack.
Every time he’s about to get his hands on you, you wriggle away from him and flash him a smile before you step just too far out of reach. You gravitate towards Mel and get really excited when you talk and it’s fine.
Jack just watches you talk and it’s okay. Honestly.
But then you don’t even risk lingering in empty spaces with him and he finally acknowledges that he might be going crazy, actually. He nearly bites Mateo’s head off when he points it out and has to quickly apologize. And then begrudgingly admits that maybe he does have a problem.
When the sun starts coming up somewhere off in the distance he overhears it.
“Hey,” Mel stops you before you can go check on a patient the two of you had taken on together. “Thank you.”
You tip your head at her, smiling but a little curious. “For what?”
“For talking to me all night long. I really like working with you. It was fun,” Mel shrugs a little bit and then goes silent as she debates whether or not to finish her thought. Ultimately she does, knowing you’d want to hear it. “And for listening.”
Your smile softens then and you nod your head. You hold your hand out in a silent question and wait until she nods a bit. You set it on her arm, a brief, present hold that tells her you’re there. You see her. It only lasts for a second but your point is made. “Of course. Always.”
Mel’s smiling as she walks away. She’s never minded night shifts but she thinks briefly that they’re significantly better now that you’re a part of them. Although that might just be a you thing, she realizes.
Jack keeps to himself for the rest of the shift. Without any more complaining. But when the clock finally hits 7:00 AM he puts Ellis in charge of hand-offs and drags you out of the ED, not even bothering with the mountain of paperwork he was leaving behind.
****
The next night Jack finds out very quickly that he was completely right about Santos.
She’s the one that convinces him that there might actually be something out there that can sense when someone walks into the night shift with too much overconfidence and chooses to make their lives miserable as punishment.
Jack had gone in early to finish his charting from the night before and the very first thing he sees when Trinity Santos walks in is her stumbling right into a gurney. The exact same way Frank Langdon had. She laughs it off. Just like he had. She even cracks the exact same bad joke that he had.
“Since when has that thing been there?”
He and Ellis share a look, wide eyed and absolutely terrified. They already know it’s going to be a very long night.
As hard as they try, they can’t pinpoint what it is that’s throwing Santos off her game. She chugs through the drink you bring her, a Brown Sugar Shaken Espresso with a quad shot, despite the fact that she’d specifically requested it extra hot. She just isn’t able to get a grip on anything. She feels like it’s her first day of med school all over again and it’s killing her.
Jack tries sending Ellis to talk to her but she refuses to get within ten feet of her.
“Abbot, I love my girl, I think she’s great on days,” Ellis is standing very safely on the opposite side of the ED as Santos. “But her and Langdon are like our version of the twins from the shining. I can’t go through that again.”
Jack sends Crus to talk to her next, figuring that maybe confiding in her senior resident for the night would help. It does. Briefly anyway.
Just as she’s starting to get the hang of things in triage a teenager with alcohol poisoning ruins her scrubs and her brand new pair of shoes. She loses all control she’d regained in a fraction of a second.
When she comes back wearing new scrubs and a pair of shoes she’d borrowed from you she pinches the bridge of her nose, “This is Langdon’s fault. I don’t know how but it is.”
And it somehow only gets worse from there. He sends Lena next but it’s no use. Nothing works. So finally, begrudgingly, Jack pulls you into the breakroom. He tells you to hang tight for a second and moments later he walks back in with Trinity.
“Sit down,” Jack walks past her and plants himself in the chair next to yours.
Slowly, Trinity walks closer. She looks between the two of you and then very carefully pulls the chair in front of the two of you out and sinks down. “Is this what it feels like when your parents ground you?”
“Why do you think we’re gonna ground you?” Jack doesn’t even acknowledge the wording of the question.
He’d gotten used to those comments almost as soon as the residents, your friends, had started spending time at his place. Mom and dad. Parents. You need to promise to never break up, I’m too old to be a child of divorce. Most of them were from Santos and Javadi and they were jokes almost all the time. But it also meant they were comfortable around him. They trusted him. There was probably some sort of HR rule against this dynamic but none of them really cared. They looked up to him and valued his opinion and the last thing he wanted was to make them feel afraid of having a bad day. He didn’t want them to carry the same guilt he did.
You watch as the frown twists its way onto Jack’s face. His entire face scrunches in confusion as he tries to decode Trinity Santos. You know what he’s thinking. What he’s feeling. You know he’s putting a little bit of blame, no matter how unfounded, on himself. You’ve seen the effort he puts in to make everyone feel comfortable and confident here on the night shift, the support he tries to give every one of them. There were already enough unpredictable factors that went into their nights, he didn’t have to be another one of them.
“Because I messed up,” Trinity says it like it should be obvious. “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong but I must be doing something wrong for this to keep happening. Once, fine. After that? And I don’t even know how to fix it and it sucks.”
“Hang on,” Jack leans forward on the table and you silently let him take control of the conversation. “You’re not doing anything wrong. It just happens to be a shitty night.”
That doesn’t seem to help her much. “Yeah but this doesn’t happen to me. I know what I’m doing so the fact that it keeps going wrong means it has to be…user error or whatever.”
“Listen to me,” Jack taps the table in front of her to force her to look at him. She huffs but looks at him anyway. “You can’t control everything that happens here, no matter how hard you try. Some nights, or days, are just gonna be bad ones and there’s nothing you can do about it. The only thing you can do is try to make it through the day. With our help. That’s what we’re here for.”
Trinity, for once, doesn’t know what to say. There's a sharpness behind her eyes and the back of her throat tightens. She looks away, afraid that if either of you look at her a second longer she’ll break completely.
Finally, after a few seconds, you stand up. You hold a hand out to her and she looks up at you. “Come on.”
She looks at you for a moment, swallows down her emotion, and then finally says, “Sure you wanna do that, Sweets?”
“Trin, you know better. You can’t get rid of me,” You tell her, flashing her a smile, still holding out your hand.
“You better hope bad luck isn’t contagious,” She says when she finally takes your hand, letting you drag her up.
“Well, a captain goes down with the ship right?” You shrug, already starting to pull her out of the room.
“And who made you captain?”
“You really think anyone’s gonna argue with me?”
Even in just the few moments it takes for you to walk out of the breakroom with her, Trinity already feels lighter on her feet.
And it works. Jack’s words combined with you at her side do wonders. She graduates from an easy patient to a medium one with no problem. Then a slightly more complicated one and it’s okay. But then one of your other patients needs you and the second you leave her side though she reverts back to attracting every bad luck charm on the planet.
After that she rivals Jack in terms of clinginess. Trinity will not leave your side. She even follows you to the bathroom at one point, afraid that the metaphorical baby grand piano will fall on her head the moment you leave. You are single handedly helping her keep her head on straight and her sanity intact, she refuses to let you out of her sight.
Jack does not get a single moment alone with you the entire shift. The only reason he makes it through the night is because he figures it could be worse. He also figures maybe Santos needs this. He’s willing to make the sacrifice. Just this once.
Ellis is the one that points it out. Santos does not like the observation. You were singlehandedly the one who saved her shift from being almost as bad as one of Langdon’s. So maybe night shift wasn’t for either of them but at least she knew you and Jack had her back. As long as she had that she could push through.
4. Cookie Butter Iced Latte
The third night Shen was gone is maybe the hardest.
You get a text from Jack at exactly 7:02 PM. How do I fix her? it says. Nothing else. No elaboration.
Before you could ask him what exactly he meant your phone had dinged with another incoming message. From Ellis this time. A video. It was pointed at the fluorescent lights above her head but you could hear the voices loud and clear.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea. I-I mean what do I even know right? I, like, barely slept last night cause I was so worried about today. Or this morning technically I guess? I mean if Santos couldn’t do it what hope do I have, you know what I mean? All I keep hearing from the other residents is how different the night shift is and I don’t do good with different. Like seriously, it’s a problem. Langdon is still here and I know you think he’s cursed or something but he can’t possibly be any worse than I would be. I’m not prepared. I think if you let me have like a crash course or something or some training maybe, maybe, I could work my way here for a shift but at this present moment I feel like -”
“Javadi!” Jack had cut her off in the middle of her rambling. “Hold that thought.”
I think she might’ve actually broken him. was Ellis’ comment. I think I can actually see him buffering.
Thirty minutes later you’re walking into the PTMC, four hours before you were scheduled to be there, happily sipping on your drink despite the change in schedule.
“Oh, thank god,” Jack might’ve actually developed a sixth sense with how fast he’s able to tell you’ve walked through the ambulance bay doors. An arm around your waist, a kiss to the side of your head, and a moment to finally breathe. It’d been the longest thirty minutes of his life.
He takes your drink out of your hands and takes a sip. He doesn’t even flinch at the obscene amount of sugar and syrups in it like usual. “I talked to her and she listened but I don’t think she actually heard me. I don’t know what else to say. You’re better at this.”
You smile at him and let him keep it, clearly needing the extra caffeine for once. “I think she just needs a familiar face. Give me five minutes.”
You find Javadi in an empty room pacing behind a curtain. Her face lights up the moment she lays eyes on you. “I thought you weren’t supposed to come in until later, aren’t you covering part of Donnie’s shift in the morning?”
“I came to bring you something,” You hold out the fresh coffee in your hand. “Iced Cookie Butter Latte with extra vanilla and cinnamon on top, just like you like it.”
It’s like a weight is lifted off of her shoulders immediately. “I hope you know I worship the ground you walk on.”
You let her chug her way through about a quarter of her drink, watching her for a second before you ask, “You wanna tell me what made you doubt yourself?”
“What,” She can’t help herself. She takes another sip before looking away from you, avoiding eye contact. “What are you talking about?”
You sit on the edge of the hospital bed and let out a soft sigh. “What makes you think you can’t make it through nights? You were excited about it a few days ago.”
She lets out a small noise of discontent and still refuses to look at you, “Did Abbot tell you I freaked out?”
You shake your head softly, “He was just worried about you.”
“He wouldn’t have to be if he just let me go home.”
“Vic,” You turn to her and your voice goes soft. Gentle as you try to get your point across. “He made you stay in our guest room that night we stayed up too late finishing our Twilight marathon. You really think he would just let you walk out of this ED knowing how good and capable you are?”
There’s silence for a second. Then she takes another sip of her drink.
Until finally she tells you, “My…my mom was telling me about some of Walsh’s nightmare cases that she’s had to deal with. She said nights are - are reckless and hard and only the toughest people can handle them. And I know that was supposed to mean she didn’t think I could. And then Trinity had such a hard time and it basically convinced me I couldn't do it either. And I see how you guys walk out of here some mornings completely exhausted and it’s hard enough to make it through some days and I just don’t want to mess up.”
It takes you a second to figure out what to say. In that time Victoria moves to your side and collapses on the bed next to you. Her head falls on your shoulder and she takes another drink.
“I think you’re giving all of us way too much credit,” You finally tell her, trying to make her see she wasn’t much different from the rest of you. She was just as capable. “You’re putting us on a pedestal.”
She scoffs at that. “Uh, yeah, obviously. Have you met you guys?”
“Hey, I’m serious,” You tilt your head to look at her for a second. “You better hope Shen doesn’t hear you ever say that because that comment will go to his head.”
You successfully pull a laugh out of her and she feels better enough to lift her head again. “Seriously, though. I promise the only real difference between us and day shift is that we’re sleep deprived enough to know how to have fun. You, Dr. J, are practically built to fit right in.”
She rolls her eyes at your comment but then looks at you for real. “Promise?”
You only smile at her and nod towards the door. “Go find out.”
She regains her confidence easily after that. She jumps on cases left and right, slotting in beside Crus perfectly. When he asks her questions mid procedure she answers them without hesitation. He looks up, finds you across the room, and smiles, silently telling you she’s doing incredible.
Jack pulls her along with him on a few cases before she begs him to let her tag along with Ellis instead, who gets a more interesting case. He gives her a lecture about skipping around and picking patients before he sighs and lets her go anyway.
It’s only a surprise to her when she finds out she thrives here with all of you.
****
Jack was hiding.
