h e l l o.

just lurking

[bluetimeombre]

Take care of you

synopsis jack really wants to take care of you, you're really not used to that feeling, but when an accident has you in harms way and rattles jack more than you, you have little choice but to accept how he feels about you. (I want to take care of you- it's rotten work- not to me, not if its you) type.

warnings, fluff and angst but with a happy ending. guns. insecure reader. reader is described with hair long enough to braid. insecure reader. angst with happy ending . younger reader though not a massive plot point. miscommunication/misunderstanding

authorsnote uncle pee-paw i'm growing very fond of you. sometimes i get so in my head about how things preform on tumblr and i completely forget that fanfic is so self indulgent so as long as i'm happy with it but i'm so happy with the love these pitt fics are getting they really do mean a lot

Pitt masterlist. Jack Abbot fic!

“ You need a ride? ”

When you'd called Jack to tell him you were going to be late into your night shift because the buses you relied so heavily on to get you to and from work weren't running due to some strikes or something, you really were only calling to let him know you'd be late. Not to subtly ask for him to give you a ride.

“No- no. I just didn't want you to think I was not turning up, I'll be there.”

“ What's your address again? ”

“It doesn't matter, I'm walking- running- running in,” you said breathless down your phone, busy stuffing your bag with whatever you'd need, none of which was food for the shift. You'd recently ran out of the energy bars Jack had recommended.

Everyday you said you'd prepare something nice, some risotto or something and take it in. Every morning you collapsed from exhaustion and ran out of time to make anything that resembled a 'meal'.

“ I've got it here, I'll be around in ten, ” Jack said.

Your bag slid down your shoulder as you paused. “Got it? Got what?”

“ Your address. ”

“How do you have my address?”

He chuckled down the line. “ Remember I ubered food to yours, two weeks ago? You've probably still got leftovers in your fridge. ”

Ah. You remembered. One of those times you let slip your terrible routine and he sort to fix it, sending you over prepped meals that- he was right- were still littered around your fridge.

“Right, yes. You should delete that.”

“ Comes in handy, sometimes. In emergencies, ” he said. “ I'll pick you up in ten, bye. ”

There was no time to argue as the call ended promptly after that.

Jack Abbot was a caring man. Something you were learning the hard way. You knew he'd given Ellis his spare room when she was evicted from her apartment, he'd even let her re-decorate, got her fresh blankets and sheets. You knew that Shen's favourites snacks were always stocked up in the lounge. You always knew that he was first to spot Lena getting tired and was always there with a coffee.

It was just like you knew he knew all those little things about you too.

He knew when your bus got in across from PCMT, always there to escort you over the road and back again at the end of the shift. No matter how long or gruelling it had been he would wait with you, rain or sun. He knew you had a bad sleeping habit so he told you herbal remedies in teas and even brought some for you. Annoyingly they worked and every time you had one you were forced to think of Jack.

You knew that if he said he was picking you up- he was.

There was nothing wrong with his affection.

You just didn't know what to do with it.

The night shift was still new to you. You'd only joined since their nights had gotten wilder, even too wild for the 'weirdest and wildest' to handle so you'd made the swap six months ago to help out. You were used to Robby's ways of doing things: of his careful watch over his residents with happy thumbs up or disapproving shakes of his head.

Jack trusted in his residents to take care of patients, but didn't when it came to themselves.

You rushed around, finding your pens and stethoscope and phone that you'd just put down for a second. Soon enough Jack had texted saying he was coming up (he somehow already had the code to your apartment complex).

His knuckles rattled softly and you rushed to grab the last of your things, including a book marked with 'Abbot, J' that you had yet to get round to reading.

“Hi,” you greeted.

You'd expected he'd come up just to be a gentleman, figuring the two of you would just head back down.

Jack squeezed by your attempt at baring him from your place and walked into your small and cramped apartment. “Hey.”

You tried not to be surprised, shutting the door behind him. “I've got everything, we- we can go.”

“I jussss wanna check-” the kitchen was just to the right and he opened your fridge door, grinning. “I was right. Still got the leftovers.”

There were many containers stacked, some full, others emptying. All marked in his handwriting from his meal prep he shared with you.

“Yeah, I haven't got round to sorting it,” you said. “Sorry, I didn't get around to eating everything. It's really good though.”

Jack smiled, reaching into your fridge like it was his own. “Hey, I made you a lot, didn't expect you to eat everything. Just wanted to make sure you had a choice. Did you like the Linguini? I tried a new recipe.”

Jack moved around your kitchen like he'd been living in your space forever. He was confident as he re-arranged your food, throwing what had gone out of date away and washing his hands in your sink, taking a towel hanging up by a cupboard like he knew it was there and drying.

“Er, yeah, it was nice, we can go, you know,” you said.

“You started reading it?” Jack asked, gesturing down to the book in your hands. “What do you think of it?”

“Oh, er, no. I haven't had the chance to start it. I was gonna give it back to you,” you said.

Jack shrugged. “It's yours, keep it.”

It was not yours. It was his. It was one of his favourites if the several dog-eared pages and annotations were anything to go by. It was a title he'd recommended to you and handed you a month ago but you'd only managed to flick through and get a vague understanding of the characters names only.

“But I mean- I don't know when I'll get round to reading it,” you said, loitering outside your kitchen.

“It's okay, I've read it a thousand times, keep it till you do.”

Wasn't he worried you may never get round to reading it and he might not ever get it back?, if your forgetful memory was anything to go by.

Jack finally abandoned your kitchen, passing by you. “Shall we?”

“Thanks for the lift. You really didn't have to,” you said as you left your apartment building, the sky already darkening and where others came in from their long days of work, yours was only just beginning.

“It's on my way,” he shrugged.

“It's out of your way,” you pointed out, knowing Jack was a complete different way to PCMT then you.

You saw his eyes roll as he opened the passenger door for you, nodding for you to get in.

“Just take the lift.”

“Thank you.”

“Word is you and Abbot arrived together,” said Dana.

You groaned.

There was a lot to like about the night shifts. It felt more of a team work than day did sometimes, you loved working with everyone just as much as you did day and you liked how still it got in the night sometimes. But you missed Dana who watched out for you like a mama bear. Still, she made time to always check in with you before she headed out.

Her jean jacket was thrown over her shoulders, her hair pinned back neater and keys in hand but she still greeted you like it was the start of the day.

“He gave me a lift, the buses are on strike.”

She smirked. “Nice of him.”

“I've told him not to do it again.”

“Oh yeah, how'd he take that?”

He'd shook his head and laughed, constantly brushing off every thanks you made and offer of any aid you could give. He seemed wholly un-bothered by the inconvenience you'd caused.

“Jack's a good guy,” said Dana.

“That he is.”

“You deserve someone like him.”

You weren't sure where Dana got that idea. You also didn't know why you couldn't believe her. Why every time Jack turned up when things were going bad, or why every time he showed he cared you felt scared.

And you'd never really had the time to un-pack that.

You looked up to Dana, folding your arms over on the counter. “And what about what he wants?”

“Well for that you'll have to ask him,” she said with the all knowing look in her eyes. Her hand was gentle on your shoulder as she squeezed. “I'll see you in the morning.”

“Night.”

You thought you'd have a chance to view the patient charts that were swapped over to night shift but Jack was next, standing in Dana's space.

“What did mamma bear have to say?” he asked.

“Oh you know, the usual,” you said. “Trying to give me life advice that I won't follow.”

He huffed a chuckle. “I could've told her that, saved her the time.”

“I listen to your advice-”

He levelled his gaze onto yours.

“- I try to.”

His brows rose up. “You brought anything in for food tonight?”

You were about to answer, ready to prove him wrong, finally.

Jack interrupted you. “Anything other than that caramel coffee you like?”

He could read you like a book. You don't know how he found the time to know so much about you, to observe such things you wouldn't even notice unless he pointed them out.

Your silence was an answer.

“I brought extra, we'll have it later.”

He said it so confidently, leaving little space for any arguing on your end.

“Will we?”

“Yeah,” he said, stretching out on the counter. “I'm thinking a midnight picnic, trauma two? Might even get lucky with a GSW as company.”

You laughed and when you looked at Jack he was smiling. It was a soft kind, the sort that smoothed his face and made him seem younger and lighter. The kind that you took home with you and re-played as you fell asleep slowly.

You would never admit how long Jack spends in your mind. Somehow it felt like he already knew.

“You, um, you didn't braid your hair today,” said Jack, straightening up and drumming his knuckles on the counter. His gaze only faltered on yours for a second.

This was something you knew you did, carefully creating a routine for washing your hair that meant you didn't have to do it every day after work. Enough baby powder or dry shampoo meant you could get away with two washes at best.

“No, I guess I didn't.”

“It's gonna annoy you, being in your face all day.”

“I'm sure I'll manage.”

Jack didn't listen. He picked up your wrist- the one you kept a hair tie around- and slid it onto his own before going behind you.

“Jack, what are you doing?” you asked.

“Helping you.”

“You don't have to, I'll shove it up.”

Jack grumbled. “Let me work.”

His fingers grazed your neck as he brushed back your hair, the callouses on his hands rough against you, eliciting some sort of warmth in your body. Thankfully he was behind you and couldn't see the blush absolutely coming to your cheeks.

Jack took care of those around him, but he'd never touched anyone else's hair, never stood in the middle of the nurses station where all could see to braid someone's hair.

You felt him work, the weight of his gaze on the back of your head and his fingers moving through your hair like a cool summer evening breeze.

Across the way, Lena peered over her glasses at you with a smile.

“Lena's staring,” you said, unable to focus on any work till Jack's fingers were out of your hair.

Jack hummed. You knew that concentration from the amount of times you've seen him focused. “Lena always stares.”

You noticed Crus and Matteo passing by, both watching and pointing. You were sure Crus made some obscene make-out gesture and only hoped Jack didn't see. You were sure, if anyone else had asked he'd have done the same.

Though you hadn't technically asked.

“I'm sure you have far more important things to do than braid my hair, Abbot.” The lights in the Pitt seemed brighter, burning down on you like spotlights.

“Nothing more important right now.”

Your neck stretched as Jack pulled at your hair lightly to get it all in place. Curiosity ate at you, wondering where he'd done this before but the idea of knowing- like you had any right to- shut you up before you could speak.

Eventually he finished and his hands fell on your shoulders.

“There. Ready to be a hero?” he asked, spinning you around to him.

Your feet scuffed along the floor. “What? Am I the Robin to your batman?”

His lips quirked up and he moved his head side to side like weighing up his options. “More like the Lois to my Super-man.”

You sadly weren't versed enough in comic to know if that was a good or bad thing.

Jack was attending to a young girl when you walked in. Honestly it was starting to get comical how you turned up around him or he you. Some would call it magnets and as you met Jacks gaze as you stepped in you knew the ‘people’ meant Jack.

He looked at you, taking a quick note of the fact you still had your braid in even hours into the night. Jack smiled.

“Miss mermaid this is who I was telling you about,” said Jack.

The young girl- maybe five, maybe six- looked up at you as Jack slowly pulled at the thread bringing the skin of her knee together.

The chart had told you she'd taken a nasty fall on the playground and her teacher had brought her in, still trying to get in contact with the parents while Jack kept her company, cleaning her scraped knees and the gash just below.

“Hello,” the little girl waved. There wasn't even any tear marks on her cheeks but there was a small mark of blood at her little lip and her hair was falling out around her face.

“Hello miss mermaid,” you greeted, realising quickly the name came from her little mermaid top she wore.

“We were just talking about you,” said Jack, glancing quickly at you.

You blushed, wondering what Jack had to say about you to a small child. “Oh?”

“You and Crus played mermaids that time at the beach, remember?”

The girl giggled and Jack smiled over her shoulder at you.

“It wasn't- it wasn't mermades,” you excused.

That day was one of sweltering heat and lingering gazes. The night shift had took a trip to the beach on one of the hottest days of the year, enjoying the day for the day-shifters that couldn't. You'd gotten a lift with Matteo who'd brough Victoria Javadi along as she had the day off anyhow.

There was sand in places you didn't know sand could get, beach balls that somehow were pierced before you could even blow them up and gazes shared with Jack.

Maybe it was the bikini you wore that was so different from the scrubs. Maybe it was the fact Jack was un-characteristically insecure about his prosthetic leg being exposed to all and you'd told him nobody cared, that everybody cared more that he couldn't enjoy himself. Something had changed that day, settling in you like a pebble at the bottom of a lake thrown from a great height.

Since then, you and Jack had never looked at each other the same way.

But you and Crus hadn't been playing mermaids.... exactly. You swam around a lot and sort to collect more sea shells than the other. You just didn't call it mermaids.

“Will I be able to play mermaids again?” asked the little girl brushing hair out of her face with clumsy hands.

“Absolutely,” said Jack with great enthusiasm.

“And run faster than all the boys in my class?”

Jack chuckled, so did you. “Of course, but you'll have to rest up first.”

“Give the boys a chance to catch up, huh?” you suggested, plucking a leaf out of her hair.

“I like running fast,” she said.

Jack worked on the stitching, back to concentrating.

You sat down on the other side of the bed, gently reaching over to pluck bits of leaf and dirt from her hair. “So do I but sometimes we got to take things slow to not get hurt.”

You hadn't realised the meanings of the words until Jack halted his movements, glancing at you.

So you supposed there was a double meaning.

Jack's gaze was heavy.

“Tell you what, miss mermaid, Doctor Abbot here is better at braiding hair than he is stitches,” you said after a clear of your throat.

“Rude,” Jack mumbled.

It took a little convincing but you managed to swap places with Jack, gloving up and taking the tread he'd started at. He took your space on the bed and gently worked the child's hair into something neat while you carried on her stitches, close enough to being finished.

The both of you worked in silence as you each concentrated on your separate endeavours. All the while the young girl sat in between you hummed to herself, some Disney song.

“That's my favourite,” said Jack half way through when he must have realised what song she was humming.

You were still trying to understand it when part way through they changed to 'Under the sea'. You had to all but hold her leg from swinging as she sang loudly, causing you to laugh.

“Why not singing?” asked the girl.

“Yeah, why not singing?” Jack asked

You shook your head. “I don't know the song.”

Jack made a 'pfft' sound like he didn't believe you and 'little miss mermaid' did the same, blowing a raspberry.

Eventually you finished up the stitching, coincidently the same time Jack finished with his braiding.

A nurse- Bridget- walked in with the young girls teacher, eying the two of you between her. “You braiding Matteo's hair next?” she teased with a glint of wicked amusement in her eyes.

Jack moved up from the bed just as you also stood, discarding of the tools you'd used. “Only if he asks nicely.”

“Her parents have been informed they're on their way,” said the girls teacher.

“Perfect,” said Jack, holding either end of his stethoscope slung around his neck. “We are going to leave you in the very capable hands of Bridget who knows many more Disney songs than we do. Don't go without giving me another song.”

The girl laughed, her new braid slung over her shoulder. “I won't.”

Jack smiled and held the door open for you as you left with a small wave and him trailing behind you.

Lena was at the nurses station, answering calls and dishing out work while others walked around the two of you, busy with their own nights that existed by itself in the Pitt.

You hadn't realised you and Jack were heading for the break room till his arm stretched out and he pushed the door open over you.

“Are you really telling me you didn't know the song she was singing?” he asked.

“Of course I knew the song. I wasn't going to sing and embarrass myself,” you said, pulling out the mug you always used and Jack's favourite, finding the coffee pot newly brewed.

“Like I'm any Phil Collins,” scoffed Jack as he pulled out two containers from the fridge.

You frowned, sitting at the table. “Who?”

Jack looked at you, swinging the door shut. His brows rose high, crinkling his forehead. “Phil Collins? Turn it out again.... In the air tonight... The music on Tarzan?”

“Is he the dad of Lily Collins?”

Jack slid into the seat across from you. “Who?” He passed you over a full container of some sort of quinoa. It wasn't just left overs, it was a carefully calculated portion to match his.

You stared down at it like you were trying to decide if it was poisoned while Jack had already had a spoonful of his own.

It felt strange, to be sitting in a secluded room of the chaos and eating with him. Though at work, it felt oddly domestic. It felt- annoyingly- like the right thing to do. You wanted to eat from his container and wash it, hand it back to him. You wanted to know where he kept all his Tupperware, the kind that fell from cupboards at every open of the door.

“You cooking for me now?”

Jack shrugged, not meeting your gaze. “It's quinoa. Hardly cooking.”

You took a careful spoon.

Like he'd been discreetly watching as soon as you swallowed he spoke.

“You like it?”

“It tastes... kind of...”

“Healthy?”

You looked at him, feigned aghast.

Jack smirked, jaw working as he ate his food. “Come on, if it weren't for me you'd still be living on pizza's and take aways. At least this way you save a couple bucks and eat good. For a doctor you should know how important that is.”

“What are you so worried about what I eat for?” you mumbled, more wondering to yourself.

“I like to take care of you.”

He admitted it softly, a slight shrug to his shoulders like it was nothing. Like looking after you, a simple colleague- maybe a friend if you were lucky enough- was a simple feat. As if you didn't struggle to take care of yourself. Jack worked the same shifts, even more as an attending and cooked for himself, did yoga in mornings and even went out as a SWAT team member.

“Why?” You pushed the grains around in the tub.

“Why what?” he asked.

Daring to glance at him, you found Jack looking at you, arms rested on the table, his freckled biceps pulling at his scrub top.

You shook your head, taking another spoon of the food.

Any other time some emergency would be called to save you. Nothing as such when you really needed it. Of course you were glad nobody was being rushed in hurt... but still.

“Why do I like looking after you?” Jack repeated. “Because it's you.”

At that, you smiled. Not through happiness, more sympathy. “Because I can't look after myself?”

You knew you slept a lot, didn't take as good care of yourself as you could have. There were healthy and easy meal ideas sat in a folder in your phone, gathering dust. There was always laundry in a pile, dirty and clean, to go to their respective homes. There were friends waiting to make arrangements you never got around to making. You weren't easy but you didn't think you were so bad someone else had to come in and save you.

Jack paused, his face falling. “That's not what I meant.”

“Sure it is, you can admit it,” you shrugged, the food he's kindly shared turned to ash in your mouth. “I know I might seem like a mess to you, to someone so put together and... older, but I really do have my life managed. You don't have to add me to your to do list.”

“Woah, woah, woah, I never said that. That's not what I meant at all.”

You laughed. It felt better than feeling so embarrassed. “It's okay-”

“- no, no, that's not what's supposed to be going on, I... ”

Jack cared for people, you knew that. It was just apart of himself.

So you were almost distraught inside when you realised he didn't like you anymore than Shen or Ellis. He just looked out for you cause it was something he had to do.

“I'm not actually very hungry right now,” you said, pushing the lid back on and leaving it for him.

Jack was just as quick as you were to his feet. “No, no, wait- wait, hey-”

His pushed the door closed as you only just opened it an inch.

You looked at him. Your stomach was tight, uncomfortably so.

“Let me- let me try again, okay? I didn't think this through.”

“There's nothing to think through, just wait-”

Shen appeared at the door, trying to get in but Jack was surprisingly strong in keeping the door barred. “I need my coffee.”

“Give us a minute, Shen,” said Jack with all his attending commanding voice.

“But-”

“- a minute!”

You caught sight of Shen looking to you for help before walking away, head down and probably with his bottom lip jutted out like a kicked puppy. “Shen won't get far without his coffee.”

“Shen can wait till we're done now listen,” he said and leant against the door, watching you close. “I like taking care of you, I do, I really do. Not because I think you're not capable of looking after yourself, you are, I know you are it's... I just...”

You waited.

There was nothing.

Jack looked at you with all wide eyes and tension held in his arms. It's like he wanted to say something but ... couldn't.

One more minute and Shen would tear the place apart for coffee.

“You're a nice guy, Jack, you just don't have to be that nice.”

Jack let his arm fall from the door and you evacuated.

The sun had started to rise and you were so close to getting out the door, so close to running from the day's problems. Day shift had turned up, somewhat bright eyed and bushy tailed to take the days stresses though you weren't sure they could take Jack's insistence to talk to you away.

You were inches away from leaving when Jack called for you.

There wasn't the desperation to talk to you, it was the sort he used in traumas, only.

“I need you, GSW to the chest!”

The both of you ran in, gowns pulling on and gloves next as you pushed through the doors.

It was all the usual to you: too many doctors in one room, so much talking and orders it fell on your ears like music you knew all the words to.

“Woman in her twenties, multiple GSW's,” Robby called out. “Pulse ox eighty!”

The doors shut behind and the team of you all took your roles like a practised routine.

“Three... two... one- move!”

All together you lifted her over.

There was blood blooming on her shirt, a tear in her jeans. There was a black eye and what looked like a broken nose if the cut over the bridge and the slant of it was anything to go by.

You'd seen enough of these to know when they were accidents and when they weren't.

Her back hit the bed and the sharp beep of life being lost echoed.

“We've lost her pulse!” shouted Robby.

Without being told you climbed up, hands coming together and hammering down on her chest. For a split second you felt the ghost of Jack's hands, helping you up before they were gone like a summers breeze.

Looming over her you could see the injuries better. And worse.

“GSW, right-sided, she needs a central line,” you announced.

Jack moved around you and the patient, already preparing himself for the central line before you'd called for one.

“BP's dropping out! Pulse Ox is eighty-five!” Robby called.

“She's got tension pneumo,” said Jack without shouting and everyone heard. Somewhere in the back of your mind you recognised that authority he demanded with the simple sound of his voice.

“Crash cart,” said Robby. “Charge to one hundred.”

You waited till you heard the buzz of the cart and felt the heat of the panels before moving.

“Clear!”

The sound of her pulse was quiet and the rhythm was odd but it was there, slight bumps in a green line.

You climbed down, landing next to Jack as he readied with a fourteen needle.

“BP's seventy Ox,” said Jesse.

“Day shifters trying to cramp our style,” said Jack as he slid in.

Robby tutted. “Trying to make sure you don't get all the fun.”

Jack straightened next to you. “Ok, I'm setting up the chest tube, you're gonna set me up with a thirty-two French. Get a mig of atropine and a need a unit of O-neg.”

Two units were hooked up.

“We need to get the chest tube in and stop the bleeding.”

It was all a flurry of hands and tools as the chest tube was in, as the chest was packed with gauze at the right flank where the bullet had tore through her chest. It was a close one, but the sort you could save with nimble hands and careful concentration.

“Okay,” Jack uttered as the both of you loomed over her. “I know we're fighting and I don't like that-”

“We're not fighting and now's not the time,” you said.

Robby was on the other side of the bed, giving the two of you a look. “I agree.”

Jack waved him off, focusing on you. “I'll strike you a deal, we save this woman's life. You get breakfast with me.”

You glanced up, wondering if anyone had heard, though you were sure by now Jack's attempts at asking you on a date was one of the worst kept secrets.

Robby was watching from the other side, arms over his chest and his brows raised.

“You strike a hard bargain there, Abbot,” you mumbled.

“May as well say yes, either way you're saving lives.”

“Why cause you'll die if I say no?”

Jack looked at you. As usual there was nothing giving away if he was joking or not. “Yeah.”

It would have been a pretty poor time to joke.

Five minutes later she was stable.

Blood bags hung slowly draining, rags and gauze of blood littered the ground and torn off gowns were thrown haphazardly around. The patients pulse was steady and beating with the promise of years of life ahead. There'd be challenges, you don't get shot and not have to face even more hardship.

But there was life.

And that was the most rewarding part of the job.

“Good job,” said Robby, peeling of his gloves. “I'm gonna get some air.”

“Then go home, right?” asked Jack as everyone slowly moved away.

Robby only made a rude gesture as the doors closed and left you and Abbott to peel away the blood stained gowns and gloves.

Jack turned to you, un-fazed at the life he'd saved. “You want to go from here or do you want me to drop you off at yours and let you change first?”

You stared at him.

It was almost unfair, his charisma in spite of it all. You didn't stand a chance. When Jack said he was going to save a life, he was going to do just that. It was an added bonus to take you on a date.

Your head was shaking but your lips were curling up.

Jack backed out of the room, leaving you with a thumbs up.

You didn't know why you lingered with the body. You were a resident who had one patient on the go, you should've picked up another. You should've left the trauma room for the surgical consultation.

Yet you wanted to start a chart, wanted to find a name for the girl.

As you walked over, checking her BP which sat safe at one hundred over sixty, her eyes fluttered open, dry lips parting and murmurs exiting.

“Hey,” you dropped your voice gently. “You're safe now, you're at the hospital. Can you hear me?”

You held her head steady as her eyes fluttered but didn't open wide enough to meet yours.

“Can you tell me your name?”

You listened close but got nothing from the grunts.

The doors to the trauma room pushed open.

A small girl stood there, early twenties or even late into her teens. She wore a hoody, blood soaking up the sleeves. She didn't introduce herself, instead, she stared.

“Is she alive?” she asked.

Beyond the broken nose you could see the resemblance in the unconscious on the bed and the one that stood ahead of you.

“Do you know her?” you asked.

“She's my sister.”

“Well your sister was shot in the chest, she's lost a lot of blood but she should make it-”

You heard the gunshots before you saw the gun.

Jack had stripped off the gown stained with blood and pulled off his gloves next, trashing them in a bin.

“That was some way to ask a girl out,” chuckled Robby as he followed his movements in yanking anything with blood on him off.

Jack shrugged. So far nothing that he'd planned the day had gone to plan, asides from saving lives yet that was his plan every day. When you'd called he was already at the hospital but you'd said about the buses and he put his keys back in at once. He thought finally. He'd been waiting for a sign to try to take you on a date, seeing's as the food and books and recommendations and days out weren't enough.

Now, he'd saved a life and got a date.

“So what's next?” asked Robby. “You perform a resuscitative thoracotomy and ask her to marry you?”

“If you have one let me know and I'll see.”

Robby chuckled, patting him on the back when three gunshots rang out.

Everyone ducked.

People screamed.

Where suddenly dozens of people stood everyone was down in lumps, covering heads and ducking for patients.

Jack hovered, not quite down but ready to move. Gun shots were nothing, enough to lull him to sleep. These shots were like any other but they echoed in his ears and richoeted in his heart.

They came from behind him.

From the room he'd just left.

“Where'd that come from?” he asked. He knew.

Robby's hand pushed at his chest, already moving past him. “Trauma two!”

You.

“No!”

The two of them took off toward the room.

A lady exited. It wasn't you. It wasn't the patient. It was a third un-familiar party.

She turned at the sound of heavy footsteps and rose her gun at the two.

“Gun!” someone screamed.

Robby was still holding onto Jack as the two of them skid to a stop in front of her. Somewhere someone was crashing and Jack couldn't see you or hear you.

There were three shots.

He knew three shots were enough to kill.

Jack raised his hands, showing he was harmless and helpless. “Please,” he begged. “Is she alive?”

The girls eyes were hard and full of hatred. The gun was steady in her hands. She was calm, completely but there was no doubt the gun shots were hers. “Not anymore.”

“Oh god-”

“Woah-Woah-” Robby caught Jack with one strong arm as his knees gave out.

You were dead? Some girl- hardly an adult- shot you? Why? To tear out his own heart?

It was already gone.

“Jack? Jack, brother, listen to me,” Robby was trying to talk to him but nothing was going through to him, like a signal lost.

The girl turned and left quickly, making sure everyone knew she had a gone when they all knew she wasn't afraid to use it. The shots must have rung out through the entire hospital.

Robby helped Jack up and as soon as the doors leaving the Pitt closed they rushed in.

The harsh sound of beeping was bouncing off the trauma walls where blood was splattered and a pool of that same blood dripped down into a puddle under the patient.

“Oh my god.” Jack found you at once, using the walls as a crutch as you stumbled your way through the room. He was at your side at once, arms around your trembling body and holding you- moving with you even as you tried to walk.

There was blood all over you and you'd paled dramatically.

Jack coaxed you into staying still, grabbing your cheeks to get your attention. He ignored the pain in his leg that had come from the run, the giving out and now as he crouched to get a look at you. “Hey, hey, hey, look at me- let me look at you. Are you hurt? Did she hurt you?”

Robby had already rushed to the patients side, what doctors and nurses that had gained control over themselves joining him in trying to save her life again. “Ah shit, looks like PEA! Amp of antropine, amp of Epi!”

Your eyes darted over to where the chaos ensued, even as Jack tried to get you to look at him.

“You won't ... won't get her back!” your voice was shaky and hoarse from a scream he hadn't heard. “Blew her god damn brains out.”

“Come here, okay, let's-let's-” Jack's arm was around your shoulder and he was moving you out, trying to help pulling off your bloody gloves while keeping an arm on you.

There was blood and something else on your gloves. Blew her brains out. And you'd tried to scoop them back in.

When the bright lights of the hospital met you your body grew still in his arm.

Jack was familiar with trembles, with blood and PTSD. He wasn't used to any of it in you. In everything he'd learnt about you, he hadn't learnt the subtle art of comfort. “Let's get you some air, let's get you cleaned up-”

You pushed out of Jack's arms, pulling and tugging at your scrub top soaked in blood and all but ran into the women's bathroom.

He heard retching as the door closed.

Jack shook his head, ready to follow you when Dana appeared in front of him, hand on his chest.

“Take it easy, take it easy, I'll check in on her.”

He could still hear you throwing up when Dana slipped in.

The sun was high in the sky, casting the roof of PCMT in an orange glow. The sky burnt in its colour but all you saw was red.

One moment the girl had been crashing, the monitor still beeped in your head. Her body had jerked up to the sky before you got a rhythm back and then- just as you did with any patient- you got hopeful. It seemed in the clear to do so, you'd helped patients come back from worse and you always had hope.

Nobody that worked in the ED could live without it.

Then- it had took three bangs for you to drop to the ground but not before being smeared in blood. You didn't even know what was happening as the ringing ran out in your ears. You'd met the ground with a hard thump to your head. When your vision cleared you saw the shoes rush out of the room.

Your guiding as a med student was doing no harm, saving lives and you'd dropped and put your life ahead of your patients.

What kind of doctor did that?

The cowardly type- you.

“You're in my spot,” said a voice coming closer.

Jack.

His voice soothed the nerves in your body that had been on edge since the accident. Everything made you jump, but him.

“It's a nice spot,” you said as loud as you could, knowing your voice still wasn't back. Or loud enough.

“Yeah,” he said, getting closer. “But usually I like to be on the other side of the rail. And on my feet.”

You were sat on the edge of the roof, not on the edge close enough for anyone to worry but apparently that didn't stop Jack.

He huffed, behind you now. “Please, I'm an older guy, my heart can't take it. Can you come over?”

If your feet weren't like weights pulling you down maybe you could have but you were struggling to feel any part of you.

You admitted as much, quietly. “I can't move.”

You'd moved quick when faced with the gun, dropping to save your own skin. Since then moving had been difficult, like you'd used every muscle in your body to push yourself and now you were locked.

Jack moved in a blur as he ducked under the rail and slowly set down next to you. He was silent, only his breathing calming you. “Did you get checked over with Robby?”

You nodded. “The ringing'll go away in a day or two.”

“Yeah.... it always does.”

You looked at him and Jack was looking at you. The grey stubble of his beard never looked greyer and his eyes were dull, small half moon bruises of sleep marked there. His hair was ruffled and he smelled dully of hospital.

This was a man that had saved more lives than you could count and severed in tours ... and he was taking time to check on you.

“I'm sorry,” you didn't know you had cried till Jack's arm was around your shoulder, bringing you in.

“Hey, hey,” he cooed, his arm tight on you. “What are you sorry for, huh?”

