stuff about me
welcome to my blog! i’m alanna, but lana for short is good, too. i’m 23 and go by she/her. i’m irish and a part time hairdresser and full time art student teacher, which i’m finishing up in may, yay! lover of lizzy mcalpine, stain glass artist harry clarke, men twice my age and wendy cope poetry.
i use this blog to write (mostly jack abbot stuff) and reblog my favourite works by other writers
if you're here to read, like, comment or reblog, thank you so so much, i try to get back to every comment i see but sometimes i miss things, i appreciate the support, always 💌
requests are closed / taking a break 🤍
i write for the pitt (jack abbot mostly, but i am open to any character listed on my masterlist)
send me an inbox to request something, please try be specific with what you're looking for, so i can try and get it as accurate to your vision as possible <3
you can find my masterlist here 🤍
i love you, thank you, i forgive you, please forgive me.
“Know I wanna beat it, wanna beat it bad
Oh, everyone looks happy in a photograph
I've crossed the county line, I cannot go back
I'm always on my own.”
-All Them Horses, Noah Kahan
summary: your family is in town for the annual ‘parents berating their kids for their decisions’ get together. jack overhears you talking about how much easier it would be if you had a boyfriend to shove in their face, and offers his services. No strings attached, of course.
wc: 15.7k (steak is too juicy lobster is too buttery)
tags/tropes: jack falls first and harder, reader is an eldest daughter (but not the eldest child) to a large judgmental family who are constantly disappointed in her, jack pretty much uses the fake dating as a chance to show reader what a good boyfriend he COULD be to her if she let herself have nice things, jack 'i'll pay for it' abbot, jack is YEARNING in this one, a teeny bit of mean dom jack as a treat
a/n: how are we all feeling about the latest noah kahan album. Doors is great. i do NOT repeat timestamp 2:14-2:21 of All Them Horses. i’m normal and can be trusted with noah kahan’s discography. this fic was supposed to be crossposted on ao3 at the time of post but ao3 crashed and i lost all of my tagging and uploading process so im saving that. for later. when it is POSTED it will be linked below :)
acknowledgements: thank you @wesandresons for the amazing gif and @saradika-graphics, @chrisssiren, and @uzmacchiato for the dividers! and thank you @leeknowpegger for your work in keeping up morale and being deranged with me
masterlist
“Your family’s in town?”
You’re at the nurses station, tucked into a corner with your head in your hands while Shen, of course, drinks what has to be his third Dunkin coffee of the day. Where he’s getting them is one of the world’s strangest unsolved mysteries.
You can’t see his face, on account of the heels of your hands being pressed into your eyes so hard stars are bursting and swirling behind your eyelids, but you can hear the grimace in his tone.
“Yeah. I moved out here to get away from them, but they decided to host the annual family dinner circuit here in Pittsburgh instead. My mom always complains about how it’s such a huge imposition to have the entire family fly out, but I never asked to do it and offered to just fly to them on multiple occasions. Apparently, my work schedule is too hard to work around.”
“Dinner circuit?”
You wave a hand. “It’s actually a lunch circuit now, since I work nights. Basically, for every single day that they’re here everybody has to attend a lunch, no matter what. Most of the time they’re at different restaurants, but sometimes my mom demands to have them at my place.”
“Yikes,” The attending says, sipping on the last bits of his coffee, “And the whole successful doctor thing doesn’t work on them? It got my parents off my back.”
You shake your head. “I’m the only doctor in the family, but they thought I should’ve been a hospitalist or go into general surgery.”
The sound of ice being shaken in a plastic cup rings in your ears. “There’s money in emergency medicine. Eventually.”
“There’s money in all medicine eventually,” You groan, lifting your head and leaning against the wall, blinking dazedly up at the flickering fluorescent lights. “I’m sure if I'd picked general surgery they would’ve found a problem with that too.”
“So your fucked, basically.”
Your eyes slip shut again. “Yep. Anything short of showing up with a rich boyfriend and a promise of grandkids on the way won’t get my mom off my back.”
Shen clasps you on the shoulder. “Best of luck with that. You’re the only intern the night shift has got, so we’d rather you don’t off yourself via poisoned wine.”
“I wouldn’t do poison. I’d choke on bread so they’d have to live with the guilt of not being able to save me.”
“Jesus fuck, man. I mean, clearly, they suck, but that’s brutal.”
You shrug. “Not as brutal as my mom not coming to my med school graduation.”
He gapes. “What reason could she have possibly had for not showing up?”
“I told her at dinner the night before that I was going into emergency medicine.”
“That’s…” Shen trails off, flabbergasted, “…Wow. Now I'm worried you’re going to kill one of them.”
“Way too much effort. They aren’t worth the jail time.”
The attending tosses his now empty coffee in a nearby trash can. “Well, if you snap and kill them all in a fit of extremely valid rage, please don’t call me. I can’t afford to be implicated.”
“You saying I can’t hide a body myself?”
“I’m saying I can’t hide a body.”
“Who’s hiding bodies?” Jack says, sidling up to the two of you with a tablet and a chart open in his hand.
Shen jams a thumb in your direction. “She’s killing her parents later today.”
You roll your eyes. “I’m not. Honestly, so long as I agree with whatever my mom says and don’t bring up any trigger topics, I’ll be fine.”
Jack snorts. “You’re describing being held hostage by someone mentally unstable.”
“Dr. Intern?” Ellis interrupts, using the stupid nickname Santos picked for you when she found out you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift, “There’s a woman in the lobby here to see you. Says she’s your mom.”
Your stomach drops to your feet and your heart seizes in your chest. “It’s six in the morning. Oh my god. Oh my god.”
Someone behind you says “Holy shit,” but you’re already gone. As you’re speed walking you whip out your phone, checking the dates of their flights that you’d only had a chance to skim and— fuck. They got in an hour ago. Why the fuck would she stop here? At the PTMC?
You practically slam the doors open and make eye contact with your mom across the crowded lobby.
“Mom?”
“There you are sweetie. I was trying to explain that there’s nothing wrong with me and I was here to see you, but they wouldn’t let me. Something about a security issue?”
“It’s not safe. We’ve had incidents in the past—“
She waves a hand, dismissing you. “I’m your mother. Honestly, I wouldn’t have had to come down here if you’d just respond to my texts.”
“I’ve told you mom, I’m really busy here and I don’t get very much time to look at my phone—“
“Your brothers take the time out of their busy schedules to text me back,” She sighs, then continues on, “Did you get time off this week for dinner?”
You frown. “I thought we were having lunch.”
“Well, I figured since we’re all making it easier for your work schedule to come to you, you could manage to take a few days off for your family. But if we need to make an extra effort—“
“It’s fine, mom,” You tell her with a gritted-toothed smile, “I can make something work. Can you just send me the dates again?”
“It’s this Friday and Saturday.”
Before you can even open your mouth to respond, a large, warm hand settles on your shoulder. Accompanied by the hand is a steadying one on your lower back, a familiar, rich scent and a low voice.
“Can I help you, ma’am?”
Jack.
Jack fucking Abbot.
Hottest man in the ED. Probably in the world.
Your mom blinks, clearly caught off guard, before regaining her judgy senses and narrowing her eyes at him.
“I’m trying to have a conversation with my daughter. Don’t tell me you’re security.”
You know for a fact that Jack has his stethoscope around his neck and his keycard in his scrub pocket that says ‘DOCTOR’ on it, so your mom’s just being bitchy. Figures.
Jack’s hand in your shoulder gives you a tiny, reassuring squeeze before he speaks.
“I’m Dr. Abbot,” He sticks out a hand for her to shake, the one that was on your shoulder, “I’m an attending here at the ED.”
And my boss, you mentally add. Your mom probably hears it anyway.
“You work with my daughter?”
“Yes ma’am. She’s the most promising intern we have here on the night shift.”
Your lips twitch at his words. He’s joking. Testing your mother— you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift. If your mom remembers that, she’ll pick up on his joke.
She doesn’t. She purses her lips for a moment before giving him one of her big, fake smiles.
“Well that’s good to hear. We’re very proud of her.”
Proud of the money I send home, maybe.
“If you’ll excuse us, I need her working on patients.”
“Oh yes, of course,” Your mom gushes, clearly already charmed by Jack. He has that effect on people. “I didn’t realize she was so important and busy here.“
You would if you’d ever let me talk about work before interrupting me and telling me what I should be doing better.
Jack’s thumb makes tiny sweeping motions on your lower back, little tingling motions that distract you enough to unclench your jaw and relax your shoulders.
“I’ll text you as soon as I can, okay mom?”
Your mom sweeps you into a hug, a rare show of affection. Putting on a show for Jack, more than likely.
“No rush. Whenever you get the chance, sweetheart.”
Jack gives her a parting nod, but you wait until your mom’s turned around and walking out of the lobby before allowing Jack to steer you back inside.
The second the doors close behind you and you’re enveloped in the sounds and smells of the heart of the PTMC, you shut your eyes and release a long exhale.
“I,” You start, “Am so sorry. I never thought she’d show up here, I got the flight times mixed up—“
“Hey,” Jack’s voice is low and steady, a much needed anchor. He uses the hand still on your lower back to turn you towards him, “None of that was your fault. We deal with patients like that every day. It is not your job to keep your mother in line.”
“I know. I know. Still, I’m sorry. She can be… difficult.”
He snorts. “Understatement of the year. But seriously. Don’t worry about it. If I didn’t want to get involved with her, I wouldn’t have swooped in there.”
You huff a laugh. “My hero. I’m pretty sure if you’d introduced yourself as my boyfriend she would’ve had an aneurysm. Or a heart attack.”
“Are those desired outcomes?”
“Mostly.”
He slides his hands into his pockets and leans against the opposite wall. “Might be worth a shot, then.”
It’s a very well kept secret that you’ve harbored an embarrassing, ‘think about him while you’re falling asleep at night’ crush on Jack.
So naturally, your response is to laugh. Loudly. And semi-awkwardly. Because he has to be joking. Obviously.
“Yeah, right,” You say, looking down at your feet because eye-contact has never been your forte and Jack’s gaze is too intense, “Could even take you to dinner with me. Maybe my dad would have a heart attack too. Really just wipe out the whole family.”
“You could.”
“Wipe out my entire family?”
“Take me to dinner with you.”
Jack’s body is relaxed and his tone is even. Not light and humor-filled. There’s no mischievous uptick to the corner of his lips. He looks like he’s serious.
“Are you joking?”
He can’t really be serious. He’s probably just fucking with you. He wouldn’t actually—
“No.”
You run a hand over your hair. “Yeah, sure, laugh it up, haha—“
“I’ll go to dinner with you. As your boyfriend.”
What. The. Fuck.
“No.” You gape, incredulous.
“No?” He raises an eyebrow.
“No, I mean— fuck. Dr. Abbot—“
“Jack.”
You purse your lips. “Jack. You can’t just… pretend to be my boyfriend at a family lunch.”
“Why not?”
“Why not?” You sputter, “For one, we hardly know each other—“
“You’ve been working here for three months. We’re hardly strangers.”
“You’re my boss, your way older than me, you’re—“ You cut yourself off before you can say something embarrassing like ‘you’re ridiculously fucking hot and I haven’t washed my socks in months’, “It wouldn’t even be believable. How would we even have met?”
“In the ED, obviously.”
“How long have we been together?”
“Month and a half.”
“Why are we even dating?”
“Because you’re a beautiful and intelligent woman, not to mention a good doctor.”
Your mouth goes dry, and your stomach does an entire gymnastics routine.
“Have you… thought about this?”
He makes a noncommittal hum, tilts his head back a bit. “Would it work?”
“Are you rich?”
There’s that devilish, pants dropping smile.
“I’m a senior attending on night shifts in an emergency department. I’m comfortable.”
You worry your lip between your teeth. “I still can’t… I appreciate the offer, but I can’t subject you to my family. No one else should have to suffer through these lunches and dinners.”
“But you do?”
“They’re my family.”
Jack doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t move off the wall and walk away either. Distantly, you really hope a patient isn’t coding somewhere.
You sigh. “Why would you even offer, anyway?”
“You need help, and I’m in a position to give it. Plus life has been kind of boring recently. My therapist told me to pick a new hobby that doesn’t involve people dying or getting shot at.”
“So you thought spending an evening being subjected to backhanded questions, comments, and not very subtle micro-aggressions was a good substitute?”
“Beats drinking beer in the park.”
You can’t say yes. It’s crazy. One, it would make your crush a million times worse and you might never recover on that fact alone, and two, when this inevitably blows up in your face, your family will never let you live it down and bring it up in literally every conversation for the rest of your life.
On the other hand, if it works, it will work. Your mom would probably get off your back for a while. You wouldn’t be a complete and total disappointment. If it works, it would be a much needed win.
“So. We’ve been dating for a month and a half?”
Jack nods, another smile playing at his lips. “I asked you out, of course.”
“Flowers?”
“Naturally.”
“You pay?”
“For every meal.”
“What’s my favorite color?”
“Navy blue. Mine?”
You roll your eyes. “Black. What are we going to tell my mom when she pokes at the age gap?”
Someone rushes by, pager beeping, and you both wordlessly start moseying towards your respective patients.
“Will she really be that upset about it?”
“Probably not, but she’ll definitely ask about it. My dad will probably be angry, but he’s easier to placate than my mom is.”
Jack hums thoughtfully. “When’s the lunch today?”
“Twelve-thirty, at that Italian place that has that mussel dish.”
“How about this,” He starts, apparently not needing anymore clarification on the location, “Lets focus on finishing our shifts right now. Then go home, get some sleep, and I’ll pick you up at eleven so you can pick my brain for every detail that you want to make this work. Deal?”
Last chance to back out. Say hell no, this is a crazy idea, why would you even volunteer for it, I changed my mind.
“Deal.”
—
Holy fucking shit. Jack Abbot is your boyfriend.
Fake boyfriend. But for the next few hours, he’s as good as yours. Kind of.
In a way.
You’re standing in front of your bathroom mirror, dressed in the outfit you picked out for the stupid lunch when your mom texted you the plane ticket details a month ago.
Neither your makeup nor your hair are cooperating and you really need them to because you have to be perfect, so you need your mascara and stop clumping and your hair to stop laying like that and you just don’t want to fucking go.
Before frustration induced tears can ruin your half-done makeup, a knock sounds at the door.
You rush through your apartment, nearly cracking your skull open on the corner of the couch when you trip over a stray shoe.
Shit, he’s here and you’re not ready, god he’s going to be so upset you have to make him wait it’s so rude—
“Hi!” You swing open the door and plaster what you hope is a cute-frazzled smile and not a panicked one. It’s a thin line between the two, “I’m almost ready, I’m so sorry, you can come in and sit down wherever, I promise I won’t take too long to finish up. Sorry.”
You turn, unable to bear the anger or frustration on his face and dart away (an old method— hiding and disappearing is much better for everyone in the long run) but a hand encircles your wrist before you can successfully escape.
“Woah, easy girl. Nobody’s mad at you. We have time, remember?”
Your smile is definitely coming across as panicked.
Your nails wander and find a hangnail to pick at while you talk. “I know, but that was so we’d have time to plan and it’s rude to make you wait and I really need time to plan, but I can’t get my makeup to look right—“
Jack nudges you into the house and you cut yourself off with another apology. Right. Cause he’s just standing in the hallway and you’re rambling on like someone deranged. God. Why can’t your brain just work? Get into gear? Actually function properly?
“First of all,” Jack starts, gently steering you towards your couch, “You look beautiful.”
Why does he have to say these things? Has he no care for what he’s doing to your heart? Is he unaware that Simone Biles would be impressed with the flip routine your stomach is currently doing?
He places a throw pillow in your hands which were previously clenched in your lap. It’s your favorite throw pillow, actually, because the texture is very soothing. You squeeze it and rub your fingers across the grain.
“Secondly, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I can go home and go to bed and if you want, I’ll never bring it up again. Not even to Robby.”
You crack a wobbly smile. “Not even to Nurse Evans?”
“She’d probably guess on her own, but I would never confirm her suspicions.”
You tuck your feet under your legs, shrinking into the corner of your couch. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I already texted my mom to add a person to the reservation, and if I show up without a plus one there’ll be hell to pay.”
“You could swap me with someone else?”
“Do you think I would have agreed to let my boss be my fake boyfriend if I had someone else to bring?”
“Touché.”
The corner thread of your throw pillow has begun unraveling, and your wandering fingers pull and tug at it erratically.
“I’m sorry. I’m not usually this neurotic, I swear. My family brings out the worst in me.”
“I ain’t judging, sweetheart,” Jack soothes, “Besides. We’re ER doctors. We’re all a little neurotic.”
Steadfastly avoiding his gaze (again, just a little too knowing, like he can see every insecurity you’re trying to hide) you stand on shaky legs and rush to the bathroom.
“I’ll just. Finish up. Sorry again.”
“I’m gonna start a tally of unnecessary sorry’s. You’re gonna owe me an hour of overtime for each one.”
Oddly enough, getting ready (the rest of the way) feels much more manageable and much less difficult with Jack nearby. He doesn’t critique how long it takes you, the fact that you change earrings three times, or tell you that you look good enough and should just go.
He just hangs out in your living room, on the couch, practically oozing calm and nonchalance. The foolish, romance-starved part of you wants to cancel on your mom and spend the rest of the day curled up next to him on the couch, like a cat. Lazily dozing while Jack watches TV or something sounds like a much better way to spend your time after work than experiencing all five stages of grief over the course of one lunch. Repeatedly.
Finally ready, and with your sanity intact thanks to Jack, you pause by the kitchen and debate the merits of taking a shot to loosen your nerves. Unfortunately, your mom would undoubtedly somehow smell the alcohol on you and no doubt chew you out for a minimum of twenty minutes. Heaven forbid you make the event bearable.
Ever the kind host, you peek your head around the kitchen wall. “Do you want a shot, Jack?”
“You’re aware that I’m fifty?”
Right. That's probably an unhinged question.
“Just thought I’d offer,” You say, meekly tucking the bottle back under the shelf, slightly embarrassed, “Sometimes alcohol is the only way I can survive these things.”
He’s leaned up against the couch, hands in his pockets when you exit the kitchen. “It was very considerate, thank you. But I think the days of vodka and tequila shots are behind me. I’m more of a whiskey man, anyways.”
“I’ll keep that in mind when we end up at a bar afterwards to drink away memories of the lunch.”
Jack raises an eyebrow. “You act like we’re going to be hung, drawn, and quartered after showing up.”
You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “Sorry. I just don’t want you to be unprepared, because they’re not always bad but when they’re bad they’re bad, you know? And I just don’t want to scare you off, and ruin the day you could be spending sleeping, and I really am thankful, by the way, I just don’t—“
“Do you always ramble when you’re worried?” Jack interrupts, tilting his head to the side.
“Um. No? I don’t know. I try not to. But like I said. My family brings out the worst in me.”
He searches your face for a moment, then taps the underside of your chin with a crooked finger, raising it slightly.
“We got this, okay? I’m not easy to scare. Combat med vet, remember? Plus, if it really gets that bad, I’ll fake a call from the hospital. Say there was some horrible accident and we’re being called in.”
“Won’t my mom get wise when she never hears it on the news?”
Jack shrugs. “It’s the city. Something horrible is always happening here.”
He holds the front door open for you when you’ve got your shoes on and purse ready, but as you’re sliding past him, he leans down, the angle of his jaw almost brushing the side of your neck, and breathes in deeply.
“You smell good.”
Fuck the gymnastics routine. Your stomach is going for Olympic Gold.
“Oh,” You exhale, a shiver running up your spine and a pleasant tingling sparking where your skin barely brushed his, “Uh— Thanks. Vanilla and spice. I like layering scents.”
“It’s nice. Suits you.”
You manage to squeak out another awkward “Thanks” before hastily locking the door, hoping he can’t tell just how flustered he keeps making you. Judging by the smile playing at his lips, your hopes are in vain.
The car ride to the restaurant is longer than it should be, on account of Pittsburgh traffic, but the time goes by quickly as you pepper Jack with questions to prepare for the million and one that your mother will no doubt ask.
(“What should I say if she asks if we’ve slept together?”
“Do you really, honestly, truly think your mother is going to bring up the topic of sex at the table, in a nice restaurant, with your entire family present?”
“Fair point.”)
By the time you arrive, you’ve picked and torn every single hangnail and loose cuticle around your fingers down to raw flesh and tiny dots of blood. Jack parks the car (parallel parks easily in one go, no repositioning needed, in downtown Pittsburgh. It’s one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen in your life) a good distance away from the restaurant, so that your family wouldn’t be able to see you if you decided to flee to his car to escape them.
At least, that’s what he says.
“I want you to hang onto the car keys, okay? If they get too much, you can sneak out through the kitchen and go to the car. I’ll meet you there.”
You can’t help but smile at his efforts. “And what will you be doing while I’m sneaking out?”
“Singing your praises, of course.”
Exhaustion from the shift you worked in what seems like a lifetime ago lines your limbs, but as you step out of the car (through the door Jack insists on opening for you “In case they’re still watching,”) and loop your arm through Jack’s, you feel… almost capable.
The lunch is going to suck. That’s a given. But Jack assured you he’s seen worse (“Probably done worse, sweetheart,”) and will not leave the lunch in a fit of rage and cause a scene. His arm is firm and solid —and fucking huge, how are his biceps that big— under your arm, and his presence is steadying.
As you cross the street and begin your final walk towards the building, he un-loops his arm from yours, but after you make a questioning noise in your throat, worried you’d be completely untethered (how pathetic to already be this reliant on a man, but there’s no time to unpack that now) but instead he wraps his arm around your waist instead, drawing you to his side and effectively grounding you to his body.
The entire left side of your body lights up at the contact, and if this were your apartment, it would be very difficult to refrain from climbing him like a tree or doing something equally embarrassing, like plastering yourself to his side and begging him to never stop touching you.
You’ve almost managed to come off unaffected, but then he leans down, lips almost brushing your ear, and whispers:
“You’ve got this, baby. And if you don’t, I do.”
Forget your family. Jack Abbot is going to be the death of you.
When you walk into the restaurant, hyper-aware of Jack’s grip on your body (your delusional mind has you thinking how… possessive the hand almost feels, if you ignore the fact that this is all fake) your family is waiting in the foyer, talking amongst themselves.
Your mother immediately zeroes in on you. “Honey, we’ve talked about you being on time to these things. You can’t be late to important family—“
You watch in real time as your mother’s gaze finally flicks to Jack, and the shades of recognition, shock, almost disgust, and confusion before settling back into forced pleasantness.
Your father, however, looks downright murderous. Looks like the age gap isn’t going down too well.
If Jack is at all nervous or put off by the several stares and outright glares from your family, he does not show it. He exudes cool confidence, the same unflappable energy he has during chaotic night shifts. The same calm that makes him so alluring to you in the first place.
He sticks out his hand for your mother to shake, a mirror of earlier that day in the PTMC lobby.
“I believe we’ve met before, but I’ll introduce myself again. I’m Dr. Jack Abbot.”
Your mother shakes his hand, but looks between the two of you like you’ve just spilled wine on her Persian rug that she can’t afford in the first place.
“You’re my daughter’s plus one?”
Jack nods. “Her boyfriend, yes.”
Your brother’s gape. Your dad’s glare intensifies. You want to kiss Jack.
“Honey,” Your mother says, gaze darting to you, “You didn’t say—“
“I didn’t want you to meet him at the hospital,” You tell her, hoping the lie doesn’t come across as too rehearsed, since you did rehearse it several times with Jack in the car on the way over, “The lobby of the hospital isn’t the best place to introduce people. And we really did have patients to get back to.”
Your mother purses her lips. “Why the last minute addition? If you’d told me that he was coming before today, it would’ve been easier to make the reservation.”
Jack is quicker to respond than you. “That’s my fault, actually. I didn’t think I was going to be able to come, what with my shifts as a senior attending, but when we met in the lobby I understood how important it was to make the time.”
You have to try hard not to smile at Jack’s not-so-subtle flex. Senior attending.
“Yes, well. My daughter doesn’t always stress the importance of these things.”
Jack’s grip on your waist tightens ever-so-slightly at the backhanded remark, and your mother’s gaze darts to the point of contact. But your father jerks his head towards the tables before she can say anything. “I’m starving.”
Everyone files in behind him, with you and Jack at the back of the line. Again, he leans down to whisper to you.
“How’d I do?”
You elbow him in the side. “We’ll discuss your performance after this is over.”
“Looking forward to it.”
The hostess leads everyone over to a large table near a window (your mother is particularly about seating) and everyone finds a seat. One of your brothers, either as a test or just to be a shit (your money’s on the latter) slides into the open seat next to you before Jack can.
To his credit, Jack doesn’t cause a scene, but he doesn’t back down either. He just stares at your idiot brother for awhile before finally asking:
“Do you really wanna do this right now?”
Your brother must sense that Jack Abbot is not a man to be fucked with (just a man you want to fuck), and scurries to his own seat, tail between his legs.
Once everyone is seated and the food is ordered (you don’t bother ordering anything other than the salad; Jack orders the most expensive thing on their menu. He’s never seemed like one to care for finery and expensive Italian restaurants where you practically have to order in Italian, but again, his unfazed demeanor makes him fit in anywhere) your family immediately begins peppering him with questions. Questions you knew they’d ask and appropriately prepared him for.
“So. Dr. Abbot—”
“Just Jack is fine.”
“—How long have the two of you been dating?”
“A month and a half.”
“Why’d you start dating?”
You take a generous gulp of your wine.
“Because your daughter is an incredible woman and an even better doctor.”
“Do you think she’s pretty?” One of your brothers chimes in.
Jack takes it in stride, despite that not being a question you prepared. “I’d have to be blind and stupid if I didn’t.”
You feel hot from the tips of your ears down to your toes.
That’s going in the mental folder.
“Have you always wanted to be a doctor?”
“Pretty much. Took a bit of a detour as a combat medic first, though.”
“Why’d you leave?”
“Honorably discharged after I lost my right leg. Below the knee amputation.”
You drain the rest of your glass and inconspicuously motion to the waiter for more wine.
The table is silent for the customary length of time after someone drops the “got a limb chopped off” bomb. Your family is clearly mildly uncomfortable, but Jack just keeps sipping his drink, his free hand drifting down and brushing the side of your thigh.
Your dad clears his throat. Here we go. Home stretch. Final questions before we’re in the clear.
“Mr. Abbot—“
“Either Doctor or Jack works.”
Ooo. There was some bite in that one.
Your Dad frowns. He does not like to be interrupted or corrected. You’ve been on the receiving end of far too many hour long lectures (read: berating and borderline verbal abuse) to know better.
But Jack isn’t his daughter. Jack is pretty much his equal. Actually, the fact that Jack not only served but is now a doctor places him above your father, by social conventions.
This no doubt infuriates your father. He’s always hated it when he couldn’t tear somebody down to his level. A true coward.
“Jack,” Your dad continues, a trademarked forced smile to save face, “You’re a smart man, yeah? Haven’t you ever considered the age difference between the two of you might be a little much?”
Yikes. Questioning Jack’s competency is not the way to go. Jack is very competent. And smart. And capable. It’s really hot.
Your fake-boyfriend just reaches over and grasps your hand, over the table, and looks at you with such devotion in his eyes that you forget how to breathe.
“War doesn’t really lend to longevity. I’ve learned to hold on tight to things I care about.”
For a moment, it doesn’t feel fake. There’s raw, punched emotion in his voice, and his thumb rubs your hand gently. Like he really does care that much. Like he wants to hold on.
But then your brother fake-gags and your fake boyfriend looks away with that, he’s passed the tests, and the conversation moves onto to different topics. Jack laughs at all the right moments, doesn’t bring up any argument-starting topics, doesn’t rise to bait when it’s thrown his way.
He’s perfect.
Eventually lunch is drawn to a polite close. You have one last glass of wine while Jack settles the bill. Himself. With one card. He doesn’t even look.
Your mom sends a smirk your way after he waves off your father’s attempt at splitting the bill or offering to pay. It’s probably the third time she’s actually looked at you for the entire duration of the lunch, but since it’s positive, you’ll let it slide.
Pretty soon bags are grabbed, hands are shook, and Jack’s hand magically finds its way back to your lower back and you’re being (very gently) escorted out of the restaurant and to the car.
“Wow,” You breathe as you slide into the passenger seat of his car. “I think that’s the smoothest a lunch with my family has ever gone in my entire life. You’re really good at this.”
Jack doesn’t respond though. Doesn’t make any kind of noise that he heard you. His hands are nearly white knuckled on the steering wheel and he’s staring straight ahead.
“Jack?”
“They didn’t even talk to you.”
You blink.
“What?”
“Your family never tried to include you in the conversation. Didn’t even ask you any questions.”
You snort. “Trust me, it’s better that way.”
He hasn’t started the car yet, just keeps staring off into the middle ground. He can’t be old enough to start doing a thousand yard stare already, right?
“You ordered a salad.” He says, a very prominent frown on his lips.
“So? It wasn’t too expensive, was it? I swear, if I knew you were gonna pay for the whole bill I would’ve looked at something cheaper, I don’t know why salads are so expensive—“
“Please don’t apologize for ordering a salad,” Jack says, voice pained, “Especially because I know you hate salads.”
Oh.
“How do you know that?”
“I overheard you talking to Dr. King that time you two were discussing the merits of Olive Garden. You said the salad there was the only kind you like, because of the dressing and the pepperoncinis.”
Your cheeks heat. “I never said I hated all salads. I said I like that one in particular.”
“You hardly ate anything during lunch.”
“My family tends to have that effect on my appetite.”
Jack does not look placated. He doesn’t take the out that your little joke provides. Doesn't so much as huff. He looks upset. Distressed.
Something about what he said goes ding! in your mind.
“…Mel and I had that conversation like, last month. You seriously remembered that?”
He frowns harder, like the answer to your partly rhetorical question should be obvious.
(It’s not. Why would he remember that conversation? Why would he care at all?)
“Of course I remember.”
There isn’t much to say after that. You’re not really sure what in particular has upset Jack, what possibly blunder or error you’ve made to incur him going completely monosyllabic and frowny. Ever eager to appease, you refrain from any attempts to cajole him, make conversation, breathe too loudly, or make any kind of indication that you’re still present.
The tension in the car is thick and uncomfortable. It prickles at your skin and the hairs on the back of your neck, but the only thing you dare to do is scroll through Pinterest, only looking at the safest, basic boards in case Jack glances over (he doesn’t.)
But then he does glance over. He just doesn’t look at your phone.
Jack just keeps looking at you.
He’ll look over, eyes darting over your face like he’s looking for something, and then he’ll look away. Over and over for almost the entire course of the drive. He only stops when you accidentally time your staring (monitoring) of him wrong and make eye contact.
He parks by your place (he once again sexily parallel parks with ease) and then puts the car in park. And then he starts talking.
“You’re so much more than them.”
Jack has the heat on, but the air in the car suddenly feels cold.
“What?”
“Your family,” Jack clarifies, like that was the confusing part “Your parents. I hated watching you… disappear like that. You deserve better than that. You are better than that.”
You try to swallow, almost choking on the sudden lump in your throat.
“Listen,” You start, unaware of how to even begin processing what he said, let alone formulating the best response because your brain is just flashing abort! Abort! Abort! in big neon letters,, “Thank you for today. I really appreciate it. But if this is all just too much, I can handle things from here. Really. I can say that someone called out and you had to cover shifts—“
“No.”
Jack says it with such vehemence, bordering on vitriol, that it startles you, and you flinch backwards ever so slightly.
An old habit.
Something flashes across his face —gone before you can decipher it— and he noticeably forces himself calmer.
“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I let you go alone again. Ever.”
Your brain starts short-circuiting at his words. “I really can’t ask you to—“
“It’s a good thing you’re not asking me then.”
“Jack—“
“Please.”
You’re stunned silent at the rawness in his tone— the pain.
He said please. He said it like he was begging. He is begging.
“I don’t know how you do it,” He continues, jaw working, “I can see it on you, plain as day. How you hate what they do, how it makes you hurt. But you keep going.”
You shrug uselessly. “Is there another option?”
Jack reaches out for you, then falters, like he thought better. A tiny part of you wishes he’d followed through; bridged the yawning gap between the two of you that’s made up of the center console in his car, a couple decades, and your own unwillingness to try at vulnerability.
“I’ll walk you to your door.”
The walk to your door is a stark contrast to the walk to the restaurant. There’s no mischief on his face now, only a mask of stony distress.
At the doorway to your apartment building, you pause. It seems customary. Appropriate. Necessary.
Really, you just want to look at Jack some more. Try to puzzle out why the lunch that felt like it went so well made him so upset. Where you’re getting signals wrong and crossing wires. Why success to you is failure to him.
(As an ED resident, you’ve seen child abuse cases. You’ve seen foster care children littered with cigarette burns and criss-crossing scars of broken bottles and the corners of coffee tables and haunted eyes.
