I write fanfiction and blurbs about things like law, fashion, history, and politics and sometimes random things that are going on in my life.
Fandoms:
Cod mw reboot, dispatch, dead by daylight, the pit, Genshin impact, ASOIAF (books and shows), IWTV and any Ann Rice inspired media, (she’s dead she can’t get me for my opinions.) various horror movies and slashers.
I do not own any of the characters of any of these franchises. All rights go to the original creators.
I do not allow any of my writing to be used/imputed for anything ai or ask blogs. I do not condone it and will block and report you if you do.
Themes here:
Fluff, smut, angst, life thoughts, monster fucking, occasionally more intense bdsm themes that will be labeled and tagged!
Hard nos for Kinks or themes I won't write:
- Water sports, scat, anything involving children, suicide, rape, sissy forced masc/fem play will update when needed
People I don't want on my page:
- true cringe/cock community. Y'all jerk it to school shooters and nazis. Gtfo
- pedo shit of any kind, real or fic children (apparently I have to specify MAPS too)
-generative ai fans…gtfo
- zoophiles
- bigots (ie racism, anti-Igbtq ideals, terfs, Zionism, and ablism)
- also anti vaxxers... or anti science ppl in general
In the past 48 hours I have gone back to my emo teen roots so bad I’m listening to nirvana and reading creepypasta fanfic to the point I found something in my drafts that fits hoodie/brian Thomas.
Carter suffering through his fentanyl addiction and Pope witnessing for a second time how someone dear to him could potentially be ripped away from his life again. Moments of Julia came crashing back and he's paranoid to lose Carter the same way, that it would be his fault for not noticing early and for not being there to help. This time he did everything to support Carter with his recovery even if it caused a rift between Pope and his family. Even if it meant that he had to cut his family off he'd do it just to keep Carter safe, he won't let himself live in the same regret back then. This time he had control over his life and he choose to spend it with Carter, all hell be damned.
Once Brian discovers you in a magazine, he’s absolutely hooked. Collecting volume after volume, he even starts tuning into your show. So when you announce that you’re stopping by Rosswood for meet and greets, he’s searching for a disguise in a heartbeat- but what happens if you get attacked after hours?
Well, Mr Fox himself comes to your aid, of course!
!! Fanboy! Hoodie x Icon F! Reader !! W/C: 5.9k
-> You were a magical girl, he was a sniper from the south, can I make it anymore obvious? ->
────୨ৎ────
— ^ ^ —
Addiction sank its teeth into Brian before he could blink.
It began so unassuming, harmless in the grand scheme of things. He’d driven to the pub like he always had, parking behind neon lights and aged brick. His truck sat tucked into the alley, near the bar’s back door. The same routine, nothing spectacular about it- that is, until he entered the bathroom.
The space was dingy, with one toilet, urinal and sink. Littered with graffiti from porcelain to tile, even the mirror was cracked. A singular, buzzing light hung overhead, and his lighter sparked, smoke curling into the air. He leaned against the exposed heater. The white paint was chipping terribly, leaving dry flecks that smeared on his jeans. The mission had been shit.
First off, he lived with a bunch of useless fucks who couldn’t act right to save their lives. Too loud, too reckless. They never cleaned up after themselves, leaving dirty clothes at every corner. The laundry machine itself was dusty, used primarily by Tim, Jack, and him. Tobias, on a good day.
Second off, their food was already scarce, and after a long bender, it had been depleted by at least sixty percent.
They had ruined the kitchen. Throwing dry ingredients everywhere and devouring everything in the pantry. The only thing left in the fridge was beer. On top of that, the assignment he’d been tasked with was over two weeks long. He couldn’t even pack a fucking granola bar- because they didn’t have any.
Budgeting was rough. Most of their food was either stolen or purchased with pickpocketed cash. It worked well enough; however, the tactic was always based on luck. A fifty-fifty chance of landing on someone who carried real money. Sometimes they’d have a decent amount to spend, able to cover actual meals. Other times, it was barely sufficient for snacks.