“I didn't save her, I-I should've tried. Should be reasoned with the shooter and I just-I just dropped down and you-” your breathing was ragged, the cries frequenting. “-you've done so much, lost your leg for damn sakes and I just dropped.”

“Hey,” he snapped. It wasn't un-kind. It was stern in ways he had to be in the as a night attending. “You did everthing you could.”

You looked at him. He really meant that though. “I dropped down!”

“You saved your life,” he reminded you. Jack's arm was still tight on your shoulders but his other hand held your cheek, making you focus on him. “You acted on instinct. If you hadn't your patient still would've shot and you-” Jack's breath caught. His eyes were glossed over. You'd missed the redness around his eyes. “- you'd have been shot and I couldn't live with that. I-I couldn't.”

Jack wiped away his tears, wiping yours next. He chuckled dryly at the both of your tears.

“I lost my leg in a tour,” said Jack. “Where guns and shooting is part of the job. It's not in a hospital. You did what you could.”

It still didn't feel right. It still felt like the cowards way of doing things.

“Look at me, look at me-” he nudged your gaze to his. His eyes were wide and implored you to look at him. Really look. “You did what you could and I know a patient died and I know-I know it's hard but...”

He sniffed.

“But what?” you mumbled. How could there be a but in any of this?

He held your cheeks tighter, smudging your cheeks just that little more. Jack let out a shaky exhale. “But I am so happy you're okay. I am so fucking glad.”

His dimples were hardly there as he gave you a sorry smile.

Your head fell into his chest and he brought his arms around you, holding you, shushing you as you cried. Cried for your patient, for the shooter, for the way you dropped. None of which maybe could be forgiven but all of which were valid.

Somewhere in the crying Jack held you tighter and moved the both of you back away from the ledge. You let him, even helped in scuffing your feet and pushing away till the railing hit both your backs.

“You're okay, I got you, I got you.”

I got you. He'd always had you, if he hadn't had you today what would you have done? Nothing crazy but you might have stayed up on the roof all day, be dead on your feet by the night. Jack had always had you and when he did you'd all but told him not to.

“I'm sorry.”

His hand ran over your hair. It had come lose but still remained in the braiding. “You don't have to be sorry, you don't.”

“No about earlier, in the lounge,” you said, holding onto him. “You were being nice, you've always been nice and I... I was horrible-”

“- you weren't horrible, no-”

“- you've been so kind to me and I don't even say thanks-”

“- you have actually, quite a few times- ”

“- I don't know why you put up with me-”

“- well, it helps that I love you-”

If there was one way to shut your rambling up, it was that.

You still had a vice on his scrub top but you looked up to him. For the first time- you think ever- Jack had to look away from you.

“What?” you asked.

Jack's jaw ticked and he clocked his head. “I didn't mean to say that.”

Disappointment chocked you. Of course it would just slip out, heck Jack was comforting you, he'd say anything.

“Oh.”

“I do love you,” he said and you looked at him with something akin to hope as you moved your head away. “That's why I've been looking after you, that's what you do when your- when your in love. My... my wife taught me that. I was just scared you know cause.... I haven't been in love since she died.”

It wasn't often Jack talked about his wife but when he did he talked. He'd talk anyone's ears off about her and once or twice you'd been that person.

“I'm sorry.” This time you weren't sure what you were apologising for, you just were.

Jack looked at you with a mocked frustration.

You cringed. “Sorry, I should- I should stop saying that.”

He hummed and nodded along with you, a tiny smile on his lips, the chapped parts cracking from the salt of his last tears. “I never meant to make you feel incapable, I know you can look after yourself. But I want to.”

You laughed at yourself, wiping at your cheeks and snot. “Why? I'm a mess.”

Jack took your cheek in the palm of his hand. “No, you're not. Not to me.”

Jack kissed you so slow and sweet on the edge of the roof with the sun praising upon the both of you. He didn't push his feelings into you, he let you feel them in the gentle press of his lips and the hold of his hands.

And feel the love you did.

[kirsteng42]

So well written, it’s great angst and just Jack 🥰

[lesbianshepard]

[hecateisalesbian]

[saduko]

ʙᴀʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴀɴɢs

Neteyam x Omatikaya!Reader 16.7k words

I got so insanely carried away, but again, I just cannot write a short story. I also never write smut so stfu (ᵕ≀ ̠ᵕ ). There will absolutely be mistakes, this isn't entirely proofread, and I cba rn so I'll do it later.

Summary: Duty weighs heavy when the clan expects you to stand shoulder to shoulder with the one you’ve spent years convincing everyone you loathe. Your father is the clan’s greatest warrior, closest friend to the Olo’eyktan, and their bond sealed your fates together long before you could draw a bow. You grew up running wild with the Sully children but the flawless eldest son always seemed to shadow your every step and you’ve perfected the scowl reserved only for him. The clan believes it and they accept your envy. Everyone except the parents who watch with quiet amusement, because they see what you both still refuse to name. Or in which; you’re the warrior’s daughter, bound by expectation to the perfect future leader you claim to hate. You insist it’s true and everyone believes you. Except, parents always know their children best.

enemies to lovers, holy slowburn, slight soulmates (but not really?), childhood rivals, forced proximity, aged up Neteyem, so much smut!!! as always, my terrible gramma

Your composure is a facade. He knows it.

He knows it because he sees it.

In the way your scowl falters just a fraction as you swirl colorful insults through velvet words and he finally bites back. In the way you push against him when he even tries to offer his help – because the basket you’re lugging looks absurdly full, and yet you still let him walk you the rest of the way to the village. 

You snarl at him when he even attempts to correct your bow arm, and it used to make him flush with something sharp and ugly – envy, maybe? – because you didn’t have a problem with authority, he knows because you seem to take his fathers criticism’s just fine. When anyone else rectified you, you adjusted.

It was only ever a him problem.

Because when he corrected you, you hissed at him like his correcting hand was tipped with arrowheads and poisonous herbs. 

You had a problem with Nateyam.

As a teenager, it used to irk him to no end. Because as the firstborn son of the Olo’eyktan, he was meant to carry himself like the leader he would one day become, like an authority the clan respected without question and trusted to guide them through storm and calm alike. Yet the one thing expected of him above all else, the one duty his father never let him forget, was simpler and far more aggravating.

He was supposed to get along with you.

You – the daughter to the clan's most formidable warrior, his fathers right hand man. 

You – who did not listen. Who did not trust him. Who always – always – questioned him. 

It may as well have been written in the stars by Eywa herself that the two of you were fated to fold neatly into the same position as your father’s. And yet you resisted with every breath possible.

You rebelled, and scowled, and cursed at the mere mention of his name. You made it clear you wanted nothing to do with the Olo'eyktan's first born despite your role, and that made it so exceedingly hard to get along with you. It left his skin flushing that embarrassingly dark purple colour which made his mother chuckle whenever he spoke of you. 

He tried to make sense of it. Of the way you rolled your eyes at his advice, or scowled when the two of you were paired in training once again and he couldn’t recall doing anything wrong. Not really.

You fought as normal children had, argued and competed as two eldest children to high-ranking parents would, but never with anything sharp enough to leave a lasting wound.. Nothing that should have haunted him like this.

However, he wasn’t a young boy anymore and time had an ironic way of sanding things down. He noticed what once felt like a raw hatred you wore like a book written in some foreign sky-language, suddenly became much more legible as his years grew to start with a two, almost as if he learned how to annotate his memories of you with the clarity he lacked as a teen. 

One in particular he remembers most vividly. That evening by the central fire, where you were seated opposite him, and the air still carried the echo of that afternoon’s argument. He sat closest to the basket of ripe utumauti fruits, something he always recalled being your favourite through the years of shared meals, and he remembers the way it sat just beyond your reach on the woven mat.

When you asked for it low and casual, he didn’t think twice. Of course he picked it up and of course he leaned forward to pass it, because why would he not? He sat the closest, and both your siblings and his own had been too occupied in animated conversations with each other to notice.

He also remembers the way you had slapped his hand away with a guttural scoff, almost as if he was utterly ridiculous for even offering. The sting on both his knuckles and his pride had his brows furrowing instantly and that familiar anger, the kind only you could kindle so effortlessly, surged hot beneath his skin once more.

But it was only when the soft snickers rose from nearby – his mother and yours, seated side by side and watching the exchange with far too much interest –that he noticed.

You had still taken the basket.

“Hey!” He remembers the way your fathers voice cut from just to the left, “Play nice.” 

And he’d assumed, as always, that your father was less than impressed at his daughter’s rude manners toward the Olo’eyktan’s son. But the reprimand softened almost immediately, chased by a low chuckle that started only after Jake failed to hide a snort of his own beside him.

The two men were already leaning into one another, shoulders touching, Jake’s head tipped low as one hand, holding a piece of half bitten meat hung limply by his mouth, trying and failing to hide his laughs through a mouthful of food.

The nudges of your sister's elbow into your side was the last thing he remembered noticing, sharp and mocking but quickly followed by the look you shot her. It was a silent warning in that strange language he’d never understood as a boy – the one you did with your eyes alone, but one he was now, uncomfortably, starting to. Because you ate your fruit without ceremony, eyes trained forward and stubbornly refusing to drift his way, yet the basket sat firmly in your hands all the same.

That was when Neteyam stopped letting it irk him. When he realised why everyone else around him seemed to find that mean spirit you reserved only for him so humorous, despite his distress. You were composed, yes, but he finally understood why.

Your composure was a lie. 

And once it stopped irking him, once it settled into something he thought he understood, all the memories of you persistently adorning that scowl that seemed to exist only for him suddenly lost their bite. For a moment he felt like he had maybe started to figure you out.

But recently, something had changed, subtly at first, then all at once. What was once harmless irritation had suddenly sharpened into something more volatile. You didn't just brush him off anymore, you snapped before he'd even opened his mouth, and flinched away the moment he so much as reached to steady the basket. It was as if every breath he took was a disruption, and his presence had become something you could no longer tolerate in silence.

That mean spirit wasn't funny anymore, because now it was relentless.

Which was why, standing across from you now, he didn’t brace for your signature fang baring scowl. He expected it in a way that made him sigh with knowing fatigue, and yet a little bit of smugness all the same.

“Why must you always be so difficult?” The words surfaced in that defeated tone he reserved only for you and your impertinence for him. 

Your body shifted back and you leaned against your heels to glance over your shoulder at where he stood behind you. You were still kneeling over the stump of braided vines you had been meticulously shredding into winding fibres with your knife. 

“I am not.” And there it was – that scowl he expected. It twisted your face into that familiar snarl, upper lip curling to flash the set of fangs he saw more than his own. “You just insist on hovering.”

“We were sent out here to collect fibre together. You ‘insist’ on making it a one man job.”

You didn’t look at him again, instead, turning back to the vines where your blade already resumed its steady work, as if his presence were nothing more than a distraction.

“I do not need a partner to cut fibre,” Your response was flat as if it were such an obvious observation, and then you sighed, a long drawn out exhale to yourself. “So ridiculous.”

The scoff that followed was harsh and hidden under your breath.

Despite its low delivery, the sound didn't slip Neteyam’s ear, and he raised an unassertive brow at what he thought he heard, the corner of his mouth tipping low in confusion. “What is?” 

His confusion hit you like a sudden gust of wind, and with a growl that spoke as if you couldn't believe he dared asking, you quickly shot up with a whirl, tail whipping fast with a force Neteyam had to step back to avoid. You were facing him completely, now.

“That our fathers insist on sending us out here together like we are still little children. I do not need a partner and I certainly do not need any partner of mine to be you.”

The words landed harsher than the scowl ever could. For a moment he only stared at you, really observing your features twisted with perplexed anger, yet comically softened by what he could only describe as a pout in your lip. He took in the way your stance squared and the way your grip curled around the knife with agitated force.

You may not think you acted like one, but great mother, you looked like a child right now.

“Right, you are not a child.” He said at last, voice level. “But maybe our fathers would not feel the need to treat you like one if you stopped acting as one.”

“Excuse me?”

The grip on your knife tightened, handle creaking under the pressure of your grasp that almost splintered the wood. The corner of your mouth twitched up once again in that scowl that bared the top of your right fang to his watchful eyes, and your tone was so even it almost made him falter.  

Neteyam held his ground, though. And instead, he replied carefully in an attempt to diffuse that constantly building tension just a little.

“You make an enemy of me in everything we do, as if we haven’t been paired together since we were barely old enough to hold a blade. If you wish to be met as an adult, you cannot bare your teeth at every word spoken to you, Fang.”

That age old nickname rolled like honey off his tongue but struck your ears and curdled into venom. Your fists curled so tight your claws bit crescent marks into your palms, and the muscles along your jaw tightened until you felt the throb of it.

Fang. You despised when he called you that. The way he reduced you to nothing but the sneer he so often deserved.

With a slow drawn out breath that carried no warmth, you bared the edge of a laugh that held no humour, letting your mocking reply land bitter and sour on your tongue.

“Perfect Olo'eyktan's son, always so composed and responsible. Maybe I would enjoy my time with you more if Eywa hadn’t shaped you so stiff in the tail you forgot how to bend, Tawtute.”

For a heartbeat, the words hung between you like a knocked bowstring waiting to snap with release. Then Neteyam’s jaw tightened, because he always hated when you commented on the human in him, as if it made him less Navi. Less than you.

A Tawtute, a sky-person, as if it were an insult. Spoken like a curse, when all he’d ever done was try to prove it wasn’t.

He let the silence stretch a moment longer, before taking one deliberate breath to regulate his reeling thoughts, choosing to ignore your bait. Low hanging fruit as his father would call it.

“You forget how many times that stiffness kept you from getting hurt.”

You turned back toward the vines with a scoff, knife biting down harder than before. The fibres split unevenly, curling away beneath the force of your hands. “I do not need to be helped by someone who can barely hold their bow arm high enough to knock an arrow. I do not listen to you.”

“Yes,” Neteyam scoffed a humorless laugh, “you never do.”

He sank down into a squat then as well, finally turning his attention to the pile of finished fibres you had shoved aside. His hands were quick to gather a few filaments between his pointer and thumb, testing the strands between the fingers as he twisted the two together, before giving them a short, sharp tug. They held for one, and held for another as he stretched them further, then finally faltered with a snap as he pulled them taught enough.

His mouth twitched down. 

“You cut angry,” He observed with a growl. “Uneven. Wasteful.”

You spun once more, this time in your squatted position to meet him at eye level, the knife still gripped between your four fingers almost as a threat. “You waste them with your stupidity! Of course they break when you only weave two fibres!”

“They need to be thick enough for bowstrings, to hold knocked arrows in new bows.” He countered. 

You sneered with a slight hiss, leaning further into him. “Then don’t use them.”

“Oh no, I will.” He smirked, as he finally began his job, looping the fibres together, securing them with practiced ease. “Someone has to make sure we don’t come back empty-handed.”

You shot him a glare. “I said I do not need your-”

“You do not need my help,” He finished for you, clearly way too amused now. “I know. You have said it at least five times since we left the clearing.” 

He leant closer as he spoke, not directly into your space, but just enough that you had to shift your stance to keep working without him intruding. His looming shadow falling over the stump you worked on, over your hands and the blade that suddenly seemed to falter under a different kind of pressure now.

“And yet,” he continued, eyes never leaving the strands as he calmly coiled the fibres, “you keep cutting while I bind. Funny how that works.”

You stopped your movements, sending him a glare out the side of your eye, one that had your lashes feeling heavy and jaw slightly agape.

“Get out of my way.” You spat, but it was as if you couldn’t convey the weight of anger you meant to land. Your tone was weak and almost a little desperate.

“You always rush when you are angry,” he ignored your demand - if it could even be called that - with a tone that was almost conversational. “Your tail gives you away.”

Your eyes flashed with the realisation that he had even been looking long enough to notice your tells, and your cheeks suddenly flared with something warm and hot that turned you purple.

“Stop watching me, Tawtute.” This time your voice really did sound desperate.

“I can’t. You make it difficult.” 

You were close enough to see the faint curve of that infuriating smile he loved to wear, and to feel the heat of him radiating that smug confidence he wore like a headpiece.

Years of success at keeping him as far away as one could be from someone they worked with on a near daily basis, you felt had suddenly dwindled into an endless array of interactions where he always managed to dominate the conversation. Reduced to this. To the way he always stood too close now, and spoke too smugly, as if he had suddenly decided that he finally had you all figured out.

Despite your lack of response, he broke the silence, voice dipping just enough to grate, “You know, for someone who insists she doesn’t listen to me, you react an awful lot when I speak.”

“Because you are provoking me!” You snapped in a low growl. 

“You glare like you are about to strike me." He replied, entirely too amused.

“Lucky I am working, because you would deserve it if I did.” The words landed like a pathetic cry, and suddenly it felt like you were deficient of every insult you had ever known, reduced to the same childish fury you’d sworn you’d outgrown.

“Oh are you? Would not have guessed, with the way you are looking at me like a Yerik in the firelight.” 

Eywa, if you didn’t look angry before.

“Neteyam!”

This time, you hissed it like a venomous mantra, fangs bared and legs snapping up to your full height as you leaned into his space, close enough to let the words bite the air. Your ears pinned sharp against your braids, and his jaw set as he met your glare without yielding, tension pulling tight between you like that drawn bowstring–

“Oh good, you’re fighting again.”

A sudden unexpected third voice had both your heads spinning towards the break in the clearing just a few yards East, where a very unimpressed Lo’ak tread carelessly down the path with a barely-contained giggling Kiri besides him. Kiri moved with a balled fist pressed against her pursed mouth, supported by an arm crossed along her chest in an attempt to hide her amusement. 

“It’s more like flirting again.” The words Kiri muttered were small and meek but Eywa, if they didn’t hit large.

Both you and Neteyam froze at the intrusion, then stilled at the implication, a beat passing before you each stepped back in the same beat of time. He rose to his feet far too quickly besides you, your eyes blown wide in something too closely resembling horror, while Neteyam merely rolled his, tired and resigned, straightening back into the perfect son like it was second nature once more. 

“Stop being a skxawng, Lo’ak–.”

“–We are not flirting, Kiri.” 

The words collided in the air, yours to Kiri a hiss and his to Lo’ak a sigh, overlapping with a defensive tilt that had the other two chuckling harder.

Lo’ak’s mouth twitched. “Wow." He stated. “Touched a sensitive nerve.”

And Neteyam, the all mighty responsible son he is, didn’t reach for the bait Lo'ak hung so low for him, instead, he crossed his arms with a sigh at his unexpected presence. “What are you doing here?”

The answer came before either of them could speak, as a sudden fifth voice came echoing from the brush of leaves. A small, blurred figure soon came dashing out of the tree scape, making a b-line straight to the centre of the clearing in a full stumbling sprint. She was headed directly towards where you stood in a pout next to Neteyam. 

“Dad said to come get you two because you’re taking too long!”

Kiri and Lo’ak's eyes grew wide. And with a quick exchanged glance of horror, at the same time they barked. “Tuk!” 

But she ran right past them, as if their voices fell silent to the wind.

Lo’ak lunged forward, catching her by the arm just before she could skid to a stop at your feet. The glare he sent her sharp and immediate enough to make her shrink in on herself, ears drooping as she braced for the scolding she knew was soon to come.

“Dad told us to come get them,” He corrected, gesturing between himself and Kiri. “That wasn’t an invitation to follow.”

Tuk's round eyes glint up with that innocent reasoning you just couldn't deny, her pupils glossing over as she pouted heavy in protest and twisted her head to look at you and Neteyam.

“But Dad said you’ve been out here alone long enough!”

Tuk protested, twisting free of Lo’ak’s grip with a determined wriggle and darting straight to you. The moment she was within your range, she grabbed your forearm with both of hers, tugging urgently as she looked up with those wide, worried eyes.

“He told mom that if you and Neteyam keep fighting like this, you’ll probably end up at the Tree of Souls by tonight!” She paused, then her voice pitched higher with pure betrayal. “But you can’t! You promised you’d help me braid my new beads tonight!”

For a heartbeat, the clearing went unnervingly still. You stared still as stone down at Tuk, mortification burning hot beneath your skin at the implication that flew right over her head but knocked you right up yours instead. And besides you, Neteyam fared no better, looking as if the world had briefly knocked him off balance too, His eyes widening just enough to betray him before he could pull himself back together. 

In stark contrast just a ways away, Lo’ak let out a sharp bark of laughter, doubling over with his grip on Kiri's arm, just as she finally outright lost the battle she’d been silently fighting, turning away from the set of two dazed and angered eyes with a hand clamped over her mouth.

She shook with quiet, uncontrollable cackles, restraint entirely gone, fed by the matching looks of mortification plastered across both your faces. The two of you looked ridiculous.

And Tuk, sweet innocent Tuk, oblivious to the chaos her words had detonated in the once silent clearing, glared up at Neteyam's shell-shocked face with furrowed brows and that pouty sneer.

“Stupid Neteyam.” She declared, voice ringing with righteous indignation. “You can’t take Y/N anywhere tonight. Eywa heard it - she’s with me today!”

She punctuated the proclamation with the scrunch of her nose and a quick, defiant flick of her tongue, poked in his direction.

For a split second, Neteyam only stared at her, still caught somewhere between the weight of what had just been said and the very real presence of his little sister. Then he blinked, jaw tightening as the annoyingly-older brother instinct finally won out over shock. With a sharp, almost automatic motion, he reached out and pinched her tongue between his fingers. An act that had Tuk squealing and flailing in protest.

“Oi!”  Tuk yelped, recoiling instantly, clutching her tongue with a gasp.

Neteyam let the sound settle before he spoke. He shot you a brief, weary glance, as if checking whether you’d reacted at all, then turned back to his sister, composure sliding firmly back into place. His voice level and measured with a delicate care he reserved specifically for her.

“That is entirely enough out of you. Someone needs to give you a lesson about eavesdropping." He glanced back at his brother and sister, motioning a hand to the two still giggling. "Time to take you home before we all get scolded.”

Tuk’s ears drooped immediately, shoulders curling inward as she shifted her weight from foot to foot, fingers still hovering protectively near her mouth. She opened her lips as if to argue, then thought better of it, gaze flicking between Neteyam and the ground with exaggerated remorse.

That was when Kiri scoffed, the tension finally cracking as ahe straightened, still grinning as she shouted. “He's right, you’ve caused enough trouble. Come on, teylupil.”

She didn’t wait for her to comply, instead walking to grab her, planting two steady hand on each of her shoulders, then began steering her away with decisive finality, already turning her toward the path before she could wriggle free.

“But I didn’t do anything!” Tuk protested.

“Tell it to dad.” Kiri laughed.

Tuk craned her neck back toward you one last time as Kiri dragged her away, voice pitching higher with urgency. “Y/n, don’t forget my hair-!”

“I know,” you cut in quickly, the words tossed over your shoulder like a promise already made as the two disappeared down the winding path in a lingering bicker.

Lo’ak remained a heartbeat longer. His gaze flicking between you and Neteyam, something quiet and knowing glinting behind his eyes as his mouth twitched with barely restrained amusement.

You caught it quickly, and shut it down even quicker, face smoothing into neutrality as you turned away, dropping back into a crouch before the stump as if nothing had been disturbed in you.

“We will collect the threads and follow.” Your voice came out flat and deliberately ungiving, spoken without the fault or fracture he was clearly waiting to see. Whatever reaction they had hoped to draw out of you never came, instead, your expression smoothed into something unreadable, as if nothing at all had happened in the last few minutes.

When he didn't get it from you, Lo’ak redirected his attention to Neteyam with a long, assessing look. He was waiting for the reaction you refused to give, and when he found nothing but the faint quirk of Neteyam’s mouth, he huffed a quiet laugh and finally began his own descent toward the start of the winding path back to the village. “Dad’s pissed.” He called over his shoulder. “Try not to be too long.”

The brush swallowed him soon after as well, laughter and murmured whispers dissolving into the low hum of the forest. And then the clearing fell still again.

You let out a slow breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, shoulders rolling as the tension finally bled off. Remembering yourself, you turned back to the stump, your hands moved quickly now, rough and efficient, gruffly snatching clumps full of fibre from the scattered pile. You stuffed them into the woven basket Neteyam had brought, as if keeping busy might quiet everything still coiled tight beneath your skin.

For a moment, Netayem watched. It almost seemed like that armored composure of yours was taut as rigid as usual, as if nothing in the last five minutes had made you falter for even a moment. To anyone else, maybe, it did appear as so, but he knew you well enough to see the way your jaw clenched so tight he’d envisioned you cracking a molar, and the harsher than necessary grip in your fingers as you haphazardly tossed the fibre around. Not to mention the stutter in your tail’s path, the tell he’d learned long ago as the one that always surfaced when you were lying.

It left him releasing a chuckle he couldn't contain, a deep, rumbling sound which made your ears twitch sideways in annoyance. You paused in your frantic movements, head snapping to the side in a motion which left your glowing amber eyes glaring daggers at his towering form. 

“What?” You spat, tired, irritated and painfully obvious to him – embarrassed.

“Still upset about what Kiri said?"

Your jaw clenched, fangs peeking as you whipped fully around to face him, rising to your full height at the implication. The basket thumped forgotten at your feet as the tension tipped to a peak beyond your capacity, and you stalked towards him with an almost predatory sway. 

"I am not angry about that ridiculous–” You cut yourself off, taking a moment to collect the basket off the ground, along with a breath of humid air, allowing it to sit in your lungs before releasing in a desperate attempt to somewhat self-regulate. “Do not flatter yourself, Tawtute. Flirting? With you? I'd sooner make Tsaheylu with a thanator."

His eyes gleamed with mischief, but it wasn’t the boyish, innocent kind he wore when messing with his siblings. This one was the kind he wore only where you were involved, deliberate and cocky, slipping neatly beneath the cracks in your composure because he knew where to press. 

The careful, responsible mask he wore all the time loosened just enough to reveal the tease underneath, a glimpse of something warmer and far more dangerous than his jabs at you ever were. He didn’t crowd you with his body so much as he crowded you with his unyielding certainty, leaning in just the smallest amount, voice dropping into something that felt like it belonged in the a dark room rather than under the open light of tree canopies.

“Funny,” He murmured, and Eywa, the way he said it made your spine want to curl. “Your tail is flicking like it does when you lie. And you react so much when I get close, almost as if... as if you enjoy it.”

Heat hit you so fast it was humiliating, up your neck, across your cheeks, down your chest - anger and something you refused to name twisting together until you couldn’t tell which was which. Your hand shoved into his chest on instinct, a firm press meant to reassert space, meant to remind him you were not something to be read and teased apart like the vines beneath your knife.

But his skin under your palm was solid and warm, his breath even, his posture maddeningly steady. You hated that he didn’t move. You hated that the push didn’t become a shove, that your body betrayed you with restraint and a split-second hesitation that had nothing to do with strength. Your pulse seemed to jump when he watched you like this.

“Back off,” You snapped instead, aiming for venom and getting something too light, too strained. You lifted your chin as if height alone could restore your pride. “I do not enjoy anything about you hovering like a skxawng who thinks he is Eywa’s gift to the clan.”

You couldn’t handle it anymore, the way his eyes bore into yours like they read every thought, so you moved to leave the clearing, to be as far away from him as can be.

Neteyam didn’t move. His eyes stayed locked on yours, unblinking, the gold in them catching the filtered light until they looked almost feral. The smirk was gone and in its place was something colder as he took one slow step forward, crowding you until the basket handle dug into your hip and the scent of him, warm skin, crushed leaves, the faint sweat from the summer heat, filled every breath.

“Gift?” He repeated, voice quiet and flat, the kind of quiet that made your spine prickle. “I am the one stuck dragging your half-finished work back to the village every time you storm off. That sound like a gift to you?”

Something in his words snapped the tension in a way that almost had a stifled laugh escaping you. The image of perfect Neteyam, future Olo’eyktan, the ever-responsible son, trudging behind you with a basket full of your messy fibers and a everpresent moping frown to match struck you as absurdly funny considering he was the one who always offered to do it anyways. That short, sharp laugh escaped before you could stop it, low and mocking, cutting through the thick air between you.

“Poor you.” You sang, voice dripping with false sympathy as the anger flipped into something crueler and entirely more enjoyable. “All that dragging must be so exhausting for such meek shoulders to carry.”

His eyes narrowed, the feral glint sharpening into irritation, but you were already moving. You jerked the basket from where it pressed against your hip and shoved it hard into his front, the woven edge leaving him doubling slightly from the sudden jab to his ribs, a smack that landed with a satisfying thud.

A few loose fibers fluttered to the ground as he stumbled back a few steps and caught the basket on reflex, fingers curling tight around the rim. The motion finally giving you the space you longed to breathe once again.

“Except, you came here knowing you were going to do it anyways. So, there,” You said, stepping back with a grin that showed too many teeth. “Problem solved. You can carry it all the way home anyways, like the dutiful son you are. Try not to strain yourself complaining about it later.”

Neteyam’s jaw clenched hard enough that you could see the muscle jump beneath his skin, his ears pinning back flat against his skull. The feral edge in his eyes flared hotter, and for a second you thought he might actually snap, toss the basket aside and give you the fight you both pretended you didn’t want.

Instead, he gripped the handle tighter, knuckles paling and barked, “Fnawe’tu skxawng!”

The insult landed far too humorously for you to care, Instead you tilted your head back with an overly delighted smirk, very amused by his irate slurs and the way his facade cracked. “You call me the stubborn idiot? But you carry the basket anyway. Funny how that works?”

He exhaled through his nose, blood boiling at the way you managed to throw his earlier words back at him. The sound was almost a growl, and he took one deliberate step onto the path after you. “Start walking, Fang. The sooner we get back, the sooner I am rid of you for the day.”

“Perfect!" You grinned, but the grin quickly dropped. "Twelve whole hours before you find another excuse to follow me around tomorrow.”  You barely glanced back to see if he was following when you took off towards the village, because you already knew he was.

The clearing was loud with voices and laughter, bodies packed close as food and weapons were passed around in uneven circles, and it felt like the whole village had decided to breathe in the same place at once.

Someone had dragged a fresh kill in not long ago and the smell still hung in the air, mingling with roasted meat, crushed herbs, and the faint sting of smoke from the fire that kept getting fed as if it might swallow the night. Nets of fruit were being unknotted and handed off, cups passed between hands, blades checked and re-sheathed in the same idle rhythm people used when they were safe enough to relax but still too wound up to sit still.

You were wedged between a few of your friends near the edge of one of the many circles, packed close enough that their shoulders kept bumping yours when someone laughed too hard or shifted in their seat. Ki’tiri had been retelling an exaggerated recall of her day on patrol, her eyes gleaming with irate exasperation as she animatedly spoke of the moment Lo’ak decided to start throwing stones out of boredom, nearly nailing Mo’at on the head from the overhang.

Tuk sat too. She had found you the moment you settled onto the woven mat, darting straight to your side to claim her usual spot and spend her evening meal with you instead of her siblings or friends. It's something that had become so common during communal mealtimes that your friends had come to expect the young Sully girl attaching herself to your side like a second tail. It was as if the decision had been made somewhere in her head and the rest of the world simply had to accept it, and now she perched happily at your side like she belonged there.

Her small hand gripped your wrist with the possessive certainty only children had, and she fidgeted with the jewels decorated across your fingers, twisting the woven strands carefully as if she were inspecting treasure. The beads you’d braided fresh not even a few weeks before clinked softly each time she moved, and every now and then she would lean her head against your arm and sigh, pleased with herself like she’d taken down a Thanator.

“Will you make these for me too?” She asked – more like stated – for what had to be the third time tonight, thumb brushing the tiny knotwork with awe.