You know your family isn’t great. But there aren’t any cigarette burns or glass scars or eyes that track fast movement.)
You have this burning inclination to apologize to Jack. Logically, you know you haven’t done something wrong, but you feel like you have because he’s upset so maybe you can make it better?
“You have that look on your face.”
You frown. “What look?”
“The ‘I’m gonna apologize for something stupid’ look.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were thinking about it,” Jack ducks down, catches your eyes, “Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.”
“It’s freaky when you do that.”
“Do what?”
“You always know what I’m thinking.”
Jack just huffs; shoves his hands in his pockets.
Emboldened by his reassurance, you ask: “Why are you upset?”
“Because your family treats you like shit, and I want to fix it, but I can’t.”
“Oh.”
It’s not that bad. It can’t be that bad. You’ve seen bad. This isn’t it. It’s hard, but it’s not bad.
He stays quiet, seemingly sensing the inner turmoil his words have sparked. That, or he really is that good at reading you.
Jack nods towards your door. “We can talk later. Get some sleep. We both have shifts tonight.”
Right. Yeah. All of these events roughly occurred over the course of six hours. Time makes sense.
Despite the fact that you are exhausted and desperately need to sleep if you have any chance of surviving your –quickly approaching– shift, you linger.
“How am I supposed to repay you for all of this?”
The question that’s been burning a hole in your pocket since he said I’ll do it.
He just shakes his head. Like it’s simple. Easy. “This isn’t something I want repayment for. Now go. You’re no good to me as a zombie.”
“I’ll just have some of Shen’s Dunkin.”
“He doesn’t share that shit. Besides, he’s off tomorrow.”
“Maybe I‘ll—“
“Sleep,” He points at your door, “Now.”
You smile at his insistence. He’s sort of like cold coffee with sugar. Seems all bitter but then you get a bit of that sweet crunch, so it balances out. He balances out.
Sometimes it feels like he balances you out.
“Goodnight.”
He gives you a little smile of his own.
“Goodnight.”
—
Jack Abbot does not take his own advice. Mostly because he knows if he doesn’t talk about what happened during that lunch from hell, he’s going to do something that will end in him being thrown in prison and having his medical license revoked. More importantly, if that happens, he won’t be around to take care of you.
So instead he collapses on his couch, works his prosthetic off to give his stump a needed break, and dials the number at the top of his favorites in his contact list.
“This really isn’t a good time—“
“Robby,” Jack starts, “They didn’t even fucking talk to her.”
“Jesus, okay. Whitaker! Cover for me a sec, will you? I gotta deal with this.”
“They just…” Jack continues, genuinely at a loss for words. His vocabulary feels woefully unequipped to relay the depth of anger he feels about the events of the lunch, “…Ignored her. They talked over her, didn’t ask her questions, hardly ever let her finish speaking when she did finally get a chance to speak, and threw jabs at her constantly. It was fucking awful.“
The background noise quiets over the phone, and Jack knows Robby’s moved to either the break room or an empty patient room.
“She fight back at all?”
“No. Just… grinned and beared it. It was fuckin’ unsettling, man. I’ve seen her yell back at rude patients, watched her stand her ground to EMT’s who think they know better. It was like she hollowed herself out to sit at that table.”
“Christ.”
“She flinched away from me. Afterwards, in the car, when I raised my voice on accident.”
“Fuck. Do you think—“
“I don’t know. Maybe when she was younger. They don’t live in state, so if they are, she’s safe.”
Jack scrubs a hand down his face. “God. I don’t know what to do, Robby. It doesn’t seem like she’s got… anybody. She didn’t even understand why I was upset. She doesn’t get why that would be upsetting.”
“She’s friends with Mel and Santos, right?”
“And Whitaker by extension, yeah. But those are recent friends. I’ve never heard her mention anybody from back home. No boyfriend or best friend or anything. She’s just been doing everything on her own.”
Jack can picture Robby nodding. “We’ve done our fair share of that.”
“Yeah, and look where that got us. I can’t just leave her here. Fuck, it was like watching someone kick a puppy, over and over.”
“That bad?”
“Yeah.”
The line goes silent for a bit, both men stewing on the subject at hand.
“She’s always had these habits. I thought they were just personality quirks, you know. I mean, we’re all fucked up, but watching it happen…”
“It’s different.”
“You could say that,” Jack sighs, “She soaks up praise like a fucking sponge. She looks surprised every time I do something nice for her. And she keeps trying to make me happy.”
“You lost me on that last one.”
“It doesn’t… She’s not doing it to make me happy, exactly. She just does everything she can to keep me from getting mad.”
“Is there a difference?”
“There is. Eager to please versus eager to appease.”
“Are you sure you want to get involved?”
“Bit late for that.”
“You could pull back.”
“Fuck no, I can’t. Then I’d be kicking the puppy.”
“She is a grown woman.”
“Who happens to look like a kicked puppy.”
He scrubs a hand down his face, groaning into the microphone.
“You finally realize how ridiculous you sound?”
Jack grunts. “I’m not giving you the satisfaction of answering that.”
The line crackles with the staticky sound of Robby chuckling. “That’s an answer in it of itself, and you know that.”
He lets the line go quiet again, briefly debating just hanging up.
“I don’t know, Robby. It’s just…”
“Worse than you expected?”
“Yeah.”
“Come on. You knew that was a possibility. Has it put you off, at all?”
“Fuck no.”
“Exactly. Now please, go to bed so I can get back to saving lives? Whitaker is covering for me and he’s only gone through two pairs of scrubs so far today. I’m not a betting man, but if I were, I’d bet money that he’s moved onto his third during this conversation.”
“I save lives too.”
“You won’t save any if you fall asleep on the drive over and die.”
“I would never fall asleep behind the wheel.”
“That’s what they all say.”
Jack really does hang up after that, plugging his phone in and rushing through everything he needs to do before bed.
But even as exhaustion pulls his body down into deep, dreamless sleep, he can’t stop thinking about that hollow look on your face. And he knows, even half-asleep, that he won’t be able to let it go.
—
The next night at work is weird, because nothing has changed, except now you know what the inside of Jack’s car looks like and how his voice sounded when he begged you to let him help.
It’s jarring, to say the least. Unsteadying and mildly world-rocking if you’re being honest.
But gossip travels fast within the walls of the PTMC, so by the time night shift is halfway over, you’re convinced you’ve heard every variation in existence of the same two questions:
“Did you and Jack go on a date yesterday?”
And:
“What’s Jack like on a date?”
The answer to the first question is complicated and embarrassing, so you don’t answer it or any of it’s variants. The answer to the second question is not complicated but it does, however, stir some very complicated feelings, so you refrain from answering that one too. You just try to refrain from thinking about or seeing him in general.
You’re not avoiding Jack, per se. Just keeping busy. With other stuff. That’s conveniently nowhere near him.
Ellis keeps shooting you entirely too knowing looks, Mckay, who’s pulling a double, pats your shoulder and tells you she’s there if you want to talk, Shen is absent as Jack said he would be, and Jack himself is acting like nothing happened and everything is normal and he’s never been to your apartment smelled your perfume.
(“…I like layering scents.”
“It’s nice. Suits you.”)
It’s all too much.
Hence the avoiding.
You try to curb your own ridiculousness for the sake of your patients, but it’s oddly difficult. You’ve always been amazing at compartmentalizing. If your family gave you any kind of skill, it’s the ability to shove your feelings in a box, and then shove that box in a corner of your mind you won’t access consciously until you end up on public transportation with your headphones. You should be more than capable of gathering up all the loose feelings labeled ‘For: Jack Abbot’ and tucking them all nice and neat in that little box and then shove it in a dark mental corner.
But you can’t. And along with the flurry of Jack Abbot causing a hurricane in your head, there’s a lesser storm that is the result of your family. More specifically, how they look to Jack.
All roads lead back to Rome. Or, in your case, to Jack.
You catch yourself during every spare moment or menial task that doesn’t require 100% of your brain power analyzing every interaction he had with them. Everything they said, everything they did, and how Jack would’ve taken it. And why. Because clearly, the act of dealing with them isn’t the problem. The ease and finesse in which he did so crosses that off the list. So it’s something else.
It’s how they treat you.
You understand, logically, that it would be upsetting, from his point of view. If you were in his place, you’d also probably be upset too.
But this feels different. Jack’s reaction is different. Jack is different.
It’s just never really been something that anyone should be upset over. Your family are who they are. Not great, but not truly bad either. You deal with them sparingly. You don’t even live in the same state anymore. It’s not a big deal.
“Why are you hiding from me in a supply closet?”
You whirl around, a box of gloves clutched in your hands.
“I’m not hiding from you.”
Jack crosses his arms and leans against the doorway. “This is the third time you’ve been here in two hours.”
“So? I just want to be… on top of things. I’m a productive person.”
“You are,” He amends, “But all of your productivity tonight has been pretty strictly nowhere near me. Funny how that works.”
You sigh, placing the gloves back on the rack. “Things are just… weird, okay? I don’t know how you’re being so normal about all this?”
Your fingers wander and find a loose piece of skin on the edge of your cuticle, and you begin absent-mindedly picking at it.
You can’t exactly disagree with him, right here, in the supply closet at the hospital. But you can’t quite bring yourself to agree either– because whether he acknowledges it or not, things have changed. Seeing him outside the hospital, perfectly placating your family into one of the most peaceful get-togethers you’ve had in years isn't just nothing.
It’s everything. And you, for one, can’t just pretend that it didn’t happen.
“Hey,” He calls your name softly, “What’s on your mind? What’s bugging you?”
“Nothing.”
He snorts, pushing off the doorframe and shutting the door behind him, so it’s just the two of you alone. “Liar.”
He doesn’t probe any further, just leans against the now closed door with his hands in his pockets, eyes flitting over you like they’re looking for an answer. An answer you’re too hesitant to give.
“I’m just worried.”
“You? Worried? No.”
You cut him a glare, “There’s a very real chance that this could all go horribly awry, you know.”
“Sure,” Jack dips his head, “But that’s not what you’re really worried about.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Because that doesn’t address the fact that you’re avoiding me.”
You sigh, scrubbing a hand across your face.
“Why do you care?”
The question that’s been nagging at you since the beginning. The little itch in the back of your mind that you just can’t seem to get rid of. The puzzle you can’t figure out; the tune you can’t place.
You’re a logic driven person. You like knowing how things works– why they work. Why things do the things they do.
You like having the why. Having the why makes the world make sense.
Nothing about Jack Abbot makes sense.
“Why do I care about what?”
“This,” You gesture vaguely to the air, “Me. I don’t buy that you just didn’t have anything better to do or whatever it was you said. People don’t just… do that. You’re really ruining your life for an entire week for what? So I'm a little less uncomfortable? Me? At the end of the day, we’re just coworkers. I know how important your down time is for you, so I just don’t get why you’re so okay with being miserable just for my sake. I’m not that important. These stupid lunches aren’t that important.”
It’s a stupid confession. Much too vulnerable for a supply closet and a man you’re harboring feelings for.
He doesn’t respond right away. Hums, stares at his shoes for a bit. Re-adjusts so his prosthetic isn’t taking so much weight.
“You are important. You’re important to me, to this hospital, to your patients. And for the record, I am not ‘ruining my week.’ If it was that easy for my week to be ruined, I never would have become a doctor, let alone joined the military.”
“But why?”
“Jesus, you watched a lot of the science channel growing up, didn’t you?”
You snort. “Guilty as charged.”
Now it’s his turn to sigh.
“You… seem to have this misguided belief that caring is reciprocal in nature.”
You frown. “It is.”
“It isn’t. At least it shouldn’t be, but I don’t think anyone ever told you that.”
You scoff. “So this is about my family.”
He shrugs. “Amongst other things.”
“They’re not that bad.”
“They are.”
“Other people have it worse.”
“It’s not a competition.”
You resist the urge to throw your hands in the air. “Why is this such a big deal to you?”
“Because it’s a big deal to you.”
The air gets quiet and tense. Like the supply closet and all the medical supplies in it are holding their breath. If they were alive, if they were holding their breath, you’re convinced they’d all be looking at you.
It’s Jack who speaks first though.
“I can see it. You do everything yourself, get back up even when it’s hard. You look out for other people more than you look out for yourself. You’re selfless and kind and I don’t think very many people give that back to you.”
A reflexive smile pulls at your lips, a habit you never quite managed to kick after years of people telling you ‘smile, look grateful, stop looking so upset, there’s nothing to cry about.’ It feels awkward and clunky on your mouth but you don’t know what else to do. There’s no pre-written protocol for something like this.
“I still don’t really get it.” You murmur, more to yourself than to Jack.
Jack sends you a light grin. “We’ll work on it.”
“We will?”
“Sure,” He shrugs, “Already started anyways.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” He opens the door, “Now get back out there. And bring the gloves too.”
You roll your eyes but comply, snagging the box off the shelf where you’d left it and following him out.
The rest of your shift passes much smoother than before, even with the routine influx of patients as the time inches closer to morning. Jack doesn’t hover, but doesn’t pull the disappearing act that you (totally fairly) pulled on him either. He truly seems unfazed. Like it really, actually doesn’t bother him.
Well. Correction. It does bother him, but not because it’s something he’s doing for you, the part that bothers him (apparently) is how all of this affects you. All this caring makes you feel like a deer in the headlights.
You recall something he said that night. Something that had made you shiver– something that hit the nail right on the head.
“Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.”
He always seems to know exactly what to say to you. How to act, what to do, what specific worry you’re feeling and the best course of action to soothe it. It’s great but it’s also difficult, because there’s a part of you that wants to let him keep doing it, but then there’s the part of you that bristles every time and wants to snap that you’re completely capable of doing things yourself.
That probably wouldn’t even work. He’d just say something infuriating and sexy, like “I know, but I want to do this for you.”
He would. He totally would.
The thought is equal parts haunting and reassuring.
(And maybe, also, a little, kind of really sweet?)
–
The next two lunches go great. Jack is still freakishly incredible at charming your family. And, with his help, you actually manage to hold a (mostly) civil conversation with your parents for the first time in… years.
The lunches are fine, but the part you’ve started looking forward to is the before and after. Before, Jack comes to pick you up, and sometimes he comes early and helps prepare (which mostly involves him either talking you off the ledge, pouring a shot or two, or assuring you that your makeup and outfit look great. Not fine, great) or just to hang out. The hanging out part is nice, because he never comes with any sort of expectation. He’ll sit on your couch and scroll through his phone and entertain all the inane chatter you like to get out of your system beforehand but never had an outlet for before.
The after is even more fun. You run through the highlights of the night and hate on all the annoying things your family said to you. This usually also involves stopping somewhere for food (only for you, Jack’s never hungry because he eats t=at the restaurants but you’re never allowed to order anything that isn’t a salad) and then the two fo you fight over who pays. You always insist since you’re the only one actually eating any of the food, but then Jack usually takes your card, puts it in his pocket, and uses his own.
It’s as frustrating as it is hot.
But for the most part, the lunches and your shifts at work have actually been pretty good– as good as night shifts in a trauma center can be, anyway. Jack’s presence is… steadying, even when he’s not physically there. He’s always present in some way– whether it’s little reminders he leaves at your favorite spot for charting (he only uses blue sticky notes) or a real lunch left for you in the breakroom fridge (you weren’t previously aware he actually knew how to cook, or that he knew how picky you are when it comes to what you’ll actually eat for lunch and how often you get too busy to properly make something.) Sometimes he’s there in your head; in little things he’s told or taught you that you remember in the moment.
It’s nice. To have someone be around. Someone you can relax with, joke with– someone who hasn’t looked down on you for the the way you turned out.
You were pretty ready to declare smooth sailing ahead, but then on the third lunch your mother shows up and is decidedly not in a good mood and the seas turn choppy and the boat smashes into the rocks below.
At least, two peach bellinis in, that’s what it feels like.
“Honestly,” Your mother puffs, “I don’t understand why making some simple appetizers could take so long. This is why I hate going to restaurants during lunch hours, the staff just gets so lazy. The menu is always better at dinner anyways.”
You ignore the thinly veiled dig and instead choose to quietly drain the rest of your third peach bellini. They taste like juice and take a much needed edge (or two) of the evening. Lunch. What-fucking-ever.
Jack, ever aware of the best way to survive these functions (somehow) whilst keeping his sanity, remains silent as your mom huffs and puffs, seeming to understand that trying to placate her when she gets in these moods is a fruitless endeavor that only leads to your mom getting more upset and everyone else more annoyed.
You, made slightly optimistic by the wonderful powers of alcohol, attempt to put her in a better mood.
“I have the next three days off, mom. We’ll be able to do dinners instead.”
Your mother, however, only scoffs. “That’s no good to anyone now. We’ve already spent half this week dealing with poor restaurant service. I mean, no respectable job would have such a ridiculous schedule."
“I’m a doctor, mom. It doesn’t get more respectable than that.”
Jack nudges your leg with his, either a silent laugh, show of support, or quiet question of your sanity. Maybe all three.
Another bellini appears in front of you, this one heavier on the alcohol than the last. Your server is getting a giant tip when this is all over.
“You work in the emergency department, dear. That’s hardly stable, and stable is respectable,” Jack clears his throat, and your mother at least has the manners to look mildly sheepish, “No offense, Jack.”
He smiles thinly. “None taken.”
Conversation from there is stilted at best with even your brothers tip-toeing around your mother. No one wants to be the subject of a nitpicking lecture, even when the version she gives them is a slap on the wrist compared to what you endure.
So you keep drinking your bellini’s and they keep coming. After your fourth, you think you should maybe slow down a little, but then your dad starts grilling Jack about his life (again) and you decide that alcohol is, in fact, necessary.
“Have you ever been in a serious relationship before, Jack?”
That one almost makes you ask the server for a shot of vodka, straight. That’s a question you ask a nineteen year-old pimple-faced boy, not a fucking fifty year old man.
“I have, yes. But, like most things in life, they were learning experiences. I’ve moved on.”
Your dad snorts, then gestures to you. “You could teach her a thing or two about moving on.”
Your blood runs cold.
Jack sets his glass down. “And what do you mean by that?”
It’s your mother who answers. Because one vulture circling your soon-to-be carcass wasn’t enough.
“I’m surprised she hasn’t told you. It was all she ever talked about for years. She’s had exactly one boyfriend before you– what was his name honey?”
“Christopher,” You answer hollowly, stomach churning.
Your dad snaps his fingers. “That’s it. It took ages for her to get her first boyfriend. We were fairly convinced it would never happen, but then one day she came home with Christopher. Whole family wanted to throw a party– finally found someone to put up with all that attitude!”
Your family laughs, but Jack doesn’t.
“Where’s the funny part, in all this?”
Your mother clears her throat, just a tad awkward. “When she broke up with him it was awful. She refused to leave her room for works, cried all the time. Honestly, I would have understood if he had broken up with her, but it was all her decision.”
Your dad nods in agreement. “We had to have a sit-down conversation with her about decisions and consequences before she finally stopped crying and hiding in her room. Christopher was such a nice boy, we hated to see him go.”
Jack opens his mouth, poised to fire something back and defend you, but you beat him to the punch.
“He cheated on me with my best friend.”
At that, your mother frowns. “That’s not what Christopher said. You were in your teen angst era, remember? Always picking fights? He told your brother that you were so distant with him he didn’t know you were still together.”
“I wasn’t distant, I was really busy. I was studying for the MCAT. He knew that. He knew how important medical school was to me.”
Your brother rolls his eyes. “Med school was all you talked about. It’s not like you were putting out.”
Your mother snaps her fingers once. “That is inappropriate talk for public. You know better.”
“Come on, mom. It’s true. Everyone knows–”
“Sorry to interrupt,” Jack says, not at all sounding sorry, “But the hospital just texted. There’s an emergency, and we’re needed, so we have to go.”
Jack does not wait for your mother or father to excuse him. He just stands, offering you his hand. It turns out that you need it, because there is, apparently, such a thing as too many peach bellinis. Your mom sends you a pointed glare as you stumble once, after which you make a concerted effort to look more sober.
Neither you nor Jack bother saying proper goodbyes. Once he grabs your jacket and purse (and your vision stops swimming so much and you’re sure you can walk in a convincing approximation of a straight line) you’re both gone. You pass your server on the way out, who is slipped a very generous cash tip for the excellent bellini service.
By the time you get to the car, you realize that you’re about to have to save patient lives and you are very, extremely, drunk. There is no way you are capable of doing any life-saving at the moment.
“Jack,” You mumble, fumbling with your seatbelt, “I think I’m too drunk to go in. Did they say how serious the emergency was? Can I just get a banana bag?”
“There is no emergency,” He says calmly, batting your hands away and buckling you in properly, “I made it up. I figured you’d be okay with ducking out of there.”
“Oh. That was nice of you.”
He clicks you in and gives you a wry grin. “Told you I would handle things.”
You nod, the movement exaggerated and lopsided. “I hate it when they bring up Christpher. They always take his side. Like, is there ever a situation where it’s okay to cheat on a girl with her best friend? I was studying for the MCAT. I didn’t even wallow or break up with him when I found out. I waited until after I took the exam so I didn’t fuck up my score.”
“That’s my girl.”
“Christopher was an asshole. He was a real dickhead. The whole situation sucked. I lost the only two people who I thought cared about me at the same time. My family acted like I was the fucking anti-christ for being upset about it, too. It was fucking terrible. I’m so glad I don’t live with them anymore. I mean, I still love them, and I care about them, cause they’re my family, but everything is just so much easier when they’re not around.”
“You’re allowed to hate them, you know.”
“I know,” You say, fiddling with a hangnail. “I know I probably should.”
You sigh, tilting your head back against the headrest. “I always keep holding out hope, you know? That one day they’ll apologize, figure their shit out, care about me in a way that matters. I know it’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid.”
You frown. “It’s not? It kinda seems stupid. You’d think by now I would know better.”
“No,” Jack eases the car out of the parking space, “We’re biologically wired to love our families. It’s the reason why they can fuck you up so bad. Your brain can’t compute why the people who are supposed to love you above all else just… don’t. Not in any of the right ways.”
You blow air through your lips. “I think my parents fucked me up. I was so happy when I matched into the Pitt, because it was so far away. But then I got out here it just kind of hit me, all at once, that I was alone. My best friend was gone, my ex boyfriend sucked, and I was too busy in med school taking care of myself and my family to make any friends.”
Shit, that sounds so whiny. “But it turns out it wasn’t so bad. Now I've got Mell, and Santos, and I’m pretty sure I’m friends with Shen too. Mckay is nice too. I like her. She’s cool.”
Jack huffs something that could be a laugh, and you turn to study him; the angles of his face awash in the glow of the red light you’re currently stopped at. From here, you can see the tiny bits of tension he carries in his face— a slight pinch in his brow, the tiniest downturn of his lips. It’s the only evidence that he’s not as unaffected by your family as he pretends to be.
Then the light turns green, and his face isn’t illuminated the same.
“And what about me?”
Oh. Well. That’s a loaded question.
The alcohol emboldens you to answer honestly. “I don’t know what to think about you.”
“Oh really?”
“Mmm. Nope.”
“How come?”
"You're so–” You gesture vaguely, “Confusing. I can’t figure you out. For a while there, I was pretty sure you hated me, but then you offered to help me with this and you keep saying you care so I think I’m wrong.”
“You think you’re wrong?”
“Still can’t figure you out.”
“And how can I show you that I mean it?”
That’s. Hmm.
“I don’t know. I think what you’re doing is working,” You pause, debating the pros and cons of continuing to just say whatever the fuck you want before deciding you’re too tired to care, “It helps that you’re really hot.”
His lips twitch. “Oh, does it now?”
“Mhm. You’ve got this whole… capable thing about you. It’s hot. Competency is in.”
“If you say so.”
“I do say so. I feel like if I had a problem I could call you or something and you would fix it. You’re so…”
“Competent?”
“That’s the word.”
If he’s at all irritated, annoyed, or otherwise put off by your stupid rambling, he didn’t show it.
“You should call me whenever you have a problem. Chances are, I can fix it.”
“Are you like Bob the Builder?”
“I’m a doctor, so no.”
“You’re kind of like Bob the Builder.”
“Whatever you say,” He pauses at an empty intersection before continuing on, “Before I start heading towards your place, do you want to stop by mine? You didn’t even get to eat your salad, and I have leftovers. You can say no.”
“Are you gonna be mad at me if I say no?”
“No.”
‘Then yes.”
“You sure? I wasn’t lying.”
“I know. But I like your cooking.”
You spend the drive to Jack’s continuing to ramble about nothing and everything, to which he entertains with a seemingly endless amount of patience. The only time he interrupts is to hand you a bottle of Gatorade he procured from his back seat. Apparently, he bought a few to keep in his car after the first lunch. “For any alcohol excursions.”
It’s freaky how prepared he is for every situation.
When you arrive, he unbuckles your seatbelt for you (unbuckling is just as difficult as buckling when you’ve had an unknown amount of peach bellinis) and helps you up the stairs to his apartment.
His gigantic apartment.
“Woah,” You mumble as you shuffle through the doorway, pulled along by your hand in Jacks, “I didn’t know they made apartments this size.”
“Its not that big.”
“I think, like, four of my apartments could fit in here. Your living room is the size of my entire place.”
You stumble once, heel catching on the little rug on the entry way, and he’s immediately motioning for you to sit on the little bench by the door and pats his thigh once. You clumsily raise your leg, barely managing to land your foot on the general area he gestures to. He pulls the first shoe off, then repeats with the second with an air of total calm. Like this is normal and he does this all the time for you. Like you regularly find yourself drunk in his apartment.
You decide to unpack the moment when you’re sober.
“One, it’s not that big, and two, that’s what you get for renting a studio apartment.”
“Like you could afford better when you were an intern.”
He snorts, leading you to his couch and gesturing for you to sit. “If you want to change clothes you can borrow some of mine.”
You chew on your lip. The outfits you choose to look nice for your mother are never exactly comfortable, and when else are you going to get the chance to privately live the scenario you fantasize about several times a week before falling asleep?
“Only if you don’t mind.”
“I wouldn't have offered if I wasn’t. Stay there.”
Jack’s only gone for a few minutes before he reappears with a dark grey sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants in a slightly lighter shade. The sweatshirt is oversized and looks well worn, but the sweatpants are suspiciously new, close to your size, and look eerily similar to a pair you changed into after a shift a few weeks ago.
He hands them to you. Neither of you mention the sweatpants. “You can change in the bathroom. Door locks from the inside. I’m gonna change too, and then I’ll heat up the food.”
Jack shows you the bathroom (you don’t bother unpacking why exactly he felt the need to tell you that the door locks and from the inside, that’s for when you’re significantly more drunk than you are now and when you’re not in his fancy-ass apartment.)
Because he’s a man and men take approximately three seconds to change, he’s already in the kitchen setting stuff on the counter by the time you emerge from the bathroom. His countertops are solid granite, because the apartment is clearly expensive and he’s a man. They’re an inky black color with tiny flecks that sparkle when the light hits them just so.
“What are you doing?” Jack asks when he turns from the fridge to find you tilting your head this way and that.
“Looking at the sparkles.”
“Oookay. Do you want me to heat up the vodka pasta or the chicken?”
“You made vodka pasta?”
He shrugs. “You said you liked it.”
You slide into a seat at the kitchen island, a flush creeping up your neck. “The pasta, please.”
Suddenly exhausted now that you’re in soft, comfortable clothes that smell like Jack, you decide to just rest your head on your arms for a bit. And close your eyes. But you’re not going to fall asleep. You’re not.
“Don’t fall asleep. You need to eat something first.”
“M’ not fallin’ asleep.”
“Mhm. Sure.”
With great effort, you blink your eyes open and watch Jack while he heats up the pasta and prepares something else. A salad maybe?
“What’re’you’ making?”
“Just a little salad. In case the pasta is too heavy for you.”
“Oh. How come?”
“Because I don’t want you to throw up.”
“I promise I won’t throw up on your furniture. I don’t usually throw up when I’m hungover.”
“You drink often?”
“No,” Your head lulls to the side, “I’m too busy. I’m actually not-so-secretly very boring. I don’t really like partying. I much prefer staying at home.”
“Thought you went to that thing with King and Santos?”
“Yeah, but that was ‘cause Trinity really wanted me to come and I felt bad and I didn’t want her to think I was a boring, uptight bitch.”
“I see.”
“Yeah. I kinda had fun, though. I wished you were there.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” You sigh, probably a hint too dreamily, “Makes me feel better when you’re around.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He slides a little bowl with a light salad in it to you across the counter, and it's perfectly refreshing. Not at all heavy like the pasta ends up being.
“Sorry I couldn’t finish it,” You say, forcing down a yawn and resisting the urge to burrow into your arms and go to sleep right there, “I feel bad that you went through the trouble of making it and heating it up.”
“It wasn’t that much effort. Besides, now you can just eat it for lunch tomorrow instead. I’ll send it home with you.”
“Mhm.” You hum, slowly inching your arms forward and down onto the counter, your head quickly following suit.
Jack chuckles, and you can hear the light step of his feet as he rounds the corner of the island and nudges you in the arm.
“Come on, sweetheart. You wanna get home to bed, don’t you?”
“No,” You shake your head, “I wanna sleep right here. It’s comfortable.”
“It won’t be when you wake up.”
You whine, curling away from him.
He just puffs another little laugh. “You can either sleep in your bed, or my bed. You can’t sleep on the kitchen island.”
“Why not?” You finally lift your head, “And why is your bed an option?”
“One,” He lifts up one finger in front of your face and slowly drags it back and forth, “Because the kitchen island is not a bed. Two, I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.”
“Why? Is your couch uncomfortable?”
“No,” He says, shuffling back over to where the leftovers are and tucking all the food away in the proper places, “It’s just not right to make a woman sleep on the couch.”
“I like sleeping on couches.”
He shoots you a look over his shoulder, “I’m sure you do. But you’re still a little drunk, and my bed is closer to the bathroom than the couch is.”
You prop your head on your hand. “Who said I’m even staying here tonight?”
Jack closes the fridge. “Do you want to? Because I don’t care either way. We both have tomorrow off.”
“It’d be weird to wake up here.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re my boss.”
“And I’m faking being your boyfriend so your parents get off your back. Pretty sure we’re past coworkers.”
“What would we even do in the morning?”
“Sleep.”
“I don’t want to kick you out of your bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“You’re my guest–”
“You’re already doing so much for me,” You blurt, stomach clenching, “I– You know me. I can only handle so much. Let me do this one thing? Please?”
Jack glowers for a bit, then sighs.
“Only because you asked nicely and I believe in rewarding good behavior. And because I know my couch isn’t uncomfortable. I’ll help you make it up.”
Jack’s apartment is surprisingly tidy for the fact that a man lives in it (Christopher’s room at his parent’s house always looked like shit) and he pulls down a couple options for bedding. You go with the plain black sheet and its matching thick, fluffy comforter. He insists on making up the couch himself (despite the fact that the alcohol has mostly worn off by now) and even sets up a glass of water, a liquid IV packet, and a bucket– “Just in case those bellini’s don’t love you back.”
The sight of it all is almost too much. It’s just so much care. All of it. The fact that he’s helping out with you and your disaster of a family, the way that despite the horribleness of it all he hasn’t judged you at all for how you deal with them. He refuses to let you drive yourself, always pays for every lunch for your entire family and the little snacks you get afterwards. Listens to you rant and he makes you food and gets you blankets and–
“You okay there?”
“Mhm,” You hum, “Just thinkin’.”
He leaves you be for a moment, busies himself with fixing your pillows and and tugging the comforter into its proper place.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn, throwing your arms around Jack’s middle and burying your face in his chest.
“Thank you,” You say, voice muffled by the fabric, “For doing all of this. Thank you for looking out for me.”
Jack is still for a second, just long enough for you to second guess initiating physical contact –a line you were previously too scared to cross– but then his hands come up and it's so, immediately, remarkably over. Because you’re never ever going to draw that line again. You can never go back to your life without having this. Without having him.
Jack’s hands are big and deliciously warm as they slide up, around your waist, lingering to rub a few circles on the mid of your back before moving on. One arm stays, tightening around your waist and drawing you closer while his other glides further up, up, up, his callused palms sliding over the knob at the very base of your neck before his hand settles around your nape, fingers just barely brushing the edge of your hairline.
You barely manage to suppress a whine at how warm and incredible it feels to be fully enveloped by him. You never want him to let go. Goosebumps erupt everywhere he touches, little sparks of electricity lingering under your skin in his wake.
“I will always,” He presses the lightest of kisses to your temple, just a feathering of his lips, “Look out for you, baby. I’m always gonna be right here.”
His arms tighten around you, drawing you in— closer, closer, closer. Wrapped up in everything that is Jack you can’t help but sag, going completely boneless in his grip and allowing yourself to just bask in him.
“You smell good.” You mumble into his shirt, completely lost in the moment.
“Do I?”
“Yeah. Good. Like man.”
He chuckles, the sound vibrating pleasantly against your cheek. “Thank you sweetheart.”