He feels comfortable doing so. He has Ellis, Javadi, and Crus running the floor. He could afford to take advantage of the rare moment of downtime and sneak away for ten minutes. And if he pulled you along with him then that was his business.
He was doing it for you, that’s what he was telling himself. You had a long shift ahead of you and the least you deserved was to take advantage of the brief moment of respite for some peace and quiet.
Really he was selfish. He felt like he might genuinely spontaneously combust if he didn’t get a moment alone with you and fast. So maybe he was a little bit clingy.
In his defense though, you were addicting. The ease with which you moved together, completely in sync with one another. The smile you flashed him across the ED when you were split up. The way you just understood him.
And how you’d let him be a little bit clingy when he just needed a moment to ground himself. When he needed to come back down to earth and remember he was only human. To remember he lived and breathed for you. You’d become his lifeline and his vice wrapped in one perfect little package.
And he liked the day shift residents, he really did. They might not have been his officially but he’d always jump at the chance to teach them everything he wished he’d known when he was in their place.
Everything except this. How one day they’d find someone like you who took all the weight off their shoulders and bear it alongside them so it wouldn’t drown them.
Unfortunately it seemed like they’d already caught on.
Mel, Santos, and Javadi all knew. Mohan definitely knew which is how he’d gotten himself here in the first place. They’d flocked to you for a reason, one that was so much like his own. And that was fine.
He didn’t own you. He didn’t have exclusivity of the way you made everything bearable.
He was, however, madly and deeply in love with you. Beyond his ability to describe. And he did have a right to be clingy when he wanted to be. Especially when it felt like he'd barely gotten any time alone with you recently despite the fact that you woke up and fell asleep next to each other every single night.
Jack was already making a mental note to tell Shen just how much he appreciated him when he came back.
Currently the two of you are practically on top of each other on the tiny twin bed that sits in the center of the on-call room. Any other day you would’ve argued with Jack. You’d have given him that sly little smile and pulled him into the stairwell instead with a teasing look in your eyes.
But right now you were tired and Jack knew you better than anyone. He could see the exhaustion settling so deep into your bones that not even your second coffee of the night would be able to fix it. And he knew you’d never let anyone else see it. He knew you’d let them need you until the moment you walked through the door of your home with him and shut the world away.
So you let him pull you out of the chaos before it can run you ragged. Instead, you eagerly curl into his side, half on his lap, as you listen to him talk.
Attempt to listen, anyway. You don’t quite know what he’s saying. The sound of his voice and the warmth coming from his body against yours is putting you in a trance, the extra long shift you’re currently in the middle of already catching up to you.
You can feel your eyes getting heavy with sleep and the way he’s running one of his hands through your hair is definitely not helping either.
Then the door bursts open and all remnants of sleep leave you completely. Jack glares on instinct and then relaxes when he sees Javadi. He could excuse it this one time.
She does not hesitate before sinking down into the spinny chair that sits in the corner of the room beside a small coffee table.
“Dr. Abbot, I have this note for you.” Is all she says to announce herself, leaning forward to pass you the note to pass to him. She isn’t phased by this at all.
You, her, and Samira had gone to the art museum a few weeks ago. She’d gotten to yours and Jack’s place at around 9 and he’d answered the door in pajama bottoms and an old army shirt. Nothing could phase her after witnessing firsthand the easy domesticity oozing out of the two of you in the time you guys waited for Samira to let you know she was there.
Although she had entered with one eye screwed shut after Ellis told her she was playing a dangerous game bursting into a room where you and Jack were left together unsupervised. Just in case.
“A note?” Jack’s eyes narrow at her as he unfolds the paper. His eyes scan the piece of paper quickly and then he scoffs before handing it back to you. “Did you really waste an entire prescription sheet to scribble that down?”
You look at it and sure enough she had. Patient Name: Victoria Javadi. Instructions: Nap Time. Dosage: 20 Minutes. Repeat as needed until symptoms of sleepiness improve. Signed: @ doc.j on all socials
Complete with a heart at the end
“Yes!” Javadi flops backwards on the chair and she kicks off the ground, doing a full spin until she’s looking at the two again. “I’m exhausted. I’m pretty sure you’re breaking the law.”
“Oh really,” Jack raises a brow at her and pulls you closer to his side. “What law is that?”
“Don’t I get, like, a union mandated naptime,” She drops her head back and she’s looking at the two of you upside down now. “I’m pretty sure that’s a thing and you’re just not remembering.”
“Or you’re just being dramatic.”
“That’s rude. I’m the least dramatic person here, actually.” She spins again as she says it.
You feel Jack sigh against you. You look up at him from where your head is resting on his arm and he waits until Javadi does a third spin in the chair to kiss you. Soft and quick and a promise that he’s going to get you at least a few minutes to just sit down and breathe no matter how much you insist you don’t need it. He gently maneuvers out from under you and stretches as he stands up.
“Come on, kid,” He moves around the other side of the bed and stops Javadi’s chair mid spin. “Let’s go find you a patient.”
“But that’s the opposite of sleep.”
“Yeah but it’ll keep you awake and alert more than sleep will.” They walk out of the on-call room, Jack flashing you a wink before he closes the door softly.
You’ve only just laid back on the bed again when a soft knock sounds at the door and you sit up again.
“Hey, Sweets,” Crus looks apologetic when he opens the door all the way. “Can I get your help with a patient? We got swamped out of nowhere, everyone else is busy.”
“Only cause I like you,” You smile at him and push the exhaustion to the back of your mind. That wasn’t important anymore. “Don’t tell anyone I play favorites though, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
He steps back and lets you through the door first before he starts leading you towards the North wing. “You’re the best, you know that?”
“So I’ve been told.”
****
It’s exactly 7:43 AM when Eileen Shamsi steps out of the elevator. She’s wearing her perfectly pristine white lab coat and her face is contorted in barely controlled disgust at the sight of the already packed and busy ER.
Maybe it was your lack of sleep the last few days. Maybe it was the fact that you were nearing hour 13 of a 17 hour shift. Maybe it had just been brewing since Victoria Javadi had first confided in you, telling you all the fears and anxieties that consumed her because of her mother.
You drop the conversation you’re having with Ellis the moment you see her and beeline to Dr. Shamsi herself. Ellis follows, unsure whether she’ll have to hold you back or not.
You step right in front of her, stopping her in her tracks. “Can I help you?”
Jack hears the tone in your voice from across the room. His head whips around to find you and he knows what’s about to happen. He’d known from the moment you told him what had been wrong with Javadi at the start of her shift.
When Javadi steps out of the room they’d been in he quickly spins her around so she can’t see the scene. He ushers her to the locker room, telling her she did good and she was good to go whenever she was ready.
“I’m looking for my daughter.” Dr. Shamsi barely spares you a glance, looking instead towards Ellis.
You side step to bring her attention back to you. “Is someone dying?”
She looks taken aback at the question and makes a face when she looks back at you. “Why I am here is none of your concern.”
“I’ll take that as a no then,” You give a small shrug and shake your head. “She’s a little busy right now. She saved a critical patient's life earlier and is running through her proposed treatment plan with Dr. Abbot and Dr. McCay, who will be taking over for her. She’s had a beautifully eventful night.”
“Well I need to see her.”
“And what I need is a nice, cold Raspberry Truffle Iced Macchiato with salted caramel cold foam and a white chocolate drizzle to get me through the rest of my day but we don’t always get what we want do we?”
You succeed in distracting her long enough for Jack to tell Victoria to get some sleep before she comes back later that night. She’s perfectly unaware of what’s going on as she walks out the door.
“You are more than welcome to check every single room in the emergency department if you’d like to find her. Although we’re in the middle of finishing rounds so you might have a lot of patients asking a lot of questions.”
Eileen Shamsi actually scoffs at you. Ellis’ eyes go wide and she’s seen you get angry enough times, usually at the more unruly patients, to know your patience has run out. There’s no predicting what you’ll say now. “This is insubordination.”
You suck a breath in from between your teeth and shrug. You take a step closer to her. She takes a step back.
“That’s where you’re wrong, doc. I don’t answer to you.” You stand your ground, not an ounce of hesitation in you.
She crosses her arms in front of her, “I beg your pardon?”
“I don’t have to tell you anything,” Your head tips to the side and a smile flashes on your face. “See, I don’t like this little helicopter parent thing you try to play at. It undermines everything Victoria has learned and on top of that, every time you come down here with another pointless lecture it’s distracting to the doctors in my ED. And unlike those of you up in your cozy little offices on the top floor waiting for someone to come to you, we have real jobs to do.”
You can see the eavesdropping from everyone around you. You feel the tension in the air, thick enough to be sliced through with a dull scalpel. The smile never leaves your face.
Finally she scoffs again, making an attempt at staring you down. It doesn’t work. “I didn’t realize they gave the nurses free reign to act however they want down here.”
You don’t flinch at the accusation.
“They do when they’re capable. And I’m one of the best they’ve got,” You can see Jack now, having moved to your line of sight so he could get a better view. He’s not even making an effort to hide the smirk on his face. “If you excuse me, I’ve got things to do.”
“You’re insane,” Ellis whispers as she follows you, an amused laugh escaping her.
You only shrug, smiling back at her. “I said what I needed to.”
Jack reaches for you the moment you’re close enough to. One arm wraps around your waist as he pulls you closer to him. He doesn’t let you go this time. Instead he just whispers to you as you walk together, “You’re trouble, you know that?”
You happily settle into him, “Was that too much?”
“I actually don’t think you went hard enough,” He stops as you guys near a slightly calmer part of the ED. “But I do think you might need that third coffee.”
You beam at him when he says those words. “I really love you, you know that?”
He hums a bit as he stares you down, painfully aware of the people moving around you. “You love my car. And the fact that it drives to that cafe you like.”
He knows you so well, “That too.”
He can’t stay on shift, he knows that. But maybe he can linger long enough to distract you just a little bit. “You want some breakfast?”
There’s a new found light in your eyes at the prospect of something other than vending machine snacks. “I might actually propose to you if you bring me back some of those little quiches. And a croissant.”
“Deal.”
5. Caramel Apple Crisp Iced Macchiato
There were a few things Baran Al-Hashimi had learned for certain in the short time she’d been at the PTMC.
One, everyone here was severely overworked. It wasn’t anything new, she’d known exactly what she was getting herself into.
Two, the nurses were most definitely the backbone of the emergency department. It’d only taken a couple hours for her to trust every single one of them implicitly.
And three, no one would ever, ever hear Dr. Abbot ask for help at work. He was very good at helping others, incredible really. There was even a brief moment where she’d wondered why he wasn’t chief of the department. Until she realized he hated unnecessary responsibility as much as he loved spontaneous teaching moments. He didn’t like to think himself above others, hated it actually. And so, he’d never ask for backup. Even when he needed it.
“You’re going to what?”
“I’m going to give you an extra resident,” She simply gives him a calm smile. Her hands are clasped behind her back and she tips her head to the side, wordlessly daring him to argue with her. “Short term, for now. We’ll see how it goes at the end of this trial period and then reassess."
Jack’s entire face screws into offense. Mateo and Shen watch eagerly, lingering on the other side of the nurses station for much longer than they have to in an attempt to eavesdrop.
“No thanks,” Jack picks up a tablet and starts unlocking it. He’s not searching for anything in particular, he just wants an excuse to end this conversation. “We’re good. We’ve got a routine. And I don’t underestimate my doctors.”
“I’m not underestimating any of you,” Al-Hashimi shakes her head slowly, refusing to let him shut her down. “On the contrary. I think you have a lot to teach them.”
“And I will. When I happen to be here during the day,” He starts walking away from her. “Or when they get the misfortune of being stuck with me on nights every now and then.”
“Dr. Abbot,” She says it in a way that stops him in his tracks, in a way that demands his attention. He slowly turns around to face her again and she lets out a gentle sigh. “I don’t know if you know this but I’ve already seen a remarkable difference in how Doctors Santos and Javadi approach their practices and they didn’t even spend that long with you. They grew in just those few hours.”