“When you stop trying to steal mine..” You murmured back, and she grinned, utterly unbothered by the threat.

You let yourself settle into it for a moment, letting the noise wash over you because it was easier than thinking after long days training, because nights like this were meant to feel simple and unwinding. You were halfway through listening to your friend complain about yet another act of stupidity Lo’ak had attempted on their patrol together, when Tuk’s fingers suddenly stilled on your ring, halting and tightening hard enough that the movement forced you to glance down at the girl with a concerned furrow of your brow.

“What?” You muttered, eyeing her of an answer before she spoke it.

Tuk’s eyes flicked past you toward the centre of the clearing, eyeing something in the distance that left you searching the vicinity in hopes of catching the focus of her gaze. Her mouth fell slightly, an almost angered look settling across her face before she scoffed, turning back to you in a huff that had her drawing closer. 

“Neteyam is with that noisy woman again. An’aya.” 

She spat the name in that high-pitched mocking tone children did, and at first, you didn’t react. Not outwardly, at least. But something in your chest tightened all the same, small and sadistic, as if it even mattered at all.

You followed Tuk’s gaze without meaning to, your eyes slipping past the firelight and moving bodies until they found him almost instinctively. Neteyam sat just beyond the centre of the clearing, leaned back against a stack of supply crates, relaxed in the way you only ever saw when he was amongst people he trusted, his shoulders were loose and his attention tilted toward the woman beside him.

An’aya was speaking animatedly, hands moving as she spoke and laughed so easily, and Neteyam had angled himself toward her without thinking, one knee bent beside his chest, head dipped slightly so he could hear her better over the noise.

It irked you. And it irked you more that it even irked you in the first place. Because you hated him. You told yourself it irked you because you hated that he was enjoying himself. Right. Of course. 

But the irritation still sat heavy and ugly in your chest, coiling tighter the longer you watched, and you hated that too, hated that your attention wouldn’t let it go, and that your mood had soured so fast despite being so fine just a moment ago.

There was no reason for it. None that made sense. You hated that stuck up tawtute more than anyone else and you argued with him so much you made a sport out of it. So why did your chest tighten when he didn't brush away the hand she put on his shoulder?

Tuk noticed the shift in your mood right away. Her nose wrinkled as her grip tightened again and she leaned in closer, glaring openly now.

“I don’t like her,” she muttered, voice fierce and final. “She talks too much. And she sits too close to Neteyam. And she laughs at his jokes even when they’re not funny.”

You attempted for even a minuscule moment to draw yourself back, to brush it away and forget it ever made you feel anything by resorting to your usual self regulation habits – insulting the man.

“Nothing Neteyam says is funny.” But not even that seemed to work to calm you because that irrationally confusing feeling still clawed at your chest.

“That’s not true,” Tuk called out immediately, tilting her small face up at you with those wide eyes. “You laugh at him all the time! Just not when he’s looking.”

She leaned in closer, voice dropping into something hurt and almost bordering a whine. “He’s supposed to sit with us.”

“That is not how this works.” You snapped the reply too quick, eyes diverting from the scene to pick up another piece of utumauti fruit as if it never bothered you.

Tuk’s eyes rolled at the response she should have predicted. She never understood why you acted so weird about it, when it was obvious to her that you liked her brother - because that was just what people did when they liked someone. They got weird and sharp and pretended they didn’t. She didn't see it elswhere often, but she knew it because that was what you and Neteyam did.

Your friends had gone quiet at the sudden stir occurring just beside them. Ki’tiri quickly noticed the shift in your mood and tilted her head, studying you now with open curiosity.

“Why are you angry?” She cut in plainly. “Did he do something again?”

“No." You replied stark. “How could he? Neteyam is all the way over there.”

Ki’tiri exchanged a quick, knowing glance with the friends beside you. “I didn't even mention his name." And the corner of her mouth lifted as a chorus of light giggles sung around the circle.

You answered with a quick, harsh warning glare, a motion that had the laughs slowly dying but the smiles still lingering in a knowing gleam. Ki’tiri leaned in again, allowing you the dignity of ending her teasing, feeling almost a little bad at how astoundingly purple you looked.

"You’re getting upset,” She stated simply and not unkindly. “You do that only where Neteyam is involved.”

“I am not upset.” But you were too far maddened for that to be convincing. “And he is not involved. I have been sat here, and he has been there this entire time.”

The lie hung heavy and brittle as you clicked your tongue. Tsk.

"Yeah, sat with that healer girl." Mikatxi interjected low and humoured.

Your chest tightened, sharp and sudden, like the threads Neteyam pulled too taut in the woods and before you could bite it back, the denial tore out of you, louder than intended and edged with fury.

“I do NOT care who he sits with!” You hissed, voice cracking on the volume. “He can sit in her lap for all the stars in the sky care! I would not notice if Eywa herself told me!”

“Seems like you do…”

“—What is going on!?”

The voice carried across the fire, calm but accusatory, and edged with something that made the fine hairs along your arms rise. In your bladed fury, you let your voice spike too high and missed the one pair of eyes that had locked onto you from beyond the fire.

Neteyam hadn’t stood, he hadn’t even moved from his spot. But he had leaned forward with a watchful, almost concerned eye, braids swinging low and hand hanging off his elevated knee as he observed with what you knew was that stupidly disingenuous concern.

The way he intervened like he was already rehearsing for Olo’eyktan burned you, as if he believed he could snuff out any simmering flame with his big, proud words simply because his blood said so.

And that wasn’t even half your problem. The problem was that An’aya followed his gaze immediately, curiosity sparking as she turned to see what had drawn his attention, blinking and glancing between the two of you, clearly lost by why he interrupted her mid sentence.

That alone was enough to make your teeth grind. Because what was your relationship with that skxawng any of her business?

“We’re fine.” You called back, sharper than necessary, your eyes not even bothering to glance his way once. “Try having your own conversations instead of monitoring everyone else, tawtute.”

Neteyam’s mouth tightened just slightly at the insult, a breath leaving him slow and measured as if he were counting to three in his head. He didn’t rise, not yet. Only tipped his chin and let a quick “Eywa help me,” fall to the air before pushing himself to his feet at last.

He crossed the space between you in a way that had your fist tightening in anticipation for yet another argument, only fueled by the image of An’aya hot on his heels like a second tail of his own, close enough to the boy that it felt intentional whether it was or not. Tuk sat up, planting herself more firmly at your side like a guard animal half her size.

“I said we are fine,” you warned as he stopped in front of you.

Your friends ogled at the two of you, already bracing for the next round of your endless bickering.

“And I said I was just asking.” His voice was calm but firm, and his eyes began searching your face for something, as if he could find whatever it was if he looked hard enough. “You are upset.”

You sputtered a short sudden laugh but your tone held no humour. “Right, I forgot I am only allowed to feel some way once you have approved of it first. I forgot I need my warden to tail me through the village and make sure I am behaving. Shall you go report my mood back to our fathers now?”

Neteyam’s jaw flexed, his calm finally straining at the edges.

“That is not what I am doing. You know I do not–”

“You do!" Your outburst came hard against his sentence, not having the patience nor heart to hear his excuses. “My tail flicks too harshly, and it is enough to call council with our fathers! Tell them to rest easy, golden son. I am not about to reign war over one evening meal.”

Neteyam sighed, rubbing a hand over his face like he was bracing himself. “Well, you don’t have to turn everything I say into a fight.”

“And you don’t have to turn everything I do into your problem to solve. The mantle still sits on your fathers head, you are allowed to have a personality until then.”

An overdramatically long groan suddenly sounded to the left of you, and both your eyes snapped over to Tuks exaggeratingly agitated from, as she sighed in that childish way she did.

“Stop fighting!” She begged, voice whiny with pure childish exasperation. “You guys always pretend like you don't want to talk, and then Neteyam comes and you fight forever because he won’t leave you alone, but then you don't tell him to go away, and it's annoying!"

“Tuk!” Both you and Neteyam barked simultaneously, horror gleaming in both of your eyes because that was so obviously not true!

“That is what happens." She insisted stubbornly. "You do it all the time.”

"No!" You rejected. "We argue because he hovers!"

An’aya, from the shadow of Neteyam’s shoulder, suddenly appeared forward, finally establishing her presence with a smile that was not wide nor warm, but enough to show she was not very fond of the girl her friend had been talking to.

"Maybe, if we did not worry about what you might do next, Neteyam would not be expected to hover and act like Olo’eyktan already."

Your head turned slowly toward her, blood finally boiling beyond that point that only Neteyam’s presence could push it to. Because who was she to imply you were a burden he had to shoulder, a mess he had to trail behind and fix every time you existed too loudly for her liking?

And especially who did she think she was inserting herself into Neteyam’s problems as if they were her own. ‘If we did not worry’ — as if she had any right to speak for the frustration he supposedly felt?

You let your eyes trail to her far too self-satisfied form, sneering with the scowl you usually only reserved for that gawking fool besides her. But if she insisted on acting as his equal, she could be handled like him too.

“Oh, is that your healer’s wisdom speaking, or are you only borrowing the golden son’s voice while he is too busy ogling to use it himself?”

Her smile faltered and her chin lifted a fraction as her eyes narrowed in something mimicking offence. And then your gaze snapped to Neteyam, fury bright and uncontained now that the girl he had dragged to your circle had suddenly felt all too comfortable insulting you in front of all your friends.

“Maybe our fathers should stick her as your new training partner since she is already so good at handling me."

"Fang—" Neteyam's voice was eerily low.

"—Now that my guard dog has a guard dog.”

And then he stiffened. “Enough.”

But you didn't stop. “Is this what you tell people about me?”

Neteyam opened his mouth to speak, visibly caught off guard by the sudden accusation.

“That is not–” He started for the umpteenth time but again you didn’t let him finish.

“I would think you respected me even a little, enough, considering all my father has done for you and your family. Enough considering you always like to remind me that 'we are partners.' But you let your women speak to me like I am beneath you.” You scoffed softly, the sound carrying just far enough to be heard.

“A leader, they say you will be.” You continued, words mocking. “Tell me how this is keeping the peace. Seems your peace is built on my silence. Both your peace and our fathers.”

You rose without haste, the motion deliberate enough that the space around you seemed to shift with it. The ground felt steady beneath your feet, solid in a way your chest had not been for the last several breaths, and for the first time that night you welcomed the clarity that came with deciding to leave rather than be dismissed.

“Y/n, no– please don’t be mad,” Tuk whined, the plea tumbling out of her in a rush as she reached for you, fingers brushing the edge of your wrist but failing to catch hold. Her face pinched with genuine worry. "I didn't mean to make it worse."

“You did not.” You said shortly. “This is not on you, Tuk.”

And then you turned and left without a word, the sudden absence of your presence cutting through the clearing sharper than any insult you had ever sent him, and for the first time Neteyam did not know whether you were just angry or actually hurt by what had happened.

It was confusing because you had never let any interaction between the two of you get to you like this, yet now that you had chosen distance in place of where you would usually just choose name calling, he couldn’t help the feeling like he’d missed something far too important while it was happening.

The noise resumed all too quickly behind you, laughter reclaiming the air as if nothing had shifted at all, but he stayed where he was, unease settling low in his chest as he watched your retreating form saunter away, hips swaying with jolting anger and body tempting his eyes to never shift.

He didn’t know when he started noticing things like that. The way your hips rolled as you walked, the flex of the muscles along your thighs with each step, and the way the line of your back shifted as you moved.

It sat wrong that he noticed these things about you, because he didn’t notice them on anyone else. More than anything else, the fact that you hadn’t looked back sat even worse. And the fact that he felt that hollow pull, tight and wrenching in his chest because of it, sat the worst of all.

“At least you don't have to worry about watching her anymore." An’aya’s voice cut in beside him, light and coaxing, like she was trying to pull him back by the wrist.

Neteyam nodded absently, already half elsewhere, the hollow feeling in his chest refusing to settle. Even as he turned back toward the fire, his attention lagged behind, tethered not to the laughter or the conversation resuming around him, but to the quiet space you’d left behind. To the quiet, unwelcome understanding that this time, you hadn’t walked away to cool off – you had walked away because he had apparently crossed a line he didn’t even realise he was dancing.

One delicate, purposeful step after the other. Neteyam watched your sultry hips as they worked against the motion of your legs, swaying against the gracefully deliberate rhythm of your strut. Every step was intentional, not a single wasted motion and certainly no hesitation, each one drawing a slow, tightening circle around him. You eyed him like prey and circled him like a predator. 

He, too, circled your figure. Less graceful in his approach, his steps heavier and more grounded, but just as analytical with his eyes all the same. He told himself he tracked your figure because he had to, that he noticed how dangerously alluring you looked in your stride because he was being tactical, certainly not because he found it mesmerising.

Partnered again. You almost rolled your eyes had it not been for the undivided attention you locked onto his solid figure.

You suspected that they were doing it on purpose now, because whenever given the opportunities, your fathers paired the two of you as if it was something written into the roots of the forest itself. As if Eywa refused to separate you.

Jake’s voice cut through the air before either of you could make a move.

“Enough posturing,” he barked from the edge of the ring, arms crossed, gaze sharp and unimpressed. “This isn’t a mating dance. Someone's going to have to make a move soon enough. Engage.”

The command barely left Jake’s mouth before you jolted.

You didn’t rush him all at once because that was never your style. You shifted your weight and pivoted to your right instead, just as your tail came down with a sharp snap to the left, a deliberate ploy to feint him around you with sound.

Neteyam stuttered for a moment, nearly diving left and falling for the bait, but caught himself immediately, because of course he did. His jaw tightened as he corrected, blocking you by widening his stance, shoulders settling into a space much larger than you had accounted for.

You collided with his chest, steadying yourself with a tight hand clamped around his forearm that flexed under your grip. It was a successful motion that kept you upright, but your proximity to Neteyam left you vulnerable to an open hand palm against your shoulder, knocking you a step back. It was a warning shot, not meant to land hard, but it angered you all the same.

“Good feint, Y/n. Nice recovery, Neteyam.” Jake called out. 

Your eyes never pivoted from Neteyam, but Jake's words riled you further, knowing he got praise for the first hit. 

"Is that all you have?" You taunted, circling again, your breath steady despite the fire igniting in your veins. "Afraid to hit me for real, golden boy?"

Neteyam’s ears flicked at your taunt, but his expression stayed infuriatingly calm. He rolled the shoulder you’d nearly landed on earlier, circling with you, mirroring your steps like he’d memorized every rhythm you’d ever moved to.

“Well, would not want to mess up that pretty face.”

You flared your teeth in a hiss at his words, fangs bared and all, as the implication of them did not evade you. The idea that you were too feminine to fight. Bullshit.

It was bait, you knew it deep within, and yet you lunged for it all the same.

You dropped low, striking dirty with a sweeping leg that made contact with his ankles while your hands aimed for his torso. He leaped back to counter, but you were faster, leaping with a twist and raking your manicured claws down his ribs just to watch him hiss.

You landed in a crouch behind him, tail lashing with triumph at the hit but he countered instantly, arm hooking yours, using your momentum to flip you over his hip, but you held tightly, and this time you both went down. You snapped right to the ground, landing with a splat and a breathy groan, which he followed taut behind with, and soon you were caged beneath him as his braids fell around your face like a curtain.

“Careful,” he murmured, voice rough, eyes dropping to your mouth, “keep rubbing up on me like that and people may talk.” 

Damn his Sully tongue and their dirty human minds. Only they – only he, were rash enough to say such vulgar words.

Heat flared in your face, nothing else but pure rage, and you answered with a growl, driving your knee up sharp between his legs. Not hard enough to hurt, you think, but just enough to make him block instinctively and give you room to twist.

You both rolled again, a tangle of limbs and snarls across the dirt, kicking up dust around you until you came out to a stop, this time you were on top, straddling his waist, thighs clamped tight, hands slamming his wrists into the dirt beside his head.

“I will kill you!”

Neteyam’s eyes blazed up at you, all traces of amusement gone. His ears pinned flat against his skull, jaw clenched so tight you saw the muscle jump. He bucked hard beneath you, trying to throw your weight, muscles straining as he fought your hold.

“Get. off. of. me.” He snarled, voice low and dangerous through his squirms against you, wrists twisting against your grip. “Why must you always turn it into this?”

You dug your nails in deeper, refusing to budge, chest heaving with anger. “You started it with your filthy mouth. Think you can say whatever you want and I will just take it?”

He arched again, harder this time, nearly unseating you from his lap and you slid to settle on his chest. His breath came in harsh pants now, struggling under the weight of you on his lungs, but his eyes still burned up at you with pure defiance.

The shift gave him a perfect view of you, sweaty and furious as you loomed above him, your braids wild, chest heaving and skin gleaming with a sheen of sweat. A deep flush crept up his neck and face at the sight, dark purple blooming across his cheeks and he prayed to Eywa it looked like it was from a lack of air to everyone watching.

“I am trying to win a damn spar, not handle your tantrum.” He said through short breaths. “Yield!”

“Force me, Tawtute,” you hissed, grinding your knees harder into his sides.,“or keep dancing for your sempul like the skxawng you are.”

His face darkened at that, a fresh wave of fury rolling off of him. He surged up with a grunt, flipping you both violently in a cloud of dust that kicked as you grappled. It was a flurry of elbows and knees jabbing at whatever body parts they could reach, claws scratching, fangs baring, and hisses sounding out like a tussle of five years olds.

He landed a sharp elbow to your ribs and you responded by snatching at his long swinging kuru braid and tugging at it, pinning him for a split second before you broke free with a snarl.

The spar had turned ugly so fast, no one had time to register what it was until it already had become it. There was no technique or poise left, just primitive fighting and petty aggression mixed with ragged breaths and dirt covered bodies, every strike fuelled by years of building resentment.

And Jake was done watching it.

"That's enough!" he barked again, the sound cracking through the clearing like a whip. He dragged a tired hand down his face, exhaling through his nose before turning on you both with an outstretched arm that sliced downward in a sharp, commanding arc. "Get off!"

His voice was so demanding and final, it had you cowering in your skin and scampering clumsily off and away from Neteyams heaving figure mirroring your own. You subtly brushed the dirt clinging to your arms in an attempt to salvage even an ounces worth of dignity, but it wasn't working, because your hands still shook and beneath it all, that ugly vulnerability lingered heavy as Jakes eyes beat down on you.

Jake continued.

"It was funny at first, cute even, when you two were teens and it didn't matter. But by Eywa, you're adults now. You have responsibilities and the clan is going to depend on you."

The authority in his voice pinned you both in place.

"I'm sorry, sir," Neteyam spoke with a breathy compliance, eyes trained downwards in a way that almost left you scoffing at how pathetic he looked - at how quickly he folded under the pressure of his father despite talking so big against you moments ago. It took everything in you not to roll your eyes while being lectured by his father about acting mature.

So, you muttered through gritted teeth, "Yes, sir," forcing the words out while fighting every instinct that screamed at you to glare at Neteyam instead of Jake.

Jake’s gaze flicked between you. “You two are going to be the leaders of this clan some day.” 

As he spoke the words, there was a pause as he immediately noticed the sudden way the two of you began shifting apart, blue faces crawling into flushed purple ones. It only took him another moment to realise the implication of his words, and he saw it. Of course he saw it. Eywa, the two of you couldn’t even look at each other at an implication he didn’t even mean!

Realization dawned on his face, and he let out a long, exasperated sigh. "And this – this right here – is exactly what I mean. Every little thing between you turns into a problem. You don’t know how to keep things contained when it’s the two of you.”

He jabbed a finger toward Neteyam, ready to correct your misunderstanding.

"You will be Olo'eyktan one day." Then the finger swung to you. "And you will be the clan's head warrior. His right hand. His most trusted." Jake pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sooner or later, you have got to get along. The People need to see unity, not... whatever the hell this is." 

He said the line so defeatedly, as if his two greatest proteges had become his two biggest failures in that moment, and it left you deflating in embarrassment at the notion that your rivalry with his son had turned into something beyond comprehensive words. Instead, reduced to “hell” - to some weird sky people word.

Shameful. 

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. You stared at the ground, heat crawling up your neck, wishing the woven walkway would just open and swallow you whole because it was almost like your own father had just admitted that you were acting a fool. 

As Jake Sully, the man who raised you almost as his own in the proximity of your father and their strict training regimes, was sighing down at you and his idiot son with weary frustration.

You knew he didn’t mean it cruelly. This was that strange sky-people thing he did, where he slipped into what was described as the “military” tone, meant to correct rather than offend. That didn’t make the cut sting less deep, though.

You were mid deliberation when you suddenly heard it, the tiniest huff of breath from Neteyam’s direction. Not quite a laugh, but close enough, and it had you glancing up at him with the scowl you reserved only for him.

Neteyam wasn’t looking at his father anymore. Now he was looking right at you, glaring through the corner of his limp braids, head still hung low as one side of his mouth twitched upward in that infuriating half-smirk he saved just for you too.

His amber eyes glinted with something resembling a shocked amusement, almost as if he couldn’t quite believe you were actually compliant. Like your mortification was the funniest thing he’d seen all day.

You knew you shouldn’t. You knew this was a horrible time. But in that moment it was like something inside you finally snapped with finality for the first time ever.

Where you usually would have met him with snark, now you were meeting him with red vision and a complete lack of respect.

Your ears flicked back, pinned taught to your hair like an animal on its prey only moments away from pouncing. Tail lashing once almost like a whip.

“What?” you hissed, so low it was almost swallowed by the breeze, meant only for him, but almost so quiet that Neteyam nearly missed the fact that you had spoken entirely. “Something funny, Tawtute?”

He caught your words all the same, the perfect, golden son act completely slipping away, traded for a smirk that widened a fraction larger at your beyond irked facial expression. “A child, Fang.” He taunted, hitting right where he knew you hurt most. “You look like a child scolded by her elder. It is quite damn funny.”

That was all it took.

You stepped forward, voice rising despite yourself, despite the voice telling you that only awful consequences would come from acting out right now. The worst part of you could not have cared less that his father wasn’t even through with lecturing the two of you yet, the bigger part of you so enraged, so encompassed by Neteyam and his stupidity, his audacity, that you just-

Did. Not. Care. 

Your figure snapped upright, tall and menacing, body twisting to face him fully as your large blearing eyes glossed over, unblinking and fear-provockingly wide. 

“Open your mouth again, Tawtute, and I swear to Eywa and everything she deems sacred, I will slam you down and make you swallow every sorry sound you choke in front of the whole clan.”

Neteyam’s smirk froze, then vanished almost as quickly as it came. His ears were the ones to flick forward now, sharp at the ends and persistently alert. His golden eyes that had been mocking you a heartbeat ago had darkened into molten amber pits, pupils narrowing to slits. The perfect son was gone entirely. 

His tail lashed once, hard enough to slap the air as he twisted his body entirely to tower over yours. It was the first time in all your years of knowing him where he had ever intimidated you, because it was the first time in all the years you’d known him that his size truly registered. Tall, and broad, and built like the future leader he was meant to be. 

Your gaze dropped before you could stop it, tracing the sharp lines of his frame all the way down until they stopped to linger on the bold stripes that curved low around his hipbones and disappeared beneath the edge of his loincloth. They had always stood out more than anyone else’s, as darker, thicker, more prominent than the others. The Tawtute genes, you told yourself, that’s why they were like that, no other reason, certainly. A flush crawled up your neck, hot and confusing, and what would have been disguised as pure rage to any onlooker.

It pressed in on you though, close enough that the heat of him brushed your skin. Because, it didn’t feel like pure rage alone. Your mind could try to convince you, but your body would do otherwise, betraying your thoughts with that persistent betraying flicker of your tail.

And Neteyam noticed. Of course he noticed.

“Keep staring like that, Fang,” he said, leaning in until his breath stirred the loose strands of hair at your temple, “and I will give you something to actually choke on.”

The words hit low and vicious, a promise wrapped in threat and before you even processed which arm had lifted first, your hand, with pre-curled fingers was already moving toward his chest to shove him back as hard as you possibly could. A hiss so guttural and sharp tearing from your gaping mouth, decorated by the furiously purple hue that painted your face like a white canvas. 

His own shot up just as yours had, catching your wrist mid-air in a grip like the metal on the ships the sky people flew. Not painful, but almost entirely unbreakable.

For one suspended heartbeat you were locked there, with his fingers around your wrist and bodies inches apart, both of you breathing hard, tails thrashing in mirrored fury. The space between you felt suddenly too small, the air too thick.

Then Jake’s voice cracked through it like a whip.

“I said enough!”

He was on you in two strides, one massive hand clamping the back of Neteyam’s neck, the other seizing your upper arm and hauling you both apart with force that made your feet skid on the woven mat.

Jake’s eyes were wild, ears pinned flat, chest heaving.

“You two are done,” he growled, voice shaking with barely-leashed anger. “Done acting like feral animals that can’t control their emotions. Grown adults and I’m still treating you two like I did when you were twelve.”

He exhaled sharply, making the decision at that moment.

"You're going out to the eastern watchpost. Tonight. Just the two of you." He held up a hand when you both opened your mouths to protest. "No arguments, not a goddamn word. It's an hour ride so that's plenty of time to cool off and you'll spend the entire night there.” 

Jake was not having it. “I want the supplies inventoried, the platforms repaired, and I want every corner of every ridge scouted for any signs of human activity, and you're going to do every moment of it together. You'll eat together, sleep in the same goddamn hammock if you have to, and you'll come back tomorrow morning acting like the future leaders you're supposed to be."

He released you with a shove toward the rookery.

“Go saddle your Ikran’s.” 

When the two of you hesitated, Jake snarled “Now! And if I hear one more word out of either of you before you’re out of my sight, I swear to Eywa I’ll tie you both to the same tree instead.” 

Jake's voice sounded so tired and the clearing had gone deathly quiet. Neteyam’s jaw flexed, but he said nothing and he was the first to turn without even so much as a glance in your direction, stalking toward the rookery with rigid shoulders, his braids swaying with each step, and every taut line of him vibrating with a restraint he almost lacked.

You stood frozen for half a breath longer, heart hammering against your ribs, wrist still burning where his grip had been. Then you turned too, spine straight with the kind of discipline that fooled everyone but the Sullys, because Neteyam and Jake could both see the bruise that adorned your ego, they just both knew better than to comment on it this far in.

The young warriors scattered around the training grounds let their conversations die and bows lower as you both strode past. Your ikran sensed the rage rolling off you and answered your call with shrieks and flared wings, and an agitation that mimicked your own. And you mounted without glancing at Neteyam once, attaching your queues to the end of your Ikrans with what was probably a little more force than necessary. He did the same and Jake watched it all with a tired stare as Neteyam banked east first, cutting through the darkness like a blade, before you followed silently behind him without a glance back.

Jake finally let out the breath he’d been holding, dragging a tired hand down his face. The forest answered him with the soft rustle of leaves and distant night calls of your fleeting Ikrans, nature utterly unconcerned with the problem he’d just sent walking into it. He had broken up enough sparring matches to know the difference between anger and whatever that had been.

Eywa help them, he thought. Because I am officially out of patience.

Behind him, the rustle leaves and heavy approaching footsteps had his ears perking up, expecting the presence before the sound of a low chuckle could startle him. The sound of a man who had already arrived at the same conclusion and was simply waiting to see if Jake would catch up.

Jake turned to find your father standing there, arms crossed, tail swaying lazily behind him as his eyes tracked the two figures disappearing into the trees. There was concern there, yes, but there was also something else that Jake had seen displayed on his face every time your families met and you and his son fought. Something almost… entertained.

Your father watched the treeline a moment longer before he spoke, his expression thoughtful rather than amused, though the hint of it lingered all the same.

“You finally snapped.” He said, eyes not glancing at Jake, but to the sway of trees that shielded your retreating forms in the distance. “Only took till the moment they stopped trying to fight clean.”

Jake let out a slow breath and rubbed at the back of his neck, because that had been the exact moment his stomach had dropped, when the spar had stopped looking like training and started looking like something feral. “I told myself it was just their temper getting the best of them,” he admitted. “That they’d settle once one of them landed a solid hit, but I’ve never seen them go at it like that.”

Your father hummed softly in agreement. “Even anger has rules.” He said. “What I just saw forgot them. No form. No distance. Just hands… wherever they could reach.” Your fathers eyes finally glanced over to Jake, a knowing smirk leaving him chuckling at the revelation.

Jake snorted quietly, humour slipping through despite himself and soon they were laughing low in unison. “My son knows better than that.”

“As does my daughter,” He replied, and there it was, that note of worried pride that always crept in when he spoke of her. “Which is how I know they have reached a point where the body starts answering questions the mind refuses to ask.”

“You’re worried.” Jake observed. 

“I am a father,” he simply replied, and then after a beat added, “And I have eyes. I know Neteyam is fond of her.”

“He wont–,” Jake moved to start comforting his friend, shifting to place a hand on his shoulder when your father let a short snort leave him.

“I do not worry about Neteyam, I worry about her,” he said, with no effort to soften the curve of his mouth. “Neteyam has always known where the line is even when he pretends not to, and I have watched him choose restraint around her provoking comments time and time again. When it would have been easier not to.” A pause, then quieter, “That matters to me. It is her who has no restraint.” He ended with a chuckle.

Jake’s smirk lingered, but it softened at the edges, tempered by something more careful in tone. “Yeah, well, they have both been very good at lying to themselves.” He let a beat pass before he chuckled. “Well, maybe not your daughter, she can’t lie to save her life.”

“It really is her we should worry about.” Your father laughed. “If I were foolish enough to wager,” he suddenly turned, clapping a hand to Jake’s shoulder, “I would bet they return insisting the night was torture, then flinch every time their queues touch because they finally know what they’re used for.”

This time, the laugh Jake let out was almost too loud for his liking, glancing around in hopes that no one had heard the less than tasteful wording. 

“I’m not taking that bet,” he said, then hesitated, the amusement fading just enough to let the doubt through. “I expected you to be angrier with me for sending them off together.”

Your father snorted. “You did the same with Neytiri,” he replied. “And you didn’t exactly handle it with grace.”

Jake grimaced. “That was different.”

“No, It was not,” he said lightly, his gaze flicking back toward the trees, “and Neteyam’s trying too hard not to cross the same line. My daughter has never been good at pretending there isn’t one.”

Jake exhaled through his nose, shaking his head, rubbing yet another exhaustedly stressed hand down his face at the implication of his words. “I’m not gonna sleep tonight.”

“Good,” Your father said quietly. “Someone should keep watch. In case they burn the forest down. Let us just hope we do not share the name Grandfather and time soon either.”

Your feet hit the platform before his did, heavy with a careless thump that transitioned quickly into long strides against the creaking wood, riddled with the intention of getting as far away from Neteyam as possible, who was landing close behind you. There wasn’t anywhere far to run off too, especially in the dark of night on a foreign base you had visited not even twice before, so you settled towards the end of the platform on a pile of large crates that rattled against your weight.

Neteyam dismounted much slower than you had, gently detaching his queue, before petting his Ikran three times, signalling its dismissal to perch elsewhere. It left with a shriek, chasing your own which had scattered the moment you landed. 

Moonlight filtered through the canopy above, adorning everything in a bleary silver and deep shadows illuminated by bioluminescent blues. The base was rickety and barely large enough to accommodate a few people with all the supplies stolen and housed from the sky-people around. The wooden branches sagged and the leather tarp frayed, neglected and unkept for what seemed to be decades. But it was going to have to work considering you were banished here for the night. 