“Why do you call me sweetheart?”
“Because you’re a sweetheart.”
“I am?”
“Don’t play dumb now,” He pulls back a little, just enough to get a good look at you, fingers curling in the fine hair at your nape and tugging down, angling your chin up so you’re forced to look at him, “You know you are.”
You shrug, eyes darting to the side, your cheeks flushing, “I don’t know. I was just making sure.”
“Mhm.” He hums, tone almost mocking, fingers tightening around your hair just before the precipice of pain.
You stay like that for a few moments of charged silence. Jack’s eyes shamelessly rove over the planes of your face, mapping it out in his mind. He keeps his grip on your hair, not completely forcing eye contact but keeping your head firmly in place.
It’s possessive. Bold. Probably too intimate for two people who (supposedly) are not actually dating
And you love it.
Jack only lets his hand (and your head) drop when your jaw opens in a splitting yawn.
“Okay,” He huffs, taking a step back, “Time for bed. Get going.”
Embarrassment is the only thing keeping you from whining at the loss of contact and impending reality of sleeping on the couch alone. But you made your bed (figuratively) so now you have to lie in it.
The couch does look comfortable. Especially since Jack put all the blankets together.
He waits until you’ve crawled under the comforter to bid you goodnight, followed by a parting reminder to “Wake him up if you start aspirating on vomit.” It’s a very Jack thing to say.
You’re out almost the second Jack turns the lights off. You fall into deep, blissful sleep, dreaming of that final moment in the living room, your eyes boring into each other.
Except in the dream, you tilt your head up those last few inches, and kiss your fake boyfriend as hard as you can.
–
Generally, the annual lecture event ends with a massive blow out argument. Something dramatic and filled with expletives, after which your mother will refuse to answer any texts or calls you send before finally telling you that’s she’s sorry if (always if) something she said offended you, but talking to you is just so hard sometimes so she doesn’t want to unless you’re ready to be more civil. By the time the two of you are on neutral terms again, it’s time for the next annual lunch circuit.
You’re a mess of nerves in the hours before the last one. Like usual, your mom requested that the last dinner be held at your place. “So it can feel like a real family dinner.” While you know that there isn’t any saying no to your mother, you also know that there is no way you’re cramming your entire family in your tiny ass studio apartment. It happened once. It will not happen again.
You originally asked Jack during a last minute shift you both got called in to cover if he would help you move some of the furniture at your place to accommodate them, and then he’d gotten this incredulous look on his face and then told you to tell your mom that you’re having dinner at his place.
“Jack,” You’d gaped at him, “It’s fine. My apartment isn’t that small, and you don’t have to help move the furniture if you don’t want to. I can ask Dennis to give me a hand instead. I really don’t think you want to host my family.”
“Sweetheart, it’s just logic. You’ve seen my place.”
“Okay. No need to rub it in.”
He’d just rolled his eyes and pinned you with a firm look. “Come on. You know this is the best option. If your mom throws a fit, tell her I insisted and give her my number.”
“Do you have a death wish?” You hiss, “That’s asking for torture.”
Jack had just shrugged. “Would having it at my place be easier for you?”
“...Yes?”
“Then we’ll do it there. You’re off in a bit, right?”
You’d nodded.
He fishes something small and shiny out of his pocket and tosses it to you. “That’s my spare key. I’ll be here later than you, so just let yourself in if you want to get there earlier to start setting up. I’ll be home soon.”
Robby shouted his name soon after and Jack was whisked away, leaving you standing in the middle of the ED, holding the fucking spare key to his apartment, gaping like a fish.
The line between real and fake has become so blurred you’re not sure if it ever was there to begin with.
He’s started calling you sweetheart more and more often– sometimes when no one's around. No familial audience to be persuaded into the romantic lie you’re selling. Is it still a lie if it doesn’t feel like one anymore?
The question and accompanying feeling follows you all day. All throughout your harried dinner preparation. Even now, with a solid hour until your family is supposed to start showing up, you can’t help but pace the length of Jack’s kitchen, heeled feet clicking on his floor. Jack himself is similarly dressed up, wearing a pair of dark jeans (“I’m not wearing slacks in my own home, and I’m not old enough to start wearing khakis with everything.”) and a black button down shirt with the first two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He makes a very nice view and under other circumstances you might take the opportunity to climb him like a tree. But alas. Anxiety.
“Take your shoes off if you’re going to pace. You’re gonna give yourself blisters.”
You ignore him, chewing on an already stinging cuticle.
“Things have been pretty good this far, right? Do you think she’s just waiting until the very end to bring up some secret thing that she’s upset about?”
Jack begins preparing the wine –your mother only likes red– for decanting. “I think if your mother were that upset about something she wouldn’t be able to hide it.”
“True. But what if?”
“I’m not going to help you spiral.”
“Why not?” You whine.
He looks at you with a heavy glare and points to the shoe tray at the door. “Shoes. Off. You can put them back on when they get here.”
You grumble under your breath the entire way but comply. Only because your feet were starting to hurt.
When your family finally does arrive, it ends up being annoyingly anti-climactic. You spend the entire time on the edge of your seat (literally and figuratively) waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for conversation to turn sour, arguments to erupt, someone to choke on a piece of lettuce and die despite professional intervention.
But the argument never starts, conversation remains what it usually is and becomes no worse (or better, unfortunately) and no one passes away due to unevenly chopped vegetables.
The torture is over fairly quickly. Most everyone’s flight back home leaves early the next morning and your dad is paranoid about flight times.
Pretty soon it’s all just… over. They leave, your mother bickering with your father on the way out about something that probably doesn’t matter, and then it’s just you and Jack and the entire scheme is just done. Finished. Just like that.
There won't be anymore knee's brushing under the table, no more shared glances and pecks to the cheek when you make a joke that actually lands. No more excuses just to sit and watch him under the guise of playing the adoring girlfriend. No more late night milkshakes.
You'll just go back to being coworkers-- People who pretend not to know each other intimately. Jack probably won't struggle with it. But to you, right now, the idea of just not having him anymore seems like a another wound, right over top all the others.
You don't want him to become another person who used to know you.
You’ve been staring at the closed door for upwards of five full minutes, clenching and unclenching your fists when Jack comes up next to you. He hands you the same clothes you wore the last time you were there and jerks his head in the direction of the bathroom.
“Why don’t you go and change, huh?”
Your lip wobbles a bit as you answer. “But I want to help you clean up.”
“You can,” He soothes, “After you change.”
“But–”
“Hey,” He interrupts, “No. You’ve been stuck in those clothes for hours. Go change. I’ll wait for you.”
Jack keeps his word. He’s leaned up against the kitchen island when you emerge, rubbing at your –now bare, having had the foresight to bring makeup wipes with you– face.
He looks up when the door opens. “Better?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
He just hums, heading back over to the kitchen table, stacking plates and cutlery. You follow in silence, and he thankfully doesn’t push for conversation.
Cleaning up doesn’t take long enough. Jack has a fancy dishwasher (and probably doesn’t want to stay standing any more than he has to this late in the day) and there aren’t any leftovers to pack up. Your brothers are bottomless pits when it comes to free food.
It can’t just be over like this. It can't.
When everything is finished and there isn't anything left to do, Jack wordlessly leads you to the couch and puts something quiet and calm on the TV. The white noise washes over you as you attempt to get comfortable, but the knowledge that it's all over proves to be an itch under your skin that you just can't seem to squash.
“So,” You say after the two of you are seated on opposite ends of the couch, “That’s it then.”
“So it is.”
“Guess I owe you big time, huh?”
“I’ve already told you I don’t care about that.”
“Right,” You look down at your lap, “Yeah. Sorry.”
You lapse into silence.
Jack sighs. “Sweetheart–”
“Was it fake to you?” You blurt, jiggling your knee, still staring at your lap, “Were you– did you mean it?”
It never felt fake. It never felt like pretending.
It felt real.
It felt like, for the first time in your life, things could be easy.
Maybe easy isn't the right word. But it life sure as hell didn't feel as hard.
When you look up, uncomfortable in his silence and hoping there’s answers in his face, but instead of finding something like disappointment or irritation, he’s grinning.
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
He dips his head once. “Yes you do. You’re a smart girl, I think you can figure it out.”
Your fingers are curled around the hem of his sweatshirt, white-knuckling the fabric as if to stabilize yourself. Like you’re liable to somehow float away if you don’t dig your heels into the couch and hold on tight.
“What if I’m wrong?”
“You won’t be.”
A scoff escapes your lips, “You can’t know for sure.”
He taps his pointer finger on his leg in an unhurried rhythm.
“You do.”
Your stomach is rolling in a combination of leftover anxiety from the dinner that went better than it was supposed to and the weight of Jack’s gaze on you.
“I think…” You pause, worry threatening to overwhelm you, and take a deep breath before continuing, “I think you might like me.”
“You think,” He drawls, “I might.”
“I don’t want to be wrong!” You cry.
Jack huffs, throwing his head back in a good-natured sigh.
“Come here.”
You scoot further down the couch, sitting criss-cross right in front of him. This is not going the way you thought it would. You were almost certain you’d walk away shamed and embarrassed, forced to fake your death and flee the country out of the sheer humiliation of thinking your boss would actually have a crush on you.
Jack does love to prove you wrong.
“Soo,” You start, still hesitant, “You do like me.”
Jack props his head on his hand, his expression something you’re starting to recognize as fond. “Yes.”
“More than a little?”
“Yes.”
“And you weren’t faking anything. You were serious about the— You know.”
“Use your words.”
“The flirting.” You clarify, ears burning.
“All correct,” He nods, “Though I would have said it differently.”
You frown. “And how would you have put it?”
“I would have said,” He reaches out, snagging your arm and tugging until you fall down onto his chest with a little oof, “That you have a hard time believing things that are good, so I had to audition for my role. Like old-fashioned courting.”
You want to be offended, but unfortunately, it did work.
You frown.
Wait.
“Have you known I liked you this whole time?”
Jack snorts. “Overheard you talking to Whitaker about it during your second week.”
He’s known since the second week?
“Oh my god.”
“Don’t worry, I didn’t tell anyone. Except Robby. He’s been hoping you would figure it out for awhile now.”
“Oh my god.”
“I thought it was cute,” He smoothes a hand over your hair, “You were so much more nervous back then. You’ve come a long way.”
You shift uncomfortably at the praise, but Jack’s having none of it. He wraps his arms around you, holding you in place.
“Can you take a compliment?”
“No.”
He re-positions under you, getting more comfortable. “We’ll try again later.”
“Am I– Can I stay here tonight then?”
“Of course,” he murmurs, “My one condition is that you’re not sleeping on the couch.”
“Fine,” You sigh, long and drawn out, “I suppose we can share.”
“How kind of you to share my bed with me.”
“I have been told I’m kind.”
You both smile, and everything just feels so right and so perfect that you can't help but lean up, clearing the last few inches, and pressing a hesitant, gentle kiss to his lips.
It’s just like your dream.
Only this time, it’s real. And Jack is kissing you back.
I’ve loved every single moment of writing fics for you guys, and I want to say a huge massive thank you to everyone that follows me and supports my work !!
But I’ve decided to take a writing break - I’m finishing up college soon and I want to make the most of the time I have with my friends, along with finals and assignments etc. Writing has always been an outlet for me, but right now it’s taking up a lot of time that I just don’t have.
I’ll still be active on here, reblogging fics of my fave stuff. Love you all, always!! 🧡🧡🧡
pairing: Jack Abbot x surgical resident!reader
summary: your work’s been leaving you exhausted, but you’re struggling to fall asleep, you barely can relax. Javadi recommends you an audio erotica app. and it does help you unwind. until you realize that the orgasmic raspy voice in your headphones belongs to one of your attendings — none other than Jack Abbot.
warnings: implied age gap (that you can ignore); mutual pining, Jack isn’t that good at flirting when he catches feelings. he compensates for it with his other talents 😏 smut {dirty talk, masturbation, praise kink, teasing, fingering (with two hands, idk if that’s a thing?), piv, aftercare}; Park is an unintentional wingman, Javadi is the bestest of friends / words: 13K / author’s note: this was suuuper unplanned, I wrote the whole thing in a couple of days. is the smut too detailed? maybe. idc ♡ READ ON AO3 / MASTERLIST
Late in the evening, the cafeteria makes for a perfect place for naps.
With day and night shifts overlapping, everyone’s busy with the paperwork and greetings, and that’s when you prefer to slip away. You aren’t alone at this uncommon hiding spot — Santos already dozed off at a table further off, earbuds in, hood up. She can sleep anywhere and anytime. But you aren’t that lucky.
You spent ten minutes genuinely trying — deep breaths, and meditation, and counting sheep. Now you’re just sulking, helpless against your permanent exhaustion. You catch the footsteps first — quick, quiet, a woman on a mission. The door creaks just a little when it opens.
Closes.
You know the quiet won’t last long.
“I can feel you staring. You’d suck as a spy,” you say, grudgingly opening one eye to see Javadi leaning on the fridge door.
She shakes her head — half disapproval, half concern. “You know, each time I see you here, I’m not sure if you’re asleep or dead.”
“And they let you talk to suicidal people like that? Maybe I plan on walking out of the nearest window.”
“You won’t make it that far,” she chuckles and hands it to you — her peace offering: a frozen Butter Pecan Swirl, topped with whipped cream and sprinkled with crushed nuts. It’s like an orgasm in a cup (a huge one), which you are happy to accept.
Javadi sits right next to you, concern still very present in her deer-like dark eyes. “I think even the patients on a psych hold look better than you do.”
“Wow, that comparison really cheered me up. You should be thankful, by the way,” you’re savouring the icy, jarringly sweet drink. “If I didn’t look like death, you’d still be dreaming about getting into surgical residency. My eyebags changed the course of your life. You’re welcome.”
“I am forever in your debt. I’ll pay it off with coffee,” she smiles and leans back on the wall, stretching her legs out — black scrubs pants, grey sneakers, a sigh of relief.
And you think — suddenly and stupidly, because that’s how your brain’s now wired — of that one time Jack brought you the same drink. Sat with you on this same spot. Looked at you with his eyes crinkled at the corners, his usual smirk turned into a softer smile. You don’t even remember what he talked about, but the feeling stayed: of just how calm his presence made you. How comforting it was.
For a good minute, your coffee loses taste.
You blink. Take another sip. Look up — and see him walking through the door. And then it feels like you’re losing it in general. You pinch yourself. He doesn’t disappear.
“Long time no see,” Jack says, very much real. Casual. He goes to look for something in the fridge, a crumb of time for you to get yourself together. Then he looks back at you. “Tough shift?”
Tough week. Or month. Actually, life’s been pretty tough since you stopped working by his side. But you remind yourself that it was your decision.
“Bearable,” you say, pretending to take interest in the thick swirls of syrup on the inside of your cup. Hoping he’d take a hint. And yet, despite him being good at many things, Jack is perpetually bad at leaving you alone.
You left him first. You thought he’d hate you.
Instead, you hear his voice tinged with warmth:
“Didn’t you just patch up the guy with a ruptured aorta? That was badass.”
His compliment feels like a glass of water, and you’ve been parched with thirst.
“Yeah,” you meet his gaze, because you’ve missed him terribly. He’s looking at you like he hoped you would. And you can’t help the smile. “I guess it was.”
He doesn’t stop there. He comes a step closer, crossing his arms over his chest — unreasonably, sinfully buff arms — and stares straight at you:
“Remind me where’d you learned that clamping trick?”
He’s being smug now, and you have missed this too. Slowly, the room is narrowing to the small space he takes. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I might have more tricks up my sleeve. Can teach you somethin' else.”
He holds your gaze. Pins you to the spot with his. And just as always, he makes you feel like no one in the world exists except you two —
But you aren’t really alone.
You catch movement out of the corner of your eye. No doubt, it’s Javadi wishing she could blend in with the wall. And when you snap back to reality, Jack follows.
He clears his throat, taking a step back. “Teach you in the ER, I mean. If you want to or—or if you ever decide to come back, you know. But no pressure or anything.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Dr. Abbot,” you tell him, in the politest tone that you can master. Already grieving that small moment you knew could never last.
Javadi can barely wait for him to leave — before her face breaks into a smile. “Aw, he has a crush on you.”
“Which you have told me a dozen times, and I’ll continue to reply that no, he doesn’t,” although your own face treacherously heats up.
“He flirted with you just now.”
“He flirts with everyone. He’s like an energy vampire, that’s why he doesn’t look his age.”
Trinity groans somewhere behind you. She takes her earbuds out and sits up, stretching her shoulders. “To be fair, his flirting isn’t that impressive.”
“I think half of the ER would disagree,” Javadi eagerly retorts. If there’s one thing these two don’t ever get tired of, it’s bickering.
“Oh no, he is charming. With everyone but her,” Trinity turns to you with a shit-eating grin. “With you, he’s awkward. Which, don’t get me wrong, is hilarious to witness. But Crash does have a point — he’s totally into you.”
“Did you two just agree on something? I must be hallucinating.”
Javadi rolls her eyes. Santos just huffs a laugh. She grabs her backpack, smartphone and an already opened silvery-blue can.
“He’s also been very moody since you moved to the upper floor. Just saying,” she winks at you and walks out, loudly gulping her Red Bull.
Your mood hasn’t been good either. It gets a little worse once you realise you reached the bottom of your frothy drink. And somehow, your second wind didn’t kick in.
“Can you develop a high tolerance to coffee? I feel like I should be way more awake. This cup is literally the size of a newborn.”
“Babe, you know there’s barely any coffee in it,” Javadi says, no judgment, just a little bit of pity. “You just crave sugar because your body needs some fuel to continue functioning.”
“But what if coffee isn’t working anymore... What’s the next best option? Cocaine?”
“You can’t afford cocaine.”
“I’ll sell a kidney.”
“Can’t do that either, you need them both.”
“I didn’t say I would sell mine.”
The laugh she gives you sounds half-hearted. Her face looks serious when she notes. “I know that humour is your defensive mechanism, but sometimes it’s okay to actually talk about what’s bothering you.”
“I’m very bothered by the amount of unsolicited therapy you keep bringing into our friendship,” you quip. And your regret is instant. “Sorry, I genuinely don’t remember the last time I slept for more than five hours.”
“Has Park been riding you too much? You know you are allowed to take breaks, even if he doesn’t think so.”
“No, it’s not that I don’t have free time, I just— I can’t fall asleep. I drag my feet and doze off ten times a day, but the second my head hits the pillow — nothing. My body is not... bodying or whatever the fuck it’s called.”
And then you watch her worry bleed into a different expression. She looks at you, a little coy, a little bit excited.
“I might have an idea. But I need you not to laugh at me.”
“Vic, I am physically closer to a zombie than to a human being. If there’s any way to help me fall asleep faster, I’ll try it.”
“Okay, there’s this app... With a collection of audios. Recorded by men and women, you can pick. They sort of play out different imaginary scenarios, like meeting you for the first time and getting to know each other. And maybe, like, kissing or —”
“Just to clarify, you recommend that I listen to some porn?” you’re trying to drag out some of the whipped cream with a straw.
“It’s not porn!” she hisses, adorably ashamed. “I mean, not always. They aren’t all explicit. The ones I’ve listened to, they were... Really immersive. And it just feels nice. Helps to take your mind off things. I don’t know, I kinda thought you’d be into it.”
“Masturbation? I feel like I should be offended.”
“No, the whole... Talking thing.”
With your mouth full, you raise a brow at her, somewhat confused.
“I mean, isn’t that why you liked working with Abbot? He was explaining everything to you, always talked you through the procedures and stuff. And now you are super annoyed because Park barely speaks. Just glares at people.”
“I assure you, I’m not at all annoyed that my attending does not turn me on.”
Javadi giggles, leaning toward you. “So what you’re saying is that... Abbot turned you on?”
“You know what, now I actually want to kill myself.”
“No, you still have an hour of your shift left. And then,” she rubs your arm with small, comforting circles, back to her serious self. “You will come home, take a scalding shower, just as you like it, pop in a couple of melatonin gummies, and get some sleep.”
“Those gummies don’t do shit. I ate four last time and then stared at the ceiling for two hours.”
She playfully nudges your shoulder with hers. “Well, there’s always another option,” Javadi laughs at your grimace and gets up. “I need to go back to other unstable people. Text me when you get home. I’m serious.”
“Will do, mom.”
She flips you off on her way out.
Whatever little caffeine’s been in your drink, it helps you look less dead and more like a person who can be trusted with a scalpel. The OR floor is quiet and cool, and from afar, Park can be mistaken for a statue: a tall body made of sharp lines and muscles, staying completely still as he looks through a patient’s file.
He waits for you to reach the nursing station. Gives you one quick look, his eyes deep blue, cold like ice.
“Got enough coffee to keep you standing? Don’t want to scrape you off the floor.”
You give him a dry chuckle. “When have you ever scraped me off the floor?”
One corner of his mouth moves up, merely an inch. “Fair,” he says, his gaze back to the tablet. “I’d like for it to stay that way.”
“So who’s the last one for today? Anything exciting?”
“Male, 63, a proximal humerus fracture. It’s all in his file. I’ll see you in ten.”
Big fucking thanks for the detailed reply.
“They say that brevity is the soul of wit, but no one tells you it’s also such a mood killer,” you mutter, not bothering to keep your voice down.
Park makes a sound that’s more of a long hum than a real laugh. He throws the words over his shoulder: “I’ll let you do the CRPP.”
“Thanks, I’m smiling on the inside.”
He never really smiles. Or says more than he needs to. And sometimes you’re thankful that he doesn’t: it unironically makes him almost the perfect mentor for you.
Unlike the previous one.
You may never admit it out loud, but you’ve come to enjoy working with Park. He’s harsh at times, yes, but he is also quick and talented and not that bad at teaching. The problem isn’t that he doesn’t talk much. You don’t mind doing your own research, and you’re actually okay with him being closed off.
The real problem is Jack Abbot. Who has been driving you insane.
At first, there were no signs of trouble.
You picked the night shift for your rotation because you’ve always been more of a night owl, and you enjoyed the challenge that comes with the variety of traumas. You two clicked from day one — Jack carried just the right amount of confidence to seem trustworthy, but his male ego didn’t get offended by someone else’s talent. He smiled at you and made small talk and always offered answers to your questions. He also smiled and talked to literally everybody else, so you didn’t think much of it. At least, you tried not to. You told yourself that you came to the ER to learn, that you wouldn’t allow your feelings to interrupt your job.
Even when said feelings turned into a crush. That felt like an addiction.
It started with you waiting. Wanting. More of his words, his gaze, his flattering attention. Jack always knew exactly how to land a compliment — his words were short, sure. Accompanied by that hint of a smile. He’d stand close, just on the edge of inappropriately close, his steady voice providing guidance. He’d push you when he knew that you could handle it. He’d tell you all the necessary steps and walk you through them and somehow make you feel like you succeeded on your own. “Yes, that’s the move.” “Look at you taking risks, kid.” “Good” —
— “girl”, you wanted Jack to add.
So good for him, you wanted him to think.
You wanted him. God knows, you wanted him so badly.
It didn’t help that Shen soon started calling you “Jack’s favorite”. Sometimes in front of Abbot, who hasn’t denied it once. Ellis discreetly (so she thought) tried leaving you alone with him more often. And even Crus once told you that you were the only resident Jack paid so much attention to.
It could’ve been a picture-perfect start of a love story, if only not for one crucial piece missing: Jack never crossed the line.
Even after you’ve caught his gaze lingering, his hands reaching for you, his warmth grazing your shoulder or your spine. On more than one occasion. And still, it led nowhere. There were no accidental touches, no flirting outside of the ER, he didn’t even try to get your number.
Inevitably, it made you feel self-conscious. Stupid. Pathetic even. What’s worse, his presence was distracting, and losing focus was the one thing you absolutely couldn’t do.
So you looked for a way out that’d let you save your dignity and your career. Switching to surgery helped you with both. Despite the fact that you had to restart your year. Despite seeing the very obviously hurt expression on Jack’s face when you informed him. He didn’t try to stop you, though. You didn’t tell him why exactly you were leaving. Instead, you dived right into work: from dealing with small fractures and arthritis to sports injuries, torn muscles, spinal disorders and crushed bones. It was in no way easy, but it felt empowering — knowing that you could fix something so strong and weighty, the living tissues made of minerals and collagen, the bony structure that allows people to move.
And on the rare occasions your paths crossed, Abbot kept being friendly. But you kept your distance.
Even if deep down, you still missed him.
His gaze, his guidance. Most of all, his voice.
It takes you two more days to finally give up and ask Javadi about the app.
Hey, so that app that’s totally not audio porn... Can you please give me the name. And then forget I asked.
Actually, forgetting might not be enough. Next time you come over, I’ll need you to swear on the Bible.
There’s no way you have a Bible at home.
Well, another option is a blood oath.
I’m this 🤏 close to admitting you into our psych ward.
Just say you miss me and want to see me more often. There’s no shame in it!
Please, get fucked (literally 😛).
You click the App Store link she sent, then press on the newly downloaded icon on the screen.
The layout is pretty simple — pale colors, normal-sized fonts, a short video guide. You don’t waste time and tap on the male voices' section to look through their audio titles. They aren’t at all exhilarating. A Trip to the G-spot (thanks, been there), Hold on to my nuts! (yikes), Your Daddy’s Home (double yikes), The Song of Praise and Cum (this calls for a lobotomy). You spend another minute on it, already battling frustration — and you’re about to log off, when finally a title catches your attention:
A Helping Hand.
“Okay, a little on the nose,” you mumble to yourself.
It is a series of recordings, about half an hour each. It seems that he is relatively new, but he’s got great reviews. His nickname is Nightcrawler. He has no profile photo. His bio says: “I guess, this is my new hobby.”
You’re positive that it won’t work on you.
You take a shower, put on your pajamas and your noise-cancelling headphones. You sit in bed, your back against the pillows. With zero expectations (except maybe to find it all ridiculous and cringe).
You press play.
At first, there’s just silence.
And then he starts, his voice unhurried like a rustle of the wind:
“Hi, baby. You look so tired,” he murmurs. “You’ve had a hard day, I can tell.”
You pause immediately. But not because you hate it. It startles you — how much you like him from the get-go, how just a sentence of this stranger’s voice made heat flash in your stomach.
You try to sit a little straighter. Then press play again.
“All that tension in your body, that slight soreness of your muscles... We really need to do something about it, honey. I can’t have you going to sleep so tense.”
Yeah, you don’t want that either.
His every quiet word strikes home: your limbs are heavy with exhaustion, your mind is clouded with it. You let out a breath you didn’t realize that you were holding. And you don’t think that him saying all that is a hell of a coincidence. Instead, it actually feels nice: for someone else to talk about your struggles. For it to sound like understanding.
“Don’t worry, I can fix that. You just lie down and listen to my voice.”
So you slide lower in your bed, the pillows now behind your head and shoulders. And when he asks to close your eyes, you do.
You follow every single one of his instructions. His raspy, gently voiced commands: he’s telling you to take deep breaths, to slowly stretch out your arms and legs, to draw small circles over your temples, to put your hands lower and massage your neck. He’s telling you he wishes he was there to help you. That he would know exactly where to rub and press. And that his fingers would’ve felt much better.
Then he’s instructing you to put hands on your chest, to run them up and down your body to get your blood flowing. You do just that. And soon you feel your skin prickle with warmth.
“Need you to relax, to shut off that beautiful brain of yours,” he says, with a controlled and hushed insistence. “Don’t think about anything. It’s just you and me, sweetheart.”
Your thoughts are light; there’s nothing on your mind but him. Your muscles pliantly unravel as he continues speaking. About how warm your skin must feel, how pretty you are looking — laid out for him on your bedcovers. And there’s another feeling that feeds off his voice: a spark of fire that grows and spreads and makes you ache for more.
You hear him telling you to move your hands down to your stomach. He says he wishes he could touch you there, to slowly drag his fingers down to your navel —
“Wish I could feel how wet you are right now.”
Your eyelids flutter open.
You probably should’ve predicted this turn of events. And truthfully, you aren’t as opposed to it as you thought you would be. You’re just not sure it will work. But when you slide your hand beneath the waistband of your panties —
you find the fabric in between your legs already soaked.
All that from someone talking to you nicely?
There must be something in his voice.
That same voice whispers:
“Touch yourself.”
Barely a second passes before you do.
This isn’t your first time, but somehow, it feels very different. More satisfying. Way more intimate. Pads of your fingers move against your clit, exactly how he tells you:
“want you to go slow for me, baby. rub it in circles, ju-ust like that,”
“apply more pressure with your index finger — feels good, yeah? c’mon, don’t stop,”
“now move a little lower, feel what a mess you’re making. I know you must be dripping”.
He’s right, you are. And then your eyes fall shut again, a whimper tumbling from your lips.
“I bet you’d feel so tight around my fingers,” he says hoarsely, making you clench around nothing.
If he was here, in your room, you’d shamelessly beg for more. A long-forgotten pleasure starts coiling in your stomach.
“Want you to put a finger in,” he orders. “Imagine that it’s mine.”
You start with one. Just one, and yet, it’s getting difficult to focus on his words. And fleetingly, with your chest heaving, you wonder what his fingers would feel like. As if he reads — or guesses — where your thoughts are wandering, he tells you, a smirk heard in his voice:
“But mine would be a lot thicker, so I need you to add another one,” — you slip the second finger in, and he lets out a hum, like he can see you, — “There you go. Don’t rush it, we’ve got time. I’d never rush it with you, honey.”
Despite you trying to move slowly, you’re getting dangerously close to cumming. You want to drag it out, you do, but he is making it too hard. When he is whispering to spread your legs wider. To set a rhythm, to start moving your hips a little. When he is telling you that you’re doing so good.
When he wants you to use your free hand to touch your nipples. When he says, teasingly, how much he wishes he could put his lips on you.
When you can hear him sigh, like all this also turns him on.
“Want you to go faster,” his words come out in low grunts. “Yes, keep going, don’t stop. Keep fucking yourself. Need to get you loosened up and ready for me. Fuck, your cunt would feel so perfect wrapped around my cock —”
Your orgasm crashes over you, sudden and shuddering.
You’re gasping, too loudly to hear what he is saying, your body floating in the waves of bliss. It takes a moment for you to catch your breath.
The audio ends abruptly on his own heavy breathing.
You are left stupefied and sweaty. And satisfied beyond description. Your headphones end up thrown across the bed, but you’re too tired to move an inch. It is a very pleasant kind of tired.
Before you know it, you are fast asleep.
What’s meant to be just a one-off soon turns into a habit. And you don’t really feel ashamed about it.
There is a certain thrill to it — having a secret you don’t want to share, the one thing you can’t wait to get home to. It does help you to take the edge off, yes: with just his words, he makes your tension melt away, makes all the worries disappear. Leaving you dazed and gasping at the thought of how good he’d fuck you.
But sometimes, as you come down from your high, your thighs wet and hands trembling, and he is soothing you back into consciousness — the stranger’s voice reminds you of Jack’s.
It can’t be him, of course.
You wish it was.
You also wish you could move on. Unstitch him from your memories that he’s been woven into, his face and arms and words seemingly always on your mind. They shouldn’t be, not when your feelings are so obviously one-sided.
So, since you’re able to wake up well-rested, you start to pile on more work.
You take your time to learn about non-invasive treatments: you get to know the PTMC’s physician and psychiatrist, you print out studies about injections and post-operative care, you spend your breaks leafing through the countless pages. You learn fast. You grab at every chance to practice. You ask to scrub in on some of Garcia’s cases, you’re lucky to assist Javadi’s mother a few times. And even though you feel that Park’s a little bit suspicious of your ardor, he asks no questions.
You don’t see Jack. He’s still on nights, and you are mostly up in the OR, and even when you do come down, you do your best to stay away. You hope that a tight schedule and your daily orgasms will be enough of a distraction. That at some point, your crush will quietly die down.
It’s no surprise that you’re working on the 4th.
And it’s predictably a shitshow: the waiting room is packed with patients, swamped with the summer heat, every new injury is worse — and way more gruesome — than the other. You deal with fractured, broken bones, you get to help with torn-off fingers, bashed-in skulls and penetrating wounds. You rush from one OR into the other. You barely get time to take a breath. And once you finally do, you get called down to the ER.
“Look who it is. Since when does surgery send its best residents to us poor mortals?” Robby puts on a smile to greet you.
“Garcia is still operating on Howard, Park’s dealing with your water slide case. I’m just happy to treat someone with intact bones for a change.”
“Can’t promise it will be a pretty sight.”
“Didn’t count on it.”
He cackles, his gloved hand pointing toward the sliding doors the gurneys come through. “Here’s the reason we called for a consult. Yours is the one with Old Glory jammed in his chest.”
And in the next second, your own chest tightens, anxiety bruising your ribcage like a seatbelt in a crash. Because the aforementioned patient is rolled in by Jack.