“Of course they did,” Jack’s eyes flicker across the room, spotting both of them still maneuvering their way between patients. Santos has called dibs on you already, pulling you in to help her put a cast on her patient. Shen is with Javadi now, running through possible diagnoses with her. Ellis, Crus, and Nazely are following the rest of the residents, walking themselves through the remaining handoffs. “Wasn’t just cause of me though.”
“My point exactly.” Al-Hashimi smiles again, successfully running him in a mental circle and leading him to the same point she was trying to make all along. “You all bring something very valuable to this department.”
Jack can’t argue there. He finally sighs and leans back against the central counter, knowing that once Al-Hashimi made up her mind there was no changing it. “Who are you giving me?”
-Day Three-
“I don’t think he likes me.”
Shen’s statement pulls you out of the conversation you’re having with Mateo while putting in orders for patients. He slides in between the two of you in an attempt to blend in. As if he isn’t a good several inches taller than you both and wearing different colored scrubs.
“What are you talking about?” You look away from your lab results that had just come in and turn to look at him.
“Whitaker,” He nods his head to the side, subtly motioning to where Whitaker was clutching a tablet in his hands tightly while running something past Jack. “I don’t think he likes me. I think he might actually hate me.”
Mateo’s laugh cuts through the otherwise soft buzz that filled the ED. He laughs more when Shen looks at him offended, “You’re insane.”
“It’s true!” Shen looks between the two of you and crosses his arms. “He’s been here for three days and I think we’ve had maybe a single conversation so far. And you’d think I was torturing it out of him.”
“It’s probably not as bad as you think.” You offer and he shakes his head.
“Sweets, the kid runs away from me every time he asks me a question. He always looks like he wants to say something and then his eyes do that big sad thing and he runs away. He isn’t like that with you guys.”
“Shen. John. Sweetheart,” You’re trying your hardest not to also laugh at the idea of what he’s saying. Instead you offer him a smile and shake your head, “I don’t think Dennis could hate anyone if he tried.”
He doesn’t believe you. You can tell. “Well what’s his deal then, huh?”
You turn to look at him again and this time the conversation Jack is having with him looks different. You recognize it. You’ve seen him do it plenty of times over the last few weeks. He’s good at it, no matter how much he pretends he isn’t. He’s standing a little closer to Whitaker now and his arms have uncrossed, opting instead to stick his hands in his pockets.
He leans a little closer and tips his head, fighting to get Whitaker to actually look at him and not fold himself away. When he finally does he takes it as a win and nods. He puts a hand on Whitaker’s shoulder and gives a gentle shake, finally satisfied when he returns the smile and moves to go back to his patient.
Whitaker looks over before he walks back into the room and meets your eye. He waves at you easily and then notices Mateo and Shen. He gives them both a tense smile and that’s when you crack the code like it’s nothing.
“He’s just nervous,” You tell them, lowering your voice a little bit. “He’s been on day shift since he started with the same handful of people and never anyone else. We’re gonna take some getting used to, we’re kind of a lot.”
The logic doesn’t do much to ease Shen. “Well he’s fine with you and Jack.”
“Okay well, I was halfway through my post grad residency when he started as a med student and we bonded over being new to all of this.”
You feel it then. An arm wraps around your waist and you’d know Jack anywhere. He does the same thing he always does when he just needs you near for a few seconds. He shifts you over a little bit and lets you go, not technically touching you but practically occupying the same little bubble of space you are. He hovers close by, enough so that he could reach over and hold your hand in his without stretching if he really wanted to.
“And what about him?” Shen crosses his arms when he nods towards Jack. “I’m more easily approachable than he is, aren’t I?”
Jack looks between the three of you and then takes a step closer to you, trying to figure out if maybe he could piece together the conversation just from standing near you. “What are you talking about, I’m a ray of sunshine.”
Mateo laughs again and shakes his head, “That’s almost funnier than Whitaker hating him.”
“Whitaker? Hate?” That catches Jack off guard. “I don’t think that kid even knows what that word means.”
“I hate when you guys agree on something.” Shen is about to give up and settle for a lifetime of not knowing why Dennis Whitaker runs away from him.
But then Jack sidesteps to stop him from walking away and says, “Go invite him to breakfast with us.”
Shen frowns and looks around the ED, checking to see if he was missing something. Maybe there was a fire he hadn’t seen yet. “We’re not going to breakfast?”
It wasn’t something unusual, necessarily. Breakfast trips were just usually reserved for the mornings after a long shift. Ones where none of you got the chance to breathe, let alone stop and have a real conversation. It helped bring you all back down to earth, to make everything feel real and in control again. This felt equally important in this moment.
“We are now,” Jack shrugs like it’s nothing. “On me. Now go ask him to go with us and ask him what he likes. And make sure you sit next to him when we get there.”
Shen thinks about it for a second and seems to decide that this is a plan that’ll definitely work. He walks away and you watch as he strategically hovers outside the door until Whitaker walks out. You, Jack, and Mateo watch the conversation play out until Whitaker smiles, nods, and walks away from Shen. And at a perfectly normal pace. Shen, meanwhile, looks ecstatic when he turns and gives you guys a double thumbs up.
“Well would you look at that,” Mateo reaches for his badge as he steps back towards one of the computers, continuing with what he’d been doing before. “Mom and dad are helping the kids play nice.”
“Forgive me for wanting my ED to run smoothly.” Jack rolls his eyes at the statement but moves closer to you anyway. There’s one of those comments again. The ones that linger in his brain for a lot longer than necessary.
So maybe this whole dynamic that you all had going on was a little odd. But it was also functional. It made the long days and longer nights easier. And maybe that was enough to excuse it.
-Day Eight-
“I have done you a great disservice. I betrayed you.” You announce yourself as you march right up to Dennis. He glances at you in between shoving his things in his locker.
“For sure, yeah,” He nods, shuts the locker door, and looks at you, leaning against the cold metal on one shoulder. “What did you do, again?”
You don’t say anything. You simply hold out a drink to him. He looks at the cup, large and dripping condensation on your hands. He thinks vaguely of the cup he’d seen already half drunk on the desk out in central.
Your name had been written in bubble letters with a heart after it. Shen had dutifully informed him that he could ask for anything he wanted from the cafe down the street, the baristas there loved you and Jack. It was the reason the two of you were always the ones sent on coffee runs now, they never minded the obscene amount of items you guys would order. The massive tip Jack always left them definitely helped.
He can see his own name scrawled on the plastic of the one you’re handing him with a smiley face after it along with ‘enjoy!!’.
“I see,” Dennis takes the cup from you and eyes it before looking up at you. “I’m being hazed.”
You roll your eyes and hand him the straw. “You’re being a drama queen, I’d hardly call a fun drink hazing.”
He sticks the straw through the lid and the two of you walk out of the locker room. “It is when you have psychic powers and you’re guessing whether or not I'll like it.”
“I haven’t been wrong yet,” The buzz of the ED floods the space around you. “Just try it. You’ll like it, I swear.”
“Honey, you’ll scare him if you keep it up,” Jack doesn’t even look up from where he’s typing something on one of the computers.
You grin as you spot him. As if you hadn’t just left his side minutes ago. You wrap your arms around his shoulders from behind and kiss the top of his head, pausing to brush a slightly too long curl back into its place.
Your eyes narrow again as you look at Dennis over the top of Jack’s head. “Well it’s not my fault Whitaker is afraid of trying new things.”
“Now who’s being dramatic,” He swirls the straw in his drink and wonders if you’ll kill him if he were to lie and tell you he doesn’t like coffee all that much. He was never really good at accepting gifts. “What is it?”
“I’ll tell you after you try it.”
So he finally does. He can feel you staring at him. He can also feel Jack staring, apparently deciding that whatever important thing he’d been doing wasn’t as interesting as this. And suddenly he understands what everyone’s been talking about.
He’s experiencing first hand the care you put into unraveling all the small little bits of information that make people up. The ability you have to look at someone, see them for who they are, and act accordingly. Doesn’t matter if it’s in the quiet of your home or the emergency department or picking out a drink you think they’ll like. You make them feel seen either way.
You’d joked about it but he’d seen the brief concern in your eyes when you’d walked up to him and held out the drink, afraid you’d hurt him somehow when you’d accidentally forgotten to read him in this way that was uniquely yours. The same way he’d seen right through Jack when he insisted someone new had to cover Shen’s shifts a while back.
Something warm settles inside him at the fact that you’d pin pointed him so accurately it was truly a little insane. Just like you had everyone else. He wasn’t used to being perceived in this way.
“It’s okay.” He takes another sip. A longer one.
You can see him smile around the straw and you match the look, knowing you’re right again. Jack goes back to actually working, thoroughly amused. “It’s a Caramel Apple Crisp Iced Macchiato.”
“Why’d you pick it?” He needs to know what you see in him. What you’re perceiving. Why you’re so right about every single one of them.
“A magician never reveals their secrets,” You kiss the top of Jack’s head again and he reaches up to silently squeeze your hand in acknowledgement. Dennis looks away, afraid he’s intruding on the soft moment. Then you let Jack go and instead reach out to grab him, pulling him away from the computers. “Maybe I’ll tell you one day. Let’s go find a job to do.”
-Day Sixteen-
“You know this is weird right?” Trinity spins in her chair to look at Whitaker. She’d taken a brief pause in her last chart to watch him walk through the ambulance bay doors, settled comfortably on the other side of Jack as the three of you walked in together.
“What are you talking about?” Dennis frowns, not quite following.
It’d become part of the routine. Him and Trinity lived on your way into the hospital. That was it. It just made sense for him to carpool with you and Jack. Save gas in this economy or whatever. It was the same reason Samira usually drove Trinity home and dropped Javadi off wherever she was due to avoid her mom that day.
“You’re third wheeling our attending and his girlfriend,” She crosses her arms in front of her and tries not to laugh at the way his whole face scrunches up in distaste at the wording.
“Well when you put it like that it sounds bad.”
“No it’s not bad,” One corner of Trinity’s mouth quirks up and she shrugs. “They just saw you from across the pitt and liked your vibe.”
“Okay,” He pushes himself off the side of the table he’d been leaning on. “We’re done.”
“They just like you that’s all,” Trinity sits up in her chair and does laugh a little bit that time. “Don’t let the patients catch on though. I heard someone wondering if they’d take a third. You might have to fight people off.”
“You are insufferable sometimes,” Dennis knows his face is going red and it only makes Trinity look even more smug.
“Don’t be mean to her,” Right on cue. Your voice cuts through the laughing and Trinity very quickly puts an innocent pout on her face when you join them. You wrap an arm around her shoulders and rest your head on top of hers.
Trinity is wearing a shit eating as she reaches up and hugs you back. “Yeah, don’t be mean to me.”
Dennis has to bite his tongue to actively hold back his defense. There was no way you could find out what they’d been talking about.
“Hey,” You look at him as you lift your head, still not letting go of Trinity. “Do you wanna go to the farmers market with me after shift? It’s almost Shen’s one year anniversary of being an attending and one of the booths sells this bourbon infused honey he really likes to put in his coffee. He and Jack have a meeting with Al-Hashimi in the morning and if we go fast we can be back before they’re done.”
“Yeah, absolutely,” Dennis agrees immediately and you smile, finally letting go of Trinity.
“Perfect, we’ll sneak out right after rounds?”
“I’ll meet you outside.” The second you’ve turned around and walked away he points an accusing finger at Trinity, who looks incredibly amused. “Don’t say a word.”
She holds back a laugh, “I’m not gonna.”
“Yes you are, I can feel it.”
She tries, she really does, but it comes out anyway. “Should I expect you to move out and into their guest room some time soon?”
“Goodbye, Trin.”
“So is that a yes?”
And then, as if the universe is out to get him, Abbot calls his name from the ambulance bay doors without even really knowing where he is. He just says it instinctively.
“Whitaker,” He looks around until he finds him and then nods, beckoning him over. “Come jump on this trauma with me.”
He doesn’t even dare looking back at Trinity again. He does, however, hear her burst out laughing as he walks away.
-Day Twenty Three-
Nazely hadn’t been at the PTMC for very long but she was starting to think that maybe she was lied too. Part of her was convinced that Sweets might actually be your real name. She’d rarely heard you called otherwise by anyone.