Neteyam didn’t look at you right away. He took the first few moments to busy himself checking over the boxes, silently counting the stock in the typical Neteyam way that forced him to be a stickler for the rules, to listen to every authoritative voice, to be the most stuck up Na’vi to ever grace Pandora's blue planet.

It took him a second of a forced and uncomfortable silence before he finally broke the tension, his voice low and failing to hide the tinge of irritation behind it despite his attempts to at least try and get something done. “We should start with inventory. Get it over with.”

You didn’t move from your position on the crate farthest south. And you almost laughed at how pathetically authoritative he attempted to sound, because you knew his blood still seared hot with boiling anger at being scolded not even an hour ago. Instead, you tugged at the string of the bow you had picked up from beside you, slowly swaying the one foot you left dangling as you fidgeted with the fraying thread. 

“Do it yourself.” 

Your voice – so dismissive and blunt in tone – had Neteyam’s pointy ears pinning back and deep amber eyes snapping at you in a quick, sharp warning. 

“Do not start.”

You took the first moment since he entered to direct your attention away from the flimsy bow, finally looking up at him with an all too unimpressed glare. “Too late.” You sneered, your typical fang glaring snare on full display. “You started it the second you opened your skxawng mouth back at the training camp. Even children know to be silent when Toruk Makto speaks, yet somehow you can not manage to get that through your thick skull?”

“My thick skull?” Neteyam’s big eyes bore straight through your own, blown wide and non-blinking almost as if trying to read you for an answer he wasn’t going to find. He looked absolutely exasperated and a breathy laugh that held no humor escaped his lips as he shook his head. “Thats rich coming from the one who is sat on a crate of knives, doing absolutely nothing.”

“We are only here because perfect son could not bite his golden tongue long enough to remember his father was still speaking. You listen to him when we're here but not when it counts back home. I thought you were supposed to be the smart and disciplined one.”

“Kind of difficult to concentrate on a lecture when the woman threatening to make me choke is attempting to swing her claws into my chest.”

“I only reacted because you–!” 

The words stuttered in your throat, dying in your mouth as heat flooded your face in a violent wave, remembering what led to your outburst in the first place. Remembering the explicit words he let slip from soft yet smug lips like he had any right saying it in the first place. 

–Because you speak lewd words that should only be muttered between the most established of mates. 

“–Because I what?” Neteyam’s voice was softer now, but the smirk that followed was anything but gentle. It spread slow and lethally arrogant across his face, eyes glinting with a new light that felt almost predatory, as if he’d just found the one loose thread that would unravel you completely.

“Because–” Your face was so flushed, you could hardly bring the words to the surface. “–Because you- you have a vulgar mouth! Y-You speak filth just to provoke me.”

 “Vulgar?” Neteyam's eyes glinted with something completely different from the irate exasperation from earlier, it was like his entire demeanor had calmed, replaced completely by that arrogant smirk, like he was the only one able to translate the book the two of you had been trying to read your whole lives. “Me? I think I recall you mentioning something about slamming me down on my back.” 

A sharp gasp tore from your throat. The words hit like a physical blow, twisting your earlier threat into something raw and unmistakable. Your face burned hotter, if that was even possible, violet spreading across your cheeks as you instinctively looked him up and down.

“That is not what I speak! Why must you keep bringing up those words?” The words tumbled out too fast and breathless to be convincing, and you almost kicked yourself for the delivery.

“Because you are the one who said them, you just don’t like what they mean.”

He began stepping closer. His strides were so deliberate, as if planned in advance, and unhurried, as if you were not another moment away from clawing out his eyes.

“They meant nothing,” you shot back, chin lifting in defiance. “You twist everything.” 

The sound of Neteyam’s footsteps drew your eyes to lock on his figure, tall and looming as he strutted one slow step at a time closer, and you found your eyes doing that traitorous thing they did a lot now, wander. Wander down. And down. 

It started with his face, as you watched the sway of his braids while he strode with that infuriating arrogance, brushing the sharp lines of his jaw with a clatter of his beads. Then it was his impossibly round eyes fixed right on you – which they always seemed to be when you were around – unblinking and heated through a downwards gaze. They were eyes that masked what you knew to be such a conceited personality as so deceivingly innocent. 

Soon your gaze fell to the wide frame of his shoulders and the firmness of his chest, and it dawned on you that you’d only just noticed how much broader they had become over the years spent together, carved from tireless hours of drawing bowstrings and traversing the harsh landscape of Omatikiya forest, lean with muscle that shifted under blue skin with every stride he took closer.

Your eyes wandered again until they finally fell right to where they seemed to stop at a lot now; his lower body, narrow hips marked by the most vibrant stripe pattern you’d ever seen on any man – on any Na’vi you’d laid eyes on. They were darker and thicker, more pronounced and unlike any others, they trailed off and disappeared so low into his loin cloth it almost felt purposeful in the way they pulled your eyes. Like they were specifically made to draw your eyes and your eyes only, and hold them there by design.

Those lines were unnatural in their perfection and it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that they made your face so hot and your heartbeat feel as if it could move to places it should not be, and it especially wasn’t fair that it wasn’t a you thing, it was a him thing. You only liked it on him.

You told yourself for the hundredth time – that it was the Tawtute genes making everything about him just a little too defined, a little larger. Not that you were staring, of course, just studying. Because he was different and you were always curious, you told yourself. But your tail flicked once, another betrayal that told you that was a lie, and you prayed the shadows hid it..

The shadows did not hide it. And of course he noticed.

Neteyam slowed, stopping just close enough that the space between you felt inconsequential. He wasn’t touching you, at least not yet and somehow it still felt as if he had pressed his entire body against yours. As if you were suffocating beneath him. 

His gaze dipped and it wasn’t hurried, but it wasn’t subtle either, following the same path yours had just taken; down the line of his chest, over the sharp cut of his hips, to the stripes adorning his body next to the band of his loincloth before lifting again, eyes glinting with the most unbearably smug sense of amusement you’d imagine possible from a single man at the realisation he had just made. 

It was silent for a beat, air heavy with tension before Neteyam spoke. 

“You must really like my loincloth.”

Your ears shot straight up and outwards, standing tall and perky as if alerted by a lingering predator, eyes blowing wide as you shot your head up to meet his gaze head on. 

“Shut up–!”

“–You know, my mother makes them–”

“ –I don’t care–!”

“ –Shall I ask her to make another? She does adore you–” 

“–You do not know anything–!”

“–I know exactly when you lie.”

The words were being sputtered so fast, they crashed into each other in an overlapping, frantic mess. To any onlooker, it would have almost sounded as if you were talking in unison. 

Your tone was desperately sharp, doused in mortification and hidden in anger. And his was flooded with pure, unadulterated tease, knowing very well how every word he spoke rolled down your ears and crawled beneath your skin. You blushed so often around him he could almost mistake you as a purple Na’vi now. 

The overlap fell apart as abruptly as it had started. You glared at him, chest tight, ears still rigid with embarrassment and fury, daring him to say one more thing. He didn’t… 

At least, not right away.

His gaze dipped instead, unashamed and bashfully amused, tracking back down to where yours had been just moments ago. His mouth curved like he’d found something amusing he was excited to explain. But you knew he was only rubbing the fact that he caught you staring in. 

“My mother uses five beads on each knot,” he said smugly, and you followed his fingers as they brushed against the small carved beads on the loincloth’s cords. “She says it is the number of balance. Five for the senses and all.” 

Then he suddenly looked up at you, those overly round, innocent eyes portraying that innocence all too well. “Seems it is not working, you do not look very balanced right now.”

If you were in half a mind with any common sense, you would have scolded him once again and shoved him as far back as your arms would allow in hopes for a little space and clarity. Unfortunately for you, however, that sense was ripped directly out of your already fumbling grasp the moment your eyes followed his hands to where he gripped that damned loincloth you really couldn’t escape.

They were larger and longer than others, scarred from weaponry and cliff climbing, and calloused in places where the overuse was notable. His fingers grasped the thread of the cloth, and as his grip tightened, the purple veins littering the surface of his skin protruded along with it. 

Watching the way his fingers curled, and the way his veins pulsed, it sent heat crawling up your throat and pooling behind your ears. Every flex of a tendon, every faint flicker of those tiny freckled lights, felt like a private taunt aimed straight at whatever composure you had left.

You swallowed hard, forcing your voice steady even as it came out breathier than you wanted. “Five is a greedy number anyway.” You muttered, eyes still traitorously fixed on his hands.  

His gaze followed yours until it landed on his hands  – on the way your eyes lingered there too long, and the way your breath had betrayed you before your mouth ever could. A slow smile curved across his lips, smug and knowing.

“Greedy?” He echoed softly. Without haste, he lifted those hands, the ones you couldn’t stop staring at, toward your face. “Is that what you think this is?” 

His long fingers spread deliberately to parade all five fingers to your wide, helpless eyes, and began wriggling them in slow, teasing beats as if he, too, were suddenly fascinated by the anatomy you’d just mocked. 

“Tawtute.” He uttered, his voice dipped low with smug delight. “That is what you call me.”

He let his hands hover close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his palms, close enough that if you stuck your tongue out just slightly, you’d be able to taste the skin. Close enough, that the fact you had even entertained that thought made you sick to your stomach with dizzying confusion.

“Txampay tawtute.” He purred, eyes half-lidded and glinting as he drank in the flush climbing your neck.

Then, unhurried and impossibly sure of himself, he leaned in. His body now crowding every inch of air yours occupied, chest nearly brushing yours, until he reached past your shoulder and caught your wrist in one smooth motion. He brought your hand up between you to display the four fingers you always had, and his golden eyes gleamed as if it was the first time he had seen it. Slowly, he lifted his own hand to mirror yours, five fingers spread to contrast the four of your own just across from his, hovering directly opposite it.

“Demon blood.” He muttered, though he wasn’t offended. It was more a statement, or amused even, awaiting a reaction.

You watched, breath caught, as he hesitated for a single heartbeat, watched in your peripheral as his eyes bore into your face, searching for any flicker of protest or resistance. A sign that never came.

And once he realized that, he dipped one long finger down between the gaps of yours. Then another, and another until he slid each one of his fingers between your own, interlocking your hands like he was claiming every unoccupied space he could find. 

“Do you call me tawtute so often because you think about how my hands would feel on you?”

Then he guided your joined hands, fully intertwined, up and back, lifting them slowly until your knuckles brushed the rough-woven wall behind you. He pressed them there and the motion brought him so much closer, it was as if he had taken up all the air, because why were you suddenly finding it so much more difficult to draw a breath?

“Neteyam.” The name came out like an unsure whine, nothing like the sharp hiss you’d wielded against him a thousand times before. Because the last place you had ever imagined yourself being was here, pinned beneath the steady weight of his gaze, his body, his five greedy fingers laced so perfectly through your four and it confused you that no fiber of your being was begging to reject it. 

You watched with greedy eyes as his face twisted from out of your view, head shifting down towards the crook of your neck and the frantic rate of your breath betrayed every last pretense of calm. His mouth stopped just on the cusp of your left ear, and you felt the warm, velvet skin of his lips brushing the sensitive shell of it, tied with the cherry on top by the soft sway of his braid against your cheek and the smell of him. That intoxicating scent which smelt of eclipse leaves and sweet hearth vines.

They had been your favourite scents for as long as you could remember, and it was only just dawning why that is now.

He took a beat, his breath warm on your skin before he spoke. “I know you hate me.”

You did. You hated him, the Olo'eyktan perfect first born. The boy that followed you like a shadow through the winding roots of Hometree. The child you had been measured against since the first time a blade had been pressed into your palms.

“Neteyam learns quicker,”

“Neteyam already wields a bow,”

“Neteyam never loses his temper.”

You had heard it from your father your entire life and you hated him for being the excellence you couldn’t be. You hated that he wore it so smug. And more than anything, you hated that he actually tried to soften it and make space for you beside him instead of behind. He was so good to you, and you hated that he never got mad when it counted.

And now – now – you couldn’t reconcile that boy with the man standing close enough to steal your breath, hands steady where your resolve should have been. You couldn’t fathom how you were letting him do this. How the same Neteyam you’d spent years resisting, spitting at, and training like Eywa herself had told you to do so in order to best him, had slipped past your defenses without even raising his voice. All it took was him invading your space closer than he ever tried before and your resolve dwindled. 

“I know you think you hate me.” He repeated, but this time you could hear the smirk that crept up his irritatingly gorgeous face. “But you never look at me like this when you say it. And this–” his free hand drifted down, fingertips ghosting along the tense line of your hip until they found the base of your tail, “--this is the most still your tail has been all night.”

The gentle, knowing stroke along the sensitive underside made your spine arch involuntarily before you could stop it, so far into him you could feel the press of everything below his loincloth against your lower belly and it made you whine. A guttural, involuntary sound you didn’t mean to make, nor had you realised escaped you until Neteyam’s glowing amber eyes widened alongside his smile. 

You struggled to find your voice, with the overwhelming feeling of Neteyam all around you, touching every inch of your skin, all consuming and intoxicating but when you did, it was breathy and weak. 

“Do not–” you stuttered, pausing your words to find breath.

Then your voice came again, interrupting his thoughts in a moment where his grip faltered slightly around your fingers and tail. You sounded so primitive and defeated, it was like the entire forest in a ten-mile radius had stilled.

“–stop.”

Neteyam stilled, mind reeling and eyes searching every inch of your face in desperate search of an answer to an unspoken question you sparked within him. Do not? Stop? 

Do not stop?

He gawked at you, ogling at every inch of your face in hopes of an answer. Your eyes, droopy and half-shut, turned sideways as if too ashamed to look him in the eyes. Mouth just a touch open, drawing long and heavy breaths, and your beautiful blue skin, flushed that purple colour he was becoming so fond of seeing, gleaming with a layer of warm, sleek sweat. 

You looked absolutely ruined. And he absolutely detested the idea that you might have been telling him to stop – truly stop – his advances because now that he had a glimpse of such a sight, he cursed the idea that he may never see it again knowing exactly what you looked like underneath him. So he waited with baited breaths, a wait you did not make him stand long for, and then you delivered.

“Do.. not.. stop.” You spoke between heavy breaths. “Neteyam, please.”

And then he saw it. The way you had been pressing up against his right thigh, locked between both your own thighs and rubbing against your core, just close enough to create friction. The sight and the plea shattered whatever thin thread of control he’d been clinging to as he finally realised what you meant. 

A low, guttural sound rumbled from deep in his chest, a half growl, half reverent thanks to Eywa herself, as he surged forward, releasing your tail momentarily, only for the hand to sweep through the air, landing right on the back of your neck as he pulled you towards him with a roughness he rarely displayed. 

And that's when it finally happened. His mouth crashed against yours, hungry and possessive, swallowing the next broken gasp that spilled from your lips. His fingers curled into the sensitive skin just below your hairline in a way that made your knees weaken, and had you not still been sitting on this crate, you were sure you would have faltered and folded to the ground. 

His tongue pushed at the seam of your lips, coaxing them apart with a devastating hunger, as if he had been waiting far too long to claim this moment, only clarified with the roll his body made to press into your own. The muscles of his abdomen elongated and protruded against the skin, screaming at you to touch them, to feel them, as he pushed your intertwined hands further back into the wall. 

That was when his hand around your neck finally began its descent downwards. It started at your shoulders, brushing against your collarbone and lingering just a moment around your breasts. He swirled against the curve underneath the soft fat and the trail left hot tingles in its wake, sending blood rushing to every nerve the pinpoint of his fingertips lined. 

It continued on, searing down the arc of your waist, against the curve of your hips and drew a curl to stop just a few paces below your belly button, and yet not even a breath above from the band of your loincloth.   

Your breath hitched as those fingers paused there, so achingly close, tracing lazy, maddening patterns just above the thin strip of woven fabric – the only thing left between you and completely surrendering to the man who haunted your every waking moment. Neteyam pulled back from the kiss, only far enough to watch your contorting face, the molten amber of his eyes now nearly non-existent, replaced almost entirely by his pupils, blown wide with lust and a restraint that was seconds from snapping.

He could feel the heat radiating from you, and could tell you were trying to resist whatever thoughts were happening in your head, unsuccessfully so. He could see it in the way your thighs tremored ever so subtly, and in the way your hips shifted restlessly against him, as if seeking friction but hating who the friction you seeked came from. A low, approving, yet humoured growl rumbled in his throat as he pressed his forehead to yours, breath ragged.

“You are always so responsive.” He murmured, voice gravelly, lips brushing yours as he spoke and fingers still working their patterns at the lowest part of your belly. “Every touch… you light up for me.”

“You always think you know what I feel.” The words spat harsh but breathless, trying desperately to deny him the satisfaction of winning.

But Neteyam just laughed, stating flatly. “Your freckles glow, fang.”

And your flush deepened knowing your body was betraying your mind. 

“Stop talking. I still despise you.”

Neteyam took the opportunity to lean back, making enough room to have a full view of your body without disconnecting your lower bodies. Finally his hand strayed from your belly, sliding to the left of it before stopping right at the rope that knotted your loincloth into place. He glanced down at it expectantly, then up to meet your eyes, his own glinting with mischief.  

“Funny way of showing it.” He commented.

Then his fingers pulled at the string, and all you did was let your head fall back against the wall in response. 

The knot gave with a soft tug, the woven cord loosening until the loincloth sagged against your hips, and you felt the cool air kissing at your newly exposed skin. It left your sighing, and Neteyam actually laughed at the sight of you. 

His next move was to grab at your right leg, lifting it high until it settled on top of his right shoulder. The motion had you shifting forward slightly, nearly hanging off the edge of the crate now. Once it was placed, he leaned down, meeting the slant of your body against the crate until his face met just above yours.  

“No fangs now, huh?” He taunted, voice dripping with smug triumph, his breath hot against your lips as his free hand slid up the thigh draped over him with the most reverently possessive grip.

Your eyes narrowed, a spark of fury cutting through the haze of pleasure. “I’ll silence you.”

Before he could fire back another cocky word, you flexed the leg hooked over his shoulder and shoved hard. Your heel dug into the muscle of his back as you pushed, using every bit of leverage to force him downward and surprise flashed across his face for a split second before he dropped to his knees in front of you, left hand disconnecting from yours and instinctively reaching to grip your hips as a means to steady himself.

There he was – all mighty Neteyam, son of Toruk Makto, future Olo’eyktan – kneeling between your thighs, directly in front of your exposed core, with amber eyes flicking a mix of shock, defeat and drooling hunger.

You let your head rest back against the wall again, eyeing him through the brush of your lower lashes and fingers threading roughly into his braids to hold him exactly where you wanted him. 

“I told you I would make you swallow your sorry sounds.” And with a sharp tug forward, the control had been shifted to your hands. “Now swallow.”

The low, involuntary groan that vibrated through his chest and into your core was the only answer he managed before his mouth obeyed. His head moved first then his tongue dragged slow and deliberate, tasting you like he’d been starving for years and refused to rush the meal. But the grip you kept in his braids, tight and unforgiving, told him exactly who set the pace. 

Heat slammed through you, ugly and mixed with the pure rage of having him under you. You hated him for making your body clench like this, hated the way your thighs shook because his tongue felt so damn good, but hated it more that you questioned if the reason he felt so good was because he had done this before. Hated that the idea made you jealous. 

You were a mix of pleasure and shame – that Neteyam was on his knees, eating you out like he had no choice and that he was disgustingly good at it. And when you rolled your hips forward, demanding more, he gave it without hesitation, lips sealing around you, tongue curling deep and relentless, then it dawned on you that he was worshipping your clit like he was singing a prayer.

Your thighs trembled around his shoulders, the leg still hooked there locked tighter, heel pressing between his shoulder blades to keep him exactly where you wanted him  – on his knees, serving the woman who’d sworn to hate him forever. And he did it so well you had been reduced to a moaning, whining and squirming mess beneath his hands that were holding you down.

“Eywa, shit– Y/n– ” The name slipped out raw and whiny, and the vibration of his voice had you absolutely feral, snapping in an instant. But not to your end. No.

Because the only thing you could think about was why he felt so good. Why he was so talented at everything. The idea of him having experience with this, of him doing this to someone else, made something vicious twist in your chest.

So your hand in his hair tugged hard, snapping his head back and away from your core to glance up at you with daze in his eyes and your slick dripping down his chin.

He blinked up at you, lips swollen and shining, breath coming in rough pants. For once, the smugness was gone, replaced by raw, hazy want and a flicker of confusion at the sudden stop.

You stared down at him, chest heaving, jealousy burning hotter than the aftershocks still pulsing between your legs, and the words came sharp, cutting through the air like an arrow.

“Who else?” You spat, voice accusatory and ugly with envy, fingers tightening in his braids in a visceral way you couldn’t help.

“What?” He sounded so breathless, and so confused, eyes still foggy from being buried between your thighs.

“You move like this is not new to you.” You snapped, the words spilling out jagged. “People do not learn that by accident.”

“Fang, what are you–”

Then your mouth spat the words like the answer was so obvious, like you had been just waiting for the name to be mentioned. “ –It is An’aya, isn’t it?”

“An’aya!?” He said it like the name didn’t belong here at all. Because it didn’t. Because twenty seconds ago he was face-deep drowning in what he deemed to be his new favourite flavour, and now he’s thinking of a girl he’s barely spent more than 10 minutes alone with.

“You lie with her too!” The accusation came out sharp enough to feel final, as if it wasn’t something to be debated and you had already made up the answer. 

Neteyam stared up at you for a beat, eyes wide, mouth still wet and open like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or groan. Then the laugh won, short and completely disbelieving as the weight of your words settled into him. He searched your eyes, stern and glazed, angry with something he knew you barely understood and it dawned on him. Holy shit.

“You are jealous.” He said it so incredulously, like it was the best revelation he made all week. A rough laugh tore out of him, head tipping back in your grip, the sound raw and disbelieving. And it was like you couldn’t even deny it, all you could do was sneer your usual fang baring scowl and snap your head away with a tsk of your tongue.

“An’aya?” he rasped, grin sharp and crooked, chin still dripping with you. “Eywa fang, you think I have ever touched her? Ever wanted to?”

He shifted forward on his knees, hands sliding up your thighs as he finally raised to his feet off his knees to meet you at eye level. His face was inches from yours, grip firm but not pushing and you watched as that aggravating amusement melted into the softest look you think he had ever sent you. His smugness fell, the cocky edge dulling into something so honest.

“I do not lie with An’aya. Just you, fang.” He spoke so slowly, voice low and steady, and almost gentle despite the filth of the moment. “I only ever think about you.”

The words hit harder than they should have. Heat flooded your face, your chest, mixing between the jealousy and the flattery until you couldn’t tell which burned more. You didn’t know if you believed him – or more so didn’t know if you wanted to believe him. So you picked your arm up to pinch the side of his ear, using it to drag his face impossibly closer. Your gaze flickered between both his eyes, searching for something, an answer to a question you weren’t even sure you knew what.

For a split second, something in your grip faltered. The idea that he might be telling the truth was somehow worse than the lie. So you tightened your fingers on his ear for a beat before yanking his head back with a force meant to hurt.

“Prove it,” you snarled.

Neteyam’s breath hissed through his teeth at the sting, but the look he gave you was pure lust, not a single trace of softness left. In one brutal motion he tucked one hand under your ass, and the other around the curve of your waist, before spinning you around so fast the world tilted for a fraction of a second. Your chest slammed against the crate, palms scraping metal as he kicked your legs wider and pressed his full weight into your back.

You heard him before you felt him, the quick tug and rustle as he worked the knot of his loincloth free behind you. Something involuntary dragged your head back, forcing you to peek over your shoulder. The fabric fell, and it was like every silent inkling you’d ever felt bite at you, every reflexive moment that told you to study his stripes despite never knowing why, finally dawned on you why it had always been so urging.

Those large, vibrant stripes were only a preview into what the loincloth hid. They tapered lower and thicker up the base of his cock, before finally crawling into a thinning stretch that ended just beyond the tip of his head, which was slick with precum and the most angry, swollen shade of red. Red. Like a Tawtute.

And it was in that moment you realised that all those little characteristics that made him slightly different – the broader shoulders, the extra finger, the sheer size of him below the cloth and the way his tip skin flushed pinker than any Na’vi you’d ever seen – weren’t the flaws or accidents you convinced yourself was the reason you fixated on them. They were proof that he had Toruk Makto’s blood running through him, the son of a leader, born to be a leader. And right now that blood had him hard and leaking for you, the girl who’d spent years calling him sky-demon scum.

The realisation twisted hot and ugly in your gut, hate and want braided so tight you couldn’t pull them apart but that was so swiftly disrupted by the feeling of him pushing forward, the tip of his achingly large cock making contact with your swelteringly wet entrance, and it had you absolutely unraveling at the mere contact of it.

You couldn’t help the moan that slipped out of you at both the stretch he gave with just the top of him, barely even a quarter full, and at the sight of him ogling down at the space between you, at the way the tip of his cock looked barely swallowed inside of your warm hole, his fist gripping at the base.

Neteyam caught the sound, eyes snapping up just in time to see you bury your face in your arm and he laughed that irritatingly smug laugh that vibrated through his chest and into your back. 

“Already moaning for me, Fang?” He murmured, voice thick with satisfaction and lips brushing the shell of your ear as he spoke. “You can’t even pretend to hate me anymore.”

“Do not…,” you hissed with a breathy sigh, the words cracking despite your best effort to sound venomous, “…dare assume you know what I feel.”

He hummed, amused, like your denial was the sweetest thing he’d ever heard.

“I do not think I'll have too.” 

Goosebumps rose in its wake, your hips stuttering back despite yourself before you could correct it. His hand tightened on your hip, holding you steady, while the other slid up your spine in a slow, deliberate path until his fingers closed gently but firmly around the thick base of your kuru, the long, sacred braid that cascaded down your back.

The feeling of his hand around your kuru had your entire body jolting, a sharp, electrifying shock racing through every nerve in its wake. You spun in his grip with a surprise he’d never seen on you before, eyes blown wide, breath caught, and all that sharp defiance from before suddenly fractured by something he had never seen painted so vulnerably on you.

You looked so unsure, so confused, so conflicted, staring at his hand like it was both a threat and a gateway to something new.

At your face, Neteyam’s expression softened too, the smugness fading completely as he brought the end of your braid up between the two of you, turning it so the the wispy ends of your braid went limp to expose the pink tendrils beneath. They snaked in the air, searching the air as if awaiting what was yet to come.

His own kuru hung over his shoulder, and he used his other hand to grab at it, settling it so close to yours that the tendrils already began reaching for each other, drawn like magnets, but far enough that they did not touch.

“I will not force this, and I will not continue with this if you say no. I honestly don’t think I can.” he said, voice low, rough with restraint but steady. “Tsaheylu with me… or we stop right here. Your choice, Fang. Always your choice.”

The words hung heavy. You hated him for giving you the out. Hated him for making it feel safe to say yes even though you really thought you would have said no. Hated how much you wanted him, and wanted to know what it felt like to be bound to the one person you’d spent your whole life trying to push away.

Your chest rose and fell fast. The tendrils of your kuru twitched, brushing the air toward his and you didn’t speak as you watched them try to connect. Slowly, deliberately, you reached your hand up to wrap around his forearm, watched as the hand that held his kuru faltered at the intrusion and met his eyes as he searched yours for answer.

It didn’t come as a verbal one, but your mind had been made the moment you tugged his arm forward to allow his kuru to connect to yours. And in an instant the tendrils met, wrapping and fusing, snapping the bond into place.

A gasp tore from both of you at once, backs arching, eyes fluttering as raw sensation flooded through. The pleasure was intense and overwhelming, but more than that: every buried feeling, every unspoken want, every flash of anger and longing and need crashed together in a single, shared current that left you both moaning messes.

He groaned your name like it hurt and you whined his so helplessly, fingers digging into his shoulders and the world narrowed to just the two of you.

Neteyam moved first, hands sliding under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as he spun you both around and sank to his knees. He laid you gently on the cool floor beneath him, settling between your legs, face-to-face now with his forehead pressed to yours, kuru still joined, the bond pulsing with every heartbeat.

He slid back into you slowly, eyes never leaving yours, letting you feel everything – his awe, his hunger, the years of wanting you he’d hidden behind every smirk and fight. And you wrapped your legs around him, pulling him deeper, and for the first time with there being no crate, no wall, no anger between you, nothing but the bond, neither of you could deny the truth that lingered between you for years anymore.

The bond made it unbearable in the best way because you could feel everything. 

You could feel every slow drag of him inside you echoed back through the link. You felt his pleasure at how tight and wet you were, your helpless clench around him, and the ache that flared harder with every inch he gave. You felt the way your body gripped him like it never wanted to let go, and he felt it too, a low, broken groan rumbling from his chest as his hips finally seated flush against yours.

“Fuck–” he breathed, voice ragged, forehead still pressed to yours. His eyes were half-lidded, pupils blown wide, the golden amber almost gone. “You feel… I can feel you everywhere.”

You couldn’t answer with words. The bond carried it for you: the rush of heat, the ache, the impossible fullness of him stretching you open while his emotions poured into you

He started to move, slow at first, deep rolls of his hips that dragged the thick length of him along every sensitive spot inside you. Each thrust sent a wave through the bond, pleasure looping between you until it built on itself, amplifying, stealing your breath. Your nails raked down his back, leaving red lines over his stripes; he hissed and answered by snapping his hips harder, driving a sharp cry from your throat.

Through the link you felt how much he loved that sound, how it made him throb inside you, how close he already was to losing control and you responded by sticking your mouth to his neck, and sucking hard in an attempt to quiet yourself.

“Tell me,” he rasped, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head, keeping your faces close, noses brushing, “tell me you feel it too.”

You did. Eywa, you did. The anger was still there, flickering at the edges, but it only made the pleasure sharper, almost as if the bond was burning it clean and turning years of hate into something so much more overwhelming.

“I feel you,” you finally gasped as your mouth left his neck with a slimy pop, and you noticed the angry purple mark that sat in its wake. Your voice cracked, legs tightening around his waist to pull him impossibly deeper. “All of you. Don’t stop–!”

The next thrust ended with another broken sound from you, a half-moan, half-word that slurred through your tongue almost incomprehensibly.

“Mmm– ’tayem–”

Neteyam’s rhythm faltered for a heartbeat, then picked up again, faster now with a cocky triumph you felt flooding the bond like heat. A low, smug chuckle vibrated against your neck as he nipped the skin, sucking and pinching at it with pride.

“I got you that good, huh?” He murmured, voice rough but dripping with satisfaction, hips rolling deep and deliberate. “Got the stubborn Fang stuttering my name?”

You tried again, desperate, the pleasure coiling so tight you could barely think.

“Ma– tayem–”

He laughed again, breathlessly arrogant and loving every moment of this – loving that you, always so sharp-tongued and composed, always throwing insults at him and trying to embarrass him in front of your families, was reduced to this, such a moaning, whiny mess you couldn’t even get his name correct.

“Ca not even get your words right,” he teased, smirking against your lips, eyes gleaming down at you with such amusement. “If only everyone could see you now.”

“Ma ‘teyam.” You managed it this time, much clearer and insistent of every syllable that trembled out of you on the next thrust. And he froze.

Not completely, his hips still rocked shallow and instinctively, but the rhythm stuttered hard, like someone had yanked his hips backwards and held them still. His eyes widened, searching yours through the haze, the cocky smirk smacked off his face in an instant as the meaning finally slammed into him.

Ma ‘teyam. 

Your Neteyam

The bond flared hot with it, your claim, raw and unfiltered, pouring straight into him. A ragged groan tore out of his chest, half between shock and something much, much deeper, like a stirring pot of pleasure and disbelief and possession all tangled together into two bodies merged as one. His forehead dropped to yours again, losing every trace of that smug control because the words were echoing through the link like a vow, and it broke him.