He doesn’t see you yet. You can’t help but notice — the tension roped around his back, the sheen of sweat around his forehead, faint sleepless shadows spilled under his eyes. Reflexively, you step out of the way so he can move down the hall without bumping into you. So you can stay unnoticed.
The injured man is in the middle of a screaming match with some guy whose cheek is slashed in half.
“I’m gonna take that thing out of my chest and shove it down your ass!”
“You hit me with a fucking Rolling Rock, man!”
“Because you are a cheater! And now my chest fucking hurts!”
“You’re the one who broke the rules! You know every detail must be —”
“Take yours into trauma 2 before I go deaf on one ear,” Abbot mumbles to Ellis, then tries to shush his patient. It isn’t working.
And you can tell that Jack is low on patience.
He grips the gurney with both hands and pushes it into the room, his voice coming out low and clipped:
“Sir, we are gonna get you more pain meds, but you need to shut your fucking mouth.”
It is a quick remark, maybe a little out of his character — too blunt, too rude; although acceptable under the current circumstances. And in the never-ending noise and busyness of the ER no one would ever waste their time on lecturing him. You aren’t even sure they heard.
But you freeze. As if a bomb just went off. The world around you is momentarily devoid of all the other sounds.
It isn’t the specific words, but the emotions you could hear behind them — intensity Jack usually reigns in, the punctuated heat of anger that slipped through his “shut” and “fucking”. You aren’t surprised he said those words. Or used that tone. Or lost his self-restraint for a few seconds.
You’re struck by the realization that you have heard him talk like that before.
“If his heart was damaged, he surely wouldn’t be yelling,” Robby comes up to you, eyeing the rowdy patient. “But the stabbing’s definitely within the cardiac box. What do you think?”
“Cardiac box it is. I’d bet on a pneumothorax,” you say, on some miraculous autopilot. But you aren’t looking at the patient.
Jack grabs the scissors to remove the man’s clothes, his hands working around the wooden stick he is impaled on; his gaze grazes you. On accident or maybe out of habit Jack hasn’t managed to unlearn. He turns to throw away the ruined, blood-stained fabric — then stops. And then his eyes come back to you, this time with purpose. He meets your gaze, his own confused a little, one of his brows crawling up. Because you’re staring at him, and he has no idea why.
It’s almost funny to imagine how you’d explain to him your stupor. Hey, Jack, is there a chance you like recording steamy audios? 'Cause I believe that I’ve been getting off to the sound of your voice.
But at the moment, you aren’t laughing.
You make an effort to drag your gaze away, your heartbeat loud in your ears. This can’t be happening. It cannot actually be him.
“Do an ultrasound to get a confirmation, I’ll go up to prep the OR,” you say to Robby flatly, eager to leave the room, to have a minute to yourself.
You take the stairwell, thoughts rushing as your feet are. And very quickly, your shock gives way to irritation. Surely, Jack is allowed to do whatever in his free time. But now that you suspect it’s him — his low voice that is so masterful at saying all those dirty things — you don’t think you’ll be able to relax. It would also be kinda inappropriate to continue listening to that.
But then you spend another seven hours on your feet. Three surgeries, two breaks (about ten minutes in total), a lot of blood and bones, a few of Park’s dry words. You miss the fireworks, the get-together with your former colleagues, the friendly chatter that maybe could’ve helped you to unwind. And by the time you cross the hall of your apartment, you find it hard to care about propriety.
You put the headphones on, fully aware that you’re about to hear Jack.
It doesn’t ruin things for you. It only turns you on instead.
Because it’s not some random guy — it’s Jack who puts you on all fours. Jack who tells you to put your fingers in your mouth. To suck them, to then take them deeper, to gag on them, just like he could’ve made you gag around his cock.
“Ass up for me, baby,” he instructs, his every word now carrying more weight — you cannot stop imagining him being here, whispering it all into your ear. “Bet your pussy is wet enough to take two fingers right away. C’mon, be a good girl. Show me.”
You never even think about reaching for your toys. You don’t need to: not when his voice alone makes waves of heat roll through your body, makes you pulsate with want, moan with longing.
“Want you to think of my cock slowly stretching you,” Jack rasps, “Because it’s all I think about,” and you’re imagining his chest pressed to your back, the sounds he would make while thrusting deep, deeper, relentless movement of his hips, his lips grazing your neck, “I know you’ll take my cock so well. Like it was made for fucking you.”
His big hands roaming over your body. His hot breath on your skin. Him, him, it has always been him.
“I’d make you feel so good. Until you drip all over my cock. Until you’re sobbing for me to fill you up,” he whispers heatedly. “I will. Just so I can fuck my cum back into you when we go for round two. I know my girl is always greedy for more.”
And he is right, you would be.
“Like you were made for it. For me.”
You cum as hard as always, breathless and shaking. And this time, with his name helplessly gasped against your pillow. A few long seconds after that, in your sweet postorgasmic haze, you get a very clear thought: you still want Jack, now more than ever.
And you two really need to talk.
You press Call before you can come up with yet another argument for why this is a bad idea. She picks up in four seconds, but you don’t let her say a word.
“Hey, so do remember when you guys went out last time, and I couldn’t go because of that leg amputation thing, and you told me you ended up in some new bar, with those big plants or whatever, and Abbot was there too?”
“Wow, are you already on cocaine?” Javadi laughs.
“No, I just had a good night of sleep, so please keep up. You’re coming to the same bar this Friday, right?”
“Yep, that’s the plan. You decided to join us?”
“I’m thinking about it. But I’m gonna be at least an hour late, cause I’d have to get home to change and then —”
“Or you can just come right after work. The place isn’t that fancy. You can do casual.”
“I don’t want casual. I wear jeans 360 days a year, it’d be nice to actually feel pretty for once.”
“Oh, cut the crap, I know you’d look great in anything!”
“That’s very kind of you to say, but I’m not calling to discuss my wardrobe. I was wondering if you can... If by any chance Jack shows up again —”
“O-ooh.”
“No, don’t oh at me. You don’t even know what I’m about to ask.”
“If Abbot shows up, I’m gonna tell him that you are coming too, so he’ll stay and wait for you.”
“Okay, you can add mind-reading to your resume, you witch.”
“You’re both kinda predictable,” Javadi notes with a chuckle. “When he came last time, he left immediately after he found out you weren’t there.”
“Or he just remembered he left the stove on and didn’t want his flat to burn down. It’s not like he explicitly told you why he was leaving.”
“He didn’t need to,” she argues. “He came in, went straight to the bar where we were hanging out, ordered a beer and managed the small talk for barely a minute before he flat-out asked if you were there. Looked like a kicked puppy when I told him you didn’t come. Wished us a good night and took off, didn’t even take his beer.”
That does sound like he came to see you. You find it cute. But only for a moment — until you get a stinging thought: if he wanted to see you outside of work, why has he never asked you out?
“I’ll text you when I’m done,” you say, trying to sound unconcerned, unruffled by the possibility of your months-long feelings being reciprocated. “The spinal fusion should take about three hours.”
“Ugh, it sounds so cool when you say it, but then I remember what that process actually is like.”
“It is pretty cool.”
“And I am very glad you think that,” she’s quick to reassure. “Go fuse some vertebrae, so we’ll have something to drink to!”
The surgery takes four hours.
It is a slow, meticulous procedure accompanied by Park’s curt advice and your own strategic guesses — and usually, something like that would leave you drained. Hardly in the mood for socializing. But this evening, you step out of the OR with a wide grin.
“Good call about rotating the metal plates,” Park says, his voice emotionless. Like he’s not sure himself that it’s a compliment.
Still, you take it.
“Thank you, I did some reading beforehand,” you tell him, throwing away your dirty gloves and gown. “Should help with healing, too. But knock on wood, we’ll see what his post-op scans show.”
And you’re already doing some non-work-related calculations in your head. 10 minutes on filling out the patient’s file, 10 more for ordering a cab and waiting for it, then if you’re lucky, you’ll be home in 20 —
“Abbot was right about you.”
That makes you stop. Makes an uncomfortable feeling settle in your stomach. You haven’t seen Brendon and Jack talk once. And you cannot imagine them talking about you.
You turn to Park, not smiling anymore:
“Care to explain?”
“He wrote you a recommendation letter. Didn’t he tell you?” he casually clarifies. “Not that I asked for it. But he delivered it himself, four pages in Times New Roman,” the straight line of his mouth curves a little. Almost a smirk, but not unkind. And he does seem sincere when he adds, “Abbot was right, you are great. Glad to have you on our team.”
“Hold on. I just want to get a few facts straight,” and your tone is astonishingly calm, despite it feeling like your blood is simmering. “So he came to you. With a printed-out letter. And then what, you guys talked?”
“Yes. About the letter.”
“About me, you mean.”
“The letter was about your competence and skills. What else was there to discuss,” he deadpans. “Is this interrogation over?”
“Oh, come on, that was only two questions. Don’t act like I am waterboarding you,” you huff, hands on your hips.
Park breathes out through his nose, then shakes his head. You’re half expecting him to grouse about it some more. But he does what you expect the least.
“He talks about you, you talk about him,” Park muses coolly. “You guys just need to fuck it out.”
He shoves his own gown in the trash, turns on his heels and leaves.
And under other circumstances, you would’ve been so glad to hear it. Jack talked about you! Jack seems to care!
Except, he had a perfect chance to actually show you that. But on your final day in the ER, he barely said a word. It stayed stuck in your memory, the last nail in the coffin where your hopes were buried: Jack’s weird avoidance, no jokes, no flirting, none of his usual penchant for eye contact. He spent the whole shift painfully indifferent to your departure. Only once you started saying your goodbyes, he came by to wish you luck. To say that he was sure you’d do great. Two sentences was all he managed.
And yet, he had no trouble talking about you with Park?!
You’d really like to get a fucking explanation.
You don’t go home to change. You come straight to the noisy bar, in your plain jeans and baggy shirt. And wrapped up in anger. You scan the crowd for familiar faces and spot Victoria from afar: some tipsy guy is cornering her, wildly gesticulating with his hands. She doesn’t really seem scared, mostly annoyed. But you are in no mood for being civil.
You unceremoniously walk up to them and grab the stranger by the shoulder to pull him back.
“Her face clearly suggests she’s not interested. Get lost.”
“Hello to you too,” he whistles, leering at you. “You wanna be our third, babygirl? I’m always down for... some new experiences.”
“I can help you with that. You ever heard about a comminuted fracture? It’s when a bone is broken in two or more places. Which you are about to experience if you don’t leave in 10 seconds.”
“You’re into human anatomy? That’s hot,” the man grins drunkenly, but his flirting sounds less sure.
“I’m an orthopedic surgeon. There are 3 long bones in your arm, 27 in your hand. Which one would hurt more when broken, how do you think? You’ve got seven seconds. Six —”
“Geez, fucking chill, girl,” he mutters and steps back to hastily retreat.
Javadi snorts a laugh. “Thank you, he was so annoying, I just didn’t want to make a scene. You’d think the "Let’s go, lesbians!" t-shirt would help him get a hint but —” and then she takes you in — your searching gaze and furrowed brows and pursed lips. “What’s wrong?”
“Where’s Abbot?”
“It depends. Am I gonna be an accomplice to murder if I tell you?”
“You may be a witness.”
“I don’t think that’s any better,” but luckily, she knows you well enough to figure out that there’s no point in questions. Javadi holds both hands up in surrender. “Okay-okay, last time I saw him, he was at the bar.”
You go for it, barrelling through the crowd like an icebreaker through the frozen water. You notice Trinity, Dennis, Mel, Frank and Jesse nearby. You only have eyes for one man in particular. But at the long table where the drinks are being poured and paid for, there is no sign of Jack. You stop and wait; one minute, two, three pass by. And just as quickly, your determination crumbles.
You wanted him to tell you that he needed you to stay, all these days back, in person. You wanted him to wait for you today. Both times, he didn’t.
It makes you feel self-conscious again. Stupid. Even more pathetic.
You turn around, suddenly too overwhelmed by your own feelings.
The music is too loud now, the smell of alcohol mixing with sweat and perfume, and making your head hurt. You faintly hear someone call out your name, but you don’t stop, too desperate to get back to the exit. Too tired of waiting for the one thing that clearly isn’t meant to be.
The street is quiet, and the air is cold; it doesn’t help to cool you down. You’re walking a thin line between infuriated and upset. It gnaws away at you — that you spent so much time delusionally sure that Jack felt something for you. Cared for you. You think about his watchful gaze on you, the tension hung between you two, his hands he kept a little bit too close, his words that guided you through surgeries and orgasms, his goddamn voice —
You are so deep in your frustrations, you miss the sound of the door opening, the footsteps rushing toward you.
“Hey,” he says it carefully, and yet, you flinch. You turn around to find Jack standing at arm’s length already. Black jeans, grey t-shirt and black denim jacket; he looks unfairly handsome. He also looks concerned. “Is everything alright? The way you left got me worried.”
“Yeah, everything’s just peachy.”
But Jack ignores your sarcasm — or rather looks right past it, reading the very clear displeasure on your face. “Is it Park? Did something happen?”
And his concern doesn’t sound feigned.
It all comes to your mind at once — the unsaid words, unresolved tension, the longing gazes thrown at each other, the shamefully short distance your bodies never crossed. It roars your emotions to a boil.
“Why does everyone assume— You know what? Park is actually perfect,” you snap at him. “He barely speaks to me in the OR, he hates small talk, he is allergic to long sentences and, I suspect, to any sign of real human emotion. So I just clock in every shift to spend 15 hours trying to help people with very little to no guidance. And turns out, I still rock! Even when my mentor is as emotionally evolved as a toothpick!”
“Ok-kay,” Jack draws, “I’m not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing?”
“It’s freaking amazing. Especially compared to the alternative,” and then you step to him, your palms angrily pushing against his chest. “Because you made me feel like I couldn’t breathe!”
Your hands don’t hurt him. But your words do. His eyes go wide, he’s speechless for a moment. Then slowly, very quietly, Jack says:
“Wait, what?”
“You wrote me a recommendation letter, but you couldn’t say a word when I was leaving? After the months we worked together, all you could manage was good luck? The hell is wrong with you?!” and his shell-shocked expression only spurs you on. “You act all nicely, you’re glued to me in the ER, with your advice and your attention and your— your smirking! And what’s with the intense eye contact? How was I supposed to work with you looking at me like that? You know how hard it was for me to focus?! It’s not like I was holding scalpels half of the time!” you huff angrily.
Still, he isn’t moving.
“Sure, it didn’t mean anything to you, you don’t like me like that. And I love surgery, I’m glad I transferred, I wouldn’t want to waste my time on someone who is emotionally mute. But then I find out — oh, you’re actually very talkative! And it’s not like I wanted to find out, I just needed something to help me unwind, anything, because it’s been so damn exhausting — not just the job, but also you and your mood swings and your stupid voice and—” you cross your arms over your chest and add, with an unbridled boldness, “And honestly? After everything, I should be the one you lend a helping hand to.”
The dim streetlights can offer some discreteness — but not enough to cover the flush of color that spreads over Jack’s cheeks. You don’t back off — instead, you take your phone out and click the app’s icon to show it to him on the screen. His gaze flicks down to it. Then back to your face.
You stare at each other.
And then you think: he is about to tell you you’re an idiot. A sleep-deprived one, because it wasn’t really his voice. He has no clue what you just talked about, he obviously isn’t on any apps nor is he —
Jack breathes out a laugh.
He clasps his hands behind his back, the muscles of his chest pulling his t-shirt tight. His gaze is locked on yours. Then it falls lower — to your lips, then your neck, your chest and stomach, leaving a hot trail down your body.
“It got that bad, huh?” a corner of his mouth twitches up. Not condescending but amused. And then his voice drops — to that exact honeyed murmur that dragged so many orgasms out of you. “F’course, I can help you out. Should’ve asked me sooner, sweetheart.”
The sound knocks the anger out of you. The air, too.
You knew he sounded good on audio, when his words reached you through the headphones, when he so charitably helped you reach your high.
But in reality, he’s lethal.
When this same voice is paired with his gaze, with the intensity and confidence that you’re disarmed by. Entranced by. When Jack comes closer, you stay frozen.
“Mine or yours?” he asks calmly.
“W-what?”
“My place or yours?”
You catch small specks of golden light lost in his hazel eyes. You blink twice to stop staring. “Mine is about 40 minutes away.”
Emotion flashes across his face — surprise that’s borderline on worry. He lets it slide. He takes your hand in his, firmly, putting his fingers between yours.
“I live much closer. My car is parked around the corner,” Jack notes and leads the way, carefully pulling you along.
You let him.
You know it’s impolite to gawk, but you can’t help it — you’re pretty sure his hallway alone can fit half of your flat. It is a spacious, very minimalistic place: tall walls, a lot of lights and very little furniture. You guess that he hand-picked each piece — from wooden shelves and cupboards to small colourful pouffes. You also don’t think he spends too much time in here.
“So how many roommates do you have?” you ask cautiously as you get out of your shoes.
“None,” Jack chuckles. “It’s my apartment.”
“You live here by yourself? This place could fit a football team,” your own chuckle is nervous. As is your involuntary blabbing. “I’m serious, 11 full-grown men could stay here, and half of them won’t even see each other. Is there a bowling alley somewhere? A golf course? Ten jacuzzis? —”
He wraps his arm around your waist, pressing your back into his chest. Solid and warm, and rendering you silent.
“How about I do the talking,” his breath scatters against the side of your neck. Both of his hands find your hips, and very slowly, he turns you to face him. His eyes look a shade darker when he says, “I’ll walk you to the bedroom.”
And then his mouth is on yours.
There is no build-up and no hesitation — he kisses you so hungrily and deeply, like he’s been starving this whole time. Just like you were. Your shuddering breath turns into a moan. His lips move seamlessly, matching his insatiability to yours, in a deliberately slow pace that leaves you dizzy, heated, panting. Your memory is wiped clean of every other man you’ve kissed before him.
You can only crave more.
Jack starts walking without breaking the kiss. He gently pushes you forward, his hands maneuvering your body around the furniture and into doorways — you’re blindly following his lead. Until he stops you.
He tsks against your lips. “Careful, you almost ran into a wall.”
“Well, it’s not like I can really see —”
Jack silences your protests with another kiss, one of his palms laid flat over your spine to steady you. Not once do you take a peek at your surroundings, entirely too focused on the movement of his mouth, and with his every touch, your heart grows louder.
All of a sudden, your legs bump into something — and in a second, your back hits layers of bedcovers, the fabric silky to the touch. You exhale shakily, taking a couple of seconds to collect yourself. The task proved to be impossible under his heavy stare.
The room is dim, drowned in the colors of the sunset that sinks in through the big uncovered windows. He took the jacket off somewhere along the way, and you watch as the coppery light sneaks into his curls, contours the lines of veins and muscles of his arms, his body standing right next to the bed, legs almost touching yours.
You guess that he is stalling in case you want to stop.
“Aren’t you gonna tell me what to do?” you want your words to sound like a challenge — instead, they come out as a plea.
You don’t mind. There’s nothing on your mind but him.
Jack gives you just a ghost of a smile, a low hum coming from deep in his chest.
“Ask me nicely,” he says, in that gravelly voice that makes desire spark up in your bloodstream.
And he already knows that he won’t meet resistance — Jack leans over the bed, palms firmly gliding up your thighs until he finds the zipper of your jeans. He takes the slider between two fingers but doesn’t pull it down. And you’re glad that you aren’t standing, because the way he’s staring at you makes your whole body weak, your bones and muscles turning liquid.
“Please, I’ll do anything,” you whisper.
You do not need to ask him twice.
Jack yanks the slider down and pulls your jeans — down to your knees, then fully off. He parts your thighs with his leg, his gaze drawn to your panties, to where the fabric is already dampened with your arousal. You watch him slowly wet his lips, your body shivering in anticipation of his touch. And then he’s climbing on the bed, his body propped up on his arms, his weight between your thighs. He doesn’t hover over you — because he’s equally impatient: instead, he leans down to eagerly capture your mouth with his.
His lips trap you in place — while his hands undress you: his fingers are unbuttoning your shirt to take it off, then sliding beneath your cotton tanktop, dragging it up over your ribcage —
then Jack sucks in a breath.
His words are muffled, his lips brushing yours:
“No bra?”
“I don’t— don’t like the feeling of it,” you explain bashfully.
That earns you a pleased smirk. He actually pulls back to take a look, to hastily pull your last piece of clothing off. Then Jack ducks his head.
“And how’d you like this?” he asks before catching your nipple into his mouth.
You cry out at the sensation, and Jack uses one hand to pin you to the bed. He pulls more sounds out of you, swirling his tongue around your nipples, biting and sucking at them, his hunger mixed with admiration. Your heartbeat’s pounding in your ears, the pleasure surging through you like a heat wave —
But unexpectedly, Jack pulls away.
He reaches out to click the lamp on the nightstand. The light is faint, warm, draping your shadows over the silk. Jack lies down on his side, keeping his face close to yours.
“Show me how you do it.”
“You— Um. You want me to show you how—”
“Touch yourself for me,” he orders.
Blood rushes to your cheeks. But you comply, too eager for his praise. For all of his recorded promises to finally come true.
Jack watches raptly as your hand moves lower, slowly, just like he taught you the first time — until your fingers dip under the fabric of your underwear. You bite your lower lip, stifling a whimper, feeling the arousal leaking out of you. You spread your legs wider, the thin cotton not leaving much to the imagination as you start toying with your clit.
Jack swallows noisily, his breath uneven. But his voice stays measured. “I want these off. Need to see you, baby.”
You hook your thumbs under your panties and tug them off, a bit too hastily, but Jack makes no attempts to slow you down. Although unvoiced, his own desire is so palpable, it sets your nerves on fire. And when the cool air grazes your wetness, you can’t help but moan.
You do not wait for his command — you spread your legs further apart, your fingers drawn to rub your aching clit. You feel Jack’s cheek pressed to your shoulder, his gaze glued to your hand.
“So what’s the preference? Do you like circling it or just the up-and-down motion?” he muses with a grin. “I see, I have some room for improvisation,” and then his breath skates up your throat, the words mouthed against your pulse point, “You’re doing so good for me. You can pick up the pace.”
You do immediately, your movements quick and frantic, and Jack’s not keeping his hands to himself. He cups your breast, pinching your nipple into a peak, rolling it expertly between his fingers, his lips wrapped tightly around the other one. Your back is arching into his touch, heat pooling in your lower belly, your fingers gliding faster up and down your slit — and then one slips inside.
Jack pulls his mouth off with a pop. “Would you look at that,” his voice is low, teasing, “Your pussy’s drooling all over the bed.” And then he smiles, hungrily baring his teeth, grazing your collarbone with them as his palm lies flat on the inside of your thigh. “Go ahead, make yourself cum.”
He is still clothed, and the material of his t-shirt rubs constantly against your naked skin as he continues his arousing, agonizing torture. You feel him everywhere — Jack’s warm breath on your neck, your cheek, his mouth placing kisses along your jaw. His hands are steadying your body as your two fingers plunge into your cunt, as you’re so diligently coaxing yourself into an orgasm. But something’s missing.
“What’s wrong? Your fingers aren’t enough?” Jack taunts. “Does my girl want me to help her?”
You nod desperately, rocking your hips into your hand, trying to get some extra friction, trying and failing to reach that sweet high on your own. He easily catches your wrist, forcing you to halt all movement, your moans reduced to needy cries.
“Tell me what you want,” Jack whispers, lips to your ear.
“I w-want your fingers. Need your fingers inside me, please —”
But just as you’re about to pull your hand away, he covers it with his.
His wide palm firmly cups your mound, pushing your fingers back into your clenching hole. Jack drags his index and middle fingers through your folds, collecting your creamy arousal. And then he eases his slicked digits into you.
He watches as your lips part in a silent moan, your thighs twitching involuntarily as you’re adjusting to the fullness. With two of your fingers already in, it is a very tight fit.
“Relax for me. I know you can take all four,” Jack coos, although his voice gets a bit strained as he feels your walls clamp down around him.
Your hand stays limp, so he pulls his thick fingers out — then ramms them back in, knuckles-deep. A choked cry leaves your mouth; but you don’t try to crawl away from the intrusion. He puts your fingers between his and starts moving them all together, unhurriedly, carefully stretching your wet cunt, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit, your juices trickling down on the bedcovers.
Before you even realize you’re doing it, you push your hips back against his palm.
“Yes, just like that,” Jack murmurs. “Feels good, doesn’t it? About to get even better.”
This time, only his hand is moving while he’s staying still, drinking you up — your body quivering, skin bathed in a sheen of perspiration, your pussy slurping around the unrelenting fingers. The sounds you’re making are downright obscene, loud moans mixed with incoherent pleas as you’re getting lost in the pleasure he gives you so freely.
Jack’s other hand comes up to turn your face to him:
“Eyes on me.”
And as you look at him through lidded eyes, he curls your own fingers inside you, pushing them up against your G-spot. The sudden pressure drags you into a climax, so powerful, you’re blinded for a second, your lungs emptied with a long-drawn exhale as you keep soundlessly mouthing his name.
Jack pulls out his fingers first, then yours. Your hand is drenched and numb, and you barely register as Abbot brings it to his mouth. He licks your fingers clean, one by one, and you are coming to your senses at the sight: his mouth sucking in your digits, your wetness smeared across his lips, his gaze piercing as he keeps eye contact. And just like that, it threads through your veins and bones: your craving for him you’re yet to satisfy.
Before you can even ask him for a kiss, he leans in to give it to you.
It’s hot, it’s messy, his tongue darting between your lips, your hands tugging at his t-shirt, then sneaking under it to feel him tense under your touch. One of his hands grips your hip, the other moving back between your legs, where you’re still sensitive, making you whimper into his mouth.
“Wanna get a proper taste,” he mumbles, his lips already trailing lower.
But you have something else in mind. You close your legs and clutch his t-shirt, your fingers roughly crumpling the fabric, making him meet your gaze again.
“Jack, I’m very grateful for the offer, but I need you to fuck me,” you don’t bother hiding your impatience. “And please, take your damn clothes off.”
He grins, and this is a command he is willing to follow. Jack brings a hand behind his neck to grab the collar of his t-shirt and pulls it up over his head in one swift motion. Your eyes rake over the broad planes of his chest, his toned arms, his freckled skin flushed pink. Before he can think of his next move, you straddle him, leaning to nibble at his neck, your fingers tracing his flexing muscles.
“Someone’s very eager,” he notes with a chuckle.
And yet, the gravel in his voice is thinned out by his own keenness. When your gaze drops down, you see his cock straining against the coarse fabric of his jeans.
“Makes two of us,” you note cheekily and palm him through the denim.
His chuckle turns into a low, long groan. Like he is breaking character, like it is not as easy for him to keep his feelings under control.
You hide your smile, taking his jeans off to throw them on the floor, barely half a minute before you’re climbing back onto his lap. The bulge is now even more prominent beneath his boxer briefs: he’s thick and big, way bigger than you thought, than you imagined, than you’ve ever had. Your mouth parts on the inhale; you are dazed just from the look of it. You feel yourself already getting wet again.
Your words are stumbling out, while your brain is still somewhat functioning:
“I have an IUD, I’m clean. Haven’t been with anyone for a while.”
“Me neither. For way longer than you probably,” Abbot admits in a half-whisper, watching you attentively. Getting as drunk on the anticipation as you are.
Your fingers go for the waistband at his hips when you catch faint light glinting off the metal. Your palm briefly lies under his scarred knee.
“This okay?”
Him leaving the prosthesis on, you mean. But it is getting harder to put words into coherent sentences.
Jack gets it. “Yeah, m’fine. You want me to...?”
Remove it, is what he wants to say.
For just a moment, it comes up to the surface: his lack of confidence, not necessarily in himself but maybe in how he can be perceived, in what he looks like in your eyes. Being so close, so open, naked.
But this has always been exactly what you wanted.
“I couldn’t care less,” you whisper and tug down his briefs to free his cock.
Then you look down, and your breath hitches.
He is thick, fully hard, the tip red and already weeping. And instantly, you wonder how he tastes. How warm, how heavy he’d feel in your hand. When you reach it impulsively to wrap around him, Jack stops you, his voice a low warning:
“We both know I don’t need that.”
You almost want to whine. But you smother your discontent and move your hands up to his shoulders, holding your hips up, hovering just above his girthy length. A sigh spills from your mouth when his cock brushes your slick entrance —
And right then, Jack’s hands clamp around your thighs. His grip not bruising, but it is firm enough that you can’t move. Can’t lower yourself on him.
“Now, where are your manners, sweetheart?” he asks, playfully cruel.
He knows you’re trapped. You know it too. To prove his point, he rubs his tip against your clit, more slickness gushing out of you at the mere contact. You do let out a miserable whine, your thighs are shaking. But he stays unmoving.
And so you beg. Just like you thought you would.
“I want you, please, I want you so fucking much,” your words pour out rushed and heated, all in one breath, “Want you to fuck me, Jack, please, been thinking about it for months. Before the app, when we were still working together, each time you— you stood next to me or leaned closer during surgeries or talked me through them or— fuck, it was anything, everything, I could barely focus, only kept thinking how much I wanted you to touch me, please-please-please—”
Jack hums. His hands relent. He repositions them so he can guide you instead of stopping you.
“Months, huh? I know the feeling,” he murmurs, with unexpectedly raw honesty.
It lingers. It almost sounds like a confession. But you do not get time to catch the meaning of his words before he starts pushing his cock into your throbbing warmth.
You gasp. He’s easing you down slowly. As your nails dig into his shoulders, his grip tightens; but he keeps composure. Jack’s watching you — your eyes screwed shut and brows pinched together, your body shifting, mouth gulping air as you’re allowing him to stretch you open. He moves one of his hands to draw light circles on your clit, to help you take him, all of him, until you’ve bottomed out.
Your body stills. He feels you clench around him, your pussy gripping him so tightly, he chokes back a groan. Your forehead dips forward, helplessly.
“You are— s’big, so-o —”
“Breathe for me,” Jack instructs, both palms secured at your hips, sounding a little out of breath himself. He watches as your chest rises and falls, the uneven cadence of inhales and exhales. He mercifully gives you a minute to adjust. “Need you to start moving, baby. Yeah?”
You scramble for an answer, all your words slurring out into whines, your body barely used to the stretch. But you want to be good for him. And so you lift your hips. Just a few inches. Then sink onto his cock again, trembling at the overwhelming ache of being stuffed so full.
The pause lasts for barely three seconds.
Then your hips start moving up and down on their own, because it feels too good to stop, because the ache is quickly dissipating into pleasure.
“There she is.”
He lets you find and set the rhythm, at first more grinding and slow, your pussy swallowing him whole each time. As you let the sensation build, as it spreads and turns searing. Euphoric. And your head tips back with a moan.
“Look how well you’re taking me,” Jack praises, his voice husky with lust. “Just like I knew you would.”
His hands grip harder at your hips, and without warning, he starts bouncing you on him. His pace is quicker, harsher, the fat head of his cock rubbing against the spot that makes your vision blur. Jack leans closer to rasp the words into your ear:
“Who do you think I thought about—” his fingers move down to open your legs wider, “While making all these audios—” and he plunges deeper, “For my favorite girl—” and your moans pitch louder, “After her tiresome shifts?”
You’re too cockdrunk to even think of a reply. You’re only capable of moving your hips in time with his, nails scraping at his sweat-covered skin, your slick oozing down to his balls.
“I’m— I’m close,” you mewl. “M’gonna cum, Ja-ack.”
“Think I should let you?” he says through gritted teeth, his own control already slipping.
“P-please,” you stutter out weakly as his hips snap up, “Wanna cum, wanna— want you— t-to make me cum, please.”
A grunt escapes him, and Jack adjusts his hold, his chest heaving against yours, skin rubbing against skin. His mouth latches onto your throat, each word punctuated with a trust:
“That’s a good — fucking — girl.”
His hands drop lower to cup your ass, giving it a squeeze — and then the world around you spins as he effortlessly flips you on your back.
Your legs fall open for him, and he manages to keep his cock nestled so perfectly in your fluttering hole. He doesn’t slow down for a second: Jack shifts his weight on his left leg, angling his hips a little to hit that spot inside you over and over, making your eyes roll back in your head. The room fills with your breathy moans, your cunt squelching around his thick length, your body caged under his weight. In stark contrast, his lips are weightless — against your chest, your collarbones, your arm, mouthing pet names or more praises — or just the letters of your name, you honestly can’t tell. The meaning of his words escapes you.
“Yeah, that’s right. Need your head empty,” Jack groans, breath ragged, his pace relentless. “Need you to only think about how good I’m fucking you.”
He surely is.
Your whole body tenses.
You are so close.
And then you feel his forehead against yours, a pressure of his fingers on your clit, a command given with the utmost softness:
“Let go, baby. I got you.”