Cards worked in theory, but it wasn’t worth the risk. Cards could be tracked and cancelled on the same day. It was easier to rely on paper, loose twenties wadded together. So imagine his surprise when their monthly food supply was vanquished in a weekend.
Hoodie wanted to kill somebody.
He had taken that frustration out on the sad, deadbeat who’d been getting too nosy. Yet he was left unsatisfied, carrying his irritation all the way to the bar. He’d snagged the guy's wallet. Spending it on a room-temperature whiskey and a pack of smokes. However, the flashing lights were starting to give him a headache, which led him here.
Now, standing in the cramped outhouse, he took a drag. Watching the pollution waft slowly, before a flash of colour caught his eye. A magazine was hanging in a basket close to the sink. With a vivid front cover, the tagline read- “Talk about rowdy roommies, am I right?”
The art illustrated a brightly toned character winking at the audience. Dressed in frills, you even had a little wand. There was also smaller text below. “A Guide for Gun Slingers & Magical Girls with too many problems!” The irony was not lost on him, and he huffed an almost laugh. He had no idea how the two correlated, but modern things will be modern, he supposed.
After debating for a moment, he reached for the pamphlet. It’s not like anyone was around, and he was bored. What was the harm in browsing? The blonde had time to kill anyway. He just wanted to see what gunslingers had to do with “Magical Girls” or whatever. It was fine, nothing out of the ordinary.
He flipped the thing open, immediately flash-banged with more colourful text. This time, you were 3D and sprawled on the floor. Okay, so this was a photoshoot..? Maybe?
The speech bubble above stated, “Man, these folks wouldn’t know respect if it hit them in the face !!” It made him exhale through his nose. Yeah, they really wouldn’t. Then he turned to the next page, then the next, and the next—
Brian had finished the entire magazine.
He hadn’t even noticed that he was close to the end until it was over. You discussed a wide range of issues, from fashion dilemmas to relationship struggles. Even including cleaning tips, budgeting for beginners and a weapon variety section. It was a shockingly well-rounded bathroom read.
Alright, he’d give the corporations their flowers. You seemed like a good enough influence, and your design wasn’t bad on the eyes either. Honestly, you were... funny. It’s not like some random comic could truly solve his problems, yet some of your advice stuck. You were relatable, in a weird, disembodied way. And for whatever reason, he still hadn’t set the pamphlet down.
It was entertaining, and technically, he wasn’t fully finished. He had skimmed, a speedy once-over deal. He hadn’t actually read the tiny blurbs on the sides. The paragraphs with the solutions- it was only right if he took it for the road.
That, right there, was the beginning of the end.
Although he did find it decently pleasant, the trouble came with his desire for a follow-up. He liked A Guide for Gun Slingers & Magical Girls with too many problems ! ™ He could admit that. It was convenient to have on hand. A good way to keep his mind busy. It was hard to find respectable media these days, and that tied into his current situation.
The one he had was labelled as “Volume. 14” Which meant there were at least another thirteen to read. The issue? They didn’t seem to have the series anywhere. Not at the local bookstore in town, not in another bathroom, not even at the corner store. The bastards had bad song covers on DVD, but not your pamphlet. Like what kind of establishment were they running?
He searched high and low, coming back empty-handed each time. A man could only reread the same feature so often, you know? He was getting desperate, not that he’d ever say that out loud. Yet, Hoodie knew one thing, one fact that stayed true throughout the months.
He needed the complete collection.
ᯓ★
The discovery was like finding nirvana.
Rifle clattering onto the table, his hands moved with practice. Oiling the metal, checking for nicks and rust. Brian was settled on the worn-down couch when Jeff dropped next to him. Flinging his knife into the air, he caught it before fetching the TV remote. The station flickered to life, and the second he glanced up, he saw it.
Saw you.