“You’re the best, Sweets.” When you hand Mateo his drink.
“Sweets, can I steal you for a sec?” When Shen needs help out in triage.
“Abbot, when are you gonna let me steal Sweets again? You can’t hog her forever.” When Walsh lingers in the ER after bringing a patient back down from surgery.
So, naturally, she uses the name for you too. Just like she uses everyone else’s name.
“Hi, Sweets,” She grins at you when she sees you walk in. On one side of you, “Dennis,” and on the other side, “Jack.”
She really doesn’t think twice about it.
Jack, however, is jump scared. He wasn’t used to hearing his name come from many people at work. You used it, obviously. Shen also did, he’d weaseled his way into becoming probably one of his closest friends. Every now and then someone else would say it, usually when the line bled from professionalism into exhaustion after long hours.
Hearing it said so casually was…odd. “Was that weird?”
“Was what weird?” You ask, seeing nothing out of the ordinary in the slightest.
“My name.” Jack turns to Whitaker next, brows furrowed in complete confusion.
“I call you that?” Whitaker shrugs as the three of you stop at central, waiting for you to drop off whatever you need to leave behind the desk. “Not here but still.”
“Yeah but that’s different,” Jack shakes his head as if that should be obvious. “I know where you live. I’m supposed to be intimidating. I’m intimidating, right?”
He’s looking at you again and you nod quickly, flashing him a smile, “You’re terrifying.”
Jack knows you’re lying. He turns to Whitaker again. “I’m scary.”
Whitaker looks at you and you give him a small nod. Play along. “Definitely.”
Except Whitaker then watches Jack for a second. He’s still holding his matcha, a salted maple one today, and leaning against the desk beside you. He watches as Jack pushes a strand of hair behind your ear and you smile at him. Then, wordlessly, he moves behind you. He puts his drink down and instead gathers your hair back. He pulls a hair tie off his own wrist, one of the extras he always has on him, and ties it back for you.
Whitaker looks down quickly, as if he’s intruding on something he isn’t supposed to be again, and smiles. And thinks he could get used to this. Nights. The pointless conversations and gentle moments and calling each other by first names. As much as he loves the day shift, this is something that makes him feel comfortable. Like he belongs.
Maybe that’s why he does it.
“I disagree.”
It’s well into the night now and the trauma room they’re in goes quiet. Whitaker is suddenly much too aware of every single person in there. Nazely’s eyes go wide from beside him. Mateo looks back and forth between him and Jack. Even Crus pauses for a second to see how this is going to play out.
Jack pauses, halfway through pulling off his gloves already. “I’m sorry?”
“I think you’re looking at it the wrong way,” Whitaker takes a step forward. He doesn’t back down.
He runs through everything they know. Their patient, their injuries, medical history, prescriptions, what the EMT’s had found out on scene. And he can see why Jack makes the conclusion he does and why everyone else agrees. It was textbook.
But he puts the logical assumptions they usually make aside, looks at it from the patients point of view instead. And it leads him somewhere else.
“I know it might not be necessary but I think we should do it just in case,” Whitaker tries his hardest not to shrink under the way Jack is looking at him. “If I'm wrong then that’s fine. But if I’m right it’s better we catch it earlier.”
It’s quiet for another second. And then the nitrile gloves snap as Jack finishes pulling them off and he nods. “Alright. Order the labs. Central 9 is open last I heard, let’s get him moved in there,” And then to Whitaker. “He’s yours now. Keep me updated.”
It's only thirty minutes later when the lab work comes back.
Whitaker is looking at it on the screen and doesn’t even notice Jack standing right behind him, looking at the results over his shoulder until he says, “You were right.”
Whitaker jumps and quickly backs up against the standing desk he’s at. “Maybe a little warning next time?”
Jack smirks and shrugs, “My ED, we’ll see.” He looks back at the lab results and doesn’t look back at him when he says, “You did good, kid. It’s about time you argued with me about something.”
“I didn’t mean to,” Whitaker quickly adds, realizing all of a sudden that this is his attending and they are at work. There was supposed to be a clear dynamic. “I just -”
“You don’t have to justify yourself,” Jack cuts him off before he can start. “Disagreeing with me is practically a right of passage here, ask anyone. You’re a good doctor, stop pretending you aren’t just because you don’t feel okay pushing back sometimes. You’re one of us now, we can take it.”
Jack doesn’t say anything else. He claps him on the shoulder before walking to wherever he was off to next.
The words stick with him. You’re one of us now.
He thinks of them the entire rest of his shift. Then the entire way home, as you’re recounting a story from triage they’d missed earlier that night from the front seat. Again when you and Jack pick him up again and when he clocks in for the next night's shift he feels lighter on his feet. Like maybe, finally, he’s settled. He likes it here, he decides. Maybe the night shift wasn’t as bad as people assumed it was.
+1. Toasted Coconut Cold Brew, extra sugar
Jack could admit when he was wrong. Maybe Al-Hashimi had been on to something. Honestly, he was sure that he could get used to this.
His team was good. He knew they were. He had more confidence in them than anyone else in the ED. Still, that didn’t mean they didn’t appreciate the extra coverage when they were given it. And having Whitaker there consistently over the last month had been a godsend.
Tonight was his last shift on nights and he knows they’re all wondering the same thing. What would they have to do to get him switched permanently. Whitaker doesn’t seem to mind the idea. They don’t know that he and Javadi are in the process of duking it out to get Al-Hashimi to let one of them switch permanently.
You know it was a rough morning. Not only because Donnie had been keeping you updated on everything you were missing in the nurses group chat but also because Dana is sitting still, something she never does. She’s hovering at central when you walk in with Whitaker and Jack and staring off into space for a moment. A clear sign it’d been a long day.
You silently hand her a well needed dose of caffeine the moment you see her, a toasted coconut cold brew with extra extra sugar. She looks at you and you can hear what she wants to say without her having to say it. You’re a life saver, kid.
She settles into her spot for a second with a soft sigh. You don’t notice when she turns to eavesdropping on the conversation you’re having with Whitaker and watches out of the corner of her eye.
Not a single one of them can deny the effect you seem to have on everyone, the residents especially. They can all see it clearly.
The ease in Mel’s shoulders when she came back in, more willing to assert herself. The way Santos took a second to listen now, looking at things past her first instinct. The confidence Javadi carried with her, not holding herself back anymore.
And now Whitaker. An easy smile on his face and for the first time in the entire time he’d been at the PTMC he took up space and stopped making himself easy to handle. He argued and stood firm in what he thought and even bickered sometimes. Over what he thought was the right course of action and for fun. Loudly. For all Dana knew you night shift dwellers could’ve replaced her mousy little resident with a clone of himself and she just wasn’t made aware.
You’ve maneuvered your way behind the counter and Jack stands close at your side, taking advantage of the fact that it’s not 7:00 PM yet. It’s 6:58 and he has no plans to leave your side until he absolutely has to.
He was not being clingy that time. He was just tired. That was definitely all. The two of you had been up a lot longer than you should’ve been after the night before for various reasons. This wasn’t even that bad compared to how he could be. He’s got one arm on the counter, leaning on it while his body is faced towards you.
Whitaker is leaning towards you over the other side of the counter, practically invading the other half of your personal space and Dana thinks it’s crazy that you don’t feel smothered by them. They’re both stuck to you like glue. She decides that is none of her business.
She watches as night shift starts trickling in. Whitaker nods at Shen in greeting as he walks past, flashing a grin at him while still deep in conversation with you. Then he gives both Mateo and Crus a fist bump when they come in. A few minutes later Ellis follows and she pats him on the shoulder and he smiles back at her and they do a handshake only they seem to know. Dana raises a brow at that one and takes a sip of her coffee.
He doesn’t even look like he’s questioning every word he says as he talks to Jack. Jack Abbot. His attending. He even goes as far as to joke with him the way he only ever has with Santos in moments they think no one is watching.
And Dana is so sure of the choice she’s already made.
“It’s a gift,” You roll your eyes at Whitaker and he shakes his head, looking away so you don’t see the grin he holds back. “It doesn’t count as one if you pay me back for it.”
He shakes his head and stirs the straw in his drink. “There’s literally no reason for you to get me a gift though.”
“Oh, I can't get my friend something nice for making it through the last four weeks?”
“Don’t believe her,” Jack sets one hand on your hip as he leans in closer to look over you so he can see Whitaker past you. His voice lowers like he’s telling him a secret, like you aren’t right there between them. “It’s a bribe to try to get you to stay on nights.”
“You weren’t supposed to tell him,” You turn your head and shake your head at him and he only smiles at you, holding back every instinct of his that’s begging to kiss you in the middle of the ED. “Besides, it was his idea.”
“It was not.” Jack scoffs at your accusation. One that’s absolutely correct.
“Liar.”
“I refuse to participate in this,” Whitaker shakes his head and lets out a smile that time. There was something about being on nights that made him feel a sense of camaraderie with everyone that he hadn’t felt before. He hadn’t just worked with new people, he’d made friends. And maybe part of why he felt so comfortable was this exact reason. The way you dragged him into these things so easily. It made him feel included. He was gonna miss it on days. “Not part of my job description anymore.”
“Oh come on,” You give him a pout and Jack rolls his eyes at your antics. “You’re gonna miss us, admit it.”
“Ellis, Crus, and Shen for sure. Abbot a little bit. Definitely Lena and Mateo,” He tips his head to the side and then flashes you a look that borders on a smirk and shrugs. “I think that’s it.”
“You’re so mean,” You’re actively fighting the smile from appearing. “You’re uninvited to your goodbye breakfast in the morning.”
“We’ll see where you stand on that an hour from now.” He only nods, finally standing up straight and taking a sip of his drink to prove his point. The one you’d bought for him.
He moves to walk away but not before holding his hand out for your second coffee. You hand it to him easily and he takes it along with his drink you’d brought him, heading towards the break room to put them both in the fridge. Whitaker, unlike most of you, had a little bit of self control and didn’t usually chug his way through his drink.
“Seriously,” You turn to face Jack once he’s gone. “Can we keep him? Do you think they’ll let us?”
Jack indulges you. He always does.
“I don’t know, he’s pretty valuable,” His eyes scan your face, bouncing back and forth until they land on your lips, still pouting at him. He debates how badly both Dana and Lena will yell at him if he kisses you right here with patients all around. “We might have to fight for him.”
There’s a ding on your phone before you can answer. When you pull it out to glance at it quickly in case it’s something important you immediately forget anything you’d been about to say.
Dennis Whitaker paid you $7 - bc i’ll miss u the most (real)
“Dennis Whitaker!” You shout in the middle of the ED and you turn around to go hunt him down.
Dana stops you. His only saving grace.
“Not so fast, kid,” Dana reaches out for you and grabs your arm gently before you can walk past her. She looks at you for a second and then notices the way Jack is listening closely, having zeroed in very quickly on this interaction. She looks at him then and puts on a mask of distaste. “Don’t you have patients to go see?”
He checks his watch. 7:00 PM on the dot. “Not yet, technically. Board hasn’t changed.”
“So help me god I will -”
“Alright, alright. Message received,” He holds his hands up in surrender. “I’m going.”
Jack walks away and strategically hovers in Dana’s blindspot, making it a point to eavesdrop out of curiosity.
Dana just watches you for a second. She looks you up and down. She thinks of you when you first came into the PTMC. Competent and determined to do the most good you could. You’d been eager and loud and asked questions she hadn’t been able to predict, ones other nurses who had come and gone wouldn’t have even thought of. She loved you immediately. And now here you are. On your own and somehow, someway having solidified yourself as an absolutely integral part of the night shift ecosystem that Jack Abbot had crafted carefully over the years.
And he’d apparently decided that had to carry over in his own home. She certainly had her opinions on how quickly he’d pulled you in but if the constantly present lovey-dovey look on your face was any indication then the feeling was absolutely mutual.
You look strangely alive with him and that was really all that mattered. It made her smile as much as she pretended it didn’t.
Finally she asks you, “How you likin’ nights so far?”
Your eyes narrow at her and she laughs. You could see through her as well as she could you. “Is there a reason you’re asking now and not a few months ago?”