A low, guttural groan ripped from his throat, deep and wrecked and his whole body shuddered as the realization hit him harder than any phrase ever uttered to him. His hips jerked forward once, hard and uncontrolled, completely unlike his usual poise, as he buried himself to the hilt inside you, and that was it. He came with a broken cry of your name, voice cracking on the syllables as he spilled hot and deep, pulse after thick pulse flooding you.

The bond amplified everything and you felt every throb of his release as if it were your own and that made yours follow soon after, the overwhelming rush of his pleasure crashing into yours, the way his heart slammed against his ribs, the dizzying mix of disbelief and euphoria that Neteyam was now claimed by you in the most intimate way possible, solidified by the way your attached kuru still hung besides you, your deep purple marks decorated his neck, and your bodies lay against each other, sleek and fucked out.

His forehead pressed hard to yours, eyes squeezed shut, breath coming in harsh, uneven pants against your lips. His arms trembled as he held himself above you, hips still twitching with aftershocks, grinding slow and shallow as if he couldn’t bear to pull out.

“Fuck… fuck–” he gasped, voice hoarse and trembling, nothing left of the smug warrior who’d been teasing you since you got to this forsaken watchpost. “You… you said…”

“That I despise you?” You murmured, eyes fluttering closed as you breathed him in, beyond exhausted, tail finally curling loose and lazy behind you. “I do.”

A broken laugh tore out of him, warm and disbelieving, his nose brushing yours as his breathing slowly began to steady. “I don’t even need to see your tail to know you lie.” 

And as if to prove his point, he brought his hand around to the place where your kurus joined, stroking the exposed, sensitive nerves gently with his thumb. The bond hummed softly at the touch, sending a lazy ripple of warmth through you both and your tail flicked once, then curled deliberately around his thigh, holding him close.

He felt it, of course and a quiet, satisfied hum left his chest.

“See?” He whispered, lips brushing the corner of your mouth. “Even your tail is done fighting me.”

You opened one eye, glaring weakly up at him. “Do not get used to it, skxawng. The second we are back with the clan, I am telling everyone you cried after your father yelled at you.”

Neteyam snorted, shifting his weight so he could prop himself on an elbow and look down at you properly. His braids fell forward, framing his face, and the bond carried the soft glow of affection he was trying, and miserably failing to hide behind his usual smirk.

“Then I will have to tell them how the almighty daughter of our clan head warrior begged for me to–”

You slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes narrowing. “Finish that sentence and I will bite you again.” His eyes crinkled at the corners, laughter muffled against your palm and you narrowed your eyes as you spoke once more. “I could still push you off this ledge. No one would find the body till morning.”

“Maybe so.” He conceded easily. His hand slid up to cup the back of your neck, thumb brushing the base of your kuru in a way that made your spine shiver despite your best effort to stay at least a little defiant. “But then who would keep you company on patrol anymore? You would miss arguing with me.”

You huffed, shoving at his chest. “I would finally earn peace.”

“Peace is boring.” He countered, catching your wrist and pressing a kiss to the inside of it, soft and infuriatingly gentle. “And you would miss my family interrupting us every five minutes, thinking they will catch you slipping in the act. My dad likes messing with us too much to let you go.”

You snorted, but the sound lacked real venom. “Your father likes me because I am not afraid to yell at you when you are being an arrogant teylupil. That is not the same as liking me.”

Neteyam’s grin turned softer, eyes crinkling at the corners. “He likes you because you are strong. And because you force me to be stronger. Even when you are threatening to skin me alive.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt, but your tail betrayed you again, curling tighter around his leg like it had decided it wasn’t letting go anytime soon.

“Flattery will not save you,” you muttered, dropping your head back to his chest so you didn’t have to look at that stupid, fond expression on his face. “When we get back at dawn, we say nothing. We walked the perimeter. Inventoried the stock. End of story.”

Neteyam arched a brow, amusement flickering through the bond as his eyes flickered around at the area even messier then it was before you two had arrived. “You think they will believe that? Nothing has been done here. And you look…” He brushed a thumb over your neck, tracing where his mouth had been earlier. “…thoroughly ruined.”

You swatted his hand away, but there was no real heat in it, not like before. “You look worse, Tawtute. Like you lost a fight with an Ikran.”

He laughed, full and unguarded this time “Then let them think what they want, I already won.” he whispered when you parted. 

You rolled your eyes, but your tail tightened around his leg again, betraying you.

“I still despise you,” you muttered into his neck.

“I am aware.”

[vanillabeansmooches]

LOVE!!!!

[dudewithastick]

Bad Luck Charm | Masterlist

Series Summary: From the moment you move in, Jack knows you will be trouble. He just didn't expect to get sucked into your chaotic life and become a main character in it, by sheer bad luck. Once involved, however, he isn't so sure he wants to escape all that much anymore.

Tags/Warnings: neighbor!reader, f!reader, reader uses she/her pronouns, age gap (reader doesn’t have a specific age, but the age gap will be thematized at some point), no use of Y/N, no use of any specific physical descriptions for reader, reader has the worst luck ever, reader needs therapy, reader is a people pleaser, awkward!reader, slow burn, more specific tags/warnings can be found in each chapter

English is not my first language, so please excuse any grammar mistakes or typos.

Add yourself to the Taglist Spotify Playlist Wattpad AO3

Chapters

01 - The one where Jack causes you to break your mirror. 02 - The one where Jack can't fall asleep because of you. 03 - The one where you get drunk and Jack takes care of you. 04 - The one where you think you slept with Jack. 05 - The one where Jack yells at you. 06 - The one where Jack clears things up and makes amends. 07 - The one where Jack worries, when you don't show up anymore, 08 - The one where Jack offers to help you. 09 - The one where you tease Jack about his age. 10 - The one where you babysit and cosplay a chicken. 11 - The one where you get injured and Jack gets jealous. 12 - The one where Jack comes to your rescue when called. 13- The one where Jack grieves and takes out his pain on you. 14 - The one where Jack wants to reconcile but you don't let him. 15 - The one where Jack can't reach you and snaps at your neighbor.

Media

Reader Camera Roll Chapter 01-09 Reader Camera Roll Chapter 10-11

Blurbs

A/N: I don't really plan on this series having a definite ending point, because I don't really see it as a full story and more like a collection of snippets out of Jack's and reader's life and them growing together. Starting with their first meeting, ending someday when I have run out of ideas.

Thank you so much for reading! Likes, comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated. I love hearing what you think, so feel free to let me know your ideas or random thoughts!

© 2026 dudewithastick

[armpittlings]

꩜✩ controlled chaos ｡𖦹°‧ MASTERLIST

summary: the everyday conversations between pittsburgh's most beloved trauma doctors (mostly.) and you! small snippets of how i think the pitt characters would interact when not over a patient.

warnings: MDNI 18+ . swearing, inappropriate usage of a work gc, bullying of characters (no one is safe), slight nsfw, crack fic. reader is referred to as 'burn', roommates with santos and whitaker trope, hucklerobby mentioned, afab reader.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:· CHAPTERS ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

☆?! santos' missing pen

⊱ ۫ ׅ✧ break room robbery & HR violations

༊*·˚ whitaker can't hold his liquor

⋆.˚୨୧ shitaker & the simp epidemic

☆?! archive induced psychosis

⊱ ۫ ׅ✧ new characters unlocked

༊*·˚ the great ptmc baking show

⋆.˚୨୧ intubation on rainbow road -> loading...

[mottesk]

SANE Dana my beloved

[allternativee]

insane work!! literally stopped me in my tracks, the emotions in her eyes, ugh. so good.

[kosmogrl]

[qalbtalk-deactivated20231105]

“…use things to have good days.”

[narcissistcookbook]

the loading screen trying to convince me to use even one of my 3000 consumables

[fladurblegon]

“What if poor people abuse the system?”

The system intrinsically abuses poor people.

Hope this helps.

[breninarthur]

"What if poor people abuse the system?"

Rich people abuse the system far more and out of pure greed, not necessity or desperation so idrc about that

[abbotafterhours]

whoops? (jack abbot x er nurse!reader)

pairing: jack abbot x female!ernurse!reader

word count: 1,616 words

author's note: yeah im up late watching edits on TikTok from the new ep what about it 😔 first time writing for jack so hoping I can get his character right!! enjoy x

warnings: 100% medical inaccuracies (i'm literally an art teacher), some descriptions of injury and panic but nothing crazy, older! Jack and younger! reader (i'm thinking late twenties early thirties), established relationship!

description: it's the 4th of July and Jack is absolutely not supposed to be anywhere near the pitt right now, especially when you're begging Dana not to call him after a fall leaves you with a bloody nose and one hell of an ego death

"Dana, I'm fine, honestly, there's no reason to call him, he's probably asleep anyways-"

"Hon, you and me both know Jack Abbot doesn't know the meaning of the word sleep"

Okay. She's right. There's a higher chance that Jack is somewhere fighting a bear right now rather than sleeping. After almost 5 years together, nothing shocks you about him anymore. But one thing's for certain, you really don't want him seeing you like this.

It's the 4th of July. It's messy, there are people dressed up in all sorts of red, white and blue, and you've administered more banana bag IVs to too-drunk, too-young patients than you have in your entire nursing career. You were so busy, running around, keeping things in order while Dana was with an SA victim, no wonder you didn't notice the puddle of puke from said patients right in the middle of the floor.

Yeah, totally acceptable. 100% fine for a nurse with as much experience as you have. No biggy, right?

Except for the fact that you're now sitting in room 3 with blood covering the lower portions of your face, a pretty bad black eye, and an ego so bruised you think it hurts more than your nose that's twisting awkwardly to the right-hand side. You begged Dana to keep you off the charts and ignore your emergency contact. Your very sleep deprived, very grumpy, very worried all of the time older boyfriend. You're pretty sure you've convinced her. And that's when you hear it.

Boot Steps. Shit.

You can hear it amongst the rushed, rubber soled shuffle of the doctors and nurses, amonst the chaotic clatter of gurney wheels. You can hear it because you're used to it, they're the kind of footsteps that don't ask permission to enter a room.

Your stomach drops, and Dana's voice drifts down the hall, outside of the curtain. "Abbot, funny seeing you here-"

And there he is. In a SWAT medic vest, sleeves shoved up to his forearms, sweat stuck to his brow and enveloped within the silver curls your fingers often call home. His jaw is tight enough to crack a tooth, and you can just imagine what he smells like, if it wasn't for the, y'know, the obvious olfactory blockage situation you have going on.

His eyes are on you in an instant, and he can't ignore how his usually steady hands feel a slight tremor in them. You open your mouth to speak first. "Okay, I know this looks bad, but before you say anything-"

He runs his right hand over his face. Jack is too old for this.

"What the hell happened?"

"Huh, um. Y'know. 4th of July. Occupational hazard. Gravity is a thing and puke is slippery and everything was just a complete mess. Hey, why are you wearing your SWAT gear?"

His tired eyes drag over your face with a clinical precision that only a seasoned attending has. Bloody nose, the beginning of a black eye, the swelling already setting in. He steps closer without asking. You hate how your heart rate spikes as the monitor Dana has insisted you wear exposing you with a soft, but albeit faster, beep.

Right about now, you wish you had a way cooler story to tell your hot, sweaty boyfriend. Maybe now's not the time to be thinking about the way his arms are tensing in that uniform.

"One of the guys took a round right to the neck. Brought him in ten minutes ago. You know how much I hate golf, sweetheart"

Of course he did. Of course the universe would do this to you.

Jack's fingers take a soft hold of your chin, moving your face from side to side, so much gentler than the rest of him looks capable of right now. His thumb brushes under your nose, checking the bleeding.

"Jack, are you okay? I mean-"

"Shut up and hold still"

And there's the Jack you know. The Jack you met for the first time five years ago, elbow deep in someone's chest, shouting orders to Shen and Ellis to get an OR ready. Doctor voice Jack has suddenly made you completely forget about the thumping between your eyebrows. He's commanding, focused, knows exactly who he is and why he's here, and knows he's damn good at it, too.

You glare at him anyways. "I am not one of your patients", you mumble, extremely aware of the fact that you look like death warmed up right about now.

"No," he agrees, eyes narrowing at the angle your nose sits at. "You're so much worse."

Worse. Because you're his. Because he knows you wouldn't have called. Because he knows you're easily embarassed. Because he knows how much you worry about him, and how you never let him worry about you.

You watch the moment any ounce of anger melts into something else. It's fear. It's subtle, but you know him too well to recognise it as anything else. There's a tightness around his eyes and a swallow he tries to hide. His calloused fingers have a small shake in them and you curse yourself for whatever fucked up thing you did in a past life to make the love of your life feel like this.

"Did you lose consciousness?"

"No"

"Nausea? Vomiting?"

"No. Just complete humiliation. Santos picked me up off the floor. And she's the cool one I'm trying to impress."

His mouth twitches. It's almost a smile. Almost.

He leans closer, inspecting your eye. "You're gonna have one hell of a shiner, kid"

"Oh, good. Adds to my charm, don't you think?"

Jack snorts.

Dana, the traitor that she is, quietly slips out of the room.

You exhale slowly. "It was stupid. There was like, a whole puddle of vomit on the floor I didn't see and I just went down. It's not dramatic. Just, like, ridicously embarrassing"

His jaw flexes. "You could've broken your orbital. Or your neck"

"But I didn't"

You cross your arms, which is kind of hard to do when you're sitting on a hospital bed in scrubs with a large amount of gauze in your lap. Jacks eyes narrow at your sudden movement, and you roll your eyes.

"You're being intense"

"Sweetheart, I'm always intense"

"Jack-"

His hands slide to your wrist before you can finish. You catch the way his eyes are looking directly at the gauze below you, covered in blood. He knows as well as you do that any injury around the head always bleeds worse and looks worse than it actually is.

"Just, you don't get to scare me like that. That's my job"

You blink.

This isn't existential crisis, grumpy Dr Jack Abbot. This is the version of him only you get to see. The one who pretends he doesn't hover, pretends the hair tie in his truck is one you left there and not from a pack he bought especially for you. This Jack Abbot knows you prefer sugar free strawberry apricot redbull to any other sweet drink, and how much time you spend picking out a cute undershirt for your scrubs in the morning. (It's white with tiny little love hearts, by the way)

"I didn't mean to. I'm really sorry"

Jack laughs. "I know. Don't apologise"

His thumb brushes over your pulse point, as if to check you're still here with him.

"You should be home," you murmur. "It's the fourth. You worked literally all night."

He gives you a pointed look. "And you slipped in some teenager's vomit and rearranged your face"

"Okay. Rude."

"Accurate."

You huff out a small laugh through your nose, and wince immediately.

His hand finds your jaw again. "Easy."

He sighs, that deep, exhausted exhale that sounds like it carries the weight of every shift he's ever worked.

"I spend my nights watching people hurt, and bleed, and some don't even get that chance to do that before they're taken away in a damn body bag," he says. "I don't need to walk into my own hospital and find you on a stretcher"

"This is a bed, you know"

He glares. You swallow.

His hands fall to your thighs, moving you sideways so you're sat upright with your legs swinging off the side of the bed. The gauze falls then, but the way he steps inbetween your knees makes both of you forget about it.

"Next time," he says, his voice firm again, "you call me. Straight away"

"Even if I just bruise my ego?"

"Especially then"

You search his face. The gruff edges. The salt and pepper threading through his stubble. The very man who pretends he's made of stone but made you heart shaped pancakes for Valentines day.

"You're off shift"

"Jesus, Jack. I'm fine-"

"You're off," He repeats. "I'll talk to Dana"

You squint at him. "It's the fourth. You can't just-

"Oh. I absolutely can"

"You're not my boss, Abbot", you smile then, poking his bicep.

"No," He says, brushing a stray piece of hair away from your face and moving his right hand up towards your cheek, holding you there. "I'm worse"

There it is again.

Because he loves you. Even if he rarely says it first.

His hold on your chin is protectice, an automatic thing that has you leaning against the warm palm of his hand.

"You're done playing hero for tonight"

You nod.

"Good."

He leans down, and presses a kiss to your temple, careful of where you're hurting the most. You feel like putty under his hands as he touches you like you're made of gold.

"You sure know how to keep an old man on his toes," he murmurs against your skin.

You smile faintly. "Whoops?"

He huffs a laugh. A real, honest laugh.

"Yeah," he says. "Whoops"

[theetherealbloom]

ALL FOR SOMETHING – SERIES MASTERLIST

THE PITT MAIN MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST |

Summary: It’s your birthday, but The Pitt doesn’t slow down for that. Between subway accidents, drownings, shootings, and the quiet heartbreak of patients who come back again and again, you do your best to keep your hands steady and your head clear. Somewhere in the blur of alarms and blood, you realize you’re holding onto something you shouldn’t—feelings for your quietly grieving chief attending. At The Pitt, you don’t just learn how to save lives.

You learn how hard it is to ignore your own heart.

Pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x FilipinaNurseFem!Reader

Warnings: 18+ Unrequited Love, Second-Chance, Friends-to-Lovers ANGST, Slow Burn Romance, She falls first, but He falls harder, Yearning, Delayed Hurt to Comfort, Depression, PTSD, Flashbacks, Medical Inaccuracies, Suicidal Ideation, Anxiety, Age-Gap (Robby is in his 50s, what did you think?), Insecurities, Longing, PittFest, Blood, Needles, Death of a patient, Reader has a nickname (Ducky), Gossip, Passive Aggressiveness, Sassy!Robby, Sad!Robby, Dark Humor, Jokes about unaliving (it's unserious, I swear), Medicated!Reader, Hospitals, EMTs, Lots of medical jargon, Miscommunication, Flirting, Slight Jealousy,

Main Song: The Knocker by Tiny Habits

Note: Gif in the moodboard by @/wesandresons. Each chapter is one episode of The Pitt, so the chapters are hella long. Thank you!

SEASON ONE:

Chapter 1: Everything's Circling Around Us

Chapter 2: Maybe He Doesn't Care For Sentiment, Or He Doesn't Care For You

Chapter 3: My Persistence Left Me Empty-Handed

Chapter 4: I Should've Learned By Now, You Would Say The Words Out Loud Just To Break Me In Half

Chapter 5: When You Drown Once, It's Scary To Swim Again

Chapter 6: You Turned Me Into Something, And I Allowed You

Chapter 7: Why'd You Have To Leave Me Here Still Hoping?

Chapter 8: I Know It'll Take Time, Some Time To Get Over You

Chapter 9: With The Way You Look At Me, I'm Scared It's Gonna Happen Again

Chapter 10: For Me To Let Go Of What You Meant To Me

Chapter 11: I Wish I Didn’t Feel Like A Burden All The Time

Chapter 12: We Both Got What You Asked For

Chapter 13: The System Works, And We All Stay Terrified

Chapter 14: But You Dream Of Some Epiphany

Chapter 15: TBD

SEASON TWO:

[flowersforbucky]

petals for armor

vignettes of your relationship with jack abbot told through the five love languages.

word count: 13k+ ~ warnings/tags: 18+ only mdni, canon level description of injuries, lack of medical knowledge lol, nurse!reader, some angst, fluff, reader has a workplace stalker, no use of y/n, fem reader, heated kissing and implied smut, every cliche jack abbot trope crammed in one fic, some emotional hurt/comfort, ever so slight sugar daddy vibes but not really, slow burnish until it’s not !

author’s note: wrote this same concept for bucky and adrian too. can’t control myself, clearly. here’s my version for jack! big shoutout to my girl @fru1t4fr0gs for reading this 87 times for me over the course of the last month xoxoxo <3

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Words of Affirmation

“Where the hell is Jack?”

A fellow nurse you had asked moments ago only shrugged in response, and Dr. Walsh barely looked up from her computer to mumble your guess is as good as mine.

If anyone were to ask why you’re curious of his whereabouts, you would spew some excuse about needing to ask him a question about the patient who got her hand stuck in a garbage disposal.

But that wouldn’t be your true reason for asking. No, Mrs. Sawyer is currently snoring after maxing out her morphine drip, so for the time being, she’s not your concern.

Jack is your concern.

He’s been quiet. Withdrawn. Solemn in the way that he gets sometimes, but tonight it’s worse than you’ve seen before. He isn’t exactly the most chipper person even on his best days, but you picked up on the minute change in his demeanor from the moment he greeted you at the beginning of the shift.

No one else seems to have noticed. If they have, they haven’t pointed it out.

But you’re hyperaware of him in a way that you have no business being. It isn’t your place to take such notice of him, and yet you do. Sometimes you think that your job would be easier if you only paid as much attention to him as you do Shen, or Robby, or Whitaker, or Santos.

Quite literally anyone else.

“He asked me to keep an eye on the patient in bay three and then wandered off,” Shen sighs. “Saw him going in the direction of the west stairwell when I was on my way back from the break room if that helps.”

“West stairwell?” You mumble under your breath. There’s only one reason he would be walking in the direction of the west stairwell that you can think of.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’s gone up to the hospital rooftop to clear his mind, though you can’t say you’ve ever known of him to do so in the middle of the night.

Especially not without his coat when it’s 25 degrees outside.

Call it a hunch. Something in your gut telling you that he isn’t in the staff lounge, or bathroom, or an empty on-call room. The grating voice in the back of your mind is telling you he’s on that damn roof.

“Hey, I’ll be right back,” you call to Shen as you grab the black Columbia off the back of Jack’s desk chair, walking away before Shen can ask where you’re going.

Before you can think of grabbing your cardigan. Before you can think of anything, really. You haven’t the vaguest idea what you’ll say if your suspicion is confirmed when you open the stairwell door and find him on the rooftop, but you don’t let that stop you from putting one foot in front of the other until you reach the top of the stairs with his jacket clutched to your chest.

When you start to open the door, you pause with your hand on the knob. It crosses your mind that it isn’t too late for you to turn back - to walk back down the stairs and hang his coat on his chair and resume your job before he can ever know that you came up here to check on him.

That would be the smart thing to do. Then you wouldn’t risk crossing any professional boundaries or potentially blurring the lines between the level of concern you would show towards any random coworker, and one that makes your brain turn to static anytime you find yourself in his general vicinity.

But then you recall the forlorn look on his face as he typed up discharge papers at his desk when he thought no one was watching. The way he kept rubbing the bridge of his nose like he had a headache that just wouldn’t go away. How he hasn’t cracked one sarcastic comment in the last eight hours.

That pesky, persistent voice in the back of your mind tells you that he would do the same for you, though you doubt her reliability. She’s been known to tell you what you want to hear.

You listen anyway, and open the door.

He doesn’t turn around or glance over his shoulder at the sound of the creaking door - he doesn’t even flinch, and you have to wonder if he heard you at all over the low howl of the wind. You step out into the cold, mentally cursing yourself for not taking the time to grab your cardigan.

You stop when you reach the guardrail. He stands just beyond it, several feet from the ledge of the building with his hands in his scrub pockets. Light from the full moon reflects off his salt and pepper curls and even from here, you can see goosebumps on the skin of his neck.

“Beautiful moon tonight,” you muse. “Pretty sure it would look just as nice from behind the rail, though.”

His shoulders lift with a faint, amused chuckle. “I can’t give Mrs. Sawyer anymore morphine,” he says without turning to look at you.

You huff a laugh, crossing your arms over your chest to attempt to shield yourself from the cold night air as you will your teeth not to chatter. “Mrs. Sawyer is sound asleep. I’m here for you.”

He finally glances over his shoulder, an expression that you can’t quite read on his face. “How’d you know I’d be up here?”

“Just a lucky guess.” You shrug, then duck between the railing to come stand beside him. He glances down, noticing the coat in your arms at the same moment you hold it out to him. “Thought you’d be cold.”

He stares at you for a moment before accepting it, but he doesn’t put it on as you expect him to. Instead, he takes a step in your direction, stopping right in front of you, and drapes the coat around your shoulders.

Your breath catches in your throat.

“You’re shaking like a leaf,” he murmurs. He reluctantly drops his hands back down to his sides, but doesn’t step away from you.

“That does tend to happen when it’s below freezing outside, doctor.”

He looks like he’s fighting the urge to smirk, but then he looks away, back to the full moon and city lights in front of you. He’s silent for a moment and then sighs. “Today is the anniversary of losing my leg.”

You exhale, your breath clouding in front of your lips. He continues to watch the night sky before him as you watch him. His jaw tenses and he seems to try to swallow down whatever he’s feeling. “Oh, Jack,” you murmur. “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

He never talks about his leg. Never calls any attention to it, if he can help it. Doesn’t let it define him. Hell, you didn’t even learn that he’s an amputee until three months after switching to the night shift, when you walked into the break room to find him adjusting his prosthetic.

This is the same man who didn’t hesitate to use one leg to donate his own blood while actively working on a critically injured patient, while his other is in a prosthetic. Of course he hasn’t mentioned the anniversary of the day he’d lost his leg before.

So for him to confess this to you now…that’s not something you take lightly.

Jack shakes his head, still not meeting your gaze. “Most years, it doesn’t even cross my mind. It’s just another day to me. But tonight, when Mrs. Sawyer wakes up, I have to tell her that she’s going to lose her hand. That it isn’t salvageable. I have to deliver the same news that I received on this same day.”

You glance down at the ground. The news doesn’t come as much of a surprise to you. You had seen Mrs. Sawyer’s mangled hand with your own two eyes when she first arrived earlier tonight. She’d dropped her wedding ring down the disposal, reached in to try to grab it without thinking, and the disposal turned on all its own. A stuck switch, electrical shortage, faulty wiring…who knows. In the blink of an eye, her life is changed by one freak accident.

You don’t know the specifics of how Jack had lost his leg, but you wonder if that’s how he had felt, too, all those years ago.

But you don’t ask. Instead, you grab his hand in yours and give it a tight squeeze. The warmth of his palm against yours offers the smallest reprieve from the cold and his hands are far softer than you would have ever expected, but you force yourself to let go when his gaze snaps back to yours.

“I’m sorry it has to be you,” you murmur. “But for whatever it’s worth…if it were me, I wouldn’t want it to be anyone else.”

He exhales, the cold air turning his breath to fog. His lips part, then press together again like he wants to say something but can’t find his voice. The look on his face says it all, though.

I don’t know if I can do this. Not tonight.

“I mean it,” you implore. “It’s going to suck for you to say and it’s going to suck for her to hear. But she has you, and that’s one thing going right for her tonight. There’s only so many people in this world that can relate to what she’s going through, and she gets to have one of them as her doctor.”

He’s quiet for a moment as your words settle over him. Then, the corners of his mouth turn up ever so slightly. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but it’s something. “You know, I think the world of you as a nurse…but if for some reason you ever decide to change career paths, you should consider motivational speaking.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you snort, your cheeks warming at the compliment. “But until then…” You trail off, contemplating your next words. Not wanting to come on too strong while also needing him to know that you mean what you’re about to say from the bottom of your heart.

“Until then, you don’t have to do it alone. I’ll be there when she wakes up. I’ll stay with you while you tell her. If you want, that is.”

Not just tonight, you almost add. Any night. Every night. If you’ll let me.

“And as much as I appreciate this—” You glance down at his coat that still hugs you, “I’d appreciate you coming back inside with me a lot more. She’ll be waking up soon. She needs you. I need you.”

He huffs out a quiet laugh and nods. “Alright. You win. Let’s go inside before you get hypothermia and I have to fill out an incident report.”

He starts to turn towards the guardrail behind you when he pauses, placing a tentative hand on your waist. It's barely there, a featherlight kind of touch - the kind you probably wouldn’t even feel if you didn’t glance down for visual confirmation.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. “For looking for me.”

You shiver. You tell yourself it’s because of the wind.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Always.”

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Gift Giving

“What are you doing here?” Cassie muses the second she sees you walk through the emergency department’s doors - just loudly enough to draw the attention of Dana, Santos, Whitaker, and everyone else within twenty feet of the nurse’s station. “You haven’t worked on your birthday once the entire time you’ve been here.”

You glare at her, making a mental note to get her back for that the first chance you get.

She knows exactly why you chose to work tonight - and right now, you’re just relieved that he has yet to arrive for his shift and therefore isn’t here to witness this conversation.

“I didn’t know today’s your birthday,” Santos says, seemingly intrigued by the teasing expression on Cassie’s face and the annoyance on yours.

“It’s not my birthday.”

“It’s not her birthday yet,” Cassie clarifies, glancing down at her watch. “But it will be her birthday in approximately five hours.”

“Jesus,” you sigh, staring up at the screen above you to see what kind of shitshow you have willingly walked into by agreeing to cover a shift for Perlah earlier this week. “I’m a big girl. Sometimes big girls have to work on their birthdays. Perlah needed her shift covered, so here I am.”

You omit the fact that you were more than happy to do so because it meant having an excuse to spend part of your birthday with a certain attending that you knew would be on shift, as per usual on Monday nights/Tuesday mornings.

It’s not as if you had any major birthday plans to begin with. Other than getting dinner with Cassie and Samira tomorrow evening, your only plans include binge-watching and bedrotting. Picking up an extra shift tonight interferes with none of that, but…

You do feel a little silly. You wouldn’t dare ever admit it to Cassie, but she’s right. You don’t normally work on your birthday. Someone else more than likely would have been willing to cover Perlah’s shift. You don’t have to be here right now.

But you want to be. As silly - and maybe even a little bit pathetic - as it may be, you want to be.

Unfortunately for you, by the time the clock strikes midnight and it’s officially your birthday, you’ve barely even had the chance to exchange a handful of words with your entire reason for agreeing to work this shift.

Jack has been in the middle of an emergency splenectomy for the last three hours, and you? Lena assigned you the time-consuming, meticulous task of removing hundreds of bits of gravel from a severe case of road rash.

Isn’t that how everyone dreams of kicking off their birthday?

It succeeded in keeping you occupied for a few hours, at least - even if it is the type of mindless work that allows your thoughts to venture into territory they absolutely fucking shouldn’t when you’re picking tiny rocks out of a bloody crater on someone’s leg.

The feeling of Jack’s fingertips on your waist as he stood mere inches away from you on the rooftop what feels like just yesterday.

Him walking you to your car damn near every morning since even though you’re parked farther from the hospital entrance than he is, and the way he hesitates a little longer to say goodbye each time.

All of the times he has shown up to work with two coffees instead of one, and one just so happens to be your go-to order.

And, most recently, the elevator incident just yesterday - when he had oh so casually asked what your plans for your next day off are.

Friday, you had told him. Your next day off is Friday, and you don’t have any plans other than deep-cleaning your apartment and catching up on laundry. He had leaned back against the elevator wall, looking at you in that way that makes your heart behave erratically.

“That’s too bad,” Jack sighed. “Someone should give you something to actually look forward to on your day off.”

Then the elevator came to a stop, the doors slid open, and he walked out like he hadn’t just made you forget how to string two words together.

It wasn’t until hours later, on the drive home after your shift, that you were able to think of what you should have said instead of staring at him with your mouth agape like a fish out of water.

Oh, yeah? And who is someone?

Is that your professional opinion, or personal one?

Let me know when you think of something that I can actually look forward to, then.

But no. You said none of those things, and then found an excuse to stay for nearly an hour after your shift had technically ended so that you wouldn’t make an even bigger fool out of yourself when he would inevitably offer to walk you to your car.

You replay the interaction over and over again in your head the entire time you’re removing gravel from the wound, but finally, you finish.

You’re pulling the bloody nitrile gloves off of your hands when Jack appears in the doorway, still wearing a scrub cap and looking like he could use a few shots of espresso.