Waving at the camera, you greeted the viewers cheerfully. “Yellow! Welcome back, my angels!” Shining brighter than the early sun. Your voice was bubbly- chipper when you went on to catch the audience up. This episode was about your fight against an ancient evil. A grand finale, titled “Bad Habits Die Hard.” It was narrated by you- a part of your abilities.
You could break the fourth wall, interacting with the screen as you pleased. Your crew of allies gathered on a vast battlefield, bracing themselves for the storm. You fought valiantly, wand in hand, while you parried strikes. A spark here, a flash there, the beast screeched in anger. His lip curled up in a snarl, and he whirled his arm back. Skin splitting to reveal rows of jagged teeth.
Though just before he could lunge, you tugged another character in front of you. A bunny fighter of some sort, donning floppy ears and a fluffy tail to match. They pressed their palms to their lips, then flung their hands out for a special attack. Cupid’s Shot, activated by blowing a kiss at the opponent. It hit the guy square in the chest, and he flew back.
Skidding against the dirt, plumes confettied into the wind. There were even cartoon birds and hearts swirling around his head. You turned to the camera after, snickering about his weakness for your friend. Apparently, they were actually married, and this was simply a lovers’ quarrel.
The episode ended with you celebrating the win. The moral of the story was that communication was important, a priority in relationships.
“Remember, you can’t keep something shining if you don’t polish it. Think gun metal! It’ll rust if you don’t oil it, grow rickety if you don’t take care of it. Love is the same way! And I’ll see you next week- signing out, yours truly.”
The outro played once you’d winked, and a commercial came on. Brian, despite his lingering denial, was hooked. I mean, come on. Rifle puns, action, it had humour, too. You were witty, quick-tongued. Ignoring the fact that he thought you were attractive like a teen with a crush. He found himself disappointed that it was over—
“Did you seriously watch that shit?”
Jeff had fallen asleep the second he turned on the TV. Awaking to your theme song blasting, the killer was confused to say the least.
However, Hoodie was quick to straighten up. “What do you think?” Shooting him a glare sharp enough to cut. It made the other sneer, shoving off the sofa while barking over his shoulder. “Jesus fucking christ- who pissed in your cereal?”
He walked with a stumble, clearly inebriated from whatever he’d drunk earlier that night. Jeff only crashed onto the couch because he didn’t have enough coordination to make it up the stairs. Leaving a streak of blood on the armrest and everything. He’d gone hunting, then got wasted. Fucking typical. Brian drew a heavy breath.
Finishing his original task, it was past one AM by the time he reached his bed. The old mattress creaked as he slumped down. Same shit, different day. Stripping to nothing but his boxers, he sprawled on his back. Scruffy sheets under him. Jeff’s words echoed through his mind. What the hell did he even mean by that?
There was nothing wrong with your show. It was a nice watch, and it had a good message. He was simply too dense. Wouldn’t understand a healthy mindset if it shot him between the eyes. You were balanced, both caring and cutthroat. Sometimes you were selfless, other times you did things because you wanted to. It made you feel real and respectable.
Jeff just didn’t get it.
ᯓ★
“The hell are you doing?”
Elbow deep in grime and guts, Tim was exhausted. Ready to finish the job and head home, he’d turned around to find Brian frozen.
They had been sent out to take care of some stray hikers. Conspiracy theorists who got too nosy. The couple were long dead- the only thing left to do was get rid of the bodies. Yet the other man seemed preoccupied, staring entranced at a corner of the cabin.
The victims' setup wasn’t out of the ordinary by any means; there weren’t even weapons or supplies to take. Their rented-out shelter was a run-of-the-mill vacation house, decorated with the bare minimum. So what in the world was Hoodie distracted by?
His previous question went unanswered for another beat, then Brian blinked back to life. Stiffly grunting, “Nothing- we can bury ‘em out back.” An expected response that Tim thought nothing of. He knew well enough that the work they did wasn’t light, and it’d get to you no matter how cold you’d grown to it.