She shrugs, “Just wonderin’.”
You don’t believe her for a second but you think about it anyway. You think about the last few months and how it had turned completely upside down from how you’d first envisioned it. You think about how it had been on days. And then you answer without hesitation. “I really love it actually. More than I thought I would.”
“Really,” Dana raises a brow at you and crosses her arms. “How much of it is cause of Romeo over there?”
She nods towards where she knows Jack is hovering, doing him the kindness of pretending she doesn’t notice.
“Please, I’d tell you if any of it was and when have I ever lied to you,” You laugh a little at the look she gives you, a mom look if you ever saw one. Your face softens then and she straightens, silently telling you she was there for whatever you were about to confide in her for. “I am serious, though.”
“Yeah?”
You nod and you don’t hesitate to tell her the truth.
“It’s a lot harder than days, definitely. I mean, neither of them are easy, obviously. But there’s more routine with days, you can almost prepare yourself. You don’t get that with nights. All you can do is buckle up and hope for the best and I think I’ve gotten really good at that. Nights are when people are the most vulnerable and scared, when they aren’t afraid of hiding it anymore. They need someone who’s gonna take a little bit of whatever is being thrown at them off their shoulders and I’m good at that. If I can help even a little, then being a bit sleep deprived all the time isn’t really a bad thing.”
“I think you’re good at it too, kid,” Dana smiles at you, genuinely that time. Then she pauses for another second before asking, “You wanna switch back to days?”
You freeze, “What?”
Jack, who’d been about to walk away and mind his business, falters. Suddenly he’s hovering again.
“Temporarily,” Dana adds on quickly. “I have a six week cruise calling my name, gift from my sister-in-law. Gloria already approved you taking over for me while I'm gone.”
You laugh a little bit, filled with nothing but shock. “You’re not serious.”
“Why wouldn’t I be, Sweets?”
“Well,” You point behind her at where Princess and Perlah are standing. You’re so caught off guard by the question that you don’t even notice they’re only there because Jack had quickly recruited them to help hide him in the background behind them so he could move closer. “What about them?”
“Oh absolutely not.”
“Never in a million years.”
“See?” Dana shrugs easily as if that explains everything. “You’re my best bet, kid.”
“Well,” You struggle to find an argument. “Why me?”
Because she trusts you. “Cause you’ve done it before. And very well might I add.”
“Yeah, for like five hours,” You cross your arms in front of you and shuffle on your feet. “That hardly counts.”
“Does too, that’s almost half a shift. The place didn’t burn down did it?”
“That’s like the bare minimum.”
“Sweets,” She finally says as she sets one hand on the counter, the other still holding her drink. She leans forward towards you, lowering herself a bit so she’s eye level with you. “You got this. I know you can run this place the way I do. And so do they.”
She nods vaguely to her side, in the direction of the rest of the entirety of the ED. Princess gives you a thumbs up from behind her and Perlah nods enthusiastically.
“Please say yes,” Jesse shows up out of nowhere, hands squeezing your shoulders in greeting before he leans on the counter next to you. “She’s gonna make one of us do it if you say no.”
“Oh no,” You turn to him and give a mock frown. “Not more work.”
He rolls his eyes at you and then looks at Dana. “She takes after you.”
And it's true. She’d taught you everything she knew and you soaked up every bit of it.
You think for a moment again. You’d gotten used to nights incredibly quickly. It was your home. Where you thrived. But a part of you missed this exact thing sometimes though. The first people you knew here, the ones who’d taught you. The ones you kept close, carrying parts of them with you always. If they trusted you…
“Gloria really said yes already?”
“She took very little convincing.”
“And Lena?”
“I’ve never seen her sign off on something so fast.”
“Okay, that hurts a little bit.”
“She just knows how good you are too. You’re the only one we’re waiting for.”
You bite your bottom lip and drop your head back to look at the fluorescent lit ceiling. Your eyes screw shut for a moment as you weigh the choice to yourself. You sigh as you look at Dana again, “Six weeks?”
“That’s right.”
There’s another few seconds of suspense and you can feel all of them staring at you. And then finally, “Okay. I’ll do it.”
Jack watches the way they cheer and then excitedly crowd around you from afar. And he’s happy for you, he really is. He’s proud of you and he’s absolutely going to tell you so as soon as you tell him later and he pretends to not already know. He’s also devastated. He already doesn’t know what they expect him to do with himself. How could he possibly survive the next six weeks if he didn’t have you by his side.
Whitaker walks past him in that exact moment, on his way to look at the board that has now officially changed, the names of everyone on the night shift taking place of the day shift. Jack grabs the back of his shirt and yanks him back in a single quick move.
He stumbles back and Jack steadies him before he can fall.
“You don’t want to switch places do you?” The question escapes Jack on its own and Whitaker looks confused for only a second. “You can stay on nights and I’ll take your place on days.”
Silence. And then Whitaker notices you still standing with Dana. Perlah, Princess, and Jesse are all hovering now too. Then Donnie and Vivi join you and they know from the ecstatic looks on everyone else’s faces that you said yes. He connects the dots easily enough. He heard about it from Santos who heard from Princess a few days ago. He figured it was none of his business.
He stands upright again and tries really hard not to laugh a little bit. He returns the gesture and sets a hand on Jack’s shoulder and looks him in the eyes before shaking his head once.
“Not a chance. Good luck.”
note pt. 2: shen one hundred percent went to see sabrina carpenter i don't make the rules (javadi got the pink camaraderie shirt in case anyone was wondering)
summary: your head being turned due to frank's return leads dennis to unexpectedly snap in the breakroom.
pairing: fem!reader x dennis whitaker, fem!reader x frank langdon
warnings/tags: season 2, ep 14 spoilers!, abby and kids do not exist in this universe, jealousy, jealousy and more jealousy!! lowkey dennis is a little bit of a dick in this (maybe?) but it's just because he's got unresolved feelings and insecurities okkkkk, kinda possessiveness but not really? flirting, angst, swearing, usual medical descriptions that you’d expect from the pitt!
notes: this gif makes me feel things. that is all.
likes, reblogs, comments are very much appreciated!
Enjoy my work? Tip me! 🤍
masterlist
The first thing Dennis noted when he woke up was that it was hot. Disgustingly so.
The kind that settled over your skin before you were even fully conscious, already clinging, already demanding. The air in his apartment felt thick - stale and unmoving - like it had been sitting there all night waiting for him to wake up and breathe it in.
Hot weather made patients come in even more on edge then usual - like the heat burned through whatever restrained they usually had. Like the sweat melted their frontal lobes, prohibiting them from making logical decisions.
Mix that with a public holiday and excessive drinking?
He already didn’t feel like working today, but now he was dreading it.
His phone buzzed against the bedside table.
Still on for fireworks after today's torture session?
His mouth involuntarily curved upwards as he read your text.
The tension in his chest eased before he could stop it, something softer threading through the irritation.
Dreading it might have been an exaggeration.
Because for Dennis, nothing that involved you had ever felt like something to dread, even a 12 hour shift on the fourth of July.
Definitely, but don’t be surprised if I ask if I can be catapulted into the sky too by tonight.
You laugh reacted his message just as he walked through the doors of the pitt.
A smile was still lingering on his face as he headed towards the lockers.
He heard the familiar sound of your voice before he saw you.
“Oof, 10 months off and you’ve already been demoted to bottom locker status, kinda harsh.”
“Got to find some way of keeping me humble.”
Dennis slowed for a split second as he rounded the corner, before freezing at the sight that greeted him.
You were there, as he'd expected. But what he wasn’t expecting was that you’d be standing there, leant against the lockers, laughing with Frank Langdon.
He knew you and Langdon had been close, and he knew Langdon would be coming back to work eventually, he just didn’t realise it was going to be today.
Dennis felt something tighten low in his chest, sharp and immediate, like his body had reacted before his brain had time to catch up with it. A brief, involuntary bristling that he tried to swallow down just as quickly as it came.
You looked up first.
Your expression shifted instantly, your smile widening like it always did when you saw him.
“Morning sunshine.”
It hit him the same way it always did - quick and disarming, making him feel warmer than it should have in a place that already felt like it was overheating.
Frank turned, following your gaze. “Hey man, long time no see.”
Dennis forced himself to move again, stepping forward, reaching for his locker like everything was normal.
“Hey.” Dennis nodded, sending you both a tight lipped smile as he opened his locker. “Welcome back.”
“Thanks.”
As if he was satisfied that he'd discharged his duty to be a polite co-worker, Frank's attention slid back to you. As if that had always been the more natural place for it to rest, as if Dennis had simply been a brief interruption rather than someone worth lingering on.
"So, how much am I going to have to bribe you to get you to relinquish your top locker?"
You snorted. "Absolutely nothing." You patted your locker affectionately. "This kind of real estate is priceless."
"Not even a month's long supply of free double shot vanilla iced lattes?"
Your eyes narrowed playfully. "Points for a good attempt at manipulating me Langdon, but my answer is still no."
He shrugged as he rose to his full height. "That's alright, I'll wear you down eventually."
Dennis, who had been very intentionally keeping his focus on the inside of his locker, finally relented at that.
He peered over to see Frank smirking down at you, with an ease that suggested he’d slipped right back into place without resistance.
"It'll certainly be fun watching you try."
You glanced down at your watch.
"Come on, I want to show you what we've done to the break room since you've been gone before handover."
You locked eyes with Dennis over Frank's shoulder before he had time to avert his gaze.
You shot him a warm smile, one that never failed to make his heart speed up just a touch faster.
And then you were gone.
"What about six months?" Frank tried as he followed you out.
Your laughter drifted back in, curling through the air and settling somewhere low and uncomfortable in Dennis’ stomach.
"Did you know he was coming back today?"
Dennis looked up to see Santos approaching him, her thumb jerked back in Frank's direction.
"Nope." He couldn't quite manage to smooth the edge out of his voice as he stared at the doorway you had just walked through.
"Great, that's just what I need." She muttered.
She turned back to her locker, rummaging for a moment before adding, almost casually -
"Kinda sucks for you too I guess."
Dennis frowned. "Why?"
She paused, then said your last name slowly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
"What about her?"
She shut her locker, an unimpressed expression on her features. "Seriously?"
"What?"
She shook her head. "Don't you remember how she was practically Langdon's shadow?"
Something uncomfortable shifted in his chest.
He reached for his badge, clipping it onto his scrubs sharply, the plastic snapping lightly against the fabric.
"So?"
"So..." She gestured vaguely toward the hallway, like the answer should be obvious. "You're going to have to get used to sharing Huckleberry."
He didn’t respond to that.
Instead he swallowed, trying to ignore the lump forming in his throat, before shutting his locker a little harder then necessary.
-
By the time he reached the centre of the floor, the heat had already seeped into everything.
The pitt always ran warm, the air conditioning overworked, the vents struggling to push cool air into a space that demanded too much of it. But today it felt suffocating.
A sheen of sweat had already formed along the back of his neck, dampening the collar of his scrubs.
You were leaning against one of the counters, sipping an iced beverage no doubt left for you by Shen, condensation dripping down the side of the cup.
"Still taking it with too much sugar?" Frank asked, leaning against the opposite bench.
You shot him a look over the rim of your cup. "It’s not too much."
"It’d probably have to be legally classified as a dessert." He tutted mockingly. "I need to talk to Shen about limiting your intake."
"I never heard you complain when you got to finish it."
Frank smirked. "Waste not."
"You’re unbelievable." You said as you shook your head, but there was no bite to it.
Just… fondness.
It sat wrong in Dennis’ chest.
Dennis tried to listen to the handover, he really did. But his attention kept drifting to you and Langdon, dragged back like something physical, something he couldn’t quite control.
You were standing shoulder to shoulder. Frank leaned in slightly as you made a remark about one of the patients, your voice low but animated, completely at ease.
"Today's going to be a scorcher people, be prepared."
-
"Don't you remember how she was practically Langdon's shadow?"
Santos' words lingered, looping, catching, replaying at the most inconvenient moments as Dennis moved through the start of his shift, trying and failing to settle into a rhythm that usually came naturally to him.