“Hey,” you breathe, unable to stop the smile that blooms across your face as soon as you see him. “How did the splenectomy go?”

“He’s going to be okay,” he exhales, tugging off his cap and revealing tousled salt and pepper curls. “He’s in recovery now.” Then, he glances around, as if making sure no one is paying any mind to either of you. “Do you think you could sneak away for a few?” He asks, voice low. “Meet me in the empty on-call room in about ten minutes?”

Your heart thuds in your chest. He’s smirking, but there’s something in his hazel eyes that makes you think he looks a little nervous.

“Yeah,” you nod without missing a beat. “Yeah, of course. Just let me get him some more pain meds and I’ll be right there.” You nod towards the road rash patient scrolling on his phone behind you. “Is everything okay?”

He takes a step back and winks. “Everything’s just fine, birthday girl.”

And then he turns, walking away and leaving you speechless for the second day in a row.

You haven’t even had a chance to remind him of your birthday tonight. In fact, you don’t recall mentioning your birthday to him at any point recently. A few days ago, you told him that you would be picking up Perlah’s shift tonight, but you hadn’t said a word about it being your birthday.

Did Cassie say something to him? Maybe a playful comment as she was leaving earlier about you deciding to work on your birthday? But even so, why would that result in him asking you to meet him in an empty on-call room?

By the time you give road rash guy a maximum dose of Toradol and blurt out some excuse about needing to use the bathroom as you powerwalk past the nurse’s station, your palms are drenched in sweat and your stomach feels like it’s swinging on a pendulum.

You raise your hand to the knob, hesitate for half a moment - just long enough to recall the lilt in his voice when he practically cooed birthday girl - and then, before you can chicken out, push it open.

The first thing you notice is how dim the small room is. Aside from the pale orange glow of a lamp next to the bed, the room is dark.

But not so dark that you can’t see Jack sitting on the edge of the bed, holding a cupcake in one hand and a pocket lighter in the other.

“I would sing to you, but I don’t want to torture you on your special day.” He ignites the lighter, holding the flame to the singular candle until it catches fire. “Don’t tell Dana,” he murmurs, standing up to walk the few feet to where you stand frozen in shock. “I took her spare lighter from her desk.”

You’re at a loss for words - which is quickly becoming the norm for when you’re near him. The only coherent thought you can manage to formulate is that right now, you’re so grateful that Perlah asked you to cover her shift.

You take a step closer to him now that your brain seems to be remembering to send signals to your limbs to move. “Do you always bring the nurses cupcakes on their birthdays, or is this something new you’re trying out?”

He hums a laugh. “Only my favorites. Now go on,” he encourages gently. “Make a wish.”

You hesitate, pursing your lips as you wait to see if he’s joking.

The look on his face makes it clear that he’s not.

And you’re not about to tell him no, so you close your eyes, lean in closer, and blow out the tiny flame while silently wishing for the only thing you have really wanted since you met him.

He hands you the cupcake as soon as you open your eyes. “I don’t suppose there’s any way I could persuade you to tell me what you wished for?”

You huff a breathless laugh. “I don’t think so. Gotta do everything I can to ensure that it comes true.”

“I didn’t take you to be superstitious.”

You shrug, thinking of your wish. Thinking of what he said to you in the elevator yesterday. Thinking of the way he’s looking at you right this second. “I’m usually not.”

It’s true. You’ve never considered yourself to be superstitious. But you aren’t going to take any chances with this wish.

Jack’s gaze lingers on your face for one impossibly long moment before he glances over his shoulder at the bed behind him. It’s only then that you see something that you had been too distracted to notice when you first entered the room and found him holding the cupcake and lighter.

A small gift bag with white tissue paper sticking out of the opening sits on the bed.

“Jack, you really didn’t have to get—”

“I know I didn’t have to,” he laughs lowly, cutting you off before you can finish protesting. “But I wanted to, so I did.”

The already tiny room suddenly feels infinitely smaller. The cupcake alone was thoughtful enough to have your heart performing cartwheels in your chest. Hell, the fact that he even remembered your birthday without you directly mentioning it to him is enough to make you swoon. But all of this?

You’re so fucked. Entirely and irrevocably fucked.

You don’t remember the last time you felt so nervous to open any gift. Not at any childhood birthday party or family Christmas when dozens of eyes were glued to you.

It’s just Jack. There’s no reason to be nervous, you think to yourself as you place the cupcake on the bedside table and take a seat on the edge of the mattress.

Exactly. It’s Jack. Jack, who went out of his way to …bake you a cupcake? Or stop by a bakery on his way to work and buy you a cupcake? And personally pick out a gift for you? And find you the second that he finished performing an emergency splenectomy so that he could give you the aforementioned cupcake and gift in private?

You will your hands not to tremble as you delicately pull the tissue paper from the bag. Jack takes a seat beside you, and even though you don’t meet his gaze, you can feel his stare locked onto your face as he awaits your reaction.

You peek inside the bag, and you see it. Already unboxed. A stethoscope.

But not just any stethoscope. A really fucking pricey stethoscope.

The tubing is your favorite color and your initial is engraved into the bell in cursive lettering.

“Oh,” you breathe, too stunned to remember any of the other hundreds of thousands of words in the English language.

He clears his throat and gives a tiny shrug that does little to conceal how intently he’s watching you. “I know you’ve been using the same one since you first started working here,” he murmurs as you pull the stethoscope from the bag and hold it in your hands as if it’s made of glass. “This one should last you a while.”

You trace the engraved letter with your fingertip. “It’s beautiful,” you whisper, finally looking up at him. “But this…Jack, this is too much. You shouldn’t have spent this much money.”

“It’s not.” He shakes his head, gently shushing you, soft but firm. “I wouldn’t have spent it if I didn’t have it, but I do.”

He smirks, pausing for a second as he takes the stethoscope from you. He leans in, lifting the tubing over your head and looping it around your neck. His knuckles faintly brush your collarbone as the bell settles just over your heart.

“And maybe, selfishly, I’ll enjoy seeing it around your neck knowing that I put it there.”

You exhale a breathless laugh, your skin ablaze at both his words and the timber of his voice. “I’ll wear it every day, then.” Then, feeling brave, you scoot closer to him, closing the remaining distance between you and him until the side of your leg rests against his. “How’d you know my favorite color, anyway?”

Even in the dim lamp lighting, you can see a hint of pink bloom on his cheeks. He grins, the lines around his eyes crinkling. “Oh, I don’t know. It’s only the color of your water bottle, your phone case, your lunch box…”

You laugh to play off how it makes your heart swell that he noticed any of those things.

“And I might have asked Cassie,” he sighs, shaking his head. “Just to be one hundred percent sure.”

The look on Cassie’s face and her teasing comments when you’d first arrived for your shift earlier tonight suddenly pop into your head.

Of course she had known. Damn her.

At least she can keep a secret.

“It’s perfect,” you hum. “I love it. Thank you.”

“You deserve it. Especially since you’ve gotta be here on your birthday.”

You chuckle nervously, looking down at your hands in your lap to avoid his stare. “Yeah, about that…”

You hesitate before continuing, briefly considering regurgitating the same excuse you had tried to feed everyone else about only working tonight because Perlah needed her shift covered.

It isn’t a lie. But it also isn’t the truth.

The stethoscope hanging around your neck suddenly feels like it weighs fifty pounds. It serves as tangible proof that you don’t need to hold back, that he cares about you as much as you do him. That he isn’t going to make you feel silly. That, for whatever reason, he wants to be near you as much as you want to be near him.

“I was happy to say yes when Perlah asked me to cover her shift. I wanted to be here on my birthday. Well…wanted to be with you on my birthday,” you quickly amend.

Jack places his hand over yours with a heartfelt laugh. “I wish you had told me. I would have rearranged my shifts so I’d be off tonight,” he sighs. “I’ll remember that next year. But in the meantime…”

Next year. The words seem to ping pong around in your brain. You glance up at him to find he’s already looking at you.

“You said that your next day off is Friday?”

He’s so close that it’s dizzying. All you can manage is a small nod of confirmation.

“Here’s what I propose, then,” he starts, his thumb rubbing slow circles over the top of your hand, “Friday evening, you let me give you a birthday redo. Unless you’re too committed to catching up on your laundry, that is.”

The words you hadn’t said aloud when you made your wish just moments ago echo through your mind.

“I’m off on Saturday as well,” you hum. “I’m sure the world will keep spinning if I put it off for one more day.”

“Then it’s settled,” he says simply. “Friday night. Birthday redo. You and me.”

“Don’t you…always work on Friday nights?” You ask hesitantly. Every part of you wants to say yes, yes, yes, duh, of course - but in the entire time you’ve worked with Jack Abbot, you’ve never known him to be off on Friday nights.

Something about weekend shifts being more exciting than weekday shifts.

He huffs a quiet laugh that you feel the soft vibration of from where his hand rests atop yours and your thigh brushes against his.

“That’s not for you to worry about,” he murmurs. “Just get through these next few shifts and I’ll take care of the rest.”

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Acts of Service

The following seventy-two hours drag.

You would think that twelve hour shifts would make the days go by quickly, but no. Not when your first official date with Jack awaits you at the end of the week, occupying your every waking thought at work, at home, and in your fucking sleep.

It certainly doesn’t help that Jack refuses to tell you what he has planned for said date. You’ve asked, but every time you do, he just smirks and says he doesn’t want to ruin the surprise.

Anticipation alone, you could probably handle. But anticipation and curiosity? You’ve been slowly losing your mind since Tuesday night.

Now, finally, it is officially Friday. It’s just after midnight, which means you just have to finish the remainder of this shift, go home and get some sleep, and when you wake up it’ll be time to get ready for your date with—

“Your admirer is back.”

Your fingers freeze over the keyboard as you’re working on charting for a patient who came in complaining of urinary pain. You glance up to see Lena looking down at you with what can be best described as an amused grimace.

She steps aside, giving you enough space to look over your shoulder to where an annoyingly familiar face is grinning at you from the bed in bay two.

“Jesus,” you sigh, turning back to your computer screen. “This is his third visit this month. What kind of insane health insurance does he have?” You grumble, more to yourself than Lena.

“Small laceration to the left palm,” Lena explains. “Says he cut it cleaning up glass from a broken liquor bottle. Judging by the way he smells, I’d say he’s telling the truth.”

Now it’s your turn to grimace. Trey - your admirer, as Lena had referred to him - has a habit of stumbling into the ER late at night after drinking too much and sustaining minor injuries that hardly justify a trip to the emergency room.

And every time, he asks for you.

He uses the same pick-up lines every time, stares a little too much, and reeks of whatever alcohol he’s been drinking that night, but he’s always been harmless enough.

This isn’t your first day on the job. You’ve had your fair share of Treys throughout your years working in the emergency department.

“It’s small and shallow,” she continues. “Doesn’t need stitches. Should be fine with some steri-strips, but I can ask Mateo to do it if you don’t wanna deal with him.”

“Mateo has his hands full with the lady with the dog bite that came in about ten minutes ago,” you sigh resignedly, pushing your chair back to stand up. “I’ll just get it over with. If I don’t, he’ll find some other way to fuck himself up enough to come right back here.”

You glance down at your watch. 12:36 am. Just six hours and twenty-four minutes left in this shift.

“Hey, gorgeous,” Trey greets you with slurred words and a shit-eating grin as soon as he sees you approaching his bedside. “I had a feeling you’d be here tonight.”

“This is my full time job,” you quip, not caring enough to try to conceal the annoyance from your voice or facial expression. Even from several feet away, you can smell the stout stench of liquor on him. “So, what is it now, Trey? Lena said something about you getting cut when you tried to clean up glass from a broken bottle?”

“Yeah,” he laughs, drawing out the word. “Clumsy me, right? Total accident.”

“Right,” you deadpan, sliding your hands into nitrile gloves. “Well, let me take a look.”

You take his hand as firmly as you can without technically being rough and turn his palm upwards. It’s exactly as Lena had described - short, shallow, already clotting well - and definitely not worth a trip to the fucking ER. He winces anyway, milking it.

“Ow,” he drawls. “Be careful with me, sweetheart.”

You ignore that, because you’ve become a professional at ignoring Trey and other men like him. You lean in slightly, inspecting the wound for any shards of glass.

“Okay,” you say, all business. “I don’t see any glass, so that’s good. I’m just going to clean it and then close it with steri-strips.”

“Whatever you want. I like when you take charge.” His breath wafts into your face in a thick cloud of cheap vodka and something soured - judging by the mystery stain on the neckline of his t-shirt, you wouldn’t be surprised if it were the stench of his own vomit. You purse your lips in a straight line to keep from making the face you really want to make.

You ignore that comment, too. You reach for the saline, starting to irrigate the laceration. He hisses dramatically.

“Oh, come on,” you mutter. You know you aren’t being professional, but you can’t find it in you to really care. “I’ve had cat scratches worse than this.”

“You could kiss it better,” he slurs, head lolling slightly in a poor attempt at a flirtatious grin.

“Not happening.”

You keep your eyes on the cut as you blot it dry, mentally counting down the minutes until you’re away from him. Mentally counting down the minutes your shift is over and you can go home and crawl into your cozy bed and sleep for hours, and then wake up and take a hot shower and put on something cute for Jack. The only issue with that is you don’t know what you should wear, because you don’t know where you’ll be going or what you’ll be doing—

A flash of silvery curls in your peripheral vision catches your attention. You glance over your shoulder and see Jack standing at the nurse’s station, leaning forward on his elbows, his expression unreadable as he watches you work. He must’ve just come out of trauma, or maybe he’s waiting on lab results; but either way, at this moment, he’s focused on you.

Warmth blooms on your cheeks.

“So…” Trey says, his voice dropping low. “What time do you get off?”

“Not soon enough,” you grumble under your breath, applying the first steri-strip.

“Maybe I could swing by your place later,” he continues, completely ignoring your uninterested, bored tone. “Y’know…hang out. You live at—” He pauses, face scrunching together as he tries to piece the thought together, “—at Carriage Park Apartments, right? In South Hills? You’re…what is it…unit 3B?”

Your blood goes cold and your hands stop moving.

“How the fuck do you know that?” You ask sharply, yanking your hands away from his.

Trey just grins. “Lucky guess, baby.”

It’s not a lucky guess. It’s spot on down to the exact unit.

Instinctively, you take a step back, but he immediately reaches toward you, clumsy but quick, grabbing the tubing of your new stethoscope where it’s draped across your chest.

“Hey—” You jerk backwards, but he doesn’t let you, inspecting the engraved initial on the bell of the stethoscope.

“This is nice,” he slurs. “You always wear this one? Or is it new? I saw on your friend Cassie’s Facebook page that it was your birthday the other day. Maybe it was a gift—”

“Let go,” you snap, trying to keep your voice even. You don’t want to draw the attention of any other patients, but you can literally feel your pulse spiking, hot bile churning in your gut—

But Trey doesn’t let go. His grip only tightens, and at that exact moment, Jack moves.

One second he’s watching like a hawk from the nurse’s station, and the next, he’s at your side, stepping in so quickly and decisively that you barely have time to register what’s happening. His hand clamps around Trey’s wrist - not hard enough to seriously injure him, but with enough strength that Trey’s face contorts in discomfort and he attempts to pull away.

“I suggest you take your hand off of her,” Jack’s voice is low but lethal.

Trey’s glassy eyes blink rapidly up at Jack. “Hey - hey, man,” he stammers. “I wasn’t - I wasn’t doing anything. Just talking to her and - and looking at her—”

“She told you to let go.”

You stand frozen as the interaction unfolds in front of you, your heart feeling as if it’s going to beat right out of your chest and onto the hospital floor.

“I was just joking around.” He says the words so quickly that they all run together. “You don’t gotta - hey, seriously, it’s fine. I’ll go—”

“Dr. Abbot, we’ll handle it from here.”

You vaguely register a security guard’s voice cut through the tension. Two officers appear at the entrance to the bay. You aren’t sure who even called them - knowing Lena, she probably had them on stand by when Trey stumbled in here drunk as a skunk and smelling like one, too.

Jack reluctantly releases Trey’s wrist. The moment he does, his hand finds your shoulder and he begins to guide you backwards, away from the bed and out of Trey’s reach.

“What’s going on here?” One of the guards - a new guy who you’ve never spoken to before - asks no one in particular.

Trey slumps back against the pillows, suddenly appearing very small. “I didn’t fuckin’ do anything,” he mutters, but even he doesn’t sound convinced.

The guards look to you and Jack for a legitimate explanation, which Jack quickly provides. “He grabbed her. She told him to let go, and he didn’t.”

The guard nods. “We’ll take care of it.”

Jack doesn’t wait for the rest. He already has his hand at the small of your back, steering you away from the bay and down a hallway until he reaches an empty consult room.

You don’t even realize just how hard your heart is still pounding until the door clicks shut.

Jack takes a step towards you, but doesn’t crowd you. He raises his hands like he’s going to touch you but stops himself, hands flexing awkwardly in front of him before dropping them back down to his sides.

“Are you okay?” He asks softly, his eyes searching for any obvious signs of physical or emotional distress.

You can’t think clearly enough to answer him right away. Instead, you turn away from him and walk the short distance to the loveseat in the corner of the small room. You take a deep breath in and then exhale, wringing your hands together as you normally do when you’re particularly anxious.

“He won’t be back here,” Jack assures you, watching you carefully from where he stands a few feet away. “Not if I have any say in it. He can risk bleeding out while driving to UPMC Mercy or Presbyterian for all I care—”

“He knows where I live,” you say quietly - barely a whisper, but it shuts him up.

“What?” He asks, though his tone of voice indicates he heard you perfectly fine. “He knows where you live? You’re sure?”

You nod, a fresh wave of nausea washing over you as you recall the satisfied smirk on his face when Trey witnessed your reaction to learning he knows your address.

“Positive.” You grimace. “I don’t know if he has followed me home from work before or what, but he knows where I live. Exact apartment number and all.”

Jack doesn’t say anything for a moment. He rakes a hand down his face, perhaps as stunned by this as you initially were. Your thoughts are reeling, thinking of all of the safety measures you’re going to need to take. You already have a doorbell camera, but you should set up some security cameras inside your apartment, too. An extra front door lock and additional window locks, for sure. A restraining order certainly isn’t a bad idea. There may be a way to terminate your lease early if stalking and harassment are involved - you aren’t really sure. You’ve never fucking been stalked before.

“Okay,” he sighs, sitting down next to you and interrupting your trainwreck of thoughts. “You can’t go back there. Not alone, anyway. After work, you can come back to my place. You can stay as long as you need. As long as you want. We’ll both go to your apartment and get some of your things—”

“Jack, don’t be ridiculous,” you say with a humorless laugh, turning to face him. There’s no hint of uncertainty on his face. You know he means every word he says, but you can’t just take up temporary residence in his home - as tempting as that may sound to you, the last thing you want is to be such an inconvenience before you’ve even gone on one date with the man.

“I can’t - won’t ask that of you. I can get a hotel room for the time being, until I figure out the terms of my lease. Hell, I could stay in an on-call room here for a few nights and I’d be perfectly safe. I know Whitaker did that at one point—”

Jack laughs. Not a humorless, half-hearted chuckle, but full, deep belly laugh. “Honey, you don’t know me if you think I’m going to have you sleeping on a cot in an on-call room or at a hotel where that fucker could follow you just as easily as your apartment.”

He shifts slightly on the loveseat, angling his body toward you. “You staying with me isn’t ridiculous,” he says, quieter. No longer laughing, but his expression is still soft. “It’s safe. And you’re not asking anything of me. I’m offering.”

You drop your gaze down to your hands in your lap. “I’d just…feel bad. I don’t want to intrude. We haven’t even gone on one date yet.”

He shakes his head. “That’s not the point. I don’t care if we’ve been on zero dates or a hundred. A drunk asshole grabbing you and telling you he knows where you live isn’t something that you sleep off in an on-call room.”

You swallow hard. “I don’t want to be a burden,” you murmur.

Don’t want to be a burden, but don’t want to stay anywhere else, either.

You can’t deny it, even to yourself. The second that Jack intervened, you felt safe. Sitting here beside him right now, you’re surprisingly calm given what just transpired. And the thought of going home with him, rather than sleeping in an on-call room or the first hotel you can find? Rather than going back to your apartment where Trey could be waiting for you after your shift? The thought of that brings you more comfort than you’re willing to admit.

His eyebrows lift in disbelief. “A burden?” He leans forward, forearms resting on his knees and his face just inches from yours. “Sweetheart, making sure that you’re safe doesn’t burden me. It matters to me.”

Sweetheart. When Trey had called you the petname, it made your skin crawl. But hearing it from Jack…it’s a term of endearment. Instead of making your skin crawl, it makes your stomach flutter with an entire kaleidoscope of butterflies.

It’s that very feeling that gives you the gentle push you need to say yes.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Jack and Lena each ask upwards of a dozen times if you’re sure that you’re alright to work the remainder of your shift.

Lena tries to insist that you take an extra long break and eat something. Jack offers to leave work long enough to drive you back to his place so that you can decompress in peace, but you refuse. You don’t have an appetite, and you don’t really want to be alone. You’re sure you would be completely safe at Jack’s, but you don’t want to be left alone with your thoughts. You just want to finish out the last few hours of your shift.

The best thing for you right now is to keep yourself busy, so that’s what you do. You take five minutes to freshen up in the employee bathroom, make yourself a coffee, and get back to it.

That is until the police show up and you, Jack, Lena, and the security guards all have to give statements as to what happened with Trey. You explain his multiple ER visits over the last month alone, how he always asks for you by name, and everything he said and did tonight. They take your statement, and ask if you want to press charges for stalking and harassment - to which you say yes, even though part of you is terrified of how Trey could react once he learns of this. You know it’s the right thing to do.

By the time it’s all said and done and seven o’clock rolls around, it feels like one of the longest shifts of your entire career and you’re beyond relieved for it to be over. So relieved, in fact, that you don’t even feel nervous about going to Jack’s condo until you’re literally walking through his front door.

You hadn’t let yourself dwell on it too much as he drove you to your apartment to collect some of your things. You swore that you were fine to drive your own vehicle and let him follow you, but he had insisted on driving you himself, and you were too tired to put up much of a fight.

As quickly as possible, you threw essentials into a duffel bag while Jack waited patiently in your living room. Hair care products, body wash, toothbrush and toothpaste, a few changes of clothes. Skincare and makeup essentials, perfume, and something cute to wear tonight - you do still have a date this evening, after all.

You were in and out in less than ten minutes.

Jack carries your bag up to his condo for you.

To no surprise, it’s significantly nicer than your apartment. Although you make decent money as an emergency department nightshift nurse, Pittsburgh rent prices are astronomical and you live alone, so you took the first apartment you could find that wasn’t going to completely break the bank every month.

You don’t even want to think about how much this place costs.

It’s damn near exactly how you had envisioned his home to be. There’s very little decor, but there’s still touches of him throughout the space. The large windows have thick blackout curtains - a telltale sign that someone who works at night and sleeps during the day lives here. The espresso machine that he’d been bragging about just last week sits on his kitchen counter. His coffee table is littered with random medical journals and books. It’s the perfect balance of clean and simple yet lived-in and domestic.

“Make yourself at home,” Jack murmurs, placing your duffel bag on the large sectional couch that you’re hovering beside awkwardly. Your heart skips a beat at the word home.

That’s just a thing people say. Make yourself at home - make yourself comfortable. He’s not being literal.

“Tell me what you need,” he says, voice low and warm. “Food? Sleep? A shower? I can make you coffee, breakfast, whatever you want. I don’t normally go to sleep until a few hours after I get home.”

Your stomach all but vibrates at the offer of food. You didn’t eat anything your entire shift. After Trey happened, the thought of eating was entirely unappealing. But now that some time has passed, and you’re away from the hospital, the hunger pains in your belly are becoming hard to ignore.

“At the risk of sounding needy…” You start with a breathy laugh. “All three of those things sound incredible right now.”

Shower, food, sleep. Preferably in that order.

“I’ll make us something to eat while you take a shower,” Jack hums, as if reading your mind. Your stomach does that erupts into hundreds of butterflies thing again that cannot be blamed solely on hunger. He takes a step towards you, placing a light, tentative hand on your waist. “How does that sound?”

It’s a simple question but it makes you lightheaded. You aren’t used to this - having someone take care of you in such mundane ways. Driving you around. Carrying your bag for you. Making you food. Getting you thoughtful, personalized gifts.

Part of you wonders if you’re even deserving of it. Any of it. Especially coming from him. But Jack’s a smart man. Rational. Self-assured. The kind of man who knows what he wants and doesn’t settle for less than that. And though you may not fully understand why…you’re the person standing in front of him with his hand on your waist right now.

You give a small nod. “That sounds good. Thank you.” You smile up at him. Then, remembering you don’t actually know your way around this place, you ask, “Where’s the guest room? I’ll take my bag in there.”

He sucks in air through his teeth. “About that…” He trails off with a shy laugh. “My guest room is currently functioning as a storage unit. You’ll be staying in my room. I’ll take the couch.”

“What?” You exclaim, eyes going wide. “No way. I’m not kicking you out of your bed in your own home, Jack.” You look at the giant sectional beside you. “There’s more than enough room for me on the couch. Get me a pillow and a blanket and I’ll be fine.”

“No way,” he snorts. Then, his other hand finds your waist, too. His chest is just inches from yours and you catch a whiff of something musky. You can’t argue back because you’re too busy remembering how to breathe. “Not happening. I end up falling asleep on the couch more than half the time, anyway. You aren’t kicking me out of anywhere.”

“But—”

“But nothing,” he interjects, gentle but firm enough to make you close your mouth. “You’re my guest. You’re sleeping in my bed. That’s final.”

Maybe it’s his tone of voice, or maybe it’s the look on his face - his words hit you straight in your core. You’re grateful that he can’t feel your skin through the material of your scrubs, because as soon as the words you’re and sleeping and in my bed left his lips, goosebumps bloomed across your flesh.

You dig your teeth into your bottom lip in an attempt to keep your composure. “You need to be careful,” you exhale, grabbing your duffel bag off of the couch. “You’re going to spoil me rotten.”

He smirks, turning to take you to where you’ll be sleeping. “Would that really be such a bad thing?”

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Physical Touch

As if you needed anything else to add to the ever growing list of reasons that you believe Jack Abbot might be too good to be true, he also makes a killer breakfast sandwich.

You’re not ashamed to admit that you took your sweet time in his walk-in, fancy-pants shower, scrubbing every microscopic trace of hospital off of your skin and letting hot water soothe the aching muscles of your back before rejoining Jack in the kitchen.

When you do, bare-faced and donning the first clean pair of sweatpants and t-shirt you could find during your brief trip to your apartment, Jack is already plating up breakfast for you.

You aren’t even really sure what you had been expecting - cereal, maybe? A protein shake? Instant oatmeal? You were so hungry that you hadn’t been very worried about what, but you were still pleasantly surprised when you entered the kitchen to see what he had managed to put together while you were in the shower.

Bacon, fried egg, Gouda cheese, and avocado slices all piled high on a bagel with hash browns on the side.

He watches in anticipation as you take your first bite. Your eyes flutter shut and he lets out a soft laugh.

“Good?” He slides a cup of coffee across the kitchen island to you (decaf, he said, because he knows you’ll be going to sleep soon).

“That’s an understatement,” you mumble around a mouthful of bagel. “Divine.”

You can’t help but think he looks pleased with himself.

He stands directly across from you, eating his own breakfast that mirrors yours. You’re so hungry, and it’s so delicious, that you barely say a word until you take the very last bite. The silence between you isn’t uncomfortable. It feels natural, easy. Like you’ve sat on this very barstool eating breakfast with him after long shifts dozens of times before.

When you’re both finished, you offer to clean up - which earns you an incredulous look, like he can’t tell if you’re joking or not.

“It’s just a few dishes,” Jack snorts, walking around to where you’re sitting. “I think I can handle it.” He leans with his back against the counter, standing right beside you. “You should go lay down. Get some rest. We’ve got plans tonight, remember?”

“Of course I remember,” you laugh. “Although, I still don’t know what said plans are…” You trail off, looking up at him with raised brows and pursed lips, a silent plea for him to finally tell you what tonight’s agenda is.

He laughs, the lines around his eyes crinkling in the way that always makes you feel fuzzy inside.

“And you’ve been so patient.” He shakes his head and grins down at you. “You’ve made it this far. Why would I ruin the surprise now?”

You suppose he’s right. If you’ve made it all week without knowing, you can wait another eight…ten…twelve hours.

Jack walks you to his bedroom door even though you already know the way. He pauses just at the doorway, one hand braced lightly against the frame like he’s debating whether to stay or go. You hesitate too, your fingers grazing the doorknob but not yet opening it.

“Get some rest,” he murmurs. “And if you need anything - anything at all - I’ll be right in the living room. Just say the word.”

For a split-second, you swear he’s leaning in. Just enough to make your heart stutter and breath catch in your throat at the thought of his lips landing on your temple, your cheek, your mouth.

But then the moment passes. He pulls back instead, offering a gentle, almost apologetic smile. “Sleep well,” he whispers.

All you can manage is a small nod before you open the door and slip inside, closing the door behind you. You hold your breath until you hear his footsteps begin to retreat down the hallway. When the soft thuds fade to silence, you release a shaky exhale.

How the hell are you supposed to fall asleep after that?

The answer to that is you don’t.

Though Jack’s bed is plenty comfortable, you toss and turn for well over half an hour and still find yourself wide awake. You’ve been awake for sixteen plus hours at this point. Those sixteen hours have included working a twelve hour shift, learning that you have a stalker and getting harassed at your place of work, and answering dozens of questions from the police - you should have crashed the second your body hit the soft cotton sheets.

But you find that fucking impossible when his pillow smells so much like him.

You can’t stop yourself from inhaling the light, clean scent of whatever detergent he uses mixed with a faint essence of him - something earthy and masculine like aftershave or remnants of his cologne.

It makes the pitch black room feel like it’s spinning around you, the last words he’d said to you echo in your mind.

If you need anything at all, I’ll be right in the living room. Just say the word.

You can admit that it’s more of a want than a need, but he did say anything.

Before you can overthink what you’re about to do, before you can chicken out, you swing your legs over the side of the bed and stand. Then, putting one foot in front of the other, you ease down the hallway as quietly as you can in case he’s already asleep.

He’s not.

Jack’s profile is illuminated by the glow of the television in the otherwise dark room. He’s changed out of his scrubs, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt that mirrors your own attire. His prosthetic is now detached, resting on the floor beside the couch.

“Hey.” He sits up a bit straighter, curiosity and concern etched across his features and in his voice when he notices you stop near the edge of the hallway. “Is everything okay?”

You just nod, and give him a small smile. You can’t bring yourself to speak for fear that you won’t recognize your own voice. You take a few slow steps towards the couch and he glances down to where you twist your hands nervously in front of you. His brows furrow in worry, though his hazel eyes can’t conceal his curiosity.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, patting the empty space right next to him.

But instead of sitting beside him, you stop directly in front of where he’s lounging. His eyes trail upwards, confusion merging into something akin to amusement when you lift one knee onto the couch, and then the other, hovering just over his lap. Your palms land lightly on his shoulders for balance, not yet putting all of your weight against his thighs.

He goes completely still the moment you settle over him, as if the slightest movement from him might send you running back down the hallway. His hands hover at your hips but don’t quite touch. You pause for a heartbeat, giving him the opportunity to stop you if he wants.