Dragging the corpse closest to him through the back door, he returned just to see Hoodie missing from his prior station. The body (that should’ve been hauled up by now) was untouched, and his partner had gravitated to a shelf near the fireplace. He looked like he hadn’t even noticed that Tim had entered the room, shifting in place as if he were making a life-or-death decision.
Upon stepping closer, he observed in confusion as Brian reached for a plush toy sitting on the ledge. A brightly coloured doll, with sparkly cheeks and a fantastical outfit. He was holding the thing with so much care that it threw Masky off. The sniper had never been a fan of the sentimentals, and even if the toy was attached to an old memory- why now?
They were drenched in blood and tired enough to collapse. What value could it possibly possess to make Hoodie drop everything and retrieve it from its spot? Tim cleared his throat loudly.
“You got plans for that thing—”
“Jesus fuck.”
The blonde jolted, spinning to face him sharply, doll still in hand. “I thought you were gettin’ the body.” His tone made Tim raise a brow, and he muttered, puzzled. “... I did. Thought you were gettin’ the other one.” The two stayed at a standstill for a moment before he nodded in response. Shoving the mini-plush into his jacket pocket and moved to hoist the carcass over his shoulder.
However, Tim was now even more perplexed. While Brian wasn’t terribly open, they trusted each other. Had each other's backs at the worst of times. Why the hell was he being so weird about it? Assuming it was probably related to his childhood, the man followed him as he marched outside. Lighting a cigarette on the way.
They dumped the limbs into a pre-dug grave, burying their tracks with the usual protocol. Everything had gone to plan, and Brian was only slightly shaken up about being caught. It was fine, good even-
Until Tim unlatched the glove box.
In hindsight, the chamber wasn’t the best place to store his collection. But he was always on the road, always active and sent out day after day. It just made the most sense to keep the magazines there, and it hadn’t affected him for the worse either. Till now, that is. Because the second the compartment opened, all hell broke loose.
Saved photocards, pamphlets, and merch-themed trinkets tumbled out onto the brunette's lap. All with a person who bore a striking resemblance to the toy he’d grabbed earlier, printed front and center. The silence between them fizzled with tension, then Brian swallowed hard.
“... I can explain-”
“Who the fuck are you?”
Tim squinted at him, cig hanging limply from his lips. Never in all his years could he have predicted this. A fanboy. Hoodie was a fanboy. The evidence was clear as day, and the exasperation on his friend's face only damned him further. “I started reading, alright? Ain’t nothing wrong with havin’ a hobby.” Revving the engine, his defence was met with a scoff.
“What is all this? You been collecting this shit?” Masky muttered under his breath, picking up a Polaroid to inspect it. You were posing with a glowing wand, winking at the camera under pastel lights. In another, you were sitting on a beach chair. Styled in an up-do with flowers in your hair, a vibrant bikini, pulling the whole look together.
If you told Tim a year ago that Brian was into fairy princesses or whatever this was, he would’ve shot you.
The pressure continued for at least another ten minutes. Pictures on pictures, your little snapshots came bedazzled, too. Stickers on the frame, key charms of your logo spread over his thighs. At this point, Timothy Wright was questioning everything he knew about his lifelong companion.
“So, you get into it recently or?” Tim reclined after half-hazardously pushing the belongings back into the glove box. Crossing his arms when Hoodie grumbled. “Got into it a while back-” He opened his mouth, only to be cut off by the others' outburst. “It’s a good series. It ain’t like that mind-rotting shit you see everywhere. It’s honest fuckin’ work, Tim.”
The passion in his voice was not lost, and Masky side-eyed him like he’d grown three heads. He supposed that people needed outlets- it was just that those outlets normally involved alcohol, violence or substances.
On one hand, he was somewhat glad Brian wasn’t losing his mind, downing unmarked pills. On the other hand, he was a grown-ass man with pictures of some random girl in his truck. It was an odd situation to navigate, and he wasn’t sure how to respond.