Truthfully, he didn't remember.
He'd only worked one shift with you and Langdon together before. A shift that happened to be one of the worst days of his life.
He'd been a little too preoccupied with catching a rat and dealing with a mass casualty event to really notice anything as subtle as the dynamic between the two of you.
But as the morning wore on and he watched you and Langdon interact, fragments of your first shift together started to come back in pieces, stirred up by his subconscious.
Santos' assessment hadn't been far off.
Back then, you'd been an R1 and were clearly Langdon's favourite. Dennis remembered him shouting your last name as his first port of call when a trauma came through, how he'd leaned on you in ways that felt effortless rather than forced. You’d taken his teasing without flinching, never quite on the receiving end of anything harsher, even when you slipped up.
Dennis hadn’t noticed it then.
He noticed it now.
And it was everywhere.
Even with Langdon stuck in triage, somehow the two of you kept crossing paths, orbiting each other like it was instinct rather than intention.
He watched from afar as you worked together - so seamlessly it was like you shared one stream of consciousness, like no time had passed. When you stepped back, Langdon shifted automatically to give you space. When Langdon needed something you would have it in his hand before he could even ask for it.
There was no hesitation, no missteps.
You and Dennis worked like that too. Or, at least he thought you did.
Something began to take shape in his chest, slow and ugly. It crawled upward, heavy and unfamiliar, nesting somewhere under his ribs and refusing to move.
It was uncomfortable. He didn't get like this. This wasn't him.
He didn't do jealousy or possessiveness.
You weren’t an object that something to be hoarded. You weren’t his. You had never been his in the first place.
And yet for these past ten months, it felt like you had been... something.
Ten months of inside jokes, weekends at the gym, knock off drinks with Santos and Garcia. The quiet, steady presence of you at his side, shift after shift.
Ten months of just you and him.
And now... now the dynamic was all wrong, like the ground had shifted under his feet, like something unspoken had been quietly rewritten without his permission.
“See what I mean?”
Santos’ voice cut through his thoughts.
He followed the tilt of her head, his gaze landing once more on you and Langdon.
“Shadow.”
He felt the ER grow a degree hotter.
-
The first patient the three of you worked together came in not long after.
Middle-aged male. Heat exhaustion bordering on heat stroke.
"Pulse ox is dropping." Princess warned.
"Push fluids." Dennis replied, stepping in without hesitation.
Langdon was on the other side of the bed, calm, steady, slipping seamlessly back into the rhythm of the department like he’d never left.
"We need to cool him down fast." He said. "Ice packs-"
"-axilla and groin." You finished for him, already moving to put them in place.
Dennis watched you for a half a second too long. You were efficient, focused and completely in your element.
"Whitaker."
He snapped back, heat prickling under his skin. "Yeah."
Langdon’s gaze flicked to him briefly. "You with us?"
There wasn't any malice in it, it wasn't pointed, Frank was senior to him - he had every right to call him out.
But the way he said us, as if you and he were a little team - it made Dennis' stomach twist.
"I am." He replied, a touch too quick, a fraction too sharp.
Your eyes flitted to him briefly, your brow furrowing just a touch at his tone.
Langdon held his gaze for a second longer, then nodded. "Good."
-
"Did we get the CT back on our backflip girl yet?"
"No, still waiting."
Frank nodded, leaning over the desk as he tapped his fingers absentmindedly, taking a moment to watch you as you typed in your notes.
He knew you were good, you'd always been good. But in the past ten months, you'd clearly blossomed. You were more confident, carrying around an air of undemanded authority that you hadn't had before.
He hated the fact that he hadn't been here to watch you grow. That it was his fault for missing out on such a vital part of your career.
His eyes met Whitaker’s from across the room. Dennis looked away suddenly, like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have.
It made Frank think about the tense interaction they’d had over Louis a little earlier.
"Whitaker seemed a little off earlier, don't you reckon?"
"During our heatstroke guy?"
"Yeah."
You peered over the top of your monitor and followed Frank's gaze through the glass into Trauma 1 where Whitaker stood.
"Yeah a little."
Frank hummed. "Maybe he was looking for another rat to kill."
He looked down at you, expecting to hear your laugh, the easy one you usually gave him.
Instead, your brows were knitted, your expression tightened just slightly.
"Don't be like that."
"Be like what?"
You gave him an incredulous look. "He's not the nervous student he was when you saw him last time you know. He’s a doctor now and he's good... really good."
Frank blinked, slightly taken aback.
"I know." Frank admitted slowly. "I've watched him this morning."
"Then you also know that he's an easy target."
Your eyes shifted to Dennis again for a moment, lingering.
"And he cops enough teasing from the others."
Frank watched you carefully.
"You guys are close, huh?"
You looked up at him through your lashes, the tension easing out of your expression. "Yeah. We are."
You sighed when Frank raised a brow, like that explanation wasn’t sufficient. "He cares, a lot. Sometimes too much." A small shrug. "I just don’t want people to take advantage of that.”
“You’ve got his back.” He observed.
“Yeah.” You replied without hesitation. “I do.”
“And he’s got yours?”
You smiled faintly. “For his sake, he better.”
Frank huffed out a quiet breath.
“Ok well that’s good enough for me.”
“So no more rat jokes?”
He mimed a cross over his heart. “No more rat jokes.”
Your smile made something twist behind his ribs.
“Thank you.”
Something unreadable flickered across his expression. Just for a moment, and then it was gone.
An uncomfortable truth curled up in the pit of his stomach.
That things that had kept growing here without him, some more than he'd realised or expected. And some that he hadn't foreseen at all.
-
You found Dennis in the stairwell not long after lunchtime.
The air in there was marginally cooler, but not by much, the faint echo of footsteps and distant voices bleeding through the concrete walls.
"Hiding already?"
Dennis looked up at you.
"Just...needed a breather."
"Yeah I feel that." You sighed as you leant against the wall opposite him.
A pause settled between you.
"I'm sorry about Louis."
Dennis exhaled quietly. "Thanks."
"You know you did everything you could, right?"
"I know... I just-" He shook his head. "I mean, I think I know that I did."
"Den. There was nothing else you could have done. This is not your fault."
The way you gently said his nickname slipped under his guard in a way nothing else had that day, soft and familiar and yours.
Dennis' jaw tightened.
You noticed it, like you always did.
"Are you ok?"
"I'm fine. Why?"
You studied him for a moment, something searching in your expression. "Nothing, I just feel like you've been a little off today."
A beat.
"You didn’t tell me Langdon was coming back today." The words slipped out before he could stop them.
You blinked, a little surprised. "I didn’t know. He told me HR cleared him but he didn't tell me when he was actually coming back."
The stark, casual revelation that the two of you talked outside of work dug it's claws into him.
"Oh, right."
Silence stretched.
"I know him being back must be kind of weird... given everything."
Weird.
That wasn’t the word he would’ve chosen.
From outside, faint but unmistakable, Langdon’s voice carried through the hallway.
Your attention flickered toward the sound without you even realizing it.
Something in him snapped.
"I just don't get how he gets to walk back in here like nothing happened."
You turned back towards him sharply, taken aback by Dennis' tone. "What?"
"He messed up.” Dennis continued, the words coming faster now, edged with something he couldn’t quite rein in. "And now he's just- what- joking around about being a drug addict like everything's fine? Like nothing happened?"
Your expression shifted, confusion giving way to something firmer. "He made a mistake."
"A pretty big one."
"And he paid for it." You fired back sharply. "He wasn't on a holiday for ten months Den, he was in rehab."
Dennis sighed. "I know that."
"Then what is it?" You pressed. "People are allowed to make mistakes. God knows we both have made plenty in this job."
"Yeah, except neither of us stole drugs from this hospital."
He saw it on your face instantly. You already knew.
The realisation was a slap in the face. That you were embracing Frank back with open arms, despite being armed with the full knowledge of the depth of his fuckup.
“You knew.” It landed like an accusation.
“Yes.”
He hated that there had been a small part of him that had hoped you didn’t know, that finding out would have circumvented all of this, would have brought you back to him.
"Trin shouldn't have told you that." You muttered after a moment, shaking your head.
"Yeah well.... she did."
You stared at him, something hurt and frustrated flickering behind your eyes.
“What is happening with everyone today?”
Dennis faltered.
"Everyone’s acting like I’m doing something wrong by talking to him." You continued, exasperated now. “He’s my friend.”
The word landed harder than it should have.
“Yeah,” Dennis muttered. “I can see that.”
He saw the hurt that flashed across your features again, except this time it was engrained deeper.
"You know, I expected some judgment from Santos." Your voice was quiet.
"But I didn't expect it from you."
The quiver in your voice was like a bucket of ice on his temper, dousing whatever heat had been building.
Somehow this felt worse than you yelling at him.
He let out a small groan, dragging a hand over his face.
"I'm sorry." He shook his head. "I don't know what's wrong with me today."
He did. He just couldn't say it.
"This shift has just already been a lot and Santos is upset and..."
"It's ok." You cut him off gently. "I get it."
Your understanding only made him feel worse.
"It's not ok." He insisted firmly, finally looking up to meet your eyes.
"You don't deserve to be treated like that, you're doing the right thing."
He exhaled, running a hand over the back of his neck.
"Dinner and drinks before the fireworks are on me tonight ok? And I'm not taking no for an answer. My way of apologising for chucking a tantrum."
Your expression warmed, just a little. "...and dessert?"
Despite everything, he let out a small chuckle at the hopefulness in your tone. "And dessert."
Your smiled widened slightly. "Ok. Deal."
You moved to leave, then hesitated, turning back.
"I know he was kind of a dick during your first day." You said carefully. "But he's a really good guy. I promise. Just... try and give him a chance?"
Dennis withheld a sigh as he studied you for a moment.
"...sure."
-
Frank did a double take from across the hall when he noticed you and Dennis step out of the stairwell.
He lingered on you for a moment, noting the way your smile seemed to be pulled tighter than usual, the usual sparkle in your eyes slightly dulled.
Then he looked at Whitaker, catching the way he seemed to keep glancing over at you anxiously, like he was waiting for something to break.
He forced himself to look away.
-
You tried to push your interaction with Dennis out of your mind as you made your way back into the chaos of the floor.
You ended up at the nursing station to see if any of your patients results had been dumped in their trays yet, flipping through charts with a little more force than necessary.
Movement caught your eye.
Dennis and Frank walking straight towards each other.
They both stepped to the right to move out of eachother's way, nearly bumping into one another.
Then, they both went left.
Finally they both stood still, each shooting the other a weird glare. Then, wordlessly, they finally passed each other with stiff shoulders and tight expressions.
You huffed, loud enough for Dana to glance over at you.
"You ok sweetheart?" Dana slipped her glasses off. "Not used to hearing those sort of grumblings out of you."
"It's nothing." You muttered. "It's just-" You slammed the papers down in frustration. "Why is everyone acting so weird today?"
Dana’s lips twitched, but she smoothed it out quickly. "The heat makes people crazy down here."
"Crazier than usual you mean." You grumbled just as you finally found the result you were looking for in the mountain of paperwork.
Dana watched with eagle eyes as you stalked off.
She glanced across the floor to see Langdon in one corner, his eyes on you despite being in the middle of a conversation with McKay.
Sure enough, when she spotted Whitaker by the bed of one of his patients - he was doing the exact same thing.
"....and love does to." She added under her breath.
-
It wasn't until well into the afternoon that you finally found a chance to slip into the breakroom.
You slowed as your eyes fell on Frank seated at one of the tables, his back leant against the poster littered wall.
"Hey." You called out.
"Hey."
You hesitated. "You want some alone time?"
"No, you're good."
He exhaled slowly. “I'm just....figuring out if I’m ready to be back here.”
You frowned.
“What makes you think you’re not ready?” You asked as you took a seat opposite him, just far away that your knees weren't brushing.
Frank shrugged, gaze drifting. “This shift has just been… rough. I don’t know I just… I feel like you and Mel are the only ones happy that I’m back.”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it? Robby’s been on my ass all shift and I feel like everyone else is either treating me like I'm made of glass or trying way too hard to be normal."