The second orgasm tears through you, white-hot and all-consuming. You cum with a sob falling from your lips, your fingers scrabbling at his shoulders as your pussy spasms wildly around his cock. He fucks you through it, he does try to last a little longer, but the combination of all this — the way you look, feel, finally his — pushes him over, his own pleasure so intense, he’s powerless against it. Jack’s hips jerk as he cums, filling you up, his broken groans pressed into your neck.
The room is still.
You wait for your breath and heart to calm. His hand brushes a loose strand of hair out of your face, and he whispers, still a little breathless:
“You good?”
You nod first. Then open your mouth:
“That was—” you have to swallow the slight hoarseness of your voice, “Literally the best sex I’ve ever had.” Three heartbeats later, you add with a tired laugh. “Don’t let it get to your head.”
“Too late.”
You feel him smile against your cheek before he places a kiss there.
Jack pulls out carefully, leaving you empty — you have to stop yourself from reaching for him, from chasing his familiar warmth. You quietly watch him clamber off the bed and pull his briefs up, then close your eyes so he won’t catch you staring. You listen to him walk out of the room, and suddenly, a realization kicks in: his footsteps sound uneven.
Like he is limping.
Jack comes back with a wet towel and gently cleans you up, then helps you put your panties on and brings you a glass of water. And every time you look at him, your gaze catches on how he is obviously leaning on his healthy leg.
You slowly stretch your neck and shoulders, then tap on the spot next to you. “Come here.”
Jack sits down, a little bit unsure where this is going. And very much tense in the exact place you thought he would be. You move your hands to his right knee and feel his hamstrings flex involuntarily.
“You spend too much time on your feet,” you say, working your fingers over his muscles. “And you put too much pressure on it. Your leg feels like it’s made out of concrete.”
Without even looking, you can tell that now he’s tense all over.
You have seen Jack take the prosthesis off, short moments of reprieve that he allows himself too rarely for your liking, only after particularly long shifts. He isn’t shy about his disability, but he doesn’t like bringing attention to it, you’ve noticed. Like living with it isn’t hard, like it’s not that big of a deal. You also know that he’s got no one to take care of him.
You take your time massaging the scarred tissue, mostly applying pressure with your thumbs as they move from the socket up, then back down. And you know that it’s working when you hear him exhale, his breath a little ragged. Relieved.
“I try to take breaks, but you know how it is. We’re always busy,” Jack counters, with that same boyish stubbornness you can’t possibly be angry at.
“Shen’s an attending now, which is supposed to make your job easier. Don’t act like the ER’s gonna blow up if you sit down for 10 minutes,” you turn your head to look at him.
Jack doesn’t meet you with defiance — he’s sitting with his shoulders slumped and gaze mellow, way too relaxed to hide it. The sight is so endearing, your heart lurches behind your ribs. You fight the urge to kiss him. Instead, your fingers glide down to the edges of the prosthesis’s socket. You do not push it; you let him decide if he wants to be this vulnerable with you. Jack just gives you a nod. A small, barely noticeable movement. Also an immeasurable sign of trust. You carefully remove the artificial limb, then take the sock off to let his skin breathe. Your touch lingers: you lightly trace the white uneven scars, faded reminders of something horrible he managed to survive.
He lets you.
Silence fills up the space between you two, and you don’t know what to do next. Technically, you only needed sex, and Jack didn’t say that it would happen more than once. This would be the perfect moment for you to thank him and head out.
So you remove your hands —
Jack puts his arm around you, firmly. His lack of hesitation helping yours to fade away. He scoops you back, until you’re pressed to him, your back met with his bare chest. His chin is placed on your shoulder, his words warm:
“You really like it in surgery, don’t you?”
“I do,” you answer honestly. “Way more than I thought I would. I was afraid it’d be too challenging, too much pressure, too many new things to learn... But it’s not that hard. And I love learning.”
He laughs, a soft low sound you love just as much. “Even with an attending who’s as emotionally evolved as a toothpick?”
“I think us working together is mutually beneficial, actually. Park’s teaching me how to mend bones, I’m giving him lessons on how to hold a conversation for longer than a minute.”
Jack’s smile is tickling your neck as he pulls you back into bed, so effortlessly, like he has done it many times. You readily curl up against him, resting your palm over his chest. He tugs the blanket up to cover you, his fingers gently moving from your shoulder to your collarbone.
But then your eyes meet his, and it is a discovery you never thought you’d make: he looks self-conscious. He is the one searching for words to put his feelings into.
“You said I made you feel like you couldn’t breathe,” Jack recalls.
“I didn’t mean literally... I guess I was a little bit dramatic,” you avert your gaze. Okay, maybe you should’ve found a better way to tell him how you felt. Preferably without it looking like a crash-out.
“No, it’s not that. It’s just—” his hand cradles the side of your face, gentle and reassuring. “From the first day you came to the ER, with your humor and your curiosity and your quick thinking... To me, you were like a breath of fresh air,” he skims his thumb over your lower lip, his touch light, his words heavy with the emotions he’s been holding back for months. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I was working up the courage.”
His heartbeat is hushed under your palm. Steady with certainty. It radiates from him like light, your insecurities melting away under his gaze like snow under the sun.
After a moment, you speak up: your voice is teasing. “Funny how you had just enough courage to record raunchy audios.”
“My therapist said I needed a hobby. Unfortunately, I suck at golf,” Jack leaves a kiss on your forehead. “But you were the one who gave me the idea.”
“Um, for all the great ideas I am famous for, that one definitely wasn’t mine.”
His chest vibrates with laughter. “You don’t remember it? Your third week in the ER, the nightcrawles on a night out. I walked you out to wait for your cab, and you said — and I quote — that I’ve got a very soothing voice. That I should narrate audiobooks or something.”
You cover your face with your palm, groaning. “Oh my god, I can’t believe I said that out loud. I had five shots of tequila. I hoped you would forget.”
“I didn’t,” Jack says and pulls your hand away. “Everything you do and say is very memorable to me,” he presses his lips to your wrist. Then puts your hand back on his chest and holds it there, his thumb brushing yours. And out of nowhere, very nonchalantly, he asks. “So, does it actually take you 40 minutes to get to work?”
“Yeah. Give or take,” you tell him vaguely.
He doesn’t buy it. “And if we’re being more specific?”
“Closer to an hour,” you admit reluctantly. “But the rent is pretty low, and most of my neighbours are nice, and I finally got my shower fixed last week so —”
“You can move in here.”
Your words die down in an instant as you stare at him, trying to discern a hint of humor, of pity, of anything to suggest he doesn’t mean it.
“You aren’t serious,” you mumble, but his unblinking gaze confirms that he is. “No, I really— I can’t.”
Jack props his head up on one hand. “Why not?”
“Because it’s your apartment. You’re living on your own, and I wouldn’t want to bother you or— or take up too much space.”
“Didn’t you say this place can fit a football team? So unless you’re gonna bring another 10 people with you...”
“No, it’s just me,” you say timidly and hesitate for a few seconds. But since you’re out of arguments, the only thing you’re left with is the truth. “I don’t want you to regret it later on.”
“I won’t regret it.”
“You barely know me.”
“I know you plenty. We worked together for half a year.”
“Yeah, but that was us in the hospital. Which isn’t exactly informative, because I can be a total mess in my everyday life. What if you come home to find my clothes lying around everywhere? What if I’ve got questionable coffee preferences or weird food habits?” you absentmindedly draw circles on his skin, stumbling over the excuses you are nervously coming up with. “And then we’ll start getting into fights because I was too tired to iron the bedsheets or I accidentally took your favorite t-shirt or ate your favorite ice cream because I got my period and acted bitchy or —”
Jack tilts your chin up, the small movement making you close your mouth. A smile pulls at his lips, soft just the rest of him — now, in this moment, with you: soft touch of his strong hands, soft grey curls, a little ruffled (totally your fault), soft gaze that is a vortex of green, amber and gold. His voice carries the same softness when he says:
“You usually take your coffee black with just a splash of soy milk. But when you’re tired, you go for these obnoxiously sugary drinks that barely have any caffeine in them,” his smile grows wider. “You do not throw things around, not when the inside of your locker is strategically organized by shelves. Your only weird food habit is thinking a protein bar can be considered a full meal. I don’t iron my bedsheets, you can wear any of my t-shirts, and I’ll make sure to stock up on ice cream. I’ve never seen you being bitchy, but you can get a little uncooperative when you’re upset or nervous. Which I can handle,” but there is no pressure behind his reasoning — instead, he adds with hope, his eyes not leaving yours, “I know enough, and I’d love to learn the rest. If you let me.”
The feeling rolls all over you, familiar and very long-awaited one: of calmness that his presence always brings you. Of just how comforting it is to be with him. Jack makes it sound too easy for you to harbour any doubts.
“Okay,” you manage quietly.
And when your hands cradle his face, he leans in first to close the distance.
You kiss him slowly, like you are trying to spell out your gratitude, your ever-growing fondness, your feelings you are still afraid to name. He holds you close like he can understand exactly what your lips are saying. You want to drag this moment out for longer; but then a yawn bubbles in your throat.
“You’re not leaving this bed until you get at least eight hours of sleep,” Jack notes, more caring than stern, his nose bumping into yours. And you can tell his eyelids are already drooping. “What time do you need to wake up?”
“M’not working tomorrow. Turned off my alarm already,” you mumble.
“Good,” he nods with his eyes closed, wrapping both arms around you — and then adds in a tender whisper, “Good girl.”
You smile into his chest, happily and drowsily, and you know you’re about to fall asleep. And just before you do, you think:
no, this definitely isn’t a one-time thing.
✧ dividers by @/strangergraphics, @/saradika-graphics, @/omi-resources, @/cafekitsune;
✧ I usually don’t like diving a fic into shorter “parts”, but it felt right in the moment, and I hope it didn’t ruin the pacing of the story? ngl I was super horny when I wrote the smut part(s), so maybe I went a liiittle overboard... also, yes, this fic was supposed to be shorter, but then I added a shit ton of softness at the end, I COULDN’T HELP MYSELF!
✧ English isn’t my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any mistakes. reblogs and comments are very appreciated!
author's note: girls i am SO back 😌 I am so so sorry for my absence, I got the worst ever writer's block of my life and i just couldn't write idk?? but thank you so much for your continued support in my absence and I hope you love this one.
pairing: jack abbot x female!reader ( reader has non-descript job but does work in the hospital)
wc: 2,808
warnings: mentions of claustrophobia, sort of hurt comfort, slight panic/panic attack but jack's there yippeee, fluff and flirting
description: You're constantly saying stupid crap around your attending, Dr Jack Abbot. When you get stuck in an elevator with him, you continue to say stupid crap. At least this time, it pays off.
The very first time you made a complete and total fool of yourself in front of Jack, you accidentally called him "honey".
You didn't say it in a sexy way, not even remotely. You just so happened to have this way-too-domestic dream the day before, where calling him "honey" was a natural reaction to talking to him.
You had been in Trauma Two at around six-thirty in the morning, half an hour before hand off and running on maybe 40 minutes of sleep and an iced coffee that tasted vaguely like battery acid, when Jack reached his bare arm over to your way, chart in hand, and said, "You missed her potassium."
And you, in a catastrophic lapse of professionalism, had replied:
"Thanks, honey!"
And then, silence.
Complete silence. And this feeling as if your whole stomach had dropped right into your ass and onto the floor in a pile of HR violation forms and unemployment loans.
Your roommate, Trinity, had looked up from her seat at the computer mid-chart with the widest eyes you had ever seen and a mouth that could catch a million flies. You made brief eye contact with her, running your hand through the hair that had fallen over your forehead while said HR violation form was coming out of your ass, and tried to correct yourself so fast that you nearly left the place tongueless.
'Doctor. Doctor Abbot. I mean doctor. Obviously not, not-"
Jack was looking at you, one hand holding the chart out to you, the other lapsed at his side. The expression on his face was heavy-lidded and unreadable. As if your soul hadn't actively left your body.
"I figured." he'd replied, dryly.
You had considered walking directly into the Allegheny River.
There's this whole problem with having a crush on Jack. It, well, didn't feel like a normal crush. It felt terminal - like some type of untreated, itchy disease curling around your neck and up towards the warmth of your cheeks.
This was, obviously, incredibly inconvenient, considering he was:
A) Your Attending
B) Emotionally Constipated
C) So unfairly attractive it occasionally interfered with your ability to form complete sentences.
You were cool. Cool girl Y/N. Gingham linen trousers and cute baby tees and the coolest fucking sourdough starter that was more alive than the cultures growing downstairs in the tech lab. And here's your kryptonite, standing beside a trauma cart on one of the worst cases of the year.
"Do you ever think about, like, how weird bones are?" you asked suddenly, dying to kill the awkward silence and maybe distract you from staring at the bulge of his biceps.
Jack glanced up at you briefly. "..bones."
"Yeah! Like, we're alll just carrying around skeletons all the time."
A beat passed.
"You're thinking about this now?"
You shrugged helplessly. "I'm tired, I guess."
"I bet you're always tired?", Jack's still bolting open this trauma cart, attention focused on breaking the red tape around it.
"I think this place is trying to kill me, to be honest,"
"Hmm, yeah."
You looked over at him in that stupid, tight black t-shirt. "That's all you've got?"
"What did you want me to say?"
Jack's hands tightened around the pliers, breaking off the red tape, and he groaned as he straightened his back, still not looking at you. You're glad he's not. You don't think you could take it.
“I don’t know. Maybe agree the human body is horrifying?”
“I work in emergency medicine.”
“Good point.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. A tiny little movement that felt like winning the jackpot at your aunt Sally's bingo extravaganza during Thanksgiving weekend.
Your stomach flipped immediately.
Hopeless.
You were genuinely hopeless.
You ran over to the elevator beside the south bay, trying to ignore the ache in your feet and the scuffs on the tops of your crocs. You shouted out at what you hoped was the occupied elevator.
You reached the elevator doors, pushing your hands against the side of the doors and forcing your way through. There, in the corner of the metalic death trap, stood your biggest opponent and greatest fear in the ER.
Jack.
He greeted you with nothing but a raised eyebrow and nod of his chin.
Great. Perfect. Fucking fantastic.
You stuck your hand into the pocket of your scrubs, pulling out your phone and trying to distract yourself. What options are there with no cell phone service in an elevator with the one person you constantly lose your shit over?
And then it happened, with no warning.
One second, you were standing beside him in exhausted silence, leaning against the cool metal wall while he stood with his arms crossed and shoulders taut.
The lights flickered, and the elevator jolted. And stopped.
You blinked, moving your phone back into your back scrub pocket, and slowly turning towards your self proclaimed prison cell mate.
"Oh, great."
The overhead lights flickered once, twice, then stabilised.
"...did we just die?"
"No."
"You answered that really fast. Are you sure-"
"Oh, I'm sure."
“How do you know?”
Jack looked at you.
“You talk too much to be dead.”
“That feels medically inaccurate.”
“It’s not.”
You pressed the emergency button. And nothing happened.
"Oh my god", you said, sweat forming at the back of your neck and heat rising from the tops of your toes to the crown of your head. You start pacing, completely forgetting Jack beside you in this god damn tin can.
Jack already had his phone out.
“No signal,” he said flatly.
“Fantastic.”
“You’re handling this well.”
“I’m about thirty seconds away from becoming a Victorian woman with a fainting problem.”
He huffed quietly through his nose.
Unfortunately, that tiny sound of amusement made you feel insane.
The first ten minutes weren't bad. Annoying, maybe, but totally manageable. You sat on opposite sides of the elevator floor, because standing felt a bit stupid after a while and you two sort of needed the rest, anyways.
The conversation was good. Jack complained about an anti-vax mom, and you sort of sat there and listened. Afraid you'd say the wrong thing. Like how, right now, you were thinking about whether or not raccoons had opposable thumbs and how you wanted to lay on Jack Abbot's chest more than you wanted air.
This was normal, for you anyways. And then the elevator cracked.
"Doctor Abbot. We are going to die."
"You okay?"
"Yep. Totally cool."
“You hate elevators.”
You looked up sharply.
“What?”
“I said you hate elevators.”
“How do you know that?”
“You stop talking in them.”
“That is not true.”
“You get quiet every time they shake.”
You blinked at him.
“You noticed that?”
Jack frowned slightly, like the answer should’ve been obvious.
“You’re easy to read.”
Your heart did something deeply embarrassing.
“Oh.”
Another creak echoed through the elevator shaft, shorter this time but enough to make your breathing tighten slightly.
Jack watched you carefully for another second. You watched as he stood, favouring his weight on one leg and running his right hand through his curls.
You looked up at him.
“What are you doing?”
“Come here.”
Your stomach flipped. Nope. Backflipped. Definitely a backflip.
“What?”
“You’re spiraling.”
“I’m literally not spiraling.”
“You’re picking at your cuticles hard enough to bleed.”
You looked down.
Oh.
“…okay maybe a little.”
Jack crouched in front of you then, forearms resting loosely over his knees.
Close enough now that you could smell soap and coffee and the faint scent of antiseptic permanently worked into his skin.
“Look at me,” he said calmly.
You did. Immediately. The Allegheny River rushed past your thought process again. It was looking pretty favourable right now.
“Breathe slower.”
“I am breathing slower.”
“You’re not.”
“I feel judged.”
“You should.”
You laughed weakly despite yourself. Jack's hand rose to your chin, running his fingers across your cheek and wiping a stray eyelash away from your gaze.
“There she is.”
Your chest tightened unexpectedly at that.
You had never heard Jack so gently before. Yeah, I mean, you heard him talk to his patients like that, to young, scared kids and cute old ladies. But this gentle, this was something that felt reserved for you.
You were sweating. And breathing heavily. He was talking to you, touching you. You were screaming internally at the fact that he was paying attention at all.
“You do this with everybody?” you asked quietly.
“What?”
“The whole weirdly calm trauma voice thing.”
“Usually people are bleeding.”
“Emotionally, I kind of am.”
That earned you another tiny, almost-smile. The one you started to notice a little bit more often as of recent.
“You trust me?”
The question caught you off guard.
“What?”
“You trust me?”
Your throat suddenly felt dry.
“Yeah,” you admitted softly.
Jack nodded once.
“Then breathe.”
And stupidly, it worked.
Jack stared right at you, taking in deep breaths and guiding you to follow him, rubbing a thumb over your cheeks and tapping his fingers against your knee.
Enough for your shoulders to loosen slightly.
Enough for your heartbeat to stop trying to kill you.
Jack stayed there in front of you the whole time.
Steady, and solid, and for the first time around him, your heart was hitting a normal bpm. He was here, with you.
Like he had nowhere else to be.
A little while later, while you sat quietly beside one another, Jack’s thumb brushed once against your wrist.
Slow.
Absent.
Like he hadn’t realized he was doing it.
But your entire body felt it.
The air inside the elevator had changed somewhere along the way, gone thick and warm and unbearably close, every breath suddenly too loud in the quiet. You could hear the soft hum of the emergency lights overhead, the faint sound of Jack breathing beside you, steady compared to the absolute disaster currently happening inside your chest.
“You’re looking at me weird,” you whispered.
“You started it.”
“That is not an answer.”
“No,” he agreed softly. “It’s not.”
Your eyes dropped to his mouth before you could stop yourself.
That was the problem with Jack. He noticed everything.
His gaze flicked down too. Back up again. Slower this time.
And suddenly you were hyperaware of all of him,the spread of his knees where he sat too close beside you, the way his forearms flexed against each other, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw after fourteen hours on shift. He looked exhausted. Beautiful. Real in a way that made your stomach ache.
“Oh no,” you breathed.
His brow furrowed slightly. “What?”
“I think this is getting dangerously close to my actual dreams.”
That earned you the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“You say a lot of things you probably shouldn’t.”
“I’m nervous.”
“I can tell.”
You laughed weakly, but it caught somewhere in your throat because Jack was still looking at you like that, steady and intent and almost unbearably focused. Not teasing now. Not detached.
He was looking at you like he’d finally stopped pretending not to.
Your pulse fluttered violently when he lifted his hand from your wrist to your jaw instead, fingers rough and warm where they settled against your skin.
Every thought in your brain vanished.
“Jack,” you whispered.
“Yeah.”
“You’re doing a thing.”
“What thing?”
“That thing where it feels like you’re about to ruin my life.”
Something softer broke across his face then. Affection, maybe. Or something frighteningly close to it.
“Probably,” he murmured.
And then he kissed you and it hit you all at once.
The warmth of his mouth, the solid weight of his hand against your face, the quiet sound he made when you immediately leaned into him like your body had been waiting for this longer than your brain wanted to admit.
You kissed him back without hesitation.
Which was embarrassing, but also impossible not to do.
Jack kissed like he spoke, deliberate, restrained right until the moment he wasn’t. One second careful, the next devastating enough to make your head spin. His hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, pulling you closer until your shoulder knocked softly into his chest.
Your fingers curled instinctively into the front of his sweatshirt, and you moved up and over until your knees straddled his waist and he gripped your waist tighter.
He exhaled quietly against your mouth at that.
“Jesus, fuck,” he muttered, voice rougher now.
Your heart nearly stopped.
“This is real?” you whispered breathlessly.
Jack looked at you for half a second like he couldn’t believe you were asking.
Then he kissed you again.
Slower this time.
Worse, somehow. But so much better.
The kind of kiss that made your stomach tighten and your thoughts go soft around the edges. You could feel the scrape of his stubble against your skin, the warmth of his palm spreading through the thin fabric at your waist now where his hand had settled.
You made a tiny sound when his thumb brushed lightly against your side.
His eyes flicked open briefly at the noise.
That look alone could’ve killed you.
“You okay?” he murmured, mouth still close enough that the words brushed against your lips.
You stared at him.
“You cannot ask me that right now.”
A quiet laugh escaped him then, low and tired and genuinely amused, and you thought, distantly, that you would do almost anything to hear that sound again.
“You’re blushing,” he observed.
“Oh my god.”
“It’s kind of cute.”
You covered your face immediately with both hands. “I need you to stop talking.”
Jack gently pulled one of your hands away again, still smiling slightly now.
“No, you don’t.”
You looked at him through your fingers, completely gone for him already, and something in his expression shifted when he saw it. The teasing faded around the edges into something warmer, more careful.
“You really had no idea?” he asked quietly.
“About what?”
“That I wanted this too.”
Your chest tightened painfully.
“You’re hard to read,” you admitted.
“Hm.”
“You glare at everyone.”
“I do not.”
“You literally look annoyed when people speak to you.”
“Often, I am.”
You laughed softly, and his thumb moved again against your cheek, absent and grounding all at once.
“But not with me?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
Jack went still for a moment.
Then his forehead rested briefly against yours.
“Not with you,” he said quietly.
It shouldn’t have hit as hard as it did.
But something about Jack, about the rarity of his softness, the fact he gave it so sparingly, made every small thing feel enormous.
You swallowed hard.
“That’s actually… insanely romantic for you.”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“I physically can’t help it.”
“That’s becoming clear.”
You smiled helplessly, and Jack looked at you for another long second before leaning in again, kissing you softer this time. Unhurried. Like he finally had permission.
Your hand slid up into his hair without thinking, fingers catching slightly in the dark curls at the back of his head.
He inhaled sharply against your mouth.
“Oh,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Don’t start.”
“You liked that.”
“Careful.”
You grinned despite yourself, still close enough to feel his breath warm against your skin.
“You know,” you murmured, “I’ve actually been in love with you for, like… an aggressively long time.”
Jack closed his eyes briefly like that information physically exhausted him.
“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”
Your jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”
“You stare at me like I hung the moon.”
“I absolutely do not.”
“I sort of noticed months ago.”
“And you just let me suffer?”
“You seemed committed to the experience, plus, I'm an attending, I wanted to make sure I was right before I risked you kicking me in the balls or something ”
You shoved lightly at his chest, horrified, and he caught your wrist again easily, looking more relaxed than you’d ever seen him.
“You’re unbelievable.”
Jack looked at you then with something so openly fond it made your stomach flip all over again.
“When we get out of here,” he said quietly, “I’m taking you to dinner.”
Your heart stuttered.
“Like… a real date?”
“Yes, sweetheart,” he said dryly. “A real date.”
The nickname alone nearly killed you.
“You can’t just say things like that.”
“You called me honey in Trauma Two.”
“I was under duress.”
“You’re under duress constantly.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
His hand settled warm at the side of your neck again, thumb brushing once beneath your ear.
“So,” he murmured. “Dinner.”
You smiled so hard your face hurt.
“Okay.”
Jack leaned in one last time, pressing a softer kiss to your forehead this time,gentle enough to make your chest ache.
And right then, as if the universe itself had decided you’d both suffered enough-
summary — in which jack abbot has feelings for you, yet you continue to remain oblivious despite his desperate attempts at flirting, he just can’t seem to read your mind !
warnings — age gap, profanity, some characters may be a bit ooc(sorry), not plot accurate, some chapters will include a lil bit of sexual innuendos, does not rlly have a set plot, uhmm I’ll add more as I write hehe !! <3
an — my first ever smau so I’m sorry if it isn’t that good .. parts of this will def be rlly self indulgent LOL !! bit busy sometimes but I dooooo plan on updating at least every other day !!!! taglist is open <3
author's note: again, I just want to say thank you for all the support on these over the last few weeks. life has been pretty gruelling recently and in the moments i get to write outside of work and college right now is like a silent reprieve. love to everyone who has read, liked, reblogged, commented and followed <3
word count: 5044 (sorry think I blacked out) (absolutely not proofread)
pairing: jack abbott x pediatric surgery department head! reader (what a mouth full lol - needed an excuse to have this not just be another resident fic, and for a baby jane doe/dana cameo)
warnings: fem reader, a bit of angst as reader grapples with being afraid of loving and being loved, hurt/comfort fic, medical inaccuracies (don't reaally even know what a CT is fully tbh), jack is slightly too emotionally mature for someone who is going through an existential crisis 24/7, mentions of parent divorce and absent parents, situationship to lovers <3
description: a self indulgent fic based on olivia dean's 'i've seen it'. Reader who has spent the last 8 months getting to know Jack under the sheets, needs a little tlc to take the next step.
I've seen it last for thirty years
Seen it bloom and end in tears
I've seen it after school and in the park
Sat right across me on the tube
You have seen love in enough forms to distrust the shiny ones.
You'd seen it bloom in the careful way an angry father held his kid's hand in triage, only to watch that same father crumple in the hallway when the CT you ordered confirmed what everyone suspected. You'd seen it in the park across from the hospital, in worn-out, worked-too-hard nurses clinking cans together because they needed to believe in something other than grief. You'd seen it in songs, and movies, and stupid romantic comedies that made you cry over takeout. Hell, you'd seen it in the way Digby spent an hour by Louie's side after he took his last breath.
You'd also seen it end, seen it rot. Quietly, at first, in your parents' kitchen when you were seven - too young to really understand but too curious not to really know. Two voices lowered, like whispering made it less permanent. Your mother's mascara on her cheeks. Your father's hands tensed and braced against the counter like that was the only solid thing left in his life. A completely stereotypical suitcase by the door that you didn't notice until he was already pulling it open. You remember that door, right in this moment, painting chipped and wood inlay frayed from the continous abuse of a slam.
Seen it miss a stop or two
Seen it trying not to fall apart
You suppose that love just doesn't always answer when it's called.
So when you moved out, and moved on to a city far away from any memories of your younger years, you chose something that always answered, something that was guaranteed. Something you always had control over.
Work.
Work answered, work had rules. Work had protocols, and plans, and the kind of certainty you could hold in your hands, even if sometimes it was in the form of a Hello Kitty plaster.
And that's your life story, I guess. How you became Dr (Y/L/N). An attending by your late twenties and head of pediatric surgery at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center by your thirty-first birthday. A title that sounded impressive enough to make people assume you had everything figured out. Most days you let them. Easier that way.
And it was also why, on the rare nights you werent on call upstairs, you found yourself chasing a high downstairs in the Pitt, your normal white coat exchanged for black scrubs, hair tied up, shoulders set, hovering around the ER like it was just gravity pulling you back.
You told people it was because of little Baby Jane Doe. And to be honest, that wasn't even a lie.
The abandoned infant had become the department's strange little orbit. A case with no end date, no parents to call, no discharge plan that didn't feel like moral failure. Hell, you were the head of paediatric surgery and even you couldn't get her upstairs. She wasn't even your patient, technically. You weren't neonatology, and right now, she didn't need surgery.
But you kept showing up anyways. You checked in, helped Dana with feeding, brought her one of the spare pink and white blankets all the newborns got in labor and delivery. You made sure she had a safe room and a familiar face when the night got a little too loud.
You told yourself a lot of half truths. You told yourself this was professional. That she was the only reason that you spent so much time down here amongst the crying and the blood and the sweat and whatever the hell Whitaker got on his scrubs that day.
You tell yourself a lot of things.
Today, the Pitt was running at its usual baseline chaos. Too many bodies, too few beds, heart monitors beeping like they had something to prove other than fact. You were stuck in trauma bay three, because your new hopeless case infant had been moved there temporarily despite your protests. It really wasn't anything dramatic, just a staffing shuffle and the kind of practical choices that had to be made when they were running on burnt coffee and crumbs of the nature valley protein bars you stock in the break room.
You had your arms crossed against your chest. It's cold for the fourth of July, a burgundy zip-up hoodie covering your scrub top. You watched baby Jane Doe asleep in the tiny hospital cot, tiny chest rising and falling, one fist curled like she was holding onto an invisible thread.
Dana stood at the doorway with a chart in her hand, a black bic ballpoint pen rolling between her fingers and her eyes sharp despite the fatigue you've learned live permanently under them now.
"You know," she said, "most department heads do not lurk in my ER"
"I'm not lurking," you replied, eyes still on the tiny little girl. "I'm supervising."
Dana snorted. “Supervising an infant.”
“She can’t advocate for herself.”
“Neither can half the people in the waiting room.”
“You don’t see me rocking them.”
“Depends. Is Abbot in the building?”
You looked up at that.
Dana’s mouth quirked. Not unkind. Just knowing. Like a charge nurse who heard every ounce of gossip that ran through this damn hospital. You also might have let a few truths slip the last time you came in in a black North Face jacket that was entirely too long, and entirely not yours. A moment of weakness that you paid for in daily teasing.
You sighed. “We’re not doing this.”
"We are always doing this, babe," Dana said, down at you, squeezing on your right shoulder. The movement makes you almost flinch. Reminds you of hands that were that soft once. The same hands that tied your shoe laces and made you peanut butter and jam sandwiches with the crusts cut off.
You really need to text your therapist. Or probably just call your mom more often.
A step in the doorway interrupts your thoughts. A familiar noise of deliberate footsteps and recalibrated air he carried around with him. One time you joked with them that he should have a Bruce Springsteen song following him around everywhere he goes. (You suggested Dancing in the Dark, he swears he's a more I'm on Fire guy)
Jack Abbot was kind of your friend. If your definition of friend goes as far as spending every other night in each other's bed and having absolutely no labels whatsoever. And as of recent, a bottle of 3 in 1 Lynx Shower Gel tucked in the very corner of your en suite bathroom's shower.
You would call what you and Jack had "conveniently complicated." You told him you wanted no strings attached, no complications, no relationships. That was when you strictly worked day shifts and saw him maybe one or two days a week at most. That was before you learned about his affinity for a stray cat in the ambulance bay, and that he would seek out a very specific brand of bagels every week because you said you preferred black sesame seeds over the regular ones. The strings that weren't attached at the beginning seem to have moved into a weaving, embroidered, cross-hatched thing that you were too scared to address or put a label on because having him in any way would be so much better than not having him at all. You've seen what being too much in the past has done for you, and you don't think your head or your heart could lose one army medic turned ER attending who looks stupidly good with rolled up camo sleeves and a furrowed brow.
His expression was the same grumpy neutrality you'd learned to read as a kind of foreign language that no one else seems to speak.
His eyes flicked from Dana, to you, to the sleeping, gurgling baby.
"You're early," you said, glancing up from where you were checking on the babies charts.
"I was in the neighbourhood"
"You live forty minutes away?"
He shrugged one shoulder like that was a totally normal thing to be doing on your off day. Like you don't toally notice the sweat under his armpits and the big 'MEDIC' sign on his front.
Dana snorted and muttered something about "idiots with martyr complexes" before wandering off towards the nurses station, leaving you two alone in trauma bay three with the quiet hum of machines and the tiny breathing sounds of a sleeping baby.
Its too quiet, and in a bid to dance around that conversation, you break the silence. "She's been out for like twenty minutes, if she wakes up screaming again I'm totally blaming you."
Jack didn't respond. You looked up.
He was leaning one shoulder against the wall now, heavier than usual. His jaw was set in that familiar stubborn line that meant he was trying, and failing, to pretend something wasn't happening with him right now.
Your eyes narrowed, and you notice the spotting of crimson at the very top of his shoulder.
"Jack."
"Yeah."
"Is that your blood?"
He looked down like the idea hadn't even occured to him.
"No, it’s not.”
You stared at him. Like the last 8 months inbetween his bedsheets hadn't made you entirely in the know with every Jack Abbot-ism going.