The man wasn’t doing any wrong, and this was objectively a harmless interest. It was just jarring because of how they lived, who they were. Imagining Hoodie going through the Polaroids alone, excitedly reading each volume, felt dystopian. Unrealistic, almost, yet here he was. Utterly balls-deep in your story and willing to defend your name.
Tim was stuck at a crossroads. He technically could just let it go. Let Brian continue his love for your media and keep to himself- but this was a golden opportunity. Hoodie was damn near the baddest of the bunch, and his favourite pastime was reading about magical girls.
It was hilarious.
Turning to his left, he exhaled slowly. “You like the frills, huh?” Teasing laid on thick. His jab had Brian clicking his tongue in annoyance. “Shut the hell up. S’not like that, she’s- she’s good at what she does. It’s a well-produced show-”
“You watchin’ shows now?”
“We spend all day blowing motherfuckers heads off- but fuck me if I ain’t wanna’ see that shit on TV, right?”
His sentence ended with a sharp huff, and Masky whistled. “Shit, didn’t mean it like that. You jus’ ain’t seem like the type.” Smoke curled into the air, wafting past Hoodie's vision as he readjusted his grip on the wheel. It made him frown.
“The hell is that supposed to mean?” Offended before Tim could explain himself, he had to laugh. “Easy- I’m sayin’ yer’ not exactly the sparkly type.” He was right, and Hoodie, despite himself, felt his lips tugging up. “I’m versatile.” Brothers in arms, even if they got on each other’s nerves every minute of the day.
The rest of the drive was brisk, the boys bickering back and forth for the entirety of it. And when the manor was within sight, the car slowed to a halt.
Brian rushed up the stairs as discreetly as he could. He was sore from head to toe, exhausted beyond belief- yet, he had done it. The plush he’d snagged of you wasn’t just regular merch; it was a special model. A rare, limited edition replica. He saw the launch a bit ago, but it wasn’t anywhere near their town. And it’s not like he could ship it here.
Even if he could, with what money? They were barely getting by as is; he couldn’t drop a few hundred for a collectible. It wasn’t in his cards- or so he thought. The moment he laid his eyes upon your figure on that shelf was a moment unlike any other. It was perfect. They were already long dead, and the plush was his for the taking.
Stepping into his room, he locked the door behind him. It was time to get serious. That had been the last assignment for this week; he hadn’t been scheduled for any more jobs. So tonight was for me-time. He took a quick shower to clean off the blood and dirt, then immediately plugged in his laptop.
There were a plethora of streaming websites that offered reruns and new drops of your show. From season one to season five, they had it all, and he wasn’t caught up due to being on the field basically all month.
He swiftly tapped the twelfth episode, shuffling against the pillows while the screen flashed the words. “Sand Castle Dilemma.” Beach themed, huh? Most of your plots were battle-involving, so this must be a filler of some kind. Either way, he needed a much-deserved break from gore, and this would be a nice change of pace.
The viewing went as expected, with you and your friends wrestling over who had the best sand sculpture. And maybe it was stupid, but your lighthearted jokes always brightened his mood. Brian was in the middle of appreciating your artistic talents on the shore, the episode coming to an end, when you said something that made him pause.
“Breaking news, loveys! I’m going on a super-duper top-secret mission. If you’re in the Rosswood area, I could really use the help. But between us, I think I got it—”
After your dialogue faded, instead of the usual credits, an info page popped up. You were going on tour, doing meet-and-greets in different towns. Gathering “allies” in your fight against injustice, they were expected to dress up in their Sunday best. Basically, put on a hero suit, for lack of better wording. It had him sitting straight, hurriedly searching for details. Of course, he couldn’t go, but it wouldn’t hurt to look.
Yet the more he read, the more he wanted to attend. It didn’t even cost more than a pack of smokes, and he could last a week without lighting a cigarette after every drive. It’s not like anyone would notice, he could just slip into the crowd. Stay long enough to see you, maybe get you to sign something, then he’d disappear.