“Robby’s been on your ass all shift because he’s angry at himself because he feels like he failed you and doesn’t want to admit it."
He paused. "You think so?"
"That's my running theory."
Frank looked up at you for a moment. “Didn’t realise you were doing your residency in the psych ward.”
You rolled your eyes affectionately. “I did a psychology elective at uni, doesn’t that make me practically an expert?”
Frank huffed a laugh at that.
“As for everyone else… they’re happy you’re back. I think they’re probably just trying to be as normal as possible to not to make you feel weird about it.”
“Thanks.” He spoke quietly. “For supporting me.”
He hesitated for a moment.
“I’m sure it’s probably a bit weird for you with Santos and Whitaker.”
Your face faltered slightly. “You noticed that huh?”
“Just a little bit.”
Your attempt at a weak smile floundered as you shrugged. “I get it. You were a bit of a dick to Santos and she has her own shit going on and as for Whitaker…”
You glanced out towards the hum of the chaos, your interaction with Dennis replaying in your mind.
“I don’t know… I think he’s just a bit protective of her y’know? Being her roommate and everything.”
An unreadable expression flashed across Frank’s features. “Yeah, I’m sure that’s it.”
You shrugged. “They’ll get over it eventually.”
“Besides-" You continued, your tone lightening, "- they’ve only worked one shift with you. You’ve got plenty of time to charm them with your terrible jokes and tangents about your love of civil war reenactors.”
“That was one time!”
“One time too many.”
Frank huffed a laugh at that, his expression softening as he eyed you.
“You’ve made this shift bearable, you know that right?”
You offered up another shrug, trying to ignore the way heat wanted to creep up your neck at that.
“I’m just being a good R2.”
“You’re more than that, you’re-“ Frank stopped himself.
“I guess what I'm trying to say is-" He stopped again, huffing in frustration.
"- I missed you... that’s all.”
Your chest tightened.
“I missed you too.”
You eyed eachother.
Something unspoken lingered between you.
“Anyway.” You cleared your throat as you stood and grabbed his empty mug, needing movement to distract you from the emotions that you were too scared to dissect coursing through you. “I can’t wait to get out of here.”
“You doing anything for the fourth?” Frank asked as you approached the sink.
“Yeah Den and I- sorry- Whitaker and I are going to go watch the fireworks.”
Because your back was to him, you missed the way that Frank's expression flickered.
He watched you clean the mug in smooth, rhythmic movements, the way you moved when you were working on a patient.
“Oh that’ll be fun.”
“Yeah I’m keen." You smiled faintly. "I haven’t gone since I was a kid.”
You placed the mug on the edge of the sink to dry. “You doing anything?”
“Oh no, I’m off tomorrow so might stay up late and then enjoy a sleep in.”
“I’m off tomorrow too." You twisted around to face him, placing your hands on the bench behind you.
"I need to somehow force myself to go shopping for homewares. The new place is looking depressing.”
“I’ll go with you.” He said instantly.
You looked over at him in surprise. “Really?”
“I mean, only if you want the company.” He added quickly. “And totally ok if you say no because you want to you know…maintain professional boundaries.”
Your mouth twitched. “I came and visited you in rehab. I think we’re past that.”
“Touché.”
You studied him for a moment, then smiled. “You really want to come?”
“Why wouldn’t I want to spend time with you? Besides, my bachelor pad is equally depressing. I could use a pot plant or two.”
You both looked up at the sound of your last name being called. Princess stood in the doorway.
“They’re asking for you in Trauma 2.”
“Ok be right there."
You looked back at him, already moving.
“Do you even know how to look after a plant?”
“Do you?”
“No. That’s why I’ve only got fake ones.” You called over your shoulder.
His laugh followed you out.
-
"Anyone seen Whitaker?"
"Last time I saw him he was on his way outside to go and give Ogilvie a free therapy session."
You turned immediately to Santos, brows knitting. "What's wrong with Ogilvie?"
Santos didn’t look up from her shredding. "One of his patients died on the table."
"Oh the guy where he missed the-"
"-yep-“
"-shit."
"Yeah.” Santos sighed. “Apparently he's in a pretty bad way."
You were already moving.
"Ok, if anyone's looking for me tell them I'm outside with Whitaker." You called out over your shoulder.
"Will do."
Santos watched you go, then glanced down at her paperwork. "Except for Langdon." She muttered under her breath.
McKay snorted beside her.
The air outside was different.
Still hot, but moving steadily by a gentle breeze at least.
Sure enough, you found Dennis in the ambulance bay. His shoulders were slightly hunched, hands braced on either side of him, his expression more raw now that he was away from the prying eyes of his coworkers.
"Hey."
Dennis looked up, his face softening slightly at the sight of you.
"Hey."
You perched beside him, leaving just enough space between you that your shoulders didn’t touch, your legs swinging idly over the edge.
"You send Ogilvie home?"
"Yeah...” Dennis exhaled, glancing out towards the street. “He’s been through a lot today."
You nodded in understanding.
"Yeah, nothing on your first shift though huh?"
That loosened a short huff of laughter from him.
"You think he'll come back?"
Dennis shrugged. "Honestly.. I don't know. I tried to give him a little pep talk but I don't know if it stuck.”
"Oh yeah? What'd you say?"
"Oh you know just...” He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish, “stuff about balance and acceptance."
Your mouth twitched as his cheeks reddened. "Geez I wonder where I've heard that before?"
"It's a good speech!" He defended quickly.
"No, no it is." You agreed, although your inability to control your laughter undermined your assurances. "I just can't believe you Robby'd the poor guy."
Dennis winced, bowing his head in defeat. "Yeah I guess I kinda did."
The laughter faded.
Your smile faltered as you studied his side profile for a few moments, noting the way his gaze kept drifting, like he couldn’t quite settle anywhere.
"Everything else ok?"
"Yeah." He said half heartedly. "I mean I'm a bit worried about Santos and-"
"I mean with you." You gently cut him off.
He blinked. "Me?"
"You’ve had a pretty shit day too. Or do you not remember your self-classified tantrum from earlier?”
“I’m fine.” He assured you, shooting you a small smile. “But thank you.”
Dennis could tell by the look on your face that you didn’t believe him, but you didn’t press it. Like always, you knew when to push and when to let things lie.
“That’s ok.” Your tone lightened. “Someone’s gotta be looking out for you while you’re busy talking everyone else off ledges.”
Dennis studied you for a moment, "and that person is...you?"
"Well obviously."
He let out a small, breathy laugh, "ok well... who's looking after you?"
"You are."
You said it like it was the simplest thing in the world. Like it wasn’t up for debate, just something that had always existed. Always would.
"That's how this works right? You and me, surviving this place together.”
"Yeah.” He said quietly, forcing himself to look away from you. “I guess it does."
He glanced down.
Your hand rested beside his, curled over the edge of the ambulance.
So close that he would only have to move an inch and his hand would brush yours.
Self-doubt flared.
His fingers flexed, but he didn’t move.
"I'm really glad you're here." He hadn't even really meant to say the words out loud, slipping out so quietly under his breath you almost didn't catch them.
A beat passed.
"Me too."
He missed the way you tucked your chin slightly, angling your face to hide the faint flush that crept into your cheeks.
"Alright." You announced, jumping off the ambulance and onto your feet after a few moments of silence stretched between you.
“Let's get back in there so we can still at least try and see some fireworks."
He hesitated. "You still want to go?"
"Yeah, of course." Your brow creased slightly. "Don't you?"
"Yeah no totally I just-um-well I wasn't sure-" He cut himself off, shaking his head. “Never mind."
Your grin widened. "Let's go then Whitaker, these documents won't scan themselves."
For a brief moment, as the two of you walked instep back into the pitt, Dennis felt the pressure ease slightly.
Like maybe he’d overthought it. Like maybe the heat had just gotten to him, twisted things out of proportion, made something out of nothing.
Like maybe - this was still just you and him, whatever this was.
Unfortunately, that feeling didn't last long.
-
The three of you ended up being pulled into a MVA trauma not long after.
It went smoothly. Cleaner than most cases that chaotic.
By the time the patient stabilized, the tension in the room had eased just enough for everyone in the room to breathe again.
You pulled your gloves off with a small sigh. "Nice save boys."
Langdon glanced at you, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips. "You led that."
You huffed a quiet laugh. "I did not."
"Are you kidding me?" He said your last name sharper this time, more deliberate, enough to make Dennis' skin crawl.
"Your call not to intubate probably saved his life. Seriously, that was a great pick up. Most doctors would have missed it."
You ducked your head just slightly, a soft smile slipping through as a faint flush crept up your cheeks.
To most, it would look like a junior glowing at receiving praise from their mentor.
But Dennis knew you too well.
He saw it in the way your expression shifted, subtle, quick - but unmistakable. You were flustered. Done by something more than just professional pride.
Something in Dennis' chest pulled tight. Hard.
The sweat at the base of his skull prickled like pins from the heat.
He walked out of the trauma bay without another word.
After that, things just kept getting worse.
His attempt at good karma got thwarted by a racist grandma resulting in a $250 charge to his card. Someone drank his last protein shake left in the fridge that he’d been saving.
Then, he lost his ID badge, the one he’d had for less then half a day.
His thoughts were already scattered, his patience worn thin, the heat pressing in again, suffocating, sticking to his skin like it wouldn’t let him breathe.
And then Langdon offered to help him look for it with enough sincerity in his voice that it made Dennis see red.
And lastly, Santos teased him for it, with Langdon behind her clearly trying not to laugh.
He felt like he was one step away from overheating completely.
-
The last thirteen hours felt like a weight around his neck as he stepped out of the chaos into the break room.
His last hope at finding his ID.
“Woah.” He muttered as he nearly collided with someone.
Langdon.
His eyes flickered down to the pills pressed tightly into Langdon’s palm. “Uh-hey.”
Frank’s eyes trained on him carefully as Dennis moved past him.
“Relax buddy, it’s Advil.”
Dennis turned back with a start at Frank’s clipped tone. "No, I didn't think you were-" He cut himself off with a sigh, not having the energy to try and explain.
"Headache?" He offered instead as he knelt down to look under the vending machine.
"Uh, I tweaked my back a little lifting that overheated kid." Frank twisted around after filling up his mug with water, leaning his back against the sink.
"Guess I should get used to playing through the pain again, huh?" He remarked dryly as he threw the Advil down.
Dennis was debating whether he respond when Frank continued.
"You look like you got into shape since I saw you last.” Dennis turned to face him. “Didn't peg you as a gym guy."
"Oh no um.. I mean I've been going a little bit." Dennis chuckled awkwardly. "And I've been helping a friend move. Been building some furniture and stuff, so..."
Frank nodded, then said your name.
Dennis stilled as he glanced up from the floor in surprise.
"Right?" Frank continued as he placed the mug onto the bench, crossing his arms over his chest. "She told me you were helping her out. That's nice of you to do that."
Dennis wasn't sure if he was just sleep deprived, or if there was actually an edge to Frank's words.
Either way, he found himself tighten further. The weight pressed heavier.
He was already frayed, already overheated, already one wrong word away from snapping - and this felt like the final straw.
Frank's mouth twitched slightly. "Now I'm picturing her ordering you around and getting you to change the angle of her sofa like fifty times-"
The pressure cooker boiled over.
"Can you cut the shit?"
The words left Dennis' mouth before he could stop them.
Frank froze, one hand on the door to the medicine cupboard. "Excuse me?"
The words tumbled out of him like smoke trying to escape out of a chimney.
"The sarcasm thing, the- the little buddy routine like you're what, you're the Skipper and I'm Gilligan?“ Dennis took a step towards him, squaring his shoulders. “You're not the Skipper, dude."
Frank blinked. "I know I'm not the Skipper. Robby is the Skipper."
"No Robby's the professor, Dana's the Skipper."
"Ok, somebody's watched a lot of Nick at Nite.” He paused carefully. “So what am I?”
Dennis sighed as he felt the anger start to ebb out of him, replaced by a crippling exhaustion.
"Play whatever part you like. Just…don't pick mine for me."
Frank studied him for a moment, something shifting behind his expression. "Ok, ok that's fair. You got it."