"Jesus Christ, Jack, turn around."
"I'm fine"
"Turn around."
He hesitated for exactly half a second before sighing through his nose and turning. The back of his shirt was slightly torn just below his shoulder blade, the fabric sodden and sticky with blood where something had clearly grazed him. The uniform he's wearing right now gives you this disgusting feeling in your gut and you think you know exactly what it was.
"In my defense, it barely clipped me."
"You got shot"
"I got shot at. And grazed. Completely superficial."
"Those are absolutely not different sentences."
He shrugged again.
"Shit hit the fan before I knew it. One of the guys got messed up pretty bad, and I got caught in the crossfire. But really, I'm fine."
You blinked.
"It's your day off."
"I was nearby"
"You were not supposed to be nearby," you press, running a hand down your face.
"Semantics."
Your ability to manhandle a man who's built like a brick shithouse honestly amazes you as you take one final look at baby Jane Doe and drag Jack by the shirt into a miraculously free room.
"Okay. Shirt off."
"Excuse me?"
"Don't make it weird, creep," you said, already grabbing gloves from the cubby on the wall.
He raised an eyebrow. "You're the one who said it like that."
"Jack. Please."
"Fine."
He sighed again, that tired, reluctant sound that meant he knew he lost an argument. He pulled the vest off first, setting it carefully on the bed he was now propping himself up onto. Then, he grabbed the hem of his shirt and dragged it over his head. You pretended not to notice the wince that quietly moved past his lips. You wonder about other times he's had to hide his hurt like this.
Unfortunately, him being shirtless is also a whole thing.
You had seen him shirtless countless times before. But that had been in low light, in tangled sheets, in circumstances where you weren't trying to focus on a wound and more so on how the light from the creeping sun in through the blinds highlighted every little freckle adorning his skin.
Your brain did a brief, traitorous inventory: the broad line of his shoulders, the small, faded scars that ran across his ribs and collarbone, the way his biceps and forearms tensed as they crossed over his stomach.
"Are you done looking?"
You blinked and snapped back to reality.
You grabbed saline and gauze from the tray, stepping closer.
“Hold still.”
“I am still.”
“You’re breathing.”
“I need that.”
You pressed the soaked gauze against the graze.
He flinched.
You froze. “Did that hurt?”
“No.”
“You flinched.”
“Reflex.”
You leaned closer to inspect the wound properly.
The bullet had carved a shallow line across the back of his shoulder blade—angry, bleeding, but not deep.
Still.
Still.
Your voice softened despite yourself.
“You could’ve been killed.”
Jack looked down at the floor like he was considering the possibility and had already dismissed it.
“Could’ve been worse.”
“You say that every time.”
“It’s usually true.”
You dabbed more carefully now, cleaning the blood away so you could see the injury.
His skin was warm under your fingers. Your hand brushed the muscle in his back and you felt him go still for a moment.
“You’re lucky,” you murmured.
He glanced back over his shoulder at you.
“You sound mad.”
“I am mad.”
“Why.”
“Because you got shot!”
“Grazed, barely!”
“Jack.”
He turned slightly, enough that you could see the corner of his mouth tilt.
“You worried about me, doc?”
You scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
He hummed softly like he didn’t believe you.
You finished cleaning the wound and reached for the antiseptic.
“This is going to sting.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“Stop trying to impress me.”
“I’m not trying to impress you.”
“You absolutely are.”
He chuckled under his breath, low and warm.
"Pretty sure the impression phase is over between us, honey .”
Your hand slipped slightly against his shoulder.
“Stay still.”
“I am still.”
You taped the gauze down carefully, fingers brushing his back one last time.
“There,” you said, stepping back.
He grabbed his shirt from the chair but didn’t put it on yet.
Instead he turned fully toward you.
Your eyes met his automatically.
The ER noise drifted in from the hallway. Somewhere down the corridor a monitor alarm chirped. Somewhere down the hall there was a bet being placed on why you and Jack were in an on call room together. Alone.
Jack studied your face like he was trying to read something you hadn’t realized you were showing.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he said quietly.
“Treat a wound?”
“Worry.”
You scoffed lightly, trying to shrug it off.
“You’re a colleague.”
“Casual colleague.”
“Exactly.”
He watched you for another moment.
Then he said, very calmly,
“You keep calling it that.”
Your stomach tightened.
“Calling what.”
“This.”
You crossed your arms.
“What else would you call it.”
Jack leaned back against the counter, shirt still hanging loosely in one hand.
“I’d call it obvious.”
You frowned.
“Obvious?”
“Yeah.”
His eyes held yours.
“I’ve been in love with you for months.”
The words hit harder than the bullet probably had hit him.
You stared at him.
And Jack Abbot looked at you like he had just said the most normal thing in the world.
“You’re joking,” you said weakly.
“I’m not.”
“That’s not funny.”
“I wasn’t trying to be.”
You shook your head, trying to laugh it off.
“Jack, we’re casual.”
He tilted his head slightly.
“Are we.”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure.”
“Very.”
Jack studied you for a long moment.
Then he sighed softly, almost fond.
“Kid,” he said, voice gentler now, “I thought I was being pretty obvious.”
Then he took a step back, as if giving you space to breathe would help you figure out whatever the fuck just happened, "Think about it."
And then he left.
And your chest felt like it had been cracked open in four different places.
I've seen it grow old and forget
Until it's just a silhouette
'Til someone picks it up and sends it on
I've seen the films, I've read the books
Over the next week, Jack Abbot became a problem that you couldn't avoid. He didn't chase you. He remained infuriatingly nonchalant about everythingm as if he hadn't dropped probably what was the most confession of your life like a grenade and walked away.
But Jack was everywhere, even if he didn't mean to be. You sensed him in every stare that Robby gave you down the hall, in every loving interaction between two parents who were happy to hear their kid was going home in one piece. You felt it in every 'thank god!", and every cry and every ounce of affection you received from the worried families you interacted with everyday. Because what is love, if not remberance of every tiny little grasp you ever had?
And when he did mean to be there, he showed up in ways that he always did. Just more obviously now. Leaning against a wall with a coffee in his hand that he definitely didn't brew for himself. Showing up in your department with new info about baby Jane Doe as if you couldn't just look it up on your laptop. In the break room, where your favourite sweet treat from the bakery down the road sat in brown paper wrapping with a little handwritten 'the boss' on a pink sticky note. A pink sticky note he most definitely stole from YOUR collection.
It got worse when people started noticing.
Dana watched you from behind the triage desk like she was watching a slow-moving car crash.
Robby clocked Jack’s lingering looks in the hallway with the weary resignation of a man who had already survived too many emotional disasters in this building.
And Santos—
Santos was the worst.
You were charting in an empty bay one evening when Santos strolled in with the smugness of a person who thrived on chaos.
“You and Abbot,” she said.
You didn’t look up. “What about us.”
Santos made a thoughtful noise. “Nothing. Just… fascinating.”
“You’re bored.”
“I’m observant.” She leaned against the counter. “He’s being weird.”
“He’s always weird.”
“No,” Santos said, eyes narrowing. “He’s being soft. In public. That’s like… a sighting. Like a rare bird.”
“He’s not soft.”
Santos stared at you like you’d insulted her intelligence.
“You know he keeps his voice lower when he talks to you?” she asked. “Like he’s trying not to scare you.”
“He’s not trying to—”
“And he stands between you and the hall,” she continued, counting on her fingers. “He waits for you after consults. He remembers your coffee order. He didn’t yell at Whitaker when he bumped into him yesterday because you were standing there.”
You opened your mouth.
Closed it.
Santos smiled slowly. “Oh. You’re in denial denial.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m just busy.”
“With what, avoiding feelings?”
You glared. “Go do your job.”
“I am,” Santos said cheerfully. “My job is watching attendings implode.”
She left, laughing quietly to herself.
One night you'd been in the ER longer than planned because Jane Doe had spiked a fever and pediatrics was swamped upstairs. You were tired in that bone deep way that made your hands, and your heart feel heavy. And you're still ghosting your therapist.
Jack found you in the hallway outside the painted room, leaning against the wall, eyes closed. He didn't ask what was wrong, just stood in front of you, blocking the traffic of the hall, and handed you a cup of coffee.
"You look like shit." he said
You huffed a laugh. "Romantic."
"Accurate"
You took the coffee anyway, because you were too tired to perform pride. You were also completely dying a massive ego death as you followed him into the breakroom after he waggled an accusatory finger at you for not eating anything.
"This whole hanging around, feeding me, watering me - like a house plant. It doesn't feel casual," you say, before you can stop yourself from chickening out of it. You get a quick wash of a familiar suitcase by a familiar door in a familiar house, but you squash it down before you can run.
Jack's mouth twitched. "Because it isn't."
You swallowed. "jack."
He leaned against the counter, arms folding loosely. "You don't have to say it back."
That stopped you. Absolutely not where you thought thi conversation was going.
"What?"
"You don't have to-" His jaw flexed. "Do anything you don't want to do. Say anything, or, say nothing. I can wait. I've been waiting."
Your chest tightened, and every nerve in your body lit up on fire as you watched him not beg, or plead, but offer. He was giving you an exit like he expected you to use it if you needed to. As if he wasn't the only thing that ever mattered anyways.
You didn't trust this feeling in your body. This panicy, fluttering feeling inside your ribs. You'd seen love turn intor absence, seen it last for years, long enough to believe it, and then see it end anyways. You didn't trust the too good things, or trust yourself enough to keep them. So you did what you always did. You tried to make it smaller.
"You're probably just attached," you said lightly. "Like with the stray cat"
Jack stared. "Don't"
"Don't what."
"Compare me being in love with you to a cat."
Your throat tightened. You cant believe you're having this conversation over a 99 cent granola bar.
"You ever think," you whispered, "that love just, leaves? anyways?"
Jack didn't look away.
"No," he said. "I think people leave. I don't think love ever does."
You let out a shaky breath. "That's-"
"Not a fairytale," Jack finished. "I know."
And somehow, hearing him say exactly what you were thinking, him, of all people, made you eyes sting. You wiped at them quickly, annoyed with yourself. Jack stepped closer, slower than usual, calculating your reactions. He didn't touch you, just stood within reach and said, " I'm not whatever has happened to you before. I'm right here, with who you are right now. And I will wait as long as you need me to."
He was grumpy, and probably fed up of you, and so painfully sincere all at the same time it made your chest ache. You didn't have a clever response, nor were you ready to take the leap you so desperately wanted to, so you just reached up. Did the only thing you could, you reached up and touched his hand. Just your fingertips against his knuckles. When Jack exhaled slowly, like he'd been holding his breath for days, the air suddenly felt lighter between you.
I've seen the films, I've read the books
My mum and dad, they got me hooked
The fairy tale, the search goes on and on
The next time it happened, it wasn’t in the quiet. It was in the middle of chaos, because of course it was.
A pediatric consult came through the ER for a toddler with abdominal trauma. You were on your way down when you saw Jack in the hall, moving fast, jaw tight. He spotted you and didn’t slow.
“Bay Five,” he said.
“I know.”
“Dad’s combative.”
“Great.”
Jack grabbed your elbow lightly,not stopping you, just anchoring you for half a second.
“You okay?” he asked, too low for anyone else.
You blinked. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
His eyes searched yours. “You’ve been pushing.”
“I’m fine.”
🩺
Inside the bay, everything was sharp and fast. The dad was yelling. The kid was crying. Monitors were loud. Someone shouted for imaging. You were gentle when you needed to be, crouching beside the toddler, voice soft, hands steady. Using every tip and trick in the book you learned from oushing yourself so far into a book and so far away from everything else.
“It’s okay,” you murmured, smoothing the child’s hair. “I’m going to help you, okay?”
You could see the toddler's father irate. Fear, clouded as anger as he shouted at you to fix her, to help, to do your fucking job. You felt as Jack watched you shift from soft to steel like it was a miracle he’d witnessed a hundred times and still couldn’t get over.
Afterward, when the toddler was stabilized and the father was escorted out, Jack found you by the sink washing your hands.
He came up behind you, close enough that you felt his warmth.
“You were good,” he murmured.
You swallowed. “It’s my job.”
His gaze held yours in the mirror.
“You don’t believe me,” he said.
You didn’t answer.
He nodded once, like he’d expected that.
Then he said, with mild irritation, “I thought I was being obvious.”
You laughed weakly. “You don’t do obvious.”
“I do with you.”
You turned to face him fully.
His eyes were tired. His mouth was set in that stubborn line. He looked like someone who’d decided something and didn’t plan on changing his mind.
“What do you want from me,” you asked softly, “besides… this?”
Jack’s expression shifted, barely.
“Everything,” he said.
The word made your stomach drop.
He saw it. And instead of pressing, he softened his tone.
“I want you to stop acting like you’re temporary,” he said quietly. “Like you’re just passing through.”
You stared.
He stepped closer, close enough that his hand brushed your waist as he moved around you to shut off the faucet.
“You keep giving me pieces,” he murmured, “and then you act surprised when I want the whole thing.”
Your chest ached.
You whispered, “I don’t know how.”
Jack’s brows pulled together. “You just… do.”
You shook your head. “It’s not that easy.”
“For you,” he said, voice gentler now, “it’s never been easy.”
The kindness in that nearly broke you.
You looked away quickly.
Jack didn’t let you escape completely, though. He reached out, touched your hip lightly, barely there. You prayed that Lena was somewhere completely far away so she couldn't report this back to Dana during shift change.
“Hey.”
You looked back.
He held your gaze. “I meant it. I love you.”
You whispered, “Jack.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I know. It’s inconvenient.”
A laugh escaped you, wet and shaky.
He looked faintly relieved by it, as if he’d been waiting for you to do anything but run.
You took a breath. Then another.
And you said, very quietly, “I don’t… trust it.”
Jack’s jaw flexed.
“You don’t trust me.”
“I trust you,” you corrected quickly. “I don’t trust—” You swallowed. “That it lasts.”
Jack went still for a beat.
Then he nodded once, as if he’d finally found the root of the wound.
“You’ve seen it end,” he said.
You blinked hard.
Jack’s voice stayed steady. “You’ve seen it start and end and start again. You’ve seen it mess up. You’ve seen it make people cruel.”
You stared at him. He didn’t look away.
“And you think if you pretend you don’t want it,” he continued, “it can’t hurt you.”
Your throat tightened.
“Kid,” Jack said quietly, “it’s already in you. It’s been in you. You just… don’t want to admit you can give it back.”
Your eyes stung.
“You make it sound so simple,” you whispered.
“It is,” Jack replied. “And it’s not.”
He stepped closer again. Slow. Careful. Like he always did with you. He didn’t touch you right away. He just let you decide. It gave you that feeling of control in a way you hadn't felt before. A grounding force rather than something you had to get under wraps.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said.
You laughed weakly. “You’re so dramatic.”
He huffed. “I’m being obvious.”
You looked up at him, eyes glassy.
“I don’t know what to do with that,” you admitted.
Jack’s gaze softened.
“Say it,” he said.
You blinked. “Say what.”
“The thing you’re thinking,” Jack murmured. “The words you keep swallowing.”
Your lips parted. Nothing came out. You wanted so badly for something to come out.
You’d heard love in every song, you’d read it in every book, you’d watched it on screens and across tables and in parks and on late-night trains in other people’s stories.
But when it came to your own mouth, the words felt wrong. Too fragile. Too exposed.
Jack waited.
He didn’t rush you. He just stayed there, steady as a heartbeat.
Finally, you whispered, “I think I’m in love with you.”
Jack’s expression shifted so fast it almost hurt to watch.
Relief. Warmth. Something like triumph, but softer.
“You think,” he repeated, almost offended.
You huffed out a laugh through the sting in your throat. “Don’t push it.”
Jack stepped in and kissed you.
Not like a hookup. Not like a casual night that ended in you slipping out before morning. This kiss was slow and certain, like punctuation. Like a promise. Like a man who had been waiting far too long for you to believe him. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“I told you,” he murmured, voice rough. “I was obvious.”
You laughed softly, eyes damp. “You were not.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “Sweetheart. I bought your energy drinks. I saved you a chair in the break room. I changed my rounds so I’d pass your bay. I listened to you talk about Baby Jane Doe like, like I had the right to care too, and that I was just coming in on my days off to check on day old patients that I knew were already sent on their merry way"
You swallowed.
Jack’s thumb brushed your cheek, catching a tear you didn’t realize had fallen.
“I’ve been obvious,” he repeated, gentler now. “You just didn’t want to see it.”
You leaned into his touch.
Outside the bay, the ER kept humming, indifferent to your little moment. A monitor beeped. Someone called for transport. Life moved on.
Inside this small pocket of quiet, Jack Abbot looked at you like you were something he intended to keep.
You whispered, “What if I mess it up?”
Jack huffed softly, like he couldn’t believe you were still bargaining.
“Then we fix it,” he said. “We do what we do best.”
“What’s that.”
He kissed your forehead.
“Show up,” he said simply.
And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe him.
Because love wasn’t a fairytale.
It was a choice.
And he was standing right in front of you, making it—again, and again, and again.
Obvious.
The more you look, the more you find
It's all around you all the time
Catches your eye, you blink and then it's gone
Brings out the worst, brings out the best
I know it's somewhere in my chest
I guess it's been inside me all along
☆ SUMMARY: Your crush on Jack was getting out of hand and seriously debilitating your ability to live a regular life. It doesn’t help that the man also always happens to bear witness whenever something goes horribly wrong in your life. Or in short, the three (3) times Jack Abbot saves your ass, and the one (1) time you pay him back for it.
☆ CONTAINS: Younger, fem!reader, alcohol consumption, suggestive content (barely), mentions wanting to drown, embarrassing reader, Jack is actually calm, cool and collected in this.
☆AUTHORS NOTE: Long time no see! I actually got second-hand embarrassment writing this, poor girl is really going through it. Can you tell my love language is acts of service? Also I’m not American, so I don’t know how tipping works, it might be too much– but then again, it would still be on par with how generous he is. Hope you enjoy it ;)
☆ PAGE DIVIDERS BY: @angeliicide
1.
The bar is crowded with your friends and colleagues from work, dressed in casual clothes and looking about ten years younger without the usual harsh glare of the white ER light beating down on them.
The straw in your drink is nearly chewed into bits by the time Trinity Santos nudges you, breaking you out of your reverie, giving you a pointed look.
“I know you’re not staring at who I think you’re staring at,”
You reluctantly tear your gaze away, blinking innocently at her with a cheeky grin stretched across your glossy lips.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,”
The subject of your affection moves, and so do you– or at least you attempt to, until Trinity grabs your arm holding you in place.
“Nope, no way– not tonight!”
You pout, shaking your arm as you try to get her to let go.
“Trin, come on– I’m not going to do anything except talk to him!”
“Talk?” she repeats incredulously, moving to block your distracted gaze from him. “You look like you’re about thirty seconds away from pouncing on him,”
You gasp in faux offense, finally meeting her gaze with your sly one.
“How dare you! I have self control,”
“I highly doubt that,”
Jack Abbot is leaning against the bar like he doesn’t even realize how much space he takes up in your mind, just by existing. Short sleeves straining over his biceps, on display for anyone to ogle at– his gray curls slightly mussed like he’s run a hand through it one too many times.
He’s laughing at something Robby is saying, head tipped back just enough for your stomach to twist, the outline of his strong jaw entrancing you further.
“I just know he’s better than in my head,” you sigh out, going back to chew on your straw until your drink is snatched out of your grip. “Hey–” your protests are cut off with one glare.
“You finished it twenty minutes ago,” she shoots back, placing her hands on your shoulders and forcing you to actually face her instead of craning your neck toward the bar and towards the night shift attending.
You perk up at her words, a mischievous glint forming in your eyes.
“I’ll get us some new drinks then!” you chirp, narrowly avoiding her grip as you wiggle your fingers at her in lieu of a goodbye.
Weaving through the crowded floor, you coincidentally end up right next to Jack by the bar. When he doesn’t notice your arrival, you roll your eyes, before lightly bumping his shoulder.
“Oh my gosh– Doctor Abbot! I didn’t see you there–” you try to sound casual, but it comes out rather breathless instead.
Jack grunts quietly at the impact, before turning around, shoulders dropping when he sees that it’s just you.
“It’s all right,” he reassures you, and then it looks like he’s about to turn back around.
“So!” you exclaim, wincing at the sudden volume of your voice, “Are you having fun?”
He stops mid-turn, then faces you once again, this time fully. You gulp, fighting the urge to check him out when he’s this close to you– looking even more tempting than he does in his usual black scrubs.
Don’t even get me started on the SWAT-uniform–
Jack’s face comes into view as he catches your line of sight again, a soft smirk on his face.
“Am I boring you already?”
“No! No, not at all– never, actually– well, not never, but like–” you wave your hands quickly, laughing a little too loudly.
Stop. Talking.
You clamp your mouth shut, and the silence stretches for a moment too long, before you start to scramble sentences together again.
“Anyway! I was just coming to get drinks,” you gesture vaguely to the bar, which you are, in fact, not ordering from.
Jack nods, pursing his lips slightly and you wonder if he’s going to just keep letting you embarrass yourself like this for the entire interaction, or end up taking pity on you and say something.
“Let me buy you a drink–”
“I’ll get you one–”
Your sentences overlap, and you regret the fact that you didn’t take at least one shot before coming over to talk to him. What was your plan in the first place?
“No, you– you go first,” you gesture toward him, already regretting every life decision that led you here.
Jack studies you for a second, something akin to amusement flickering in his eyes again, like he’s actually starting to enjoy this.
“I was just going to say I’ll buy you one,” he says, nodding toward the bar.
“Right! Yeah– I mean, I was also going to say that. But, like, for you,” you say quickly and trail off nervously, dragging a hand through your hair.
Jack turns slightly toward the bartender, lifting two fingers to signal, then glances back at you.
“What do you want?”
Your brain, the traitor that it is, short-circuits again, and you spit out the first thing that comes to mind.
“Sex on the beach,”
With him.
“Okay then,” Jack nods, and you swear you saw him stifle a laugh before he turns back to the bartender, voice smooth and low when he orders.
In an urge to try and make up for how incredibly awkward it was and to try and maybe even impress him, you tap your card on the small card reader the bartender placed where you’re standing. Jack blinks, a small frown forming on his face when you beat him to the punch, the sleek, black card in his hand landing on the bar with a clang!
“You didn’t have to do that,” he mutters, eyes narrowed in what looks like offense, like you’d just done something unimaginable.
You smile, waving him off, shoulders rolling back as you try not to let the satisfaction you’re feeling show.
“It’s okay! I wanted to–”
A loud beep interrupts your sentence, and you watch in horror as the bartender gives you a sad look.
“Sorry Miss, the transaction failed,”
The words cause a wave of embarrassment to wash over you, and you feel your face warming as you let out a laugh, loud and high-pitched.
“That’s– that’s so weird,” you say through silent puffs of air.
You tap it again, and it gives that same, low pitch beeping sound again.
Amazing.
“It declined again–” The bartender quips, like you can’t already see the huge red words on the small screen, and your smile tightens. “Do you maybe have another card?” she asks carefully, eyes flickering between the grip on your card and your eyes– was that unshed tears?
“I– yeah, I mean, I do,” you say, already digging through your bag with way too much urgency. “Somewhere. Probably. I just, hold on–”
You do not have another card.
You know you don’t have another card. What you do have is a lip gloss, three crumpled receipts, a pen that doesn’t work, and your dignity rapidly disintegrating.
The sound of metal clinging breaks you out of your spiraling thoughts, and you look up just in time as Jack taps it, a cheerful ding confirming that it was indeed a lack of funds on your side.
You watch horrified as it goes through immediately. Turning to him immediately, your eyes widen.
“No! No, you don’t have to, I was literally just about to–”
“Find another card?” he finishes, one brow lifting slightly, then orders for both of you again like nothing happened and you latch onto that small extension of mercy with your entire being.
When he turns back, there’s something different in his expression now, still amused, but softer. His hand slides the drink over to you, and you feel your fingers brush against his as you grab the stem of the glass, cursing internally at yourself for also choosing the ugliest, most egregious looking drink on the planet.
“...Thanks,” you mutter in defeat, taking a sad sip from the loopy straw.
Jack lifts his whiskey in silent cheers, mirroring you and taking a sip. You meet his gaze over the rim of his glass, and despite how utterly humiliated you feel, somehow, your stupid heart is racing like it’s still a win, having a drink with Jack Abbot.
Just as you’re about to speak up again, the sound of someone calling his name across the bar breaks the moment, and Jack turns towards the sound, lifting a hand in greeting, then turns back to you.
“Buddy of mine from the army,” he explains, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d almost say he looked regretful. “I should go say hello–”
“Yeah! Totally, that’s…that’s totally fine,” you wave your hands dismissively, practically shooing him away, “Don’t let me keep you, and uh– thanks again for the drink,”
The sooner he leaves, the sooner you can jump over the bar and crush that fucking card reader–
Jack shifts his weight, his eyes flickering down to your lips and the way they move as you chew on the straw and stare behind the bar, before he looks back.
“Anytime,” he responds, not forgetting to place a crisp twenty dollar bill on the table before leaving.
When he disappears into the crowd, your head falls into your hands, a loud groan escaping you.
2.
“Stupid fucking, piece of shit garbage!” you cry out as your eyes water, feeling that lump in your throat that reveals exactly what’s about to happen next.
Your head thumps against the steering wheel, loud snivels filling the space of your car.
As if your day hadn’t been bad enough, your car chooses right now to break down as well.
Normally, you’d brush it off and take the bus, but it was as if the sky had opened up and the ocean was falling from it. No warnings on the forecast, so you sure as hell weren't carrying an umbrella around in your bag either.
Ordering an Uber was out of the question, since the last of your money had just been taken by a mysterious Apple charge you had no way of cancelling– and even if you did, your nine dollars weren’t going to cover the thirty minute long ride fare to your shitty apartment across town.
Taking a deep breath, you shove your phone into your bag and zip your jacket up– not bothering to try and avoid the rain.
“I hope I drown,” you mutter, the rain pounding down mercilessly on your head, the thin jacket you have on doing nothing to warm you as you waddle across the parking lot and onto the sidewalk.
Within seconds, your hair is plastered to your face, your clothes clinging uncomfortably to your skin as your shoes splash through shallow puddles forming across the cracked asphalt– currently soaking through your socks.
The sound of cars whooshing along the road can be heard, but you keep your head down.
That is until you hear a car pull up to where you’re walking, and a window rolling down as a voice breaks through the loud noise of water rushing.
“What the hell are you doing?”
You squint, blinking through the wet droplets clouding your vision as it focuses on the black truck that’s stopped in the middle of the road.
Sitting there in all his glory is Jack Abbot, a concerned look etched onto his face as he takes in your soaked figure, the way your clothes cling to you and how your shoulders are slumped inwards, like you’re trying to cover yourself, while simultaneously having given up.
Naturally, it had the red flags in his head blaring.
You blink at him like he’s a hallucination. Honestly, with the day you’ve had, it wouldn’t even be that surprising if he was one.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” you shout back over the rain, your voice wobbling despite your attempt at sarcasm, your arms crossing as you another gust of wind blows.
“It looks like you’ve lost your mind,” he says dryly, and it almost sounds like he’s concerned for you, already reaching across to shove the passenger door open. “Get in–”
“Oh, no– I’m okay, I’m taking the bus–” you shake your head wildly, motioning to the bus stop just right ahead. A car honks, and you see Jack roll his window down, motioning with his hand for it to drive around him, clearly having no plans on pulling away just yet.
“You’re not standing in this, waiting for a bus,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I can drive you home,”
The cars continue to honk behind him, yet Jack is in no rush to move, still arguing with you through the lowered window.
“I don’t want to, like… inconvenience you,” you try again, even as your teeth start to chatter, completely betraying you. “It’s really not that far and I–”
“Get in the truck,” he drawls, not even turning around anymore when the cars honk, simply waving his hand out of the driver side window and letting them pass.
“You’re causing a traffic jam–” you counter, an uneasy look on your face as you notice multiple people roll their windows down and shout out profanties. You didn’t blame them, you were being unreasonably stubborn, but you couldn’t be alone with him, not when you looked like this and he looked like that.
You also didn’t trust yourself to not start crying when feeling the, what looked like, smooth, expensive seat of his car. The rough cushion of your own wouldn’t even allow you to attempt wearing shorts in the summer while driving.
“I’m not moving,” he cuts in simply, eyes locked on yours. “So you can either keep walking and make this worse for everyone, or you can get in the car,”
His voice can barely be heard over the sounds of the horns blaring, and you frown, debating for one more moment before you finally succumb to the pressure, hurrying around the front of the car as he pushes the door open from the inside, watching your drenched form climb inside.
Once the door closes, the outside noise is cut off, only leaving the sound of the heater and your uneven breathing as you try to stop your shivering.
You sit there, dripping onto what you now know are very expensive seats, hands hovering awkwardly like you’re afraid to touch anything. Water pools beneath you anyway, completely undoing all your efforts.
Jack exhales slowly through his nose, one hand tightening on the steering wheel before he reaches over and cranks the heat higher.
“Seat’s already wet,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “You’re not going to make it worse. Sit back,”
You slowly lean back, cringing at the way the leather squeaks under you, hands clasped together in your lap as Jack starts driving.
“Sorry,” you say quietly after a while, staring straight ahead and watching as the windshield wipers work overtime.
“For what?” he says gruffly, glancing at you out of the corner of his eyes. Seeing as your hands are still shaking in your lap, he reaches down, turning the seat warmers on as well.
You shift uncomfortably, shrugging while you start digging in your backpack, pulling your phone out. At least that had managed to stay dry. You really couldn’t afford getting a new phone right now.
“Everything, I think. Shit, you need my address, right–”
“No, I got it,” Jack says, one hand on the steering wheel whilst the other pushes the turn signal indicator, and maneuvers the car smoothly.
“You know my address?” you ask dumbly, head whipping around to look at him.
Oh my God– this is it! This is your chance, he’s clearly–
“I dropped you, Javadi and Matteo off after the last staff party, remember? It’s still in my navigation,”
You visibly deflate, sinking back into the warm seat as your eyes squeeze shut.
“Oh. Yeah, I remember that– that was a fun night,”
Getting wasted with your colleagues and faceplanting in front of your crush at the annual PTMC Christmas party was objectively not something you’d recall as being a fun night.
In fact, it was actually the night your inconvenient crush on Jack had started– after he silently bought the entire table a round of drinks, and jokingly gave you a wink when you saw him excuse himself to secretly pay the tab.
The car falls silent as you stare out of the window, lost in your thoughts. Jack looks over again when he notices, watching your damp hair stick to the side of your face, the subtle sniffles you let out every now and then. His hand twitches, the urge to reach over and brush a lock out of your face is strong, but Jack’s willpower is even stronger.
Forcing his gaze back onto the road, his fingers grip the wheel tighter instead, and he clears his throat.
“I thought you had a car?” he asks, hand dropping down to shift the gear stick.
You smile sheepishly, tucking your hair behind your ear as you look over at him, trying not to stare at his arms flexing at his actions.
“I do. It just decided to give up, and apparently Pittsburgh now has a monsoon season, so,” You motion to yourself and the clammy state you’re in, chest fluttering in something akin to pride when you hear Jack let out a soft huff of laughter.
“And the Uber app happened to give up as well?” he quips back, cocking an eyebrow in your direction.
Your smile drops just as quick and you look down at your hands now twisting in your lap, shrugging.
“No, that was my bank account…again,” you mutter in embarrassment, trying to will the memory of that night in the bar away.
Jack hums in acknowledgment, but doesn’t comment on it any further– your embarrassment is evident in the way your hands are fidgeting, and he fights his instincts once again to stop you from picking on the skin of your nails.
“Do you have my number?” he decides to ask instead, and when you don’t reply he looks over to find you already watching him. When your eyes meet, you snap out of your reverie, fumbling with your phone instead.
“I think so, uh– I can check–” you scroll through your contacts as if you don’t already know and have memorized his number from the day you got it.
“Call me the next time you need a ride,” he cuts in, then just reaches for the radio, low music filling the air for the rest of the drive.
3.
The rain has settled into a small drizzle by the time Jack reaches your place.
Unbuckling the belt, you open the door and step out of the car, sheepishly wiping the seat with your sleeve. You had managed to get dry during the ride, but unfortunately, Jack's car had taken the brunt of the damage.
“Hey, no– leave that,” he grumbles, swatting your hand away, and your skin tingles where his hand accidentally brushes it.
A soft laugh escapes you, and you swing your backpack over your shoulder as you stand by the door, shifting on your feet as you prolong the goodbye.
It’s not everyday you get alone time like this, not any day, actually– considering the fact that the night shift attending shockingly only worked the night shift.
“Thanks for the ride,” you mutter shyly, eyes flickering up to meet him. Jack nods, stifling a smile at the sudden bashful look on your face– so unlike your usual loud and boisterous self that he would so often see at handoffs.