But he doesn’t. His normally hazel hues stare up at you, pupils blown so wide that his orbs appear onyx.

That’s all the confirmation you need to close the distance between you.

You lean forward slowly, your nose brushing against his. Your lips ghost over his in the barest tease of a touch that makes wildfire bloom across your neck and down your spine. The anticipation feels like electricity, your pulse thundering in your ears. You can feel his breath fan across your lips, shaky and uneven.

The initial press of your lips against his is feather soft, though his response is anything but. Something between a sigh and groan escapes the back of his throat, kissing you back with a tenderness that makes you melt into him. His hands finally settle against your waist, fingertips gripping the fabric of your t-shirt. Your hands trail from the broad planes of his shoulders to the nape of his neck, tips of your fingers intertwining in the short tufts of silvery curls.

His lips collide with yours in slow yet fervent kisses that could easily get you drunk off him. The faint stubble along his jaw tickles your skin in a way that makes you feel delirious. You think that you would be content to sit here and kiss him all day long, but you also don’t want to seem too eager.

Even if you are.

When you pull back, your lips tingle. Jack follows the movement for a fraction of a second, as if he can’t stop himself from trying to kiss you more. Your forehead rests against his and you exhale a shaky laugh.

“I tried to sleep,” you breathe, voice unsteady. “I really did. But your pillow smells like you and it was driving me fucking crazy.”

Even with only the light pouring from the television, you can tell that he’s blushing. His hands run up and down your sides. “I take it that’s a good thing,” he laughs, voice low.

“Mm-hmm,” you hum. “Indeed. You smell even better up close, though.” You close the distance between you once more. This time it’s the ghost of a kiss, your lips faintly brushing over his just enough to tease.

He peppers light kisses along your jawline. “Is that right?” The words are murmured against the skin of your throat.

Your eyes flutter shut and his name tumbles from your lips.

“Yeah, honey?”

You cup his face in your hands and pull back to look down at him. “Come to bed with me.” It’s intended to be a question, a request - but it comes out more of a breathless command.

His fingertips freeze along your spine. He looks up at you, hesitant. “You sure that’s what you want?”

You nod, the pad of your thumb brushing along his cheekbone. Another small peck to the tip of his nose this time. “I’m sure.”

He seems to search your face for signs of uncertainty. When he doesn’t find any, he exhales a laugh through his nose. “As much as I wish I could sweep you into my arms and carry you down the hallway…” He trails off, wiggling his leg beneath you. “I’m the one who needs a little assistance getting there.”

You follow his gaze to where his prosthetic sits a few feet away. It’s then that you notice a pair of crutches propped against the recliner, undoubtedly for getting around his place when he doesn’t feel like wearing the prosthetic. You ease off of his lap, standing up to retrieve the crutches for him. He pushes himself off the couch as you hand them off to him.

Once he’s balanced, he nods towards the hallway with a small smirk. “Lead the way.”

You do, walking slow enough that he can keep pace with you. Your heart thuds against your ribcage with each step you take, but it’s due to excitement rather than nerves.

Excitement at the prospect of simply listening to his heartbeat and inhaling the scent of his t-shirt as you both drift off to sleep.

Twelve hours ago, you never would have predicted that this would be happening right now. That you’d be in Jack’s condo. That you would shower in his bathroom while he makes you breakfast. That you would sit on his lap and kiss him and crawl into bed together.

It feels surreal. Like you’re dreaming and fully expect to wake up in your own bed at any moment.

When you reach the edge of the bed, you pull the covers back and lie down, scooting towards the middle of the large mattress so there’s plenty of space for Jack to crawl in next to you. He leans the crutches so that they’re within reach of the bed and then lowers himself onto the mattress with practiced ease.

He lies flat on his back, the mattress dipping beneath him. His arm extends outwards in a wordless gesture that opens the space closest to him for you.

“C’mere,” he coaxes, and just like when he’d said that to you minutes ago in the living room, you do. You slip into the space under his arm, tucking yourself into the solid warmth that is his chest. Your cheek settles just over his heart and his arms curl around you, cocooning you against him.

It’s too easy to melt into the embrace that is so new yet already feels so familiar.

You’re both asleep within minutes.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Quality Time

“All I’m saying is that it would be a lot easier for me to pick an outfit if I know where we’re going.”

Jack’s chest vibrates with laughter against your cheek.

You aren’t sure what time it is. All you know is that you woke up in the exact same spot that you had fallen asleep - in his arms. That, and you feel incredibly well rested.

“How many outfits did you bring with you?” He asks, lips pressed against your temple and voice still raspy with sleep. It’s a sound you could very quickly get used to hearing when you wake up, you think.

“Three.” You lift your shoulder in a small shrug. “Option one is casual. Two is semi-formal. And three is a little bit fancier than two.”

You did the best you could on such short notice and with no knowledge of what tonight’s plans entail.

He hums in contemplation, running a hand up and down the expanse of your arm. “Do you trust me?”

You shift enough to look up at him. He’s smirking down at you. “Of course I trust you.” You roll your eyes. It’s true. You do. Though you can’t say you aren’t suspicious of where he’s going with this.

“How about you show me options two and three and I’ll tell you which I think is the better choice? That way you don’t have to guess what you should wear and you still get to be surprised?”

So that’s exactly what you do.

An hour later, you’re wearing option number two in the passenger seat of his truck. Semi-formal. On the nicer side, but nothing crazy fancy - though you would think it’s the nicest thing Jack’s ever seen by how he’s complimented you no less than a dozen times since you first walked out of the bedroom wearing it.

Just before sunset, he pulls into the parking lot of a cute Italian bistro that you’ve never heard of in a quiet part of town. Osteria del Cuore reads the sign - Tavern of the Heart.

“Ever been here before?” Jack asks, curious lilt to his tone.

“No.” You shake your head. “I haven’t. Have you?” You glance over to him in the driver’s seat to find him already smirking at you with a twinkle in his eyes.

“I have not. No one has, actually.”

You give him a confused look, but before you can question him, he’s opening his truck door and hopping out to walk to the passenger side. Ever the gentleman, he opens your door for you and offers you his hand.

“And that’s because we are the first customers,” he continues when you place your hand in his as you step down.

“First?”

“That’s right. They don’t officially open until tomorrow night, but I called in a small favor.” He opens the front door for you and waits for you to step inside.

Your eyes scan the room. There’s maybe a dozen or so tables in total. Sconces line the brick walls and strings of fairy lights twine around ceiling beams, illuminating the space in a muted amber glow. Each table is adorned with tiny flower bouquets and flickering candles inside glass holders. Bundles of dried herbs hang above an open kitchen window - rosemary, bay, thyme - filling the air with a faint earthy scent in addition to the aroma of fresh baked bread.

It’s warm. Cozy. Homey. Perfect for a first date - but all you can think about is the fact that Jack was not kidding when he said that you’re the first customers. There’s no other patrons to be seen anywhere.

A young woman, presumably the hostess, appears from around the small bar and welcomes you both.

“Dr. Abbot.” She smiles, greeting him by name. “Mr. Moretti is so glad you two could join us tonight. Come with me and I’ll show you to your table.”

Jack motions as if to say after you. You follow her, expecting her to take you to one of the smaller booths for two, but she walks right past them. And then right past all of the tables for larger parties, as well. You glance at Jack in curiosity, but he only places a hand on your lower back in response, giving nothing away.

She leads you both past the bar and down a small hallway, then opens an unmarked door without looking back. You aren’t sure if Jack even knows where she’s taking you, but he makes no objections, so you keep quiet, following her up a short stairwell.

You aren’t entirely sure what you’re expecting - another dining room, maybe. But what you aren’t expecting is the breeze of cool evening air when she opens a door at the top of the stairs.

If you thought the inside was lovely, then the rooftop is something straight out of a fairytale.

It feels like stepping into a secret garden above the city. Like inside, string lights zigzag overhead and candles twinkle on every flat surface. There’s an abundance of lush planters and flowering vines, their leaves rustling in the light breeze. Several tall, outdoor style heaters line the perimeter of the tables, radiating enough warmth to ward off the chilly night air.

In the center of it all, there’s only one table set tonight.

One round, intimate table draped in ivory linen and graced with a small glowing lantern, a mason jar of wildflowers, and two empty wine glasses.

“This is what you consider to be a small favor?” You laugh breathily as he pulls your chair out for you. The hostess places menus on the table before wordlessly departing, leaving the two of you alone momentarily. “A private rooftop dinner at a restaurant that isn’t technically open yet?”

Jack takes his own seat with a small shrug, though there’s a pleased look on his face at the awestruck expression on yours. “I treated the owner’s wife a few months ago. She’d been experiencing on and off again leg pain that her primary care doctor had dismissed as a strained muscle. They came into the ER one night, begging to be taken seriously because she knew something was wrong. Long story short, she wasn’t being dramatic. An ultrasound showed the beginning of a DVT. We got her treated before it turned into anything life threatening.”

Mrs. Moretti - you vaguely recall overhearing Jack tell Robby about the case.

“Her husband was so grateful.” Jack shakes his head with a soft smile. “He told me all about this restaurant that they were in the process of opening - insisted that he owes me a favor and gave me his business card. He made me promise to come by for a free meal as soon as they opened. Which isn’t until tomorrow, but…” He trails off, taking in the scenery around you.

“I suppose saving people’s lives does have its perks sometimes,” you tease, nudging his calf with your foot beneath the table.

A faint dusting of pink appears along his cheekbones. “I wasn’t planning on ever cashing in on that favor, but I drove by here a few days ago and saw the grand opening sign…” Another small shrug, and you can’t help but giggle at how bashful he seems right now. “I’m going to insist on paying for the food, of course. Them letting us have the place to ourselves the day before opening is already more than enough.”

Your entire body is buzzing at the revelation. At all of it - at the thought he put into planning this, at the ambiance, at the romance of it all.

It’s perfect. Absolutely perfect. And so much fucking better than spending your Friday night alone doing your laundry.

“I don’t even know what to say,” you breathe, reaching across the table to take his hand in yours, giving it a gentle squeeze. “No one has ever done anything like this for me.”

Not just this, you think. Everything he’s done for you, big and small. The engraved stethoscope he got you for your birthday, and the coffees that he always brings to work for you without asking. Defending you from a creepy jackass and then inviting you into his home without a second thought. Cooking you breakfast, caring for you, making you feel more safe and loved than anyone else has ever made you feel.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmurs. “I just thought it might be nice to be on a rooftop together again. Only under much happier circumstances this time.”

The memory replays in your mind instantaneously - the hospital rooftop, much different than the one you’re on right now. It wasn’t all that long ago, in the grand scheme of things, even if it does feel like a lifetime ago.

Like that night on the hospital rooftop, the moon above you now is also bright and full. And like that night, there’s no one else you’d rather be with.

But now, when Jack smiles, it reaches his eyes. And now, as you hold his hand in yours, it isn’t to console him because he’s having a hard night. It’s simply because you can - simply because you want to hold his hand.

Yes, much happier circumstances indeed.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Epilogue {….a little more physical touch}

You aren’t quite sure how one night at Jack’s condo turns into two, and then three, then four…but you aren’t complaining.

He certainly doesn’t seem to mind, either.

You’d mentioned going back to your place multiple times. The last thing you want to do is overstay your welcome so early in your relationship, but Jack isn’t having any of that. He has assured you time and time again that the only reason for you to go back to your apartment is to get more of your belongings.

You put very little energy into objecting. You want to be here with him every bit as much as he seems to want you here.

Despite the fact that you’ve been sleeping in his bed for nearly a week, it feels as if you’ve barely seen each other the last few days. Your work schedules normally match up pretty nicely, but due to some people being out on vacation, or sick, or on maternity leave, your shifts have been all over the place this week.

So you’re beyond happy to hear him enter his condo not even ten minutes after your morning alarm wakes you up, knowing that both of you are now off work until tomorrow night.

You’re still laying in bed when he opens the door. Light pours in from the hallway, just enough to illuminate his silhouette.

“Good morning,” you breathe, voice still tinted with sleep. He walks to the edge of the bed and sits down beside where you lay.

“Good morning,” he whispers, leaning over to give you a tender kiss, the faint essence of coffee on his lips. “Did I wake you up?”

“No.” You shake your head, raising a hand to the back of his neck where you lace your fingers through his short curls. “I set an alarm so that I’d be awake when you got home. I missed you.”

You pull him down to you by his neck until his mouth is on yours once more. This kiss isn’t quite as tender as the first - you open to him right away, his tongue slipping between your lips. He braces one hand against the headboard, and the other comes to cup the side of your face, deepening the kiss. You can’t help but release a small moan into his mouth, your thighs clenching together beneath the covers.

He pulls away, as if reading your mind, planting a small kiss to the corner of your mouth with a shaky exhale. “I should probably shower off first, honey.”

You shake your head again like a petulant child being told no. “That can wait.”

Jack doesn’t need any further convincing.

He yanks the comforter away from your body, revealing you to be in only your underwear and an oversized t-shirt. You pull him back to you, crushing your lips to his. His hands grab at your waist, bunching the fabric of your t-shirt around your stomach. He smells sterile, just like the hospital he’s been at all night, but beneath that there’s the familiar scent of his body wash that you’ve quickly become obsessed with.

“Lay down,” you command gently.

He has worked twelve hours while you have been asleep in his bed, after all. You figure taking care of him is the least you can do if you’re going to jump his bones the second he walks through the door.

He looks like he’s about to object, his fingers toying with the waistband of your panties, but you pat the empty space on the mattress beside you and he gives in. Maybe it’s the pleading, eager look on your face or maybe it’s just exhaustion creeping into his bones, but he does as you ask without putting up a fight.

That alone makes you melt. You know that Jack isn’t used to being cared for - in any sense of the word. He’s been alone for a long time. Self-reliant and solitary.

But so have you. And just as it comes naturally to let Jack spoil you, he seems content to let you do the same for him.

He’ll more than make it up to you soon enough, you have no doubt.

He trades places with you, sinking down against the mattress and pillow with a soft exhale. You sit up onto your knees, smoothing a hand down his chest until you reach the hem of his scrub top.

“Can I..?” You ask, tugging lightly at the fabric.

He nods, sitting up slightly and lifting his arms so that you can maneuver both his scrub top and undershirt off in one go. You glance down, noting that he has yet to shed his shoes.

You crawl to the foot of the bed, making quick work of yanking off one, and then the other - leaving one foot and the base of his prosthetic exposed. He shimmies his pants down his thighs, letting you pull them the rest of the way off, tossing them to join his shoes somewhere on the floor.

Your gaze settles where his prosthetic meets flesh. You hesitate, not wanting to assume, not wanting to do something wrong or make him uncomfortable in any way. He notices your hesitation right away.

“I can walk you through it,” he says softly, thumb brushing your cheek. “If you’d like to learn how to remove it.”

The offer hits you square in the chest. It may seem small, but he isn’t just offering to teach you something - he’s showing you that he trusts you enough to let you into a part of his life that most people never see. That he trusts you enough to be vulnerable with you. That you mean enough to him that helping him with something like this could easily become a regular occurrence, so it only makes sense for you to learn how to do it.

You realize, right then and there, that you’re in love with him. And, wholeheartedly, you believe that he’s in love with you, too.

You smile, blinking away happy tears that threaten to spill over.

“Yeah,” you nod. “I’d like that.”

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

thank you so much for reading! i love you forever if you comment/reblog <3

[allternativee]

jack abbot’s arm freckles.

[noah-wyles]

the single greatest screenshot in the history of TV

[se7entyrell]

transatlanticism. chapter one.

(jack abbot x reader)

Jack Abbot has had a terrible eighteen months. Truly one for the books. Losing his mother, and then you, sometimes he wonders what the point is. If things will ever look up. Until you turn up at the Pitt, with a little girl who looks exactly like him.

warnings: this blog is 18+, mdni! this fic deals with grief, difficult births, depression, anxiety, and canon medical gore. it will also eventually contain explicit sexual content. this chapter contains discussions of cancer, parental loss, and virginity loss.

main masterlist // transatlanticism masterlist

Jack Abbot has known you almost his entire life. Ever since your family moved in across from him the day before his eleventh birthday. Friendships don't often bloom between eight and eleven-year-olds, but he found himself fond of you the way an annoying older brother would be.

Plus, your moms both became good friends, and he ended up spending half his teenage years in your backyard. The single mother life was isolating, he knew his mom liked having somebody nearby who understood her situation.

Childhood friendship blossomed into a deeper camaraderie once you started high school. At seventeen, he'd established his name around school - he wielded it often to protect you from bullies.

He never made a spectacle of it. A look. A quiet word. A shoulder placed casually between you and whoever thought they could get away with something. It was enough. People learned quickly.

Outside of school, your lives folded into each other almost seamlessly.

He’d fix the loose fence panels without being asked, help your mom carry groceries inside, stay for dinner whenever his mom was working late.

Soon, he was your best friend. And you, his. Naturally, you'd been terrified when the time had come for him to go to college. You'd skipped a grade, bringing you a little closer to him, but you couldn't follow him here.

“It’s not that far,” he'd said, nudging your sneaker with his. “Couple hours. You’ll barely notice I’m gone.”

You already knew that wasn’t true. Part of you missed him already.

He called from the dorm payphone at the end of his hall, usually at night when long-distance rates were cheaper. You’d sit on your bedroom floor with the cord of the landline stretched as far as it would go, twisting it around your fingers while your mom mouthed Five more minutes from the hallway.

He didn't waver. He responded to your letters, visited diligently, and never made you feel like an annoyance.

There was always noise behind him - doors slamming, guys arguing about whose turn it was to buy pizza, music bleeding through thin walls.

“You still surviving?” he’d ask.

“Barely,” you’d say, half joking.

He wrote at least once a week. A couple pages torn from a notebook, folded twice and stuffed into an envelope with messy handwriting. He’d complain about cafeteria food and strict professors, with accompanying doodles.

You didn't visit until your own senior year. You'd claimed it was so that he could keep his two worlds separate, but really you were just worried that you wouldn't fit in with his new life.

That he'd outgrown you, and only kept you around out of pity.

“You should apply here,” he says on your first day, leaning back on his hand as he passes you a slice of pizza. “You’d like it.”

"Don't think I'd get in," You reply, meeting him halfway. After a vigorous campus tour, and hitting a frat party that he snuck you into, you're now perched on his bed.

Thankfully, his roommate's visiting his girlfriend in Texas right now, leaving you with free reign of the dorm room.

"You could get in Harvard if you wanted," Jack dismisses.

"Maybe if you were the only person on the admissions board," You scoff, and a silence falls. You swallow nervously, trying to build up the courage to ask him the question that's been on your mind for months now. "Can I ask you something?"

“Yeah,” he says. “You can ask me anything.”

Your mouth goes dry.

You hadn’t planned the wording this carefully. You’d rehearsed it in fragments on the drive up. But now that you’re here - on his bed, music low, campus noise drifting faintly through the cracked window - it feels like a far bigger request.

"Come on, kid. What's on your mind?"

"Will you take my virginity?"

Whatever he'd been expecting you to say, you'd bet your car that it wasn't that.

"What?"

"You know- forget I asked," You murmur, averting your gaze from his, a sudden embarrassment washing through you. "It's stupid-"

"Hey," He says, firmly, catching you by the wrist. "S'not stupid. You just caught me off guard. Tell me what you're thinking."

“I don’t want it to be… random,” you start.

He frowns slightly. “Random?”

“The first time,” You clarify, your voice steadier than you feel. “I don’t want it to just happen with someone I barely know. Or because I feel pressured.”

Understanding dawns slowly across his face. His posture changes, and he sits up straighter.

“Oh,” he says quietly.

You press on before you lose your nerve.

“I trust you,” You say. “You’ve always taken care of me. You’ve always-” You falter, then force the words out. “I was thinking maybe… it could be you.”

The room goes very still.

For a moment he just looks at you, searching your face to make sure he’s heard you right. “You’re serious,” he says.

You nod.

He leans back slowly against the bed frame, exhaling through his nose. Not dismissive. Thinking. "And you're sure? You've thought this out?"

You can feel yourself drawing blood from the way your tooth is buried in your lip. "For a while now. But I don't want to make you uncomfortable-"

"That's not my concern here. I'm worried about you regretting this, down the line."

“I wouldn't,” You say quickly.

“If we're doing this, we need ground rules.” He shakes his head. “I need you to be vocal. If something feels good, if something feels weird, if you want to stop, if you want to change something. Thoughts on everything, or we stop.”

"I can do that."

"And... you were thinking, now?"

"I mean, whenever - I don't know, I wasn't exactly expecting you to say yes. No time like the present."

He adjusts a little, angling his body towards yours on the bed. "You'll tell me the second you feel uncomfortable?" When you nod, he gestures forwards. "Alright, c'mere then."

Against all the odds, it didn't ruin your friendship. He made love to you that night, softly and slowly, setting a standard no other man could possibly compete with.

And then you never spoke about it again.

Things were quiet for a while. Visits at Christmas and Easter, calls that grew shorter once you went off to college yourself.

A different college from Jack. One halfway across the country, to study English Literature.

Things were fine. Things were good. You'd move back to Pittsburgh eventually, and you would reconnect with Jack then.

Until the night he told you he was joining the army.

He said it like it was already decided. Like it had been decided long before he ever brought it to you. He'd never made that kind of decision without consulting you before. He'd even brought you his top two college choices, asked you to help him pick the best option.

You remember the way the air shifted, how something warm between you went cold in an instant. You asked why. He said he had to. You said that wasn’t good enough.

He left anyway.

After that, communication dwindled down to just hearing from his mom whenever she met up with yours. He was enjoying the medical training, and that was about it.

The years passed, with Jack qualifying as a doctor and going back out for another tour, and you getting your own doctorate, before you got the news.

He'd lost his leg.

You couldn't help but picture him as he had been - strong, steady, indestructible - and you couldn’t reconcile that image with hospital rooms and metal and absence. You thought about calling. You didn’t. You didn’t know what you would say after the way you’d left things.

Suddenly, he's back in your orbit again, without warning.

Your mom tells you that he's in rehab. Working up to a prosthetic. That he's hardened, tougher around the edges, but still very much Jack.

You try to tell yourself you don’t care. That he did it to himself. For not quitting while he was ahead.

And then you see him.

He's thinner in the face, broader in the shoulders, like something has both taken from him and given back in equal measure.

Crutches, still. According to his mom, he's getting the prosthetic next month.

For a second, the only thing you feel is relief. He’s here. He’s whole. He’s breathing.

“Hi,” he says.

You don’t bring up the fight. Neither does he. When he suggests coffee, you say yes before pride can intervene.

There, you learn about Marisol. A woman he was deployed with, in his unit. They're engaged. Getting married before the year is out.

She's transferring to a station near here - taking some homeland work.

Pretending your heart isn't broken is the best performance you'll ever put on in your life. It's stupid. There's never been anything to indicate that Jack sees you as more than a friend.

You had been the idiot for hoping sex would change that.

The worst part is that you like her. You really do.

She asks you questions about him - what he was like before. You tell her harmless things. The fact that he once camped out for forty-eight hours to get Nirvana tickets. How he crashed his car into your garage that one time. You leave out the fact that you once thought that the two of you would end up together.

At the end of the night, she hugs you first.

“I'm really glad he has you,” She says.

Has. Present tense.

You nod, because that much is true.

Better to have him in this capacity than not at all.

The drifting apart wasn't intentional. He takes a job two states over, to make things easier for Marisol.

You missed the going-away party because of a work trip you can’t reschedule. You promised to visit. You meant it. The first year, you make it work. The second, you try. By the third, it’s mostly texts, and the occasional call. Nothing more.

When you did speak, it’s all surface-level. Promotions. Mortgages. Weather. The fact that they're thinking about getting a dog.

You learned about their new house from the family Christmas card. He learned about your breakup months after it happens, when you mention it casually, like it’s old news. Neither of you pushed for more.

They have eight good years, and then you get the text.

Jack. 14th June. Marisol has cancer. Pancreatic. Wanted you to find out from us, and not the gossip train. Miss you, kid. Will hopefully see you soon.

The texts picked up first. Then you started calling weekly to check in. Finally, you started visiting, making the two-hour drive most weekends to bring them dinner and as many anecdotes from home as you could manage. Anything to keep their minds off of what's going on.

“She’s fighting,” He says, voice low as he bids you goodbye on the patio. “We’re fighting.”

She was gone by Christmas.

You knew what was coming as soon as his name flashed on your phone. You don't remember what you said back, if you were able to provide any kind of comfort, but you do remember turning up on his doorstep ninety minutes later.

He moves back to Pittsburgh without fanfare.

Staying in their old home had been too much. He gets a job at the Pitt, and takes the night-shifts. You meet his new friends, new colleagues, and the slow, torturous process of moving on begins.

Seven years pass in this way. It’s steady, uncomplicated. After year three, he takes his wedding ring off. Neither of you comment on it, but you know it's progress.

Relationships pass by for you. A few almosts, a few never agains. Through it all, Jack becomes your one constant.

When your mom dies the day before your thirty-fifth birthday, he's unwavering. Finally able to repay the debt he's been carrying for you since Marisol.

It's a messy and complicated grieving process. One that ends with you in his bed, pressing kisses to his jaw as you cry out his name.

Jack doesn’t know what to do with it.

Not anymore. Not when each lingering glance at you feels like a betrayal.

It becomes a dance. For years, it stays unlabelled. You receive knowing looks from Robby. Your friends tell you to cut it loose - that he's never going to commit.

You never build up enough courage.

His body is there; his attention mostly, but he keeps something back. You can feel it in the way he hesitates before touching your hand, the way he deflects questions about the future with jokes or silence.

You accommodate it. You adjust.

Because you love Jack Abbot more than anything in the world.

*****

Jack can feel a migraine pricking at his periphery as soon as you leave the building. He can't get your face out of his head - the scared expression, as you'd rocked the baby against your chest.

His baby.

His daughter.

Pushing out of the exam room, he ignores all questions from Dana and Santos about the origins of the Abbot name.

"I'm taking my break," is all he grunts, immediately making for the staff bathroom. Letting out a shaky breath, he pulls his phone, and finds his blocked numbers list.

Yours is the only one there.

Part of him hopes this is all some terrible dream. That's he's having an exhaustion-induced hallucination instead. And then he hits unblock, and the texts start to filter through.

You. 26th February. 23:17. I’m really sorry about the fight, Jack. You’re just so important to me, the idea that you didn’t think things were as serious as I did upset me. But I get it. Things have been tough, and I don’t want to add to that. I’d really like to talk, if you’re up for it. Just let me know.

You. 3rd March. 10:10. I know you’re still mad, but I really think we should talk. Sooner rather than later. I’m free whenever, just give me a time and place and I’ll be there

You. 5th March. 06:48. Please, Jack. It’s really important. I wouldn’t be pushing this if it wasn’t. I understand you don’t want to see me, but I really just need fifteen minutes.

You. 9th March. 15:21. I really didn’t want to do this, but I don’t think I can put it off any longer. I’m so sorry for telling you like this. I’m pregnant. The baby’s obviously yours - I haven’t been with anyone else. I’m about ten weeks along - haven’t decided if I’m keeping it yet or not. I’d really like to talk that over with you, before I make my decision. Doesn’t feel right making it without you

You. 24th March. 11:10. I’m seeing the doctor on Friday, for my first scan. I’d really like it if you were there, but I understand if that’s too much just now. It’s at the Pitt, with Dr Cregg, at 14:00. I still haven’t made my mind up

You. 27th March. 15:17. The baby's due on October 22nd. Thought you might like to know. I think I'm leaning towards keeping it

You. 19th April. 22:02. Since I’m past the abortion threshold now, I’m sure you must have figured out that I’ve decided to keep the baby. I understand if you don’t want anything to do with us, but please just let me know one way or another. Not knowing if you’re even reading these is killing me I’m sorry, Jack Please don’t take it out on your son or daughter

You. 16th May. 13:01. Had another scan today [Attachment: 1 picture] OBGYN says that baby is totally healthy, nothing to worry about on that front. We're having a girl, Jack. Definitely a little relieved - I don't really know boys. I definitely wouldn't know how to raise one, not without you. But a girl, I might have some hope. As always, I’d love to hear from you We both would

You. 4th June. 09:59. Had a little bit of a scare yesterday Woke up bleeding, and went to the ER. Part of me was hoping you'd be working, which I know is terrible of me. I also know it's Robby on days, usually. I didn't see either of you. It was a nice girl, Dr Mohan. Anyway, I got admitted to OBGYN for some observation, and just got out this morning. Baby Girl Abbot is alright, but I've to take it easy for the rest of the pregnancy. I really miss you, Jack It's hard doing this alone

You. 13th August. 02:01. My therapist thinks I should stop texting you She thinks you've made your choice, and that you would have replied by now if you were seeing these, or wanted to be in her life I just I can't believe this is how it ends, Jack We've known each other for thirty years I guess a part of me always assumed that we'd make it, eventually I'm sorry I love you

You. 13th August. 23:48. I'll let you know when I go into labour, and when she's here, but other than that, I won't bother you anymore.

You. 19th September. 04:17. My contractions are only a few minutes apart now. I'm on the ward, just a few floors up from where you are now, I'd guess. 6B, if you'd like to come up Don't worry, I don't have any expectations of you

You. 23rd September. 17:13. I meant to text you earlier, but things have been hectic. Gwendoline Abbot was born at 21:08 on the 19th. Ten fingers and ten toes, pretty much as good as you get She's really great, Jack. Looks like you The door's always open for you to meet her. I love you. Goodbye

There are some others. A few bump photos, another ultrasound. A single video of her kicking in your belly.

For a single second, Jack worries he's having a heart attack. The pain is so visceral, so searing, that it knocks the wind straight from his lungs.

He's missed it all. Everything. All because of a fucking button on his phone, that he'd honestly forgotten he'd even pressed.

He could've been there for you. For Gwen.

Gone to appointments, held your hand, bought baby clothes.

He could've known his daughter in the first ten weeks of her life.

The tears roll thick and heavy, until your name on the screen is nothing more than a blur of pixels. His jaw is clenched, his knuckles white as he grips the edge of the sink.

The desperation is palpable. To have been there for you. Hell, to have never left you in the first place. He should've married you, given you whatever you wanted, instead of leaving you out to dry.

God, what would his mother think?

She loved you. So much, that he thinks it rivalled her love for him sometimes. He still remembers the day he told her the two of you were together.

It hadn't been intentional. Jack had been planning on keeping things quiet for a while - not quite sure where this was going to go. But she'd known immediately. Had seen it in his expression whenever he was around you.

She'd been thrilled. The way he imagines she would've been about a granddaughter. Especially one named after her.

"I'm so glad the two of you are together, Jackie," She'd murmured, hand cupping his cheek. "You deserve to be happy, after all you've been through-"

His pager bleeps.

Jack has a job to do. People to help, that don't care about the shit that's going on in his personal life.

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and steels himself.

He can fall apart later.

*****

He'd practically thrown the handover list at Shen, making for his car without even a look back.

It's not too far to your place, but it feels like you're an ocean away. So many questions run through his mind.

Why aren't you still in your old place? It was spacious, nice, just a ten minute drive from his own house. Now, you're halfway across the city, in an area he wouldn't want to frequent after dark.

It's only when he pulls up that he realises he should've brought something for you to eat. Gwen's obviously unwell, and he can't imagine you've grown a sudden fondness for cooking in the eleven months you've been separated.

He glances around, making sure he has the right address.

Paint peels from the building like old sunburn, brickwork sweating covered in mould and cracks. A security light flickers over the entrance, stuttering helplessly.