Yes, there was a very high possibility that he’d scare you. Yes, he was willing to bet on those odds.
It wouldn’t be your fault, of course not. He knew what he looked like, how he came off- it was natural for most civilians to avoid eye contact standing around him, let alone interacting with him. He made people uneasy. Which worked great when he was trying to literally waterboard information out of someone, but not quite suited for a cheerful meet-and-greet. So with a heavy heart, he accepted a blaring, very troubling fact.
Brian needed a disguise.
ᯓ★
“You want… a fox head?
“Mm.”
Laughing Jack had been around for a very, very long time, and never had he been this stumped. When there was a knock on the attack door, he’d expected Jeff, high and in need of snacks. Ben, annoying him to bum off sweets- shit, maybe even Toby. What he had not planned for was Hoodie. The ever-brooding, always scowling Brian Thomas himself. Asking for a mascot fox head of all things.
He quirked his head to the side, curious. “What for?” The evident excitement in his swirled pupils made Hoodie roll his eyes. “An assignment. I need to blend in with some fuckin’ parade bullshit.” A lie, but LJ didn’t need to know that.
The jester clapped his hands together loudly, cackling while he strided into his seemingly endless circus-themed space. “Oh, goodie! It’s about time that Mr. Boss sent you to do something fun.” He rifled next to a comically sized popcorn stand, throwing out things that definitely did not fit behind the machine. Fucking clowns.
Brian sighed, and LJ tugged up a cartoonish mask. Bouncing back over, he held the costume out to Hoodie theatrically. “This might be my finest work yet!” The item was lined with soft fur, orange with black-tipped ears and a button-nosed snout. He grunted a “Thank you.” Then headed on his way, promising to owe the monochrome demon a favour later.
If he came home with at least one thing of official merch, this would all be worth it.
Hopefully.
The next step of his disguise fiasco was the outfit. All his current clothing was either blood-stained, grimy, or worn down beyond the acceptable limit for nice events. He needed something new. Immediately. Your tour was arriving in town that very week, which meant he had to have the items ready in less than two days. It was time to get serious.
Though with his budgeting struggle, he couldn’t just walk into any respectable store. It left him with one resort left. Robbery post murder. Not great, yet it was necessary.
The second greatest embarrassment he’d ever experienced was during the next mission.
A three-man job. Him, Toby, and Tim had packed into the truck like sardines, executing the target before disposing of the bodies. The usual stuff. His plan was to linger behind a bit, give himself enough time to snoop the victim's wardrobe and snag some decent pants- maybe a sleek button-up. Except that Rogers apparently had the same idea in mind, and Hoodie was caught red-handed.
Standing in the doorway, Toby gaped at Brian, jaw slack. He’d snuck up the stairs, going to grab some new laces since his Converse were starting to break down, only to find the sniper holding up a suit jacket to his chest. The two stared at each other for a hefty thirty seconds, and the boy pursed his lips.
“You going s-somewhere soon or?”
Brian marched towards him instantly, muttering harshly under his breath. “If you run yer’ goddamn mouth, I’ll make sure you ain’t wake up tomorrow, Tobias. Do you understand?” Toby threw his hands up, shaking his head frantically. “Okay! S-shit- I wasn’t gonna’ snitch, man, jeez.” The older man narrowed his eyes, shoving the garments into his bag and pushing past Toby after.
The car ride was oddly tense on Toby’s behalf, Hoodie glaring at him through the rearview mirror every few seconds. He shrank further into his seat and gave Masky a lacklustre thumbs up when he raised a brow from the passenger side.
The blonde felt bad to a certain extent. He knew Toby wasn’t ill-intentioned; it’s just that he couldn’t risk anyone tampering- whether by accident or not.
He’ll stop by the gas station and pick up the boys' favourite candy another day.
ᯓ★
This was it.