“Don’t forget what I said–”
You roll your eyes, even though your mind is running thousand miles per minute– the thought of casually texting Jack and asking him to pick you up feels awfully domestic to you.
“Yeah, yeah,” you say absentmindedly, grinning again when he gives you a weak attempt at a stern look. “Alright– okay, I promise,” you concede, and only then does Jack lean back in his seat, looking feeling awfully enamored by the soft, warm version of you he’s getting.
When you finally close the car door and start walking towards the apartment building, you’re stopped by the sight of a large, bulky cardboard box by the entrance. Curiosity takes over, and you quickly take a peek at the name on the waybill, only to freeze once you see that it’s your own.
Shit– you had ordered a new bedframe, but you didn’t think it’d come so soon. Since when does anything ever get shipped on time? Apparently when you’ve already had a crap day, and the one time the elevator is under maintenance.
Cursing under your breath, there’s not much else you can do than to dig your heels in and try to pull the package– only to get absolutely nowhere.
“What the fuck did they put in here– bricks?” you whine, letting go of it again. Stepping back, your hands land on your hips as you assess the situation. Sighing, you wrap your arms around the large box and pull again, groaning loudly as you do.
“You just can’t stay out of trouble, huh?”
A yelp escapes you at the sound, letting go of the box and whirling around to find Jack watching you with an amused look on his face.
“I thought you left!” you say breathlessly, stepping away from the package and trying not to show how simply pulling it had knocked the wind out of you.
“I was waiting for you to get inside,” he responds simply, like his words aren’t causing you to shortfunction.
This entire situation was the reason you tried to deny the ride home in the first place– already feeling mortified over failing to buy him the drink a week ago, to being caught trying to take the bus after yet another monetary issue, and now seeing that you’re unable to even lift a fucking box by yourself.
How on earth were you supposed to convince him that you’re a grown person worth loving and willing to care for him, when you couldn’t even take care of yourself?
“Alright– get the door and I’ll get the–” Jack begins, already moving towards the package. You quickly step in front of him, hands landing on his chest as you stop him, only to quickly drop back at your sides when you realize what you just did, eyes widening.
“No! Sorry– but still, no– I got it. Seriously, you already dropped me off, you don’t need to do this,” you’re borderline pleading at this point, a desperate look on your face.
You cannot let this man do you any more favors or your chances will officially be flushed down the drain, and he’ll see you as some incompetent woman-child, instead of a potential partner.
Not that your chances were particularly great in the beginning, but at least there was a possibility. Now, each moment you spend in his presence out of work only slims that window of opportunity down further.
Jack frowns, the lines around his mouth deepening at your words. Stepping around you, he grabs the package, lifting it over his shoulder in one, smooth motion.
You gape at the sight, having just spent the last five minutes pathetically tugging on it, only for him to lift it in seconds.
“That was a lot heavier when I tried to–” you begin, only to realize he’s carrying pounds of furniture on his shoulders and you’re standing there yapping. In an instant, you’re opening the entrance door, watching the muscles in his arms ripple as he grips the box, holding it steady.
“What floor?” he grunts, not bothering to stop walking.
You stumble behind him, swallowing down the drool that's collecting in your mouth.
You’re pretty sure you had a dream just like this before–
When he glances over his shoulder, you clear your throat, finally answering.
“Second floor,” you say, sounding short of breath despite not doing any of the physical labor.
Watching as he makes his way up the stairs, you bite your lip, glancing at his leg. Surely this was painful, even for someone as fit as him.
Before you can comment on it, he reaches the second floor, and this time you don’t wait for him to ask, before you’re leading him to your front door.
Thank God you tidied up before heading to work today.
He sets the box down carefully once you guide him inside, rolling his shoulder like it weighed nothing at all. You, on the other hand, are still standing in the doorway like you’ve forgotten how to function in a straight line.
“Where do you want it?” he asks, gaze flitting across your apartment as he takes it in, the warm lighting, the small trinkets and stack of medical books lining the shelves, even the scent being so utterly you that he has to grip the box harder to try and ground himself.
You try not to react at the sight of Jack Abbot in your apartment– looking so out of place yet somehow, right at home.
“Anywhere,” you say, blinking at him.
Jack lets out a low chuckle, leaning the box against the wall as he sees the way you’re looking at him– pupils dilated and unabashedly obvious, even though you always convince yourself you aren’t.
“What?” he huffs, crossing his arms over his chest and tilting his head as he stares back at you, the shoe sized apartment you live in suddenly feeling even smaller.
Shaking your head, you step back, regardless of the already large distance between the two of you. You needed to get further away, maybe even leave the room if possible.
“Thank you,” you say earnestly, swallowing thickly.
Jack realized that he likes seeing you this way, more than he probably should. You depending on him, then wearing that wide eyed, impressed look on your face like he cured cancer, rather than just dropping you home instead of letting you walk through a rainstorm or lifting a fucking box– like he wouldn’t tear the stars from the sky if you asked him to.
Or if you kept looking at him like that.
“You know how to build this thing?” he says instead of any of what he just thought, watching as you fumble with your phone.
“I think so, I saw this tutorial on Tik Tok–” you say, perking up at the thought of finally not having to bother him any longer, only to have your enthusiasm fade away once you see the unimpressed look on his face.
“What?”
+1
The last piece of your bed-frame is screwed into place, and Jack steps back, hands clasping behind his back as he takes in his work, making sure everything is in the right spot.
God knows you wouldn’t call him to fix it if it wasn’t.
You’re leaning against the doorway, wearing the same guilty expression that’s been on your face since he opened the box and started assembling your bed frame.
“Well? Is it approved?” He jokes, then falters when he sees your face twist as a frown forms on your lips. “Come on, don’t make that face– I wanted to help,” Jack reassures, only for his words to fall to deaf ears.
“You’ve been constantly helping for weeks,” you mumble defiantly, crossing your arms.
Jack tilts his head, eyebrows raising as he takes note of the slight frustration in your tone of voice.
“And that’s a problem for you?” he provokes, biting back a grin as you fall for it.
“Yes!” you snap, pushing off the doorway and pacing a few steps into the room. “Because it’s always you doing something for me. Driving me around, paying for things, carrying stuff, fixing stuff– ” you gesture at the now fully assembled bed frame like it’s reminding you of what a failure you are.
“Well if it bothers you that much, you can just make up for it,” Jack retorts easily, walking closer to where you’re standing.
You waver, contemplating his words for a minute before looking back at him hesitantly.
“Make it up to you– you’d accept that?” you repeat incredulously, eyes darting across his figure like you’re trying to figure out if he’s being serious or not.
“Sure,” Jack shrugs, only stopping when he’s right in front of you, looking down at your distrusting face. “Why not?”
“Okay…” you give in, tilting your head up towards him, too focused on what to give him to realize how close you’re currently standing. “What do you want?”
“Nuh-uh,” he tuts playfully, “You’re supposed to come up with it yourself, remember? You don’t want my help–”
“I do!” you spill, running a hand through your hair in distress, “I really do, which is the problem, because if you keep seeing me like this you’ll just feel bad for me, and feel like you need to help me, and I don’t know about you, but I usually don’t end up dating the people I pity–” you ramble, hands moving more frantically with each word you speak.
“Did it ever occur to you that I do this because I want to?” Jack interjects your tangent, lips twitching as he holds back a smile.
Your eyebrows furrow in confusion.
“You do? Why would you–”
Your sentence cuts off when you realize what he’s saying.
Oh.
Oh.
You’d been so caught up in your own feelings that you’d missed the hints he’s been giving since the beginning. Jack Abbot was a kind, patient and responsible guy– and you had clearly overestimated how far he was willing to go to help out platonically.
Jack’s gaze drops briefly to your lips, then back up to your eyes– like he’s giving you time, like he’s waiting for you to catch up. When he sees the realization in them, he tilts his head.
“Any way you can think of making it up to me now?”
Your hand jerks up instinctively, gripping the front of his shirt as you pull him closer, then pressing your lips to his.
It takes Jack approximately two seconds to realize that you’re kissing him and that he’s standing there like an idiot instead of kissing you back.
A soft gasp escapes you when his hands grip your hips, holding you in place.
Jack pulls back enough to catch his breath, a small laugh bubbling in his chest as you eagerly chase after his lips, not quite as ready to pull away as he seems to be.
A small pout forms on your lips, and he can’t help but to lean down and press a shorter peck against it, then moving to your cheek, exhaling at the side of your face, before finally moving his head so that the tip of his nose brushes against yours.
Your heart beats fast in your ribcage, and you let go of his shirt, opting to grip his shoulders instead.
“...I think I have some more making up to do,” you breathe out shakily, then pull him down into another searing kiss.
Jack laughs into the kiss, but can't find it in him to pull away this time.
☆END NOTE: I have no idea what car he drives, or if he even drives, but I do know that whatever it is, it’s going to be big, sleek and manual (it’s possible for amputees to drive them, and especially below the knee amputees such as Jack.)
☆ SUMMARY: Jack Abbot is a boob-guy through and through, so much that you sometimes wonder who he’s here for— you or them. You decide to mess with him and tell him you're getting a breast reduction, and his reaction is not what you expected.
☆ CONTAINS: Younger, fem!reader (doesn’t even have to be younger tbh), established relationship, boobs and suggestive content.
☆AUTHORS NOTE: This was actually so fucking funny to write, like I’m writing about titties. Based on this request. Special thanks to anon for requesting this, I was starting to take myself and my writing way too seriously and you reminded me to just have fun while doing it instead! A short one for now, but other fics to come soon!
☆ PAGE DIVIDERS BY: @sweetmelodygraphics
The mirror reflects the sight of you while you adjust the straps of the top you’re wearing, sighing for the umpteenth time as it flops right back down into that unflattering angle again as soon as you let go.
Everyday it was a new struggle– if your best bra didn’t work with the outfit, the outfit itself had to be scrapped. Online shopping was a no go– you’d learnt your lesson when the stores started charging you for the amount of returns you’d done, never keeping anything because of your fucking boobs.
As much as they were a pain in your back– literally– Jack always made sure to show his appreciation for his favorite assets of yours— or, at least one of his favorites.
It was brains, beauty and then boobs.
Jack loved your fucking tits.
If it wasn’t evident in the way he’d tell you, it was evident in the way he’d touch you.
You’d more often than not wake up with his large hand pressed under your shirt, cupping your chest. Other times, the first thing he does when coming home after a rough night at work is bury his face between them, muffling his groans as the heavy weight of his tired body pushes you deeper into the couch.
When you’d be cooking dinner for the two of you before he’d head to work, Jack would wrap his arms around you, voice low as against your ear as the two of you talk about anything and nothing at all, while letting his hands wander aimlessly– just needing to feel you before he lost himself for 12 hours–and in the end, always landing on the same place.
Your chest.
It wasn’t even in a sexual way most of the time, only that his hands needed to be on you at all moments, and why wouldn’t he indulge in the feeling of your soft, pillowy tits if he had access to them?
He'd be insane not to.
You can hear him turn off the shower from where you’re standing in your bedroom, a sudden idea sparking in your mind. Why not torture your poor, loving, sweet boyfriend?
The door to the bathroom opens just as you finish planning your evil trick– the steam curling around Jack’s frame as he steps into your room, crutches beneath his arms. Unfortunately, he’s wearing his boxers, but his salt- and pepper curls are still damp, and you hungrily watch as a drop of water trickles down his freckled back– the farmer's tan he’s sporting making him even easier on the eyes than usual.
There’s nothing hotter than a working man, especially if that man is Jack Abbot.
He sits down on the edge of your bed, using a towel to dry his hair, and you force yourself to tear your gaze away again, setting your plan in action.
Another sigh, this time louder and more dramatic. You run your hands down the side of your body and watch through the mirror as Jack’s eyes land on you, that focused look whenever he’s with you on his face again, and clearly trying to figure out what was going on with you.
“You okay, honey?” he calls out from where he’s seated, and you don’t respond, just continuing to stare at yourself in the mirror.
You hear the mattress creak and turn around just in time to get a final view of his toned skin— right before his shirt covers the sight, and then watch as he leans back against the headboard.
Walking over to where he’s sitting, you perch yourself on the edge of the bed first, and within seconds he’s grabbing you by the wrist, pulling you closer, then deciding that it’s still not close enough, and finally tugging you into his lap, your legs on each side of his hips as you straddle him.
A surprised laugh escapes you at his actions, and Jack relaxes further at the sound, hands rubbing up and down the side of your waist, the look in his eyes warm and filled with relief once he sees you smile.
Unfortunately for him, you can’t have that.
You grab his hands, pulling them to a stop and to rest between you as you look down, avoiding his gaze.
“Jack, I need to talk to you about something,”
Jack nearly has a heart attack. Though instead of letting it show, he simply gulps and nods, before he realizes you’re not looking at him. Clearing his throat, he speaks up.
“Of course honey, what’s going on?”
You let the silence stretch just long enough to make him nervous, shifting in his lap.
Jack’s hands, which had gone still under yours, start to tense slightly, his thumbs brushing against your fingers like he’s trying to comfort you, but you know it’s more to ground himself.
“Hey…” he murmurs, softer now, leaning forward a bit to catch your line of sight. “You’re scaring me a little,”
You almost break right there,
But you press your lips together, forcing a small, conflicted sigh as you shift in his lap again, your gaze still downcast.
“It’s just…” you start, hesitating on purpose, “I don’t think this is working anymore.”
Jack freezes, and you feel his body tense beneath you.
His grip on your hands tightens just a fraction, like he’s afraid if he lets go you’ll disappear.
“What– what do you mean?” His voice is careful now, fragile in a way you don’t hear often.
You finally glance up at him, just enough to see the way his brows have drawn together, the way he’s already watching you, searching your face for answers he’s not sure he wants.
Letting go of his hand, though it was harder than expected since he wasn’t trying to let go of yours, you motion vaguely towards yourself– more specifically, your chest.
“They’re just too much,” you explain, a defeated look strewn across your face, before you continue, “I think I’m going to get a breast reduction,”
If he wasn’t sure before, he was definitely sure now– Jack was having a fucking heart attack.
“That’s, uh–” he begins, then laughs nervously, “That’s a pretty big decision honey– are you sure about this?”
Please say no, please say no, please say–
“Yes,” you say, nodding your head adamantly, “I’ve probably never been more sure in my life,”
The silence that follows nearly has you breaking character and admitting to everything. Jack looks absolutely defeated, a far away look in his eyes.
“...I understand,” he says after a very long moment of silence, finally looking back at your face, “If that’s what you want, it’s what you should do. Always, honey,” Jack finishes off with squeezing your hands, then they settle on your waist again.
“Thank you,” you say weakly, and despite it just being a joke, it felt good to know he’d understand you and go along with your wishes if it ever came down to it.
Well, now you just felt stupid. Your mouth opens, and you’re just about to fess up when Jack speaks up again, a small frown on his face.
“Can I say goodbye to them?”
You stare at him. Jack stares back at you, gaze unblinking.
A sharp laugh bursts out of you, your head dropping forward as your shoulders shake, any attempt at composure completely gone.
Jack flushes, flexing his jaw as he looks away.
“Don’t laugh, honey– I’m serious! If they’re going away I at least deserve a proper goodbye–”
His words send your further reeling, and you slump against his chest when you calm down, struggling to catch your breath.
“Jack–”
“Please? Just one last squeeze and I’ll–”
“Jack!” you exclaim through laughter, cupping his face to stop his rambling. “I was just kidding,”
Jack blinks at you, face completely blank for a second as he tries to figure out if you’re telling the truth or just messing with him.
Then he groans, dropping his head back against the headboard again with a dull thud.
“Unbelievable,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “You are actually unbelievable,”
You’re still giggling, leaning into him now, your forehead brushing his shoulder. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think you’d–” another laugh slips out, interrupting your sentence.
Jack feels his lips twitch despite everything, and he would be lying if he didn’t say he was relieved you were just joking. Even if he had just embarrassed himself– at least his girls weren’t going anywhere.
All three of them.
Huffing, he flips the two of you over, smirking at the small yelp you let out when he’s suddenly hovering above you, lips inches away from yours, yet not touching. His hands slip beneath your top, brushing against the underside of your chest.
You feel your heart race faster, cheeks turning red as you arch into his touch.
“Jack…” you begin, only to bite your lip to stifle a sound when he fully cups it, his large hand squeezing it gently. His nose brushes against yours as he breathes harder into your mouth and says;
“I think I know how you can make it up to me,”
☆END NOTE: This took me less than an hour to write, because...let's just say I was inspired.
♡ synopsis: not doing entirely well with your new living arrangements, you decide to take a local art class one afternoon to get out of the house you so despise being in. unable to let you out of his sight, pope accompanies. with the class being full, pope ends up making himself your designated seat & seizes an intimate opportunity once he has you in his lap.
Since your mom passed, you've felt wholly adrift. A spectator to your own life, if you will. The only person you feel like you have left is Jay, but with him spending so much time with Nicky, you're left in solitude quite often.
It didn't take any amount of effort for your maternal grandmother to take a shine to your brother before long. You, on the other hand, seem to be a different story.
She'd seemed nice initially—if not a bit dangerous—but there'd been something about the glint in her eye when she looked at you that always set you on-edge and made you scurry back to your room so you'd be out of the way. And your uncles... Boys in grown men's testosterone-fueled bodies who still clearly crave mommy's validation and love was the most apropos descriptor which you could find for them.
Pope in particular unsettles you. And of course he's the one intent on hovering. Every time you turn around he's at the house—bumping into you in the hallway, watching you swim slow laps around the pool when you bother going outside instead of sulking in bed all day, following you into the kitchen and requesting a plate of whatever you seem to be fixing for yourself, but for him...
You're not sure that he's all there, but are far too afraid to ask any of the others if he has some sort of...condition.
So, you do what you can to keep a healthy distance and break eye contact almost as soon as it's made whenever he's hanging around.
The first day you met had been a real doozy, though, which served to set the precedent for your ongoing familial relationship.
You'd been tidying your new room—not that there was much to tend to (made the process of moving into your new home that much easier, if nothing else)—and when you turned away from your dresser, it was with a ragged breath being caught in your throat when you came practically chest-to-chest with your oldest uncle, Pope.
You don't know why they call him that, and you sometimes wonder if they do either—if it's just something that's been ongoing for so long that they've forgotten its original purpose or reasoning.
A confounded look had melded his features into that of furrowed brows and almost puckered lips as he reached out to touch you, until you stumbled back in fear.
"Jul—" He shook his head, then took another unsteady step forward. "You look like her. Sort of..." Pope took a step forward. "In a certain light."
You'd kept walking backward until you finally bumped into the room's far wall, you'd been so eager to get away from him.
"Who are you?" He'd demanded while swaggering closer.
You stuttered the requested answer of your name before glancing away.
"You're her daughter," he'd stated—not asked—which was met with a nod of agreement.
Your interactions since then have followed a similar formula: his intimidating presence following you from room to room while you try and ignore it.
You do that with all of them, though, because you find yourself unable to think of them as family.
While you and Jay went without everything children require for healthy upbringings, there they lived 10 minutes away in the lap of luxury. Sports cars, jet skis, a fully stocked fridge and clean sheets... It's like living at a 5 star resort.
You're sure your stay will be over sooner rather than later, though, from the way Smurf leers at you.
You'd let slip to Jay that you were attending a local class today when Pope was apparently eavesdropping. You're supposed to be drawing something which you're then later due to paint. A task you plan on treating it like art therapy.
You need out of that house, or you fear you may slit your wrists in the bathroom if you don't put some distance between you and your newfound narcissistic family.
Until Pope met you at the door and declared that he would be taking you—your Uber had already been dismissed by him outside.
You didn't bother insisting that you would just bike, or walk, knowing that he wasn't giving you an option. You were to get in the truck, or he'd make you.
"Oh," a stocky elderly woman with messy brown and silver hair, with glasses too big for her face, says in surprise when she sees the bulky man who stands behind you in the doorway of her spacious classroom. "Are you both here for the art class?"
"I-I am," you'd stammered. "He's just," you'd said while pointing back to him with a thumb over your shoulder. "My driver today."
"I'm her uncle," he'd stated with conviction.
You had hoped he would remain in the truck, or just wander around nearby tourist traps until you were done in an hour, but the moment you popped the passenger door open, he was out the driver's side as well.
You keep telling yourself that one day you'll find your voice and finally ask him to give you some room to breathe, but... Today didn't seem like a good day to do that.
Maybe tomorrow, then.
"Well," she says—now clearly nervous. "Unfortunately, our class is all booked up. We have a seat for your niece, of course, but—"
He brushed past you while grabbing your forearm and tugging you along. "I'll be the damn seat," he'd mumbled aggressively.
She didn't try to fight him on it—something you found yourself unable to blame her for, even if you'd secretly been wishing that she'd kick him out.
Your hips pulled back against Pope's waist, you remain stark still, terrified that if you move too much, you'll awaken something you'd rather not feel beneath you. Especially when you're surrounded by so many other people—numerous of which had casted fleeting, curious looks in your two's direction while others scoffed and shook their heads.
Maybe they think you're trailer trash who enjoys making a display of yourself like some attention-seeking trollop.
Whereas the truth is that you're just an uncomfortable as them and are truly sorry he's here today.
You have half-a-mind to lie and say that you feel unwell and need to go home, but the class and supplies are already paid for, and it wasn't exactly cheap. Well, not your definition of cheap, anyway. Probably chump change to your relatives.
Deciding to grit your teeth and just get through it, you stare straight ahead while disassociating the rest of yourself so you don't have to feel the muscled planes of Pope's thighs beneath your own.
Class is maybe halfway through before you're forced back to reality—the one where you're not losing yourself in charcoal and watercolors, that is—when Pope's hands circle your waist and he pops open the top button on your jean shorts.
You jerk your head back in his direction and stare at him with wide, panicked eyes. "What're you doing?" you hiss.
"Relax," he rasps. "Turn around," he orders while jerking his chin toward the front of the room.
You have a choice to make, but either direction you go means you lose.
You just wanted to paint a nice picture today of some mountaintops—somewhere imaginary that you could escape to in your more depressive moments.
Why do they always have to ruin everything?
Turning back around, you swallow thickly while blinking back welling tears that sting your eyes.
Slowly, so no one hears it, Pope pulls down your zipper, then slides his right hand from your navel to well past the waistline of your panties.
You plant a bent elbow on the tabletop you sit behind and try to remain focused on the instructions that're being told to you.
When his index and middle fingers swipe your clit, that concentration is short-lived when your hips buck back against him involuntarily.
He does that for awhile: circles your bundle of nerves while you pretend that what's happening to you really isn't. That task becomes quite difficult, however, when your body begins to respond. Like when heat blooms between your thighs and things begin to pulse down there.
Pope swipes a finger along your folds and groans quietly when he feels how slick you've become.
And then he eases two fingers inside of you.
You bite your lip to keep quiet, but fear you may fall onto the floor from how dizzy you now feel. Only as a measure to try and steady yourself, you gently grip the wrist of his right hand and sink your fingers into the warm, tough skin that's smattered with freckles and reddish-brown hair.
You don't know it, but when you willingly touch him, something clicks in his brain that he didn't even know was there—he knows you mean for the gesture to be like a silent request for further affection.
Your paintbrush long forgotten, you wiggle your hips and tighten your fluttering walls around his fingers.
Maybe... Maybe it's not as bad as you thought it'd be. Or you're just that starved for touch that you'll go so low as to accept your uncle's fingers inside of you.
When Pope lies his opposite hand atop your left thigh with the palm face-up, you study it from beneath hooded lids for only a moment before sliding your fingers between his own and clasping them around his hand.
When he does the same—holds fast to you as he teases your body ever-closer toward its release—he leans forward and brings his lips right to the shell of your ear.
"You make me feel so loved," he whispers before leaning back again—his erection now firmly pressed against your covered opening that another part of him is otherwise fully submerged in.
You spend the remainder of the lesson trying to keep yourself silent as he fingers you steadily toward your orgasm.
You had wondered if the occurrence at your art class would finally serve to get Pope's obsession with you out of his system once and for all. Instead, as you came around his fingers with your head bowed and your hips pushed back against his stomach, it only cemented what had been continually developing since day one: that he considered you his property.
Now, fiercely protective, any time Craig or Baz so much as enter into your general vicinity, he's there to repel any possible advances made by them like a feral guard dog.
Baz—who couldn't be less interested if he tried—once tries to confront him and make clear that what is going on between the two of you could send him back to prison for good if anyone found out.
Pope had shrugged it off with a sarcastic comment that "Oh, and the heists and robberies won't?"
"She is your fucking niece, Pope," Baz had said with quiet vehemence. "And if Smurf finds out about it—"
"What?" he'd bellowed with a puffed-out chest while knocking his head against Baz's—forcing his gaze to drop to the floor in intimidation. "You're right: she's fucking mine. You wanna try telling somebody what to do? Then you go and let Craig know that if I see him near her again, I'm putting his head through a goddamn wall."
Planted on his knees before you in the privacy of your bedroom, Pope has his index fingers hooked under the waistband of your panties, ready to tug them down your legs so he can get to work.
The only way you can think of to still your trembling hand is by cupping the back of his head with it.
And when you do, he gazes up at you with reverence. "I'd do anything for you," he sighs while pulling the garment down until it falls past your ankles and onto the floor.
Pope presses a kiss to your pubic bone before leaning back again so he can look up at you. "I'd never hurt you. If anybody did," he says while easing a finger inside of you, "I'd kill 'em."
Your eyes flutter closed when he swipes his tongue through your slick folds.
summary: jack abbot knows how to run a trauma bay. he knows the protocols and the medicine. but when his daughter decides he's "vedy, vedy sick"? it turns out he’s an even better patient.
warning: none.
trope/genre; fluff, girl!dad abbot, married!abbot
wc: 2K.
my masterlist!
Warm kitchen light spilled into the living room, forming a golden square on the rug, which is now covered in scattered toys
A floppy plush rabbit lay tipped on its side on the rug beside a bright fake plastic medicine bottle, while a toy syringe had rolled halfway under the coffee table like it was hiding. Clearly, someone had been running a very serious medical practice there all afternoon.
Jack Abbot sat right in the middle of it all on the couch, his long legs stretched out comfortably in front of him. His shoulders had finally relaxed against the back of the couch, with the course of the years, he’d patiently learned how to leave the weight of the ER behind at the end of the day. He didn’t always manage it perfectly, and some nights the tension lingered in his spine longer than he wanted, but tonight none of that weariness showed in his eyes.
Instead, he watched the tiny person kneeling on the rug in front of him with the same steady, quiet focus he usually saved for trauma bays, and here, with her, it cost him absolutely nothing to give it.
To her. Your little girl, his little girl. Oh, how fast she’s grown.
Your daughter had her whole doctor kit spread out around her like real surgical tools waiting for the next important case. The little pink stethoscope hung crookedly around her neck in a loose loop that looked ready to slide off at any second. Her dark curls had mostly escaped the ponytail you’d carefully tied earlier that afternoon, so soft strands bounced against her round cheeks every time she turned her head or reached for something. She wore the oversized plastic glasses from the toy set, they kept slipping all the way down to the very tip of her tiny nose, but she never seemed to notice or mind. She just looked exactly like a very important, highly credentialed doctor who meant business.
Jack rested his hands on his thighs and waited patiently, content to let her set the pace.
Finally she lifted her head and looked straight up at him, squinting through those sliding glasses with all the serious gravity of someone about to deliver very bad news to a patient.
“Papa,” she announced in her clearest, most official voice.
The corner of his mouth twitched upward in the tiniest smile. “Yes, doctor?”
She pushed herself up to standing, wobbling just a little on her small legs, then shuffled forward with the stethoscope swinging dramatically back and forth against her chest. She stopped right between his knees and tilted her head back to meet his eyes.
“You sick,” she declared firmly.
He blinked slowly, playing along. “I am?”
“Yesh.” She nodded with such fierce conviction that her curls bounced even more. “Vedy sick.”
He let out a quiet, thoughtful hum and leaned back deeper into the cushions, now as a patient who had just accepted the diagnosis and was ready to follow doctor’s orders. “Good thing I’ve got a doctor right here in the house then.”
From the nearby armchair, you watched the whole sweet scene unfold with your chin resting in your palm, not even trying to hide how completely your heart was melting. Earlier that evening she had assigned your role with great ceremony and seriousness, you were officially the nurse. And not any nurse, don’t be confused, you were Mama Nurse. That meant sitting beside the small pile of plastic medical supplies and handing things over whenever she demanded them, which you had been doing with perfect professionalism (tender smiles aside) and zero complaints.
Suddenly the toddler turned her head toward you, eyes wide and expectant.
“Mama Nuhs!”
You straightened up right away. “Yes, doctor?”
“Need… the…” She frowned down at the pile, brow scrunched in deep thought, lips pressed tight together while she searched. Then her little finger shot out. “Da beep-beep.”
You picked up the toy thermometer with careful gravity and passed it to her. “Thermometer, doctor.”
“Mmm-hm,” she agreed, already climbing up onto the couch beside Jack. She braced one tiny hand against his shoulder to keep her balance as she settled in next to him.
“Open mouf,” she ordered.
“Yes, ma’am.”
He parted his lips obediently. She pushed the thermometer toward his cheek in roughly the right direction and stared at him with huge, focused eyes while the imaginary reading happened, her little lips pursed, head tilted just so. You had seen that exact same look on her face plenty of times before: when she was stacking wobbly blocks into impossible towers, or when her shoes refused to go on the right feet. She came by it honestly.
More than one person had told you that Jack made the very same face when he was deep in thought at work.
After a few long seconds she pulled the thermometer away and her eyes went dramatically wide.
“Oh no,” she breathed, voice full of worry.
Jack tilted his head slightly. “Oh no?”
She gasped and pressed one hand to her chest like the news was almost too much. “You vedy, vedy sick!”
He pressed his lips together to keep from smiling too big. “That bad?”
“Yesh!” She scrambled off the couch in a hurry and dove back into the doctor kit with frantic energy, rummaging through everything like she was facing a real emergency that needed immediate action.
“Doctor,” you offered gently, “should we prepare some medicine?”
She nodded fast without looking up. “Medshin!”
Jack settled even deeper into the cushions, folding his arms across his chest in complete trust. “I trust your treatment plan completely.”
She came back holding the toy syringe and stopped right in front of his arm, looking up at him with the stern expression of someone who had done this procedure many times and understood exactly how serious it was. Even if, technically, she’d just gotten the doctor play set a couple of weeks ago. Turns out a couple of weeks is a lot of experience in toddlerhood.
“No move, Papa.”
“Understood.”
She pressed the rounded tip against his forearm and slowly pushed the plunger down. He flinched with real theatrical commitment to the bit, eyebrows shooting up, a sharp hiss of breath through his teeth.
“Ouch. That one really had some kick to it.”
She patted his arm right away with soft little pats. “Brave, Papa.”
Something warm and unguarded settled across his face then, the soft look that only ever appeared when he was safe at home with the two of you. “High praise coming from my physician.”
She accepted the compliment with a grave little nod and reached for the stethoscope again. It took her a moment to untangle the tubing from her curls, and Jack waited through it all. He knew there were some things in life simply that could not be hurried, and this was definitely one of them. It was just too precious to rush through.
When she finally got the plastic disc pressed somewhere near his collarbone and leaned in close, the whole room seemed to hush around them. Her little face hovered just inches from his chest, eyes wide with total concentration, one stray curl brushing lightly against his jaw. Whatever she was listening for inside him, she was listening with every bit of herself.
“Hmm,” she murmured seriously.
Jack glanced over the top of her head at you, his eyes soft and warm with something too gentle for any medical chart to name.
“Well?” he prompted quietly.
She lifted her head. “Your heart go boom boom.”
“Is that good?”
She thought about it with all the seriousness the question deserved. “Vedy loud boom boom.”
“Good loud or bad loud?”
“Gud.” She pulled the stethoscope away and then reached up to place both small hands on his cheeks, squishing his face gently between her palms so she could peer straight into his eyes from only a few inches away. “You need res,” she told him solemnly.
“Rest,” he agreed, not even trying to move his smooshed face.
“Yesh. And ninner.”
“Dinner too?”
“Yesh.”
“What will the dinner be, doctor?”
She let go of his cheeks to think hard about it, staring off into the middle distance with complete focus.
“Mac n cheese.”
He nodded with matching solemnity, it was so cute, how he played along with her without hesitation, you wanted to melt. “Excellent choice.”
Her face lit up bright. “An pish!”
“Fish too?”
“Pish!” she repeated proudly, and you couldn’t help laughing softly from the armchair before you caught yourself.
Jack glanced over at you with a small, amused smile. “Doctor seems very confident in her nutritional recommendations.”
“She graduated top of her class,” you told him seriously.
The toddler, happy that her treatment plan had official approval, turned back to her patient. Her gaze drifted down—like it had started doing more often lately—to the prosthetic leg that extended from below his knee. A few weeks ago she had begun noticing it, not with fear or upset, but the innocent curiosity of a child carefully learning the person she loved best. Her tiny finger reached out and traced the curve of it so gently, poking curiously at the black socket left visible now that he was wearing shorts, the same careful way she touched flowers or fragile toys she wanted to understand.