The stairwell smells like old grease and something sour he doesn’t want to name. The banister wobbles under his hand. The third step from the top dips dangerously in the middle, and there's no elevator. He can't imagine trying to manoeuvre a stroller up here.

You open the door almost as soon as he knocks. Gwen is on your hip, hands fisted in your shirt as she looks at Jack wide-eyed. She's not crying anymore, though her nose still looks a little stuffy.

"Hi," You murmur, stepping aside to allow him in. Too scared to push any further, he squeezes your arm softly as he passes, and coos at Gwen.

The apartment is smaller than his kitchen.

"How's she doing?"

"A little bit better," You reply, keeping a steady rhythm as you bounce her. "I think the Tylenol helped." A quiet falls, Jack's gaze flicking between you both. "Do you want to hold her?"

Outside of ninety seconds this morning, Jack still hasn't held his daughter.

He nods immediately, reaching for her. You pass her over, a small noise of discontent escaping from her lips. He holds her at a distance for a second, as if trying to take everything in.

Every blemish, every blink.

"Hi, honey," He murmurs, adjusting her so she's tucked against his chest. "I'm your dad-"

His voice breaks ever so slightly, a crack in the façade he's been trying to maintain. A single tear escapes from the corner of his eye. "She's perfect."

It's barely more than a whisper.

"I know."

When he meets your gaze again, he's worried he's going to sob. "I'm so sorry."

Your reply is clipped, as you turn towards the kitchen area. "You're here now."

It's not enough. Jack knows that he could spend the rest of his life making it up to you both, and it might never be enough.

To stave off another wave of tears, he turns his attention to the apartment.

Everything in here is Gwen.

A playmat wedged beside the couch. A folding changing table squeezed into the corner near the kitchenette. Bottles drying on a rack that takes up half the counter. Burp cloths draped over the back of a chair. A small mountain of diapers stacked neatly against the wall. The air smells faintly of formula and baby lotion.

Ten weeks old, and she already owns the entire space.

There’s almost nothing that’s you.

No framed photos. No books. You've loved music all your life - your guitar was your prized possession. There's no hint of that anywhere anymore. Just the essentials arranged with quiet precision.

The bedroom door stands open, and he can see it: there’s a crib tucked inside, just visible. It takes up almost the entire room. No space for anything else, outside of an old rocking chair. No bed.

His eyes move automatically to the couch.

It’s a pullout. Half-folded back into place. Blanket shoved to one side. A pillow dented from overuse.

You’ve given her the room.

The kitchen is sparse too. He'd be willing to bet that if he opened the fridge right now, he'd find little more than a couple of leftovers.

"Why did you move from your old place?" He finally builds up the courage to ask.

"Got let go when I asked for maternity leave."

You don't offer any elaboration, and it kills him.

He stares at you. “What?”

“They said they were ‘restructuring.’” You make air quotes with your free hand. “My position wasn’t essential. They weren't running my courses anymore.”

“You were there five years.”

“Six.”

His jaw tightens. “That’s illegal.”

You shrug. “They didn’t say it was because I was pregnant.”

“They don’t have to say it.” His voice sharpens. “You told them you needed maternity leave and suddenly you’re redundant? That’s textbook.”

You look tired. Not just physically - the kind that permeates everything you do.

“I didn’t have the energy to fight them, Jack. I was seven months pregnant.”

“You should’ve taken them to court.”

“With what money?” You shoot back, a flicker of heat breaking through the exhaustion. “Lawyers cost money. Filing costs money. Time off costs money.”

“They would’ve settled.”

“Maybe. Or maybe it would’ve dragged out for a year. And I would’ve had a newborn, been unemployed, stressed out of my mind, and gambling what little savings I had on maybe.”

He opens his mouth, but you don’t let him.

“I needed that money for her,” You say, softer now. "I did what I had to do, and that's that."

There's so much more he wants to ask. About the insurance, Gwen's birth, how you've been surviving for the past ten weeks. But it'll have to wait. He exhales hard through his nose. “You should’ve told me.”

“I did.”

He frowns. “No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did.” Your voice is rising, just a little. “I texted you. How was I supposed to know you weren't seeing them?”

He runs a hand over his mouth. “Why didn’t you try something else?”

“Like what?” Your eyes flash. “Show up at your house? Call from a payphone? Send a carrier pigeon? I thought you hated me, Jack."

Gwen startles at the shift in your tone, letting out a small, uncertain cry. Your expression shatters. "I don't want to fight in front of her."

His concession comes straight away. "Me neither. I'm sorry."

"I just- this is hard. I want you to get to know her, obviously. But this is all new to me too."

He's hit with a sudden vision of you living your entire life in this shitty apartment for the past ten weeks. He holds Gwen a little tighter, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

But her fussing doesn’t stop.

It just continues to build and build. After a while, you take her back, hoping it'll help.

It doesn't.

A restless squirm in your arms turns into another congested cry, thin and hoarse. Her face scrunches in frustration, at not even being able to scream properly anymore.

“I know, I know,” You mumble, swaying automatically. “It’s just a cold, baby. It’s okay. You'll be fine.”

Jack watches the way she struggles to breathe through her nose, the way she keeps pulling her head back like she can’t get comfortable.

“Has she eaten?”

“Not much. She keeps unlatching.”

Gwen lets out another sharp cry, more angry than weak. Overtired. Uncomfortable.

God, he'd give anything in the world to make her feel better right about now. “Let me try,” he says.

You hesitate again, shorter this time, and carefully pass her over.

He holds her securely, adjusts her against his chest. For half a second, she just stares at him. Then her face crumples.

The cry that follows is immediate and outraged.

Jack exhales through his nose. “Right. Okay.”

He tries a gentle bounce. A soft shh. It does nothing. If anything, she gets louder.

“She doesn’t know you,” You say, already reaching.

“I’ve got her.”

“She wants me.”

As if to prove it, Gwen’s cry turns sharp and frantic, little body writhing.

Jack’s jaw tightens. Not offended. How can he be? When he's been an absent father through such crucial times?

He hands her back.

The second she’s against your chest, the pitch changes. Still upset. But steadier. Not angry.

You press your cheek to the top of her head. “It’s okay. I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

He watches the way she melts into you despite the congestion, how her breathing evens out little by little.

“You haven’t slept properly in months, have you?” He asks.

You don’t answer.

“That’s not sustainable.”

“I sleep when she does.”

“She’s not sleeping.”

You don’t argue with that.

Gwen whimpers again, and you start pacing the small length of the apartment - three steps one way, pivot, three steps back.

Jack glances at the pullout couch. At the dented pillow. At the laptop shoved in a corner, papers piled round it. From your new job, he assumes. Another question to ask.

“Let me stay,” He bursts out, mouth moving faster than his brain.

You stop pacing.

“What?”

“Just tonight. I’ll take her for a few hours. You sleep.”

Your expression shutters immediately. “No.”

“You’re exhausted. She’s sick. Let me help," He says softly. Evenly.

You study him carefully.

“She won’t settle with you.”

“I’ll manage.”

You shift Gwen higher. Protective. Like he's a total stranger, and not someone you've known your entire life. It hurts more than it should. He deserves this treatment, after all.

“You can stay,” You say finally, “but only because she’s sick.”

He nods once. Good enough for him. “Okay.”

“And only if you’re willing to sleep in the chair. There's nowhere else.”

His eyes flick to the small rocking chair shoved into the corner of the bedroom the window. It looks deeply uncomfortable. The window beside it rattles every time a car passes.

“Fine.”

“And if she cries for me, you bring her straight back.”

“Of course.”

You hold his gaze another second, making sure he understands.

“This doesn’t change anything,” You add quietly. “You’re here because she has a cold. You're a doctor, and you're her father, and that's all this is.”

Something unreadable passes over his face, but he doesn’t argue.

“Okay,” He says again. Gwen lets out a small, shuddering sigh against your shoulder. "I can take her - go shower, take a break, I'll order some dinner."

He can tell that your first instinct is to argue, but he's endlessly grateful when you don't.

*****

Jack Abbot has never felt like more of a fuck-up than when you appear in the doorway at 3am, rubbing at your eyes and letting out a yawn.

His first instinct is to apologise. He's been trying for the better part of an hour to get Gwen back to sleep. He's almost surprised it took her so long to wake you up. "I'm sorry-"

"Jack, it's fine," You sigh, with a resignment that twists in his gut. This has been your reality for the past ten weeks. He should be able to handle one measly night-shift to give you some uninterrupted sleep. Hell, his whole life is a night-shift.

Except he's pretty sure he'd be better at a twenty-car pileup on the freeway, than soothing his own daughter.

"I really wanted to do this for you," He continues, becoming slightly breathless in a way that can only convey his sheer desperation for this to work. He continues to bounce Gwen, to no avail. If she was going to listen to him, she would have done it by now. "I-I can tell that you're not sleeping, and I know that I have so much to make up to you both. But I can't get her to settle-"

He swallows around the words like they’re shards of glass. Shards of glass would be less painful than this.

Gwen’s tiny face is screwed up in furious protest, her fists balled against his chest as if she’s personally offended by the concept of sleep. Jack shifts her higher on his shoulder, bouncing again, gentler this time, like maybe the rhythm will finally click into place if he just finds the right tempo.

The fabric of his t-shirt is damp, a product of her feverish cheek being pressed against it for hours.

You step fully into the room, the low lamplight catching the exhaustion etched into the lines of your face. Lines that have become so much more prominent since the last time he saw you.

"I can take her." Your voice is flat with exhaustion, not reassurance. You’ve been living on three broken hours a night for ten weeks. “She’s got a cold. She’s miserable.”

As if to prove the point, Gwen lets out another congested wail, the sound catching wetly in her chest.

He wants to apologise again, until he's blue in the face, but that's not what you need right now. What you need right now is dependency and sleep. He's not providing either to you in this moment.

Shoulders sagging, he passes Gwen over, watching as she immediately settles a little. "She might need a feed."

You'd left a bottle pumped for him in the fridge, but Gwen nuzzles against you instinctively.

"Can I... can I do anything?" Jack asks, but you shake your head.

You sink carefully onto the rocking chair and adjust Gwen, guiding her until she latches. The relief is instant and painful all at once - her little body finally calming, small congested snuffles replacing the sharp cries.

Jack stands there, useless hands flexing at his sides. Mothers breastfeeding is not a new concept to him. He sees it on a regular basis.

Feels different when it's you, though.

“You don’t have to prove anything,” You say quietly. "You can go to sleep, it's fine."

“I’m not proving anything. I want to be here.”

It doesn’t sound convincing.

Gwen’s sucking slows. Her body grows heavier against you, tension draining little by little. It's the only thing that can soothe her consistently. Unfortunately, it means that your sleep-cycle is entirely wrecked.

Jack leans forward, eyes glued to her form. “Is she out?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a long pause.

“I can sit with her,” He offers quietly. “Rock her for a bit... if that helps her sleep."

He realises, with a wave of sickening clarity, that he doesn't know what she likes. How she sleeps best. Whether she prefers movement, or complete stillness.

“You don’t have to,” You start, but he's shaking his head.

“I want to.”

You hesitate. Your arms ache. Your whole body aches. You need more than two hours if you're going to be a functioning human being. And finally, you nod. "Get me if she's upset again. She likes the rocking chair - if you do it for about twenty minutes, you should be able to transfer her to the crib."

Moving almost painfully slowly, you pass over the sleeping baby.

She stirs. Snuffles.

But she doesn’t cry.

You stay there a moment longer than necessary.

“I’ll be right here,” He says, not looking at you. “Go get some sleep.”

You nod once and press a quick kiss to her feverish forehead before heading for the pull-out couch, not fully relaxing, eyes half-open as you listen.

The chair creaks softly in rhythm.

Left. Right. Left. Right.

You don’t fully trust him yet. You're not sure how long that process is going to take.

But you let him rock her anyway.

add yourself to my taglist(s) HERE!

everything - @sparkles121127 @kmc1989 @hopeless-romantic-baby @yepyeahuhhuh @lou-la-lou @glitteryenthusiastbitch @ichanelvxgue @karlawithacapitalk @outpostsworld @xoxabs88xox @noodlestheexplorer @xoxoloverb @gloriousmiraclecupcake @notanotherpotter @scarlet-nerded @itseightbeats @cari87 @gaypoetsblog @natashamea18 @chronic-fangirl-222

transatlanticism - @defneedtherapy @moonz33 @ccmoonshine @kneelforloki @cavillary @punksnotdeadbutiam @marvel_ness @saddestbxtch @sophreakingfunny @spooky-librarian-ghost @glamorizethechaos

[mehchuis-deactivated20260406]

Nocturnal Sunshine: Soft Return

Part one, part two, part three, part four

Jack Abbot x NightShift!Reader, ANGST BABY, slow burn,

Summary: A single violent moment shatters Sunshine’s ease, but night shift, and Abbot, stay. Healing comes quietly, one small kindness at a time.

Angst, reader hurt briefly, recovery-fic, slow burn, Jack x NightShift!Reader, protective Jack, emotional support Night Shift

It happens fast.

That’s the thing no one ever explains – how little warning there is.

One second you’re laughing softly with Ellis about a monitor that won’t stop going haywire, the next you’re turning toward a raised voice in bed six.

A patient detoxing hard, restraints refused earlier because he’d seemed lucid, cooperative, even.

You rush over. “Sir,” you say gently, hands already up, practiced calm in your voice. “You’re safe. You’re in the hospital.”

You even offer a soft smile.

But his eyes aren’t on you.

They’re through you.

Before you can begin to be afraid, the swing comes blind and furious.

All muscle, panic, and fear.

You don’t have time to move. To think. To duck.

The impact knocks the breath clean out of you. Pain flashes hot and white across your face as you hit the counter hard enough to see stars. You hear someone shout your name, shout for security – Shen, maybe – but it sounds underwater.

Everything sounds underwater.

Then the world erupts.

Abbot is there instantly. No hesitation. No shouting.

“Back,” he orders, voice sharp as a scalpel.

Security floods in. Night shift moves like one body – Ellis pulling you away, Lena already applying pressure to your rapidly swelling nose and eye, Shen between you and the patient without even thinking about it.

You feel Abbot’s hand at your back – steady, grounding, unmoving – before you even realize he’s there. He keeps you angled away from the room, from the noise, from the man who hurt you.

Abbot never takes his eyes off the patient until he’s fully restrained, sedated, no longer a threat.

Only then does he turn.

And when he sees you – pale, shaking, blood at your lip, eyes glazed over – something in his face fractures.

He lowers himself slightly so he’s not looming, speaks softly so only you can hear him.

“Hey,” he says quietly, hands steady on your shoulders. “Look at me.”

You do. Tears blur everything.

You hate how close to pity his look is.

“I’m here,” he continues. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

He stays right there while Lena cleans the blood from your face. While Ellis checks your vitals. While Shen argues with security on your behalf. He answers questions you don’t have the energy for. Corrects people gently when they talk too loudly.

“I’m here.” He coaxes.

And you believe him.

That’s the part that breaks you.

You don’t remember much after that.

Just pieces. Fragments of people who care so much it hurts.

Ellis insisting you sit. Lena holding your hand. Shen pacing like a caged animal. Abbot refusing to leave your side even when admin show up asking questions.

He insists on reviewing your discharge paperwork himself. Notices when the lights are too bright and dims them. Brings you water you forget to drink and nudges the cup closer when it goes untouched.

When you push it away, he lifts an eyebrow.

“Two sips,” he says. “I’ll settle for that.”

You comply.

You’re cleared physically – bruises, cuts that stopped bleeding a while ago, and a concussion – no one argues when Abbot says you’re going home.

“I’ll take her,” he says, already grabbing your bag before you can even think to object.

He walks you to your car. Offers to drive you home. You don’t want to be a burden, but you don’t think you should drive right after being concussed. You pause before accepting.

“You're not a burden,” he says, firm but gentle. “It’s care.”

So you tell him your address.

Halfway home, he pulls into a drive-through without asking.

“You need food,” he says.

“I’m not hungry.”

“I know,” he replies. “Eat anyway.”

He hands you fries. Salty. Warm. You eat a few without realizing it until he nods once, satisfied, and merges back into traffic.

The whole way home is quiet. Jack focuses on the road, one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting loosely near the center console – not touching you, but there if you need it. He drives slower than usual. Avoids potholes.

When you reach your building, he walks you inside. Rides the elevator with you. Stands close enough that you don’t feel alone but not trapped.

Like he’s making sure you’re still here.

Like he’s making sure you’re not going anywhere.

At your door, he hesitates, then presses a protein bar into your palm.

“Eat this before you sleep,” he says. “Concussions are worse on empty stomachs.”

You nod, throat tight.

“Take the time you need,” he adds. “We’ll be here.” Then, softer, like a promise meant only for you, “I’ll be here.”

He waits until you’re inside before turning away.

You close the door and collapse, sobbing into your hands, choking back noise lest your neighbors – or God, Jack – hear you.

You don’t notice the way Jack’s feet don’t move from his place in the hallway until he hears your lock click shut.

You do notice the way you wake up to a slew of texts from your little nocturnal family.

Ellis:

You don’t owe us anything. Just heal.

Shen:

Sunshine, eat something and sleep. In that order.

Lena:

Hey sweetheart, heard. Soup’s on standby.

Abbot:

Did you eat the bar? Text me when you wake up. Hydrate.

You stare at that one the longest.

You come back after a week.

And your first week back is your hardest.

You do your job. You smile when expected. You laugh at the right moments.

But the spark, the easy warmth that earned you your name – the sunshine – is gone.

You flinch when voices rise. You double-check rooms before entering. You’re counting exits. You avoid bed six like it’s cursed.

No one touches you unless you ask. You never do.

Night shift notices. Everyone notices, but unlike day shift, rumors don’t fly. Because it’s you. And that means something.

They don’t say anything.

They just adjust.

Shen takes point on agitated patients without comment. Ellis walks you out of rooms when things feel off. Lena quietly rearranges assignments so you’re never alone when the department spikes.

Abbot makes small changes you almost miss.

He schedules himself on the same nights as you. Assigns you patients farther from the trauma bays at first. Positions himself between you and volatile rooms during rounds without ever announcing it.

And he watches what you don’t do.

One night, you realize you’ve been charting for hours without eating. Half a sandwich appears next to your keyboard.

“Jack–”

“Eat,” he says, not looking up. “You’re shaking.”

You take a bite.

“Good,” he murmurs, like you’ve passed some secret test.

Abbot watches.

Always watching.

Not hovering.

Not smothering.

Present.

One night, after a patient yells and you freeze just a second too long, Abbot steps in smoothly, redirecting without drama. When it’s over, he waits until the hallway is empty.

“You don’t have to push through this,” he says.

“I just–” you choke, “I don’t want to be treated differently,” you reply, voice tight, quiet.

He nods. “You’re not. You’re being protected. There’s a difference.”

You swallow. “What if I don’t get back to who I was?”

He considers that, then says quietly, “Then we’ll get to know who you are now.”

Something deep in your chest loosens.

You feel like you can finally breathe – if only a little.

The second week, you laugh once, genuinely, when Shen pretends a supply cart is sentient and out to get him.

It surprises you both.

“Hey,” he says, grinning. “There she is.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile lingers.

Abbot notices.

He always does.

That night, he slides another sandwich toward you at 3 a.m. – this time it's a whole one.

“No arguments,” he says mildly.

By the third week, you’re moving easier.

Still cautious. Still careful.

But you tease again. You hum while charting. You bring in pastries one night, claiming they were on sale, but everyone knows better.

Abbot watches you eat one before taking his coffee.

At 2:19 a.m., he hands you coffee – already cooled slightly, the way you like it now – and says, “Missed that.”

“Missed what?”

“You,” he answers simply.

You hold his gaze this time.

“Thank you,” you say.

For everything. For not forcing. For standing between you and the worst moment of your career. For staying. For making sure you remembered to eat. Goes unsaid.

He nods once. “Anytime.”

It isn’t one big moment when your spark comes back.

It’s dozens of small ones.

A patient thanking you. Shen calling you Sunshine again, like it’s always been true. Ellis trusting you with something heavy. Lena squeezing your shoulder in passing.

And one night, as the department hums low and familiar, you realize you’re not counting exits anymore.

You’re just home.

Night shift kept the light on for you.

And Abbot?

He never left the doorway.

[se7entyrell]

transatlanticism. prologue.

(jack abbot x reader)

Jack Abbot has had a terrible eighteen months. Truly one for the books. Losing his mother, and then you, sometimes he wonders what the point is. If things will ever look up. Until you turn up at the Pitt, with a little girl who looks exactly like him.

warnings: this blog is 18+, mdni! this fic deals with grief, difficult births, depression, anxiety, and canon medical gore. it will also eventually contain explicit sexual content

Ever since his mom died, Jack’s Sundays have been totally free. Where he used to spend the day at her care home, reminiscing about childhood and their first family home in Aspinwall, there's now just silence. Half the time, she wasn’t even lucid and would spend the day assuming Jack was his father, but he didn’t mind.

Part of him longed to live in the world that she did. One where his dad was still alive, and Jack had never joined the army. Had never lost his leg. Or his wife. Or you.

A life where Jack has a family. People who would care if he arrested in the street, and died before the paramedics even made it to him.

Currently, he’s pretty sure the only person who would even bat an eye is Robby. At one moment in time, the two of them were able to wallow in the grief of life’s momentous misery, but even Robby seems to be on the mend these days.

Taking therapy more seriously, seeing a nice, age-appropriate woman, enjoying life a little more. Meanwhile, Jack ends up on the roof more nights than not.

He wonders if you’d come to his funeral.

It doesn’t bear thinking about. Not anymore. What’s done is done, and Jack Abbot has to live with the consequences of his actions.

It’s fine. He’s fine.

And besides, the Pitt needs all the attendings they can get since Robby dropped to part-time. He’s just doing the people of Pittsburgh a favour, working eighty hour weeks for their pleasure. It’s certainly not because he has nothing else in his life, and days off are spent listening to the police scanner and hoping he has an excuse to come in.

So when Robby had asked for Jack to cover his Sunday shift, Jack had agreed. He’d told Robby he’d double-check the calendar, see if he could make things work, but they both knew it was just a front.

A way for Jack to feel slightly better about the turn his life has taken in the past year.

Which is how he finds himself here at 7am on the dot. He’s still very much a night-shift kind of guy, but a part of him derives a little comfort from being on the same schedule as most other people in Pittsburgh. Makes him feel less alone.

“What’ve you got for me, Doctor King?” He asks, stethoscope round his neck as he strolls towards Central. As usual, the board is already packed, and the waiting room is bursting at the seams. It’s going to be a long day.

“Well, there’s a priapism in North-”

“Nope. Count me out of that one,” He interjects, his gaze sweeping over the board.

Laceration.

Loss of consciousness.

DKA.

Nothing hugely interesting.

“Doctor Robby doesn’t let us cherry pick,” Mel points out, and Jack shrugs.

“Makes no difference to me, kid. Long as everybody gets seen.”

Santos appears at his side, charts already in hand. “There’s an Abbot in South-2, if you’re interested. With one ‘t’, too. Didn’t know there were more of you out there.”

Jack’s brow furrows a little. Sure, he has a couple of cousins in Pennsylvania, but they’re all Philly-way. And Trinity’s right. There aren’t many Abbot’s around. It’s all the double ‘t’s.

“First name?”

Maybe his little cousin Miriam is in town. He thinks her husband might be from here originally.

“Uh… Gwendoline.”

He stills, breath catching in his throat and muscles tensing. He hasn’t heard that name in months. He wasn’t sure he’d ever hear it again.

“Doctor Abbot? Is everything okay?” Mel’s voice cuts through his haze, and he blinks in her direction.

“Sorry - it’s just… that was my mom’s name. Caught me off guard,” He murmurs, reaching for the chart. “I’ll take the Abbot.”

He doesn’t even glance at the chart, immediately making a beeline for the consultation room. If he were a smarter man, he’d examine the chart, and see why this mysterious is Abbot is here. What they need, and where they came from.

But there’s some kind of pull, deep in his bones, drawing him towards the room at the end of the hall. Like he’ll die if he doesn’t get in there right now.

Before he even reaches the door, a baby’s cries wafts through the hallway.

Definitely not Miriam. She’s never had any interest in kids.

When he pushes into the room, drawing the curtain back, all the air is knocked from his lungs in one fell swoop.

You’re standing by the wall, a baby cradled to your chest, examining the pamphlets they have across all the walls.

Your guide to contraception.

Burn-care. When to come in, and when to treat at home.

Burnout: We’re here to help.

He wishes he could say that you look well. You look beautiful, because you always look beautiful to him, but well is not a word that jumps to mind right about now. The bags under your eyes are striking, and you’ve lost weight since he last saw you, which definitely shouldn’t be the case given the baby in your arms.

He murmurs your name softly, and you flinch, snapping back to reality.

Your lips part, your brow furrows, and Jack can’t tell what’s going through your head. In the old days, he'd be able to tell straight away with little hesitation. If he had to hedge his bets right now, he’d guess it’s not good. “Jack? I-I thought Robby worked days.”

The baby in your arms, Gwendoline, he assumes, lets out another wail, and Jack feels it pierce at his heart. Her voice is hoarse, barely more than a croak as her face scrunches up, tears leaking down her cheeks.

He can’t pull his eyes away from her. “He’s got the day off.”

Silence falls between you both, nothing but the baby’s cries punctuating the room. He knows the answer already from her name, and can see it in her nose and mouth, but he has to hear you say it. “Is she…?”

Lip between your teeth, you nod. “Yeah. She is.”

It’s like the world falls out from under him. All this time believing he was alone, that there was nothing left to live for, and he has a daughter.

With you.

Letting out a shaky breath, he closes the door behind him with a soft click. This doesn’t need to be overheard by the rest of the ER.

He suddenly doesn’t trust his leg, opting to lean against the doorframe to keep himself upright. He swallows hard, and allows his gaze to return to your face.

His voice comes out rough. “How old?”

“Ten weeks,” You reply quietly, as if ashamed. “She was early.”

The shock coursing through his veins finally gives way to something deeper. Something sharper. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

“I tried,” You cut in, tears bright in your eyes now. “But you left, Jack. You disappeared, and I tried texting and calling, b-but you didn’t ever get back to me, so I thought you didn’t want anything to do with us-”

It’s Jack’s turn for shame, a pit forming low in his gut.

He didn’t get back to you, because he’s had your number blocked since a week after you broke up.

I need some time, he’d said. I’ll be in touch soon.

Except he never was. And now Jack Abbot has a daughter, and he’s missed the first ten weeks of her life. “You could’ve found me over something like this, I mean.- you know where I live-”

His voice dies in his throat when Gwendoline lets out another sob that bubbles up into a cough. You pat at her back, rocking her gently to try and soothe her.

It doesn’t work.

Jack feels sick. Now isn’t the time to argue over logistics. Not when his daughter, his baby girl, is sick. “How long has this been going on for?”

“Just last night and this morning,” You reply. “S-she wasn’t sleeping, and she won’t feed, and I think she’s got a fever, but I don’t know-”

“Hey,” He murmurs. “It’s okay. Can I have a look at her?”

You nod, before passing her over. Jack tries to savour the moment for what it is: his first time holding his daughter, but he can’t quite find the joy in it when she’s obviously in so much pain.

“Hi, sweet girl,” He coos, moving to lay her down on the bed. “We’re going to get you sorted, alright?”

He listens to her chest, does a quick head-to-toe, and lets out a small sigh of relief. It doesn’t look to be anything serious. Just a bug. “We’ll give her some Tylenol to be safe, but it’s just a common cold. Feels a lot worse when she can’t express what’s wrong.”

“Are you sure?” You ask, arms wrapped tightly round yourself as you watch on.

“I’m sure. You did everything right.” He hopes he comes across as comforting, as he bundles Gwendoline back into her onesie. Glancing at you, as if scared to overstep, he continues, “Can I?”

“Go ahead.”

He picks her up again, cradling her head against his shoulder. She’s still crying, but quietens just a little at the movement. He’s struck by how tiny she is - her entire head can fit comfortably in the palm of his hand. His throat constricts, and he has to tell himself that he’s not going to cry today. “Gwendoline?”

He can’t bring himself to vocalise any further.

Why would you name her after his mother, after he hung you out to dry for your entire pregnancy? Why would he have even been a factor in your thinking?

“Gwen, normally,” You reply, glancing at the ceiling, blinking heavily. A tear trickles, and you wipe at it hastily. “I guess I uh, thought that if I named her after your mom, it might make you want to come back to us.”

The crack in your own voice is going to haunt him for the rest of his life, he's sure of it.

Jack stills, the motion of his rocking faltering before resuming, slower now, more deliberate. Gwen’s cries taper into small, uneven sounds against his shoulder, her cheek pressed to his collarbone. “I’m sorry I made you feel like that. I-I really didn’t know. I never would have… I’d have been there for you.”

It’s a pathetic response, really. How can a sorry even begin to undo all the pain and hurt he’s caused you both?

Before you can reply, his pager starts to bleep, and Jack’s never hated PTMC more. A world where he has to go back out to the ER and pretend that his life hasn’t just irrevocably changed is a cruel world indeed.

He should be here, with you both.

Looking after his family.

“You need to take that?”

He closes his eyes, a sigh escaping his lips. “I’m so sorry - I’ll get her medication first.”

Passing Gwen back over, he checks the computer to put in an order. He makes a quick scan of the file, slowing to a stop when he sees a few blank sheets. “You haven’t filled out the insurance information.”

“Oh. I uh, I have cash-”

That raises Jack’s heckles. Last time you were in his life, your coverage was practically better than his. But his daughter is sick, and there’s a trauma incoming, and he’s already spent too long in here. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll sort it.”

“Jack-”

“I’ve got it,” He insists, voice firm as he meets your gaze.

You consider his words for a second, before finally nodding. There’s no point arguing now. Not over this. There’s much more to argue about later. “Thank you,” You whisper.

“When can I see you both again?”

Your eyebrows raise a little, as if surprised by his eagerness. He can’t blame you. Not when you’ve spent the last three months assuming he wants nothing to do with his daughter. Or you.

God, he thinks he might be sick.

Just a few more minutes. He just has to hold it together for a few more minutes, and then he can do whatever he needs to. But he can’t crack. Not here. Not in front of you.

“When do you finish tonight?”

“Five.”

“You could come over, if that’s not too soon-”

“It’s not too soon,” Jack interjects. Now that he knows he has a daughter, he can’t bear the idea of being without her for any longer. You could’ve asked him to drive you both home, and he’d have hung the ER out to dry without a second thought. “Tonight is perfect.”

You tell him your address, and Jack has to fight back a look of disdain. It’s not the worst part of town, but it’s certainly nowhere near the best, and the idea of you and Gwen living there makes him uneasy.

You begin to bundle Gwen back into her carrier, and Jack takes a second to simply take her in.

He’s missed so much already.

Finally willing himself to speak, he clears his throat. “You can get the medication from pharmacy, just to the left. And if you’re worried about anything else, you can bring her back in, or call-”

As soon as he unblocks your number.

“-I’ll pick up.”

taglist -

everything - @sparkles121127 @kmc1989 @hopeless-romantic-baby @yepyeahuhhuh @lou-la-lou

all the pitt - @kdcollinsauthor @defenestracjaem @mydarlinggardenia @seitmai @insomniactiefling @teenwolfbitches28 @thecranberrypineapple @karsinner @bobsbri @basicasfusername

all jack - @generation-zero @thatgirljayy @atwingeofenvy

add yourself to my transatlanticism/other taglists HERE, 18+ only