Dennis felt a flicker of guilt course through him at Frank’s understanding.
Dennis nodded once, turning toward the door.
"Thank you."
"But-"
Dennis stopped.
"-you should at least be honest about why you're pissed."
"What do you mean?"
Frank's brows raised as he stepped back to lean against the counter. "I know there's more to this then my lame jokes."
"Santos can take care of herself-"
"-I'm not talking about Santos." Frank said quietly.
Dennis held his gaze for a moment, then despite himself, he glanced through the glass.
You were out by the nurses station, laughing at something McKay had said as you scanned in your notes.
Blissfully unaware of the friction your existence had sparked.
When he looked back, Frank was watching him, a knowing look in his eye.
"You know... she was the only one who came to visit me in rehab." He admitted quietly.
The fight in Dennis faltered slightly.
“Of course she did.” He sighed, shaking his head. “She’s….”
"Yeah….she is."
Dennis saw it then, that unmistakable emotion flash across Frank's face. The one he hadn’t wanted to name all day. The one he saw every time he looked at himself in the mirror.
Longing.
"Her and I we...” Frank debated his next words, like he wasn’t exactly sure how to phrase it.
“…we work well together." Was what he settled on.
“So do we.”
The implication hung heavy in the air.
Frank studied him.
"So this is about you being territorial."
"That's not what this is about-"
"-isn't it?"
Dennis' stare hardened as he felt heat creeping up his neck, his pulse loud in his ears.
Frank pushed off the counter, taking a step closer - not aggressive, but grounded. Certain.
“You know she can make her own choices, right?"
"I know that." Dennis bit back. "But you've been gone for ten months. Things are different."
Dennis knew the words sounded pathetic the second they fell off his tongue.
They still hit their mark though. A barb lodged in Frank’s ribcage, reminding him how much had changed.
How Robby looked to Dennis during cases the way he used to look to Frank. How you had fallen into a routine with Dennis that you used to have with him and him alone.
Frank's brows pulled together slightly. "I'm not doing anything, I'm just trying to do my job."
Dennis scoffed, more bitterly than he'd intended.
"Yeah and you just get to waltz back in here and act like nothing happened." He muttered.
Frank went still.
The air shifted.
"So you're mad at me because she's decided to forgive me?"
Dennis didn’t answer.
Frank let out a slow breath, something sharper creeping into his expression now.
"Or mad at yourself because you had ten months to make a move and didn't?"
The harsh truth in Frank’s words cut Dennis deep, acting like salt in an already festering wound.
Frank took a step closer.
"Either way, that’s not on me."
Dennis straightened at that, meeting Frank's eyes with a glare of his own.
Frank moved towards the door, then paused.
"And I'm not going to stay away from her just because you have a crush."
Crush - like it was some childish fantasy. Like there wasn’t a possibility that there was something real between the two of you.
Dennis’ jaw clenched as he gritted out his next words.
"Guess that makes two of us."
As always always always, feedback is always appreciated because I thrive off praise. Please give it back here and consider tipping me! 🤍
WARNINGS: (MDNI) suggestive content, kissing, making out, touching, fem! reader, soft!dom dennis but also like sub!dennis? he does both 😜, established relationship, use of curse words, cringe ending tbh but i think it’s funny sooo idc
A/N: need this man so bad, can’t believe i won’t see him for another year. also lowkey i got like writers block halfway through this so it’s short i’m sorry ! more dennis to come tho !
────────── ୨ৎ ───────────
it had been a very hard shift. long, grueling, a fucking shit show. and the cure to a very hard shift is a sloppy makeout session with your girlfriend. or at least that’s what dennis whitaker believes.
you’re in the kitchen when he gets home, a little later than what he said but that’s usually the case. you’re cleaning up from your own dinner. when you see him walk through the door, you’re quick to walk over and wrap your arms around him. he clings back, exhaustion dripping off him. you press a kiss to his cheek, telling him there’s leftovers in the fridge for him.
instead of a response, dennis moves one hand to wrap about your waist and the other to the back of your neck. not gripping it, just resting. he softly brings your face closer to his, capturing your lips into his. your lips move together, slow and soft. enjoying each other and taking your time.
he moves you back, until your back is against a counter. you sigh as his kisses get deeper. he takes this as a sign to keep going, moving his tongue into your mouth. he licks the inside of your mouth, before sucking on your tongue. you moan, or at least moan the best you can. you move to get your tongue into his mouth and eventually your tongues fight for dominance.
the kiss is still slow, and you both refuse to come up for air unless it’s necessary. at one point, you decide you do need oxygen so you pull back slightly. it doesn’t last long because dennis is quick to chase you. when he gets your lips back on his though, it’s different. it’s hungrier, it’s rougher. teeth are bumping together. spit is dripping down both of your mouths. dennis takes that as an opportunity to break the kiss and lick from your chin back to your mouth, collecting it and pushing back into your mouth. you mumble a moan when you feel his tongue slip back in your mouth.
when you finally pull back, you see a string of saliva connecting your lips. dennis catches it on his fingers before it breaks, pushing them into his mouth.
“wanna take this upstairs?” he asks after releasing his fingers from his mouth.
“what about your dinner?” you reply, breathing heavy.
i feel guilty cause fuckkkk cheating me and my homies hate cheating but
when your hinge dates went horrible, the first person you’d go to is trinity. she’d help you feel better about yourself, telling you it’s these men, not you. but one night, you come home to a random doe eyed man in her home.
you’re annoyed at first. because… like… why would a man be there??????
but he’s weirdly nice. kind of a pushover, you realize as you make him keep getting you drinks from your best friends fridge. you learn quickly that she’s out for drinks with some surgeon they work with. and you laugh a little too hard when he tells you he was secretly crashing in the hospital before this.
“shit sorry. sorry. homelessness is not funny. it’s the drinks, im sorry” you snort out, giggling not stopping. but he doesn’t seem to mind. he keeps letting you make fun of him. this many drinks in makes you a scientist, apparently. you test out just how mean you can get with your teasing at him. very mean, clearly. you knew it. he’s a pushover. you like it.
he likes it too. before you know it, his face is pushed into your cunt, lapping at you wildly. not in a horribly unsatisfying way. messy in a way that has you writhing beneath him, toes clenched and small moans leaving your lips.
most of your hinge dates don’t end in any touching but the few times it did, not a single one wanted to eat you out. and here comes trinity’s new and abrupt roommate and coworker, moaning into your pussy, devouring you like a starved man, hips grinding into his bed, searching for any sort of friction.
you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve cum. “jesus, jesus wait…” he pulls from you immediately. you only groan at the sight of his blown out pupils and glistening face. his lips, nose, chin— all of it is wet with your slick juices. “never mind. Get back in there.” there are no complaints from him.
now, when a hinge date goes wrong, you don’t crawl into trinity’s bed and wallow in self-pity. you crawl into Dennis’ bed and let him eat you out as if he’ll never get another chance again
this is where the cheating comes in im SORRY.
you meet a guy you actually like. he’s funny and kind and had clear and set goals for his life. you need that. it’s what you were looking for. but god, he can not eat pussy for the life of him. or maybe you’re just addicted to dennis. you fake moan when the new guy laps at your pussy. even when he fucks you. “oh… yeah…” you’d fake, even going as far as scratching at his back to make it believable.
so okay. you and hinge guy aren’t official but you’re seeing each other. and dennis knows this. the sexual escapades do pause. he respects your wishes. but only your wishes.
a night out with trinity and her coworkers is always fun. you used to spend those nights with dennis. but sticking to javadi is your new thing with hinge guy. javadi is so funny when she’s drunk, stumbling and rambling.
but tonight? you can’t focus on that. only dennis and his stupid mullet. he’s been hitting the gym, arms more filled out and defined. and the mullet has given him confidence. trinity thinks the power of the mullet is getting to his head. but, well, you’ve always liked his head.
when you told him you two had to stop, he didn’t put up a fight. said he’d do whatever makes you happy. and when you asked him that night out, to eat you out, he also didn’t put a fight. he’d reiterate he’d do whatever makes you happy.
That gets the ball rolling. you’d go out on little dates with hinge guy and go to trinity’s place after. not for her, duh. always in his bed. always him eating you out first, at least until you came a few times. and it’d turn into him pounding into you. or, sometimes. he was gentle at first.
“don’t want to hurt you,” he’d whisper, lips ghosting over yours, finger entangling in yours.
“won’t, dennis” you’re usually not soft for men. you hate that he can get you like that.
at some point, he stops caring about being quiet for trinity’s sake. it’s not like she and Garcia are. and trinity was right, the power of the mullet is getting to him.
no more polite dennis. he doesn’t care that the bed is squeaking wildly beneath the two of you. that when he’s let your words rile him up, his bedframe slams against the wall particularly harder.
aftercare is nice. he cleans you up. makes you food or takes you out to eat. you’re at a chilis when you admit your guilt.
“he’s a nice guy.”
“maybe.”
“not maybe. He is nice.”
he shrugs, “im a nice guy.”
you huff, “nice guys don’t help a woman cheat.“
“it’s not cheating if you’re not dating. plus, i had you first”
“really? finders keepers? that’s your game plan?”
“you don’t even like him,” he sighs, putting his fry down. “you like how stable he is. i can be that”
“you lived in a hospital a few months ago” you deadpan.
“and i don’t anymore. im a doctor. how much more stable can it get?” he argues
“you’re only at the beginning of your career. he’s an established engineer.”
“lame, i fix humans”
“Shut up.” You toss a fry at him as he drinks his soda.
“im just saying… dont felt guilty. im good for you”
you eye him carefully. he’s gained a lot of confidence. this isn’t the fumbling dennis you met months ago. well, he still fumbles but not as much. “I like you better without the mullet.”
he snorts out a laugh, “no, you didn’t.”
“yeah… I didnt”
tldr he likes his women mean and he likes to munch on his mean women
After a long shift that takes the life out of you and Jack, you start the morning with a scalding hot shower as you tiredly, lazily, jerk Jack off.
This is the routine before you and he collapses in bed after bad cases. Hidden in the steam and pressured driplets is you resting your head on Jack's wet shoulder, pumping away at his fat cock that pulses sticky with the water that traces every cunt-hungry vein.
"Don't drown, baby."
Jack wipes the water from your nose that only nuzzles into his neck as a response. He swallows at a particularly tight twist that ends with your thumbs rubbing slow circles over his tip slit.
You don't know this, because he's always spending too much of his five-decade-old heart touching you, but Jack's the most touchy when he's showering with you.
As your fingers go soft around him, he runs his pointer finger along your bicep over and over, studying the way your skin sits under the water and thinking if he'd settle well under you. Your skin, he means.
Probably not. He's too much of a wrinkled, gruff old fuck for that. You should put a bullet in his head for him having that thought in the first place.
His finger trail turns into a palm rubbing up and down your back, pushing you and your tits to his body, cooping up the way you're so damn eager to please him even when you're about to pass out against him.
Not that you've never minded when he's taken you while you're knocked out. You promise you it's quite the opposite.
He's too much of a wrinkled, gruff old fuck to retire under kiddo's skin, but he smothers her with his body like he can. Ha.
"Let's finish this in bed, kid---"
"No."
His stubborn whore nurse. Alright. Keep turning his cock into nothing but a swollen "matured cum monster" that's made for your throat and pussy and nothing else.
...He didn't think to punish you when you invented that name for him. He was too baffled.
"Jack---"
"Alright, keep doing what you're doing. Daddy will keep the water out of your lungs."
You continue to pump, wonderingly tiredly, as to why he keeps groping you, or watching how his finger makes an indent in your skin. So, you take your free hand to snake around his waist, and suddenly, you're groping his ass.
"Okay. I trust you."
Jack pushes his face to your shoulder as he taps a fatigued rhythm on your ass cheek, only studying.
He sniffs, trying to take in your scent before it washes away.
"Well, you're too tired to know that you shouldn't."
You shouldn't, because he'll never let you go and never want to not study your skin for hours on end after you’ve fallen dead asleep. But he'd rather be the one to drown in this tub if you didn't. He might if you ever don't.