“Papa boo boo?” she asked softly.
His voice stayed even and calm. “Old one. All healed now, sweetheart.”
She studied it a moment longer, thinking it over. Then she leaned forward and pressed her lips to the prosthetic, carefully, exactly the way she kissed her plushies, her own little boo-booed fingers, or anything else that had ever been hurt and needed to know it was loved.
“There,” she said with satisfaction. “All better now.”
Jack went very still.
You watched the stillness settle, then fade along his whole body, how his shoulders eased down just a fraction, the tight line of his jaw softened, how something held tight inside him finally let go in the safety of this quiet room. His face didn’t give much away to most people, but you had spent long enough learning every small shift to recognize what it looked like when something reached him deep, past every defense he usually kept up.
“Best treatment I’ve ever had,” he said, genuinely meaning it.
She climbed straight into his lap without asking—because she had never once needed permission with her papa—and nestled herself against his chest like she was exactly where she belonged. He wrapped one strong arm around her small back, steady and automatic, and rested his chin lightly on top of her soft curls.
“Papa all better now,” she announced to the whole room.
“Because of you?”
“Yesh.” She sounded so pleased, so completely certain, and not even a little surprised, because in her world, this was simply how things worked. She took care of him, and he got better. It had never crossed her mind that it could happen any other way.
Jack pressed a quiet kiss to the top of her head. When he looked up at you again, that rare softness was still there on his face.
“Nuhs mama,” came the small, very authoritative voice from against his chest.
You raised an eyebrow. “Yes, doctor?”
“Papa need sweep soon,” she declared. “And wabbit story.”
“A rabbit story,” Jack confirmed, looking at you with that quiet, contented smile. “Doctor’s orders.”
You stood up slowly, reaching over to smooth one escaped curl back from her forehead. She turned her face into your hand for a second, just instinctive, trusting, the way she always did, before looking back up at Jack with total satisfaction.
May I ask for a window display? I’d love to know what days off with Jack look like, once we get him to stop volunteering with the SWAT team ofc… tennis? Farmer’s market? Coffee date? Amusement park? Volunteering at the animal shelter? 🤷♀️
Ly and can’t wait to see what your beautiful brain comes up with!
waking up in the late morning, grabbing a quick breakfast, going for a hike while the suns still hot, getting home to shower together and head out for brunch and the local farmer's market, coming home and spending the rest of the day in comfies and watching movies/cuddling/whatever else 👀
a/n: thanks so much for the request gorgeous, this was SO fun <3
author's note: oh how lovely it is to be back writing full fics again! i missed you guys <3 thanks for the support always even when i've gotten kinda quiet around here. this fic is based off of this request from the lovely @leonlover8 🤍
word count: 3354 ish
warnings: fem reader, medical inaccuracies, mention of eating, forgetting to eat etc, fluffy fluff, i use the word particular 500 times in true abbotafterhours fashion
description: jack need's a hobby, you need to eat more. jack needs you, you need jack. love ensues!
requests are open through the sweet spot café 2k follower celebration. thanks bunches to you guys, always 🥐
It started with a granola bar.
Not a romantic origin story, by any measure, no charged glance across a crowded room, no moment you could identify later as the beginning of something. Just a granola bar, produced from the pocket of Jack Abbot's scrubs on a Tuesday afternoon and set on the counter beside your elbow without comment, without ceremony, without him even looking at you when he did it.
You had been three weeks into your clinical placement at the Pitt. Three weeks of a schedule that left approximately forty minutes between your last lecture and your first shift, which was theoretically enough time to eat and practically never was. You had been reviewing a chart and trying not to think about the fact that you hadn't eaten since six that morning, which was getting harder as the afternoon wore on and your body made its feelings increasingly known.
Jack Abbot had appeared at the nurses' station, assessed the board, and placed the granola bar beside you without breaking stride.
You had looked at it. Then at him.
He was looking at the board.
"You haven't eaten," he said. Not a question.
"I'm fine," you said, the way you always said it, the automatic deflection of someone who had been managing on insufficient resources for long enough that it had become simply the texture of life.
"You've been here since seven," he said. "It's three-fifteen."
Your stomach, with exquisite timing, made a sound that was heard by the nurse three feet to your left, who looked up with the expression of someone pretending they hadn't heard anything.
You ate the granola bar.
Jack said nothing, which was, you would come to understand, one of his most fluent languages.
It happened again the following week. And the week after. Not always a granola bar, sometimes a sandwich from the cafeteria, set down with the same wordless efficiency. Once, a proper coffee from the place down the block, which meant he had gone out of his way, which you noticed and did not mention because mentioning it would have made it into something and you were still at the stage of pretending it wasn't anything.
You thanked him. He said mm and returned to whatever he was doing. The pattern established itself.
And then, on a Tuesday in November, he appeared at your elbow with an expression that suggested he had been thinking about something and had arrived at a conclusion.
"When do you eat?" he said.
You blinked. "Sorry?"
"Your meals," he said. "I've been watching your schedule for three weeks and I can't find where food is happening."
There was something in the directness of it that caught you off guard, not unkind, just completely uninterested in the polite fiction that everything was fine. Jack Abbot, you were learning, had a particular relationship with the gap between what people said and what was actually true, and he had very little patience for living inside it.
"When I can," you said.
"Which isn't enough," he said.
You looked at him, and he looked back, and something passed between you that was simply the acknowledgment of a true thing, and you were tired enough that you didn't try to talk around it.
"It's nursing school," you said. "It's temporary."
"Temporary doesn't mean it doesn't matter," he said, and the simplicity of it landed somewhere real, and you looked at your chart and said nothing.
He was quiet for a moment, in the way he was quiet when he was making a decision.
"I have a proposition," he said.
He laid it out with the precise economy of a man presenting a clinical plan.
His therapist had suggested he needed something outside of work — an activity, a routine, something that wasn't the hospital. He had not been implementing this suggestion. He was spending his days off doing paperwork. His therapist had strong feelings about this. He had, he said, with the slight stiffness of someone being honest about something they found uncomfortable, been told that the paperwork needed to stop.
You had kept your face admirably neutral.
The proposition was this: you planned the day off. Something real, something outside these walls, something with no blood in it. He didn't care what. In return, he ensured you ate — lunch, on shift days, and whatever you wanted on the days out.
"You want to pay for my food," you said carefully, "in exchange for me planning activities for you."
"I want to make sure you're eating," he said, "in exchange for you making sure I leave this building occasionally."
"As friends," you said.
"As an arrangement," he said, which was not quite the same thing, and you both knew it, and neither of you said so.
"Okay," you said.
"Okay," he said.
And that was that.
The first Saturday was a farmer's market, chosen partly for practicality and partly because you wanted to see what Jack Abbot did with an unstructured morning and fresh air. The answer, it turned out, was that he moved through it with the same assessing efficiency he moved through everything — stopping at the stalls that warranted stopping at, bypassing the ones that didn't, and having opinions about cheese that were both unexpected and extremely specific.
He picked up a hard sheep's milk variety at the third stall and looked at it with the focused attention of someone making a clinical decision.
"This one," he said.
"You've had it before?" you asked.
"No," he said. "The texture is right."
"You can tell the texture from looking at it?"
"Yes," he said, simply, and bought it.
He was correct. You ate it with bread from the bakery two stalls down, standing in the cold with paper bags in your hands, and it was genuinely excellent, and he looked at you in a way that was trying to be neutral about being right and not entirely managing it.
He paid for everything. You tried to protest at the bread and he looked at you with an expression that communicated the protest was not going to be successful, and you let it go, and he carried the bag, and the two of you walked back through the market in the November cold and talked about things that had nothing to do with the hospital. He told you about Pittsburgh — the city he had grown up in and never really left, the particular relationship of belonging to a place so thoroughly that leaving it had simply never seemed like the right option. You told him about the town you'd come from, flat and quiet and nothing like this, and he listened with the quality of attention he gave things he was genuinely interested in, which was total and unhurried and made you feel like the most interesting person in the market.
At the end of it, walking back through the cold, he had said: "That was not bad."
"High bar," you said.
"I don't set low bars," he said, and the corner of his mouth did the thing — small and tucked away and entirely real — and you looked at the street ahead of you and told yourself, very firmly, that corners of mouths were not your business.
The weeks passed and the arrangement continued and something grew inside it that neither of you named.
A gallery, where he had quiet and considered things to say about almost everything, delivered in the low voice he used when he was talking about something that mattered. A walk along the river in the cold where he produced a thermos of coffee from somewhere without being asked and handed it to you with the practicality of someone who had simply anticipated what was needed. A bookshop where you had spent two hours moving between the shelves and he had bought four books and looked more comfortable than you'd seen him anywhere outside the hospital, the managed quality of him softening in the particular way it did when he was somewhere he felt permitted to just be.
And every shift day, without fail, food appeared.
Not always from him directly — sometimes it was Dana, handing you something with the composed neutrality of a woman who was absolutely making something of it and had decided not to say so, or a note on the counter in handwriting that was exactly as efficient as you would have expected. You ate. You organised Saturdays. The weeks turned over.
You were careful.
You were careful because naming it would risk it, and the thing that was growing inside the arrangement was — it was good, in a way that things you were afraid to lose were good. The quiet particular warmth of someone who had decided to pay attention to you and was extremely thorough about it. You did not want to say I think this has stopped being an arrangement and have him step back into the professional distance and have the Saturdays stop and have the coffee stop appearing, and so you said nothing, and he said nothing, and the something kept building without a name through November and into December.
The gallery had a winter exhibition.
You had mentioned it once, three weeks before, in passing — barely a sentence, just there's a winter exhibition at the gallery I like, I've been meaning to go — and had moved on, and had not thought about it again.
On a Wednesday, Jack appeared at the nurses' station and said: "Saturday. The gallery."
You looked up. "You remembered that."
"I remember things," he said, which was both true and an understatement, and went back to the board.
You looked at the space where he'd been and felt something warm and complicated settle in your chest, and said nothing about it, and went back to your chart.
The gallery was warm and hushed in the particular way of places where people were looking at things carefully.
You moved through it side by side, the months having produced a comfortable physical proximity that didn't need to be negotiated anymore — you had learned each other's pace and stopping points, knew without discussing it when the other one was ready to move on. The winter exhibition was all cold colours and deep textures, paintings that felt like weather, like standing inside a season. You moved through them slowly, taking your time, and the city outside was doing exactly what the paintings suggested it should be.
At the back of the room was a large canvas — blues and greys, the colour of the river at this time of year, the kind of painting that felt less like looking at something and more like being in it. You both stopped in front of it at the same time, without deciding to, and stayed.
The gallery was quiet.
"It looks like the river," you said, after a while.
"In winter," he said. "Yes."
"Do you like winter?" The question came out softer than you'd meant it, something in the room making the small personal questions feel permitted.
"I like that it's honest," he said. "It doesn't pretend to be warmer than it is."
You looked at him then.
He was still looking at the painting, his hands in his pockets, the gallery light catching the grey at his temples and the lines of his face, and you thought about all of it — the granola bar and the cheese and the thermos of coffee and four books in a bag and a passing comment filed for three weeks — and the thing that had been building quietly for months arrived at the surface all at once, and you were too tired of being careful to push it back down.
"Jack," you said.
"Mm."
"I think this stopped being an arrangement a while ago," you said.
The gallery was very still.
He turned to look at you, and you were facing each other in front of the painting that looked like the river, and his face was doing the open thing, the fully unguarded thing that only came out in particular lights and particular moments, and there was nothing managed about it.
"I know," he said.
The two words landed with the weight of everything they contained — not a surprise, not a confession, just the quiet acknowledgment of something that had been true for a while and had been waiting to be said.
"When?" you said.
He was quiet for a moment, thinking about it properly rather than reaching for the nearest answer.
"The farmer's market," he said. "The cheese."
You stared at him. "The cheese."
"You trusted me," he said. "Without tasting it first, without asking anyone else — you just took my word for it." He paused, looking at you with that steady, direct quality. "I wasn't used to that. Someone just — trusting that I was right about something small, without needing proof first."
"You were right," you said.
"I know," he said. "But you didn't know that yet."
You held his gaze and thought about how precisely that was the truest thing anyone had said about him in your presence, and about how characteristic it was that he had fallen somewhere between a stall and a piece of sheep's milk cheese because someone had simply trusted him.
"I knew before the farmer's market," you said.
"When?" he asked, and his voice had dropped into the quieter register, the real one.
"The coffee from the place down the block," you said. "You went out of your way. You didn't say anything about it, you just — did it, because you'd noticed I needed it." You looked at him. "Nobody does that without meaning something by it. I knew then."
He looked at you for a long moment, and the gallery was very quiet and the painting was the river and the city outside was cold and honest, and then he said:
"I'd like to take you to dinner. A real one. Not the arrangement." He held your gaze, steady and certain, the particular certainty of a man who had thought something through completely and was not going to qualify it. "I'd like to do that properly."
"Okay," you said, and your voice came out softer than you'd planned.
"There's something I need to say first," he said. "Before dinner. Before anything else."
"Okay," you said again.
He turned toward you slightly, closing the distance between you to something that was barely a distance, and his voice stayed low and even but the managed quality was entirely gone from his face now.
"I haven't done this in a long time," he said. "Wanting something like this. I'd — stopped expecting it, I think. Stopped making room for it." He paused, choosing carefully. "And then you came into my hospital and didn't eat enough and trusted me about cheese, and I found myself making room again without deciding to." He looked at you with the full direct quality of it, the thing that felt like being actually seen. "I want you to know that it isn't the arrangement for me. It hasn't been for a long time. What I feel for you is — it's real, and it's not temporary, and I wanted to say that clearly before we go any further."
Your chest did something so large and so complete that you didn't have a word for it.
"Jack," you said.
"I know it's a lot," he said.
"It's not a lot," you said. "It's — " You stopped, because the thing you wanted to say was also large and also real and also needed to be said properly. "I came here from a flat town where nothing happened and I thought nursing school would be the whole thing, the entire shape of the next few years, and then you put a granola bar down in front of me and looked at the board instead of at me and I thought — I thought, this person sees things." You held his gaze. "You see things, Jack. You saw that I wasn't eating before I'd even noticed you noticing me. You went out of your way for a coffee and didn't mention it. You remembered a gallery exhibition I said once in passing." Your voice was very steady and very honest. "I have been falling in love with you since November and I need you to know that it's not the arrangement either. It's you. Just you."
The gallery held them both in its warm quiet hush.
Jack looked at you for a long moment — at your face, at the particular open quality of someone who had said a true thing and was letting it sit — and then he closed the remaining distance between you and his hand came up to your jaw in the certain, unhurried way he did things, tilting your face toward his, and he kissed you.
It was not tentative. It was not the careful, exploratory kiss of two people testing something uncertain — it was the kiss of someone who had decided, completely and without reservation, and was acting on it. Warm and thorough and entirely present, his hand steady at your jaw and the other finding your waist and pulling you in close enough that there was no distance left between you, and you kissed him back with everything that had been building since November, since the granola bar, since the coffee he'd gone out of his way for, since the farmer's market in the cold.
His mouth was warm and certain against yours and he kissed you the way he did everything that mattered to him — with total attention, with nothing held back, with the particular quality of someone who had waited long enough that there was no reason to be anything other than completely present in the moment. You felt it everywhere, the warmth of it spreading through you in the specific way of something that had been heading here for months and had finally, irrevocably, arrived.
When you finally pulled back you were both slightly less composed than you'd been thirty seconds ago, and his forehead came down to rest against yours, and his hand was still warm at your jaw, and the gallery was very still around you.
"Dinner," he said, eventually.
"Yes," you said.
"Tonight," he said.
"Yes," you said again.
He pulled back just enough to look at you properly, and his face was doing something you had never seen it do before — open and warm and slightly undone, the fully real version of him, the one that lived underneath all the professional composure, and it was the best thing you'd ever seen.
"Okay," he said.
"Okay," you said.
On Monday, Dana set a coffee on the nurses' station in front of you without comment.
You looked at it. Then at her.
"He's in surgery," she said, with complete composure. "He asked me to make sure you had one."
You picked up the coffee and held it in both hands and thought about all the ways a person could say I'm thinking about you without saying it, and about how Jack Abbot had been saying it since November in every way except out loud, and about how last night at dinner he had said it out loud too, plainly and without ceremony, over pasta and good wine in a restaurant that wasn't the hospital, and about how you intended to keep hearing him say it for a very long time.
"Dana," you said.
"Mm," she said, already moving.
"Did you know? From the beginning?"
She paused.
Looked at you over her shoulder with the expression she wore when she was deciding exactly how much to give.
"Since the farmer's market," she said. "He came back with cheese and looked different." A beat. "Drink your coffee."
You drank your coffee.
Down the corridor, somewhere past the double doors, Jack Abbot was in the middle of something that had nothing to do with you, and had still, in the margins of it, made sure you were taken care of.
Some things, you thought, didn't need an arrangement.
Some things were just simply what love looked like, before it had a name.
sugar...lots of sugar in my cake maybe even a sugar daddy...? Maybe a nursing student missing meals and a Jack Abbot buying her food on thoes days. And then proposing an arrangement that works for both of them, like she plans dates for them on the weekends beacuse his therapist suggested he needed an activity outside of work that saw no blood, and he payed for her lunches and anything she wanted on these dates. I was thinking a slow cook on the cake like they dont call it dates just "hanging out as friends" until ofc they fall for each other.
[Tried hard to play into the bakery theme beacuse its just TOO CUTE! Im not sure if I did it right lmao, honestly take creative freedom with the suggestion]
Proofreading this as we speak!!
Thank you so much for this request - I love it ! <3
♡ synopsis: when a patient attacks you & embeds a scalpel in your abdomen, you go to jack for help. overwhelmed & irritable, he snaps at you to go find someone else for whatever it is which you're running to him for. once robby has tended to your injury, he informs jack of how he royally screwed up & your husband comes home after his shift to make amends.
♡ a/n: requested by @styx03, ty! i hope i did ok ;_;
Blood drips in fresh, crimson splatters onto polished white tiles from the wound your hand hovers near.
Protruding from your right lower quadrant is a scalpel which a patient has just impaled you with. You don't even respond—there is no screaming, wailing in panic, or hyperventilating to bear witness to which interrupts the beeping, shifting monotony of the ED—before you turn and head out the door of his exam room without another word.
With your shirt awkwardly clutched in your hand, you walk with measured steps to an empty room—cringing all the while from the rhythmic movement.
Once you've closed yourself behind a locked door, you pull the silver instrument from your now inflamed abdomen with a quiet cry of distress, and drop it into the stainless steel sink you stand at. Clattering against the metal basin, you pluck half a dozen tissues from a plastic box mounted to the wall and press them firmly to your weeping laceration.
Not but perhaps two hours ago did you stand at a patient's bedside and hold his hand as a heart attack claimed his life and ripped him from his family's embrace. His wife threw herself over his corpse after—screaming all the while for him to wake up, wake up, wake up; she can't do it without him, how will they survive?
Her children, meanwhile, trembled in a corner while holding fast to one another—their tiny faces flushed and red from tears, unable to understand why daddy wouldn't open his eyes like mommy wanted.
You excused yourself to the restroom to vomit thereafter.
Fighting down a familiar feeling of nausea, you flex stiff limbs while continually pressing numb fingertips against your palm—continually counting them as a grounding technique.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
You believe that you may be going into shock.
You'd like a heated blanket to keep you warm, or your husband's arms to make you safe. Most of all, you wish to leave this place.
You go in search of Jack.
"Hey, Jack?" you ask quietly from the entryway of Trauma 3, watching as he smoothly inserts an IV in the arm of an unconscious patient.
You slide your shaking hand behind you so no one can see.
At least you're still upright, you think. Small blessings.
Even behind the blue and white mask he dons, you can hear him huff in irritation. "Honey, I'm a bit busy right now. If it's a consult, or you're needing help, you need to go find somebody else."
You take a small step forward, ignoring the way your fresh wound smarts when you do so. "I was just—"
He swiftly tugs down his mask and grips the handrail of the patient's bed he stands guard beside. "Go find Robby or Langdon. Anybody else. Can you do that?" he barks. "I don't always have to be the one you come to. They're just as capable."
Your eyes flit to Parker, who turns to Jack with an open mouth—you know she intends to defend you; chew him out for the way he's just spoken to you—until you take a step back in acquiescence to prevent an argument.
Sniffling quietly, you nod, now feeling like a burden. Does he often feel like that? Like you're breaking his concentration, or are too attached? Perhaps it's unprofessional behavior on your part. Work and home are two different things which you've ignorantly merged into one.
"Yeah, I'll go find Robby. I'm sorry for interrupting."
The door swings shut behind you.
You stare at Robby a handful of feet from where he stands, and watch as he heads into an empty exam room before following close behind.
"Are you busy?" you inquire softly while fingering the edge of the striped polyester curtain you waver beside.
He glances to you with kind brown eyes before tearing wrinkled paper from the exam table he stands at. Robby shakes his head while balling it up and tossing it into the trash. "Never too busy for you. What's up?"
You pull back the curtain to give yourself a bit of privacy.
You nervously tug at the hem of your shirt while your other hand continues holding your throbbing side, which Robby's eyes flit to before meeting your own once again.
"I need you to promise me," you say while shuffling forward. "That you're not going to make a federal case out of this. I...I think he's going to end up under psyche's care. I left him—" You shake your head. "I shouldn't have."
You half turn around then. What if he leaves his room and harms someone else? Why did you just walk out and not call security like protocol demands?
Stupid, stupid, stupid. No wonder Jack was so short with you.
You go to head back the way you came until Robby starts toward you and grabs your forearm. "Sweetheart," he says while resting his opposite hand on the crown of your shoulder. "You're my concern now. Tell me what's going on." He nods toward your stomach. "It have anything to do with the way you're holding yourself?"
You shift on your feet uncertainly and wince quietly from the movement. "Promise me. He's unwell. I don't want him arrested, or—"
Robby finally throws up his hands. "Fine, fine, if it'll get you to tell me what's wrong, I will give this man the royal treatment. Now, tell me."
You chew the inside of your lip, then gingerly lift the bottom of your shirt before carefully peeling away the wad of tissues that've dried to your unwanted incision.
"Jesus Christ," Robby curses while stepping forward and gripping your hip to begin examining the damage inflicted. "When did this happen?"
"A few minutes ago," you sputter in explanation. "I didn't tell anyone. I just turned and walked away. I don't know why. I went to Jack, but he...he was busy—"
"Too busy for this?" he asks incredulously. "A patient sliced your fucking stomach open."
You hang your head. "It's not that extreme, Robby."
Maybe if you deny that you were assaulted, things won't turn out to be as bad as you're afraid they are when he finally takes a look.
Robby gently prods at it and your hand flies—sinking your nails into his shoulder. "Ow!"
He raises a brow. "Isn't it?" Robby shakes his head. "Jack should've dropped everything to tend to you."
He waves you toward the exam table, and you climb awkwardly atop it while favoring your side. "I didn't exactly tell him," you murmur while lying back.
Pulling on a pair of gloves, Robby purses his lips in disapproval.
"He told me to come find you. Or just...someone. He was busy—overwhelmed—so he didn't mean to snap at me."
Robby shakes his head. "No excuse. When you come to me, I drop everything without complaint."
You grin, ignoring the way your body is trembling because it's so painfully cold. "It's because you just adore me, right?" you say playfully between chattering teeth while tucking your shaking hands beneath your thighs.
Seeing how you're shivering, Robby frowns, then shrugs off his hoody before draping it over you. "You know I do," he rumbles before grabbing a pack of wipes. "Was the instrument—"
"Sterile," you supply. "I just need stitches." Your eyes flit to the machine next to him, and your stomach sinks to your knees. "Robby..."
"What is it, sweetheart?"
Your chin wobbles. "Ultrasound." Your hand flutters toward your stomach. "My...my ovary."
He stills for a moment and studies you—the way your tearful eyes plead with him to tell you anything but that which you're now terrified of hearing.
He wheels the machine around and switches it on.
You stare up at him through glassy eyes. "Is...is it—"
He shakes his head. "It didn't go deep enough to hit anything. Barely went any deeper than the subcutaneous level."
You squeeze your eyes shut and begin to sob.
Pushing the cart away, Robby slides a palm over your forehead while shooshing you. "It's alright. I'm going to clean the area, give you a few stitches, and then," he says while folding your shirt until it's positioned just beneath your breasts, "I'm taking you home."
You shake your head. "No. Robby, I can—"
He drags an antiseptic wipe over the affected area. "This isn't some option I'm laying before you. I'm an attending, you're my resident—"
"I'm Jack's resident," you state.
Robby looks at you. "I'm making you my resident right now. And as your attending, I'm telling you that you're going home. I'm not asking," he states with finality.
Throwing your head back against the hard vinyl beneath you, you huff in irritation. "Fine."
Robby alerts security to the altercation which occurred where you clearly neglected to, followed by a page to psyche for a consult. After you've completed a workplace incident form and he's compiled a bag of supplies for you to take home so you can tend to your wound in private—as well as some pain meds—he presses the keys to his truck into your palm and tells you to go wait for him.
You think to ask as to why he can't come with you, but refrain.
You'd really like to sit down, and the sooner you make it to his vehicle, the sooner that can happen.
Jack's just exiting the room he found himself unwittingly stationed in for the last hour to the sight of Robby coming straight toward him with a displeased look on his face. He's left to assume that you went to him in the end like he commanded you to, then, and now he's about to be ripped a new one for daring to withhold attention for a damn minute.
"Take it she came to you?" Jack asks while ripping off a surgical gown.
Robby crosses his arms. "She's out in my truck. I'm taking her home."
"I'm sorry, what?" he asks with a raised brow while swinging around toward him.
"I'm guessing you don't have any idea why she came to you earlier?"
Jack plants his hands on his hips. "I assumed because she had a question, or needed help with a patient."
"She was the patient," Robby spits.
Jack falters momentarily.
"He's been taken up to psyche, but she was trying to treat a man having an episode of psychosis. He shoved a scalpel in her belly for it."
Jack curses then runs the heel of his palm along his eye and past his temple. "She didn't say—"
"Maybe if you'd bothered listening for a moment—allowed her to get out what she was trying to fucking tell you—then you might've known."
Jack hardly wastes a moment before shoving past Robby and hobbling toward the doors of the ED. His leg is giving him fucking fits tonight, and instead of dealing with it like a man, he chose to take it out on you instead. You, who was already terrified after someone committed battery against you.
You had looked a bit wan, but he merely shook it off as hazards of the job. Hardly anybody around here is in tip-top shape at all times.
Robby jogs to catch up with him, then presses a hand to his shoulder to halt him in his tracks. A gesture which he bats away. "I'm going to see my wife."
"Jack—"
"Dr. Abbot," calls Henderson from two doors down. "He's crashing, we need you!"
Jack grits his teeth and growls in frustration before turning back around yet again. "Just get her home. I'll be there as soon as I can once my shift is over," he calls reluctantly over his shoulder.
"You sure you don't want me to come in with you? Stay for awhile?" Robby asks while settling his forearm atop the center console and turning in his seat to face you.
You shake your head and force a smile. "No, thank you. I'll be okay. I'm just going to go in, try and bathe," you say with a breathy laugh. "Maybe order something, or just warm up leftovers. Afterward, I'll probably lay down for awhile and watch TV."
Robby seems to debate something for a moment, but ultimately relents. "Alright. Just call me if you need anything," he says while giving your hand a reassuring squeeze.
You nod. "I will. Goodnight."
"Goodnight, sweetheart."
When Jack enters your shared domicile, it's to strict quietude. He presumes that you long ago fell off to sleep in wait of him, so he heads in the direction of the bedroom to get his damn leg off and switch to the relief crutches provide.
And then he finds the bed devoid of your previously expected presence.
Tugging off the apparatus, he practically tosses it onto the floor at his side of the bed, slides himself onto his preferred means of physical support—when he's home, anyway—and goes in search of you. An exploration which doesn't take long when he sees light peeking out of the crack found at the base of the bathroom door.
He knocks quietly. "Honey, can I come in?"
He hears something roll across the floor, followed by a quiet "damn it."
"Sweetheart, I'm sorry for what happened at work. I just had a lot going on. I shouldn't have spoken to you like that. Just open the door for me, angel. Please."
There's the sound of something crinkling.
With a huff, he goes to turn the handle, only to find it locked.
He's really in the doghouse this time, isn't he?
"Either you can let me in, or I'm going to find a key," Jack states.
"I'm busy," you snip.
He sighs, rolls his eyes, then turns and heads for the multiple keychains that hang near the front door.
The doorknob jingles, then turns with a quiet squeak. "Now, do you wanna tell me why—" He promptly shuts his mouth.
It's worse than he thought. Robby did a clean job of repairing what that man damaged, but he's horrified by the sight of you sitting atop a towel in the middle of the bathroom floor in no more than your underwear while you try and clean your dozen stitches.
Leaning his crutches against the sink, Jack hops forward, presses a palm against the wall, then slides downward to join you on the floor.
"C'mere," he murmurs. "Let me take care of it."
"No, I can do it," you mumble while half turning away.
Jack plants his legs on either side of you and shoves your hands from the injury before you manage to reopen it.
Picking up the bottle of rubbing alcohol, he eyes it with a raised brow before glancing to you. "You know better."
You shrink into yourself out of embarrassment. "I was only gonna use a little..."
With a shake of his head, he reaches across the way, grabs the top, and screws it back on.
Swiping an ace bandage from beside you, he peels it open and tosses the wrapper in the trash before making to apply the dressing. "I'm sorry," he begins while smoothing the edges with his thumbs. "I didn't know. Not until Robby told me. For what it's worth, I was a worried wreck for the remainder of my shift. I couldn't get back here fast enough. I went flying by a state trooper on the interstate, but got lucky when he didn't come after me."
In every spare moment Jack had tonight, he found himself subconsciously fiddling with his wedding ring—not wanting to acknowledge the ugly truth of what kind of hell losing you would bring upon him.
He feels doubtful he could survive it; unsure that he would want to.
But you don't need to ever hear something so ugly.
Once you've been properly tended to, Jack grips your hips and pulls you toward him. "My leg has been aching all fucking night, I ended up having to do a cric on the patient you saw me with—" he shakes his head. "Doesn't matter."
Cupping the back of your head, he tries pulling your lips toward his. "I'm sorry, baby."
You slide a hand up his chest. "I forgive you," you whisper.
An apology which is soon followed up with a mischievous smirk. "Robby's really good with his hands, by the way. You ever had 'em on you?"
Jack glares at you. "You do not want to test my patience right now."
"I'm the one who got stabbed," you retort. Leaning in close, you giggle. "Even let him come inside and tuck me in..."
Jack deadpans. "I need to check the security cameras?"
You shrug. "Only proof of what we did in bed is stored on my phone in a locked folder. It's filthy."
He fights against a smirk. "You're such a pain in my leg."
You raise a brow. "And you're a pain in my belly."
He snorts while bringing you flush against his chest. "If something like that ever happens again, you scream at the top of your fucking lungs. Alright? Made me sick thinking about you trapped in there alone... He could've done far, far worse."
You nod while nuzzling against his neck. "I just froze. My body locked up, and my voice with it. All I wanted was you I was so scared."
He could put his head through a fucking wall hearing that. Jack wraps his arms securely around you. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart. What happened tonight will never happen again. You come first. Always."
Sliding a hand up your back, he presses a kiss to your temple. "It's my job to protect you. And tonight I failed to—"
You shake your head. "Jack, I didn't even tell you." Leaning back, you caress his cheek. "It happens. As terrible as it is, it does in our line of work. It's just a cut that, at most, may leave a small scar. Better it be me with a sterile instrument than someone he attacks on the street with a dirty knife. He wasn't himself. I'm okay."
He presses a long kiss to your forehead. "You're way more empathetic than I would've been. Good thing you didn't tell me. Because if you had..." He doesn't want to think on how he may've very well put the assailant in the morgue.
"I'm just glad he's safe and getting the help he needs. Everything is alright now," you insist.
He brushes a kiss over your lips.
"C'mon," you say while pushing back. "Come lay in bed for awhile and I'll massage your leg." You grin. "Robby gave me the good painkillers, y'know?"
He rolls his eyes. "He does tend to baby you," he says with a grunt while pushing himself upward.
You paw at his middle once he's standing. "Guess that makes two of you."
You pad out of the bathroom and he pinches your rear on the way out, causing you to yelp in surprise.
"Let's go see if we can't overwrite your and Robby's video," he croons while sliding onto his crutches.
"'Overwrite'? Think you're cruising in the wrong century, old man."
He switches off the bathroom light and nearly barks a laugh at the reply that comes to him. "Yeah, well, I'm about to fuck you into the next one, little girl. So you better hope those stitches were sewn tight enough."