He felt like a grade-A dumbass loitering in public with the mascot head on, but it was for a greater purpose. And in all honesty, if it weren’t for the ludicrousity of the mask, his outfit was actually pretty passable, in his opinion.
A rustic tanned suit, beige dress shirt and slacks to match, the look finished with a muted yellow bowtie. He stood amongst the bustling fans as he waited for you to make your appearance. While he was utterly humiliated by his own choices, he was also filled with anticipation. You were going to be here. He was going to be able to hear your voice in person.
God, this was pathetic.
He scrunched his eyes shut, taking a moment to suppress the self-awareness. However, before he could spiral too far, a honeyed pitch echoed across the stage. It was a smaller setup, stationed close to the woodline for event privacy. The venue occupied was usually used for community plays, yet it was grand all the same.
You bounded out from beyond the draping curtains, waving animatedly to the audience. The blinding lights made you glow, multicoloured as they swooped the crowd before landing on you. Skirt swishing, he thinks he can see glitter explode out from your shoes when you step.
“Hello, my darlings! I’m so glad you could make it out tonight! There’s an urgent mission that needs your help. Who’s up for the challenge? Because we need the bravest and strongest at the frontlines.”
The show was made to be interactive. It didn’t act as the normal fan sign-up; instead, it was a live reenactment of your show's plotlines. You had weapon replicas for auction, along with games to play on stage to win extra items.
People were called up randomly, and the age demographic was shockingly vast. It turned out he wasn’t the only one who thought you were the greatest thing since sliced bread.
Originally, he wanted to try attaining an autograph- but pushing his way past people to get near the stadium front was something he would judge himself too much for. He settled on simply watching from a distance, enjoying himself for the evening and pretending he didn’t have enough blood on his hands to drown a nation.
However, in the middle of a spin-to-win type game, a “villain” jumped up from stage left. They swung their sword towards you, challenging you to a duel with a henchman at their side. You planted your heels firmly, hands on your hips, declaring. “Well then- I suppose I should call in my super secret backup!” You winked at the masses. “Where’s my sniper!” Then the beams of light circled the audience- sharply stopping directly on Brian.
The flashes made him squint even through the mask, and he faltered. Okay. Sure. If he could snipe men in moving cars, doing it for the sake of showbiz couldn’t be that hard, right?
The people around him cheered, lively, while he was ushered up. Now stationed on the platform, he drew a slow breath. It was too late to back out now, and if he was going to do this, he was going to go all the way. Brain kicking into gear as he transitioned into his improvised persona. He dropped into a deep bow, one hand on his chest, the other behind his back, when he rose. Thank god for his acting classes back in college.
“At your service, pretty miss.”
His mannerisms appeared to surprise you for a second, before your eyes sparkled. Grinning, you snatched a bedazzled rifle from your box of gadgets, tossing it at him before focusing on the threat. Your star-accented wand was pointed at the pair, with him joining you by your side- and the rest was history.
Hoodie stayed on stage for the majority of the night after that, since you seemed to take a liking to him. Naming him your “Trusted right-hand man.” The two of you battled various attackers, helping the younger fans aim with fake crystal laser canons and hyping up the crowd. As stupid as it might sound, it was the first time in years he’d laughed that much.
The kids were sweet, bushy-tailed, with enough energy to put Rogers to shame. It reminded him that not everyone out there was born cruel, that not every person who walked the earth had their fate damned to sin. And his banter with you was flawless.
You riffed off one another, bits on bits, your humour somehow lined up perfectly. He would throw out an idea, and you’d incorporate it into the next act like you’d known each other for years. You’d even said the same thing at the same time throughout the night, to the point where half the audience believed he was an unannounced hire.
Still, even the most sensational experiences had to come to an end. Slowly, the set began wrapping up, and you bid him goodbye, saying that if you ever needed help saving the world again, you’d know just who to call.
Walking back, his watch read ‘11:31 PM.’ A night well spent. He sighed, cracking his neck. He doubted he’d ever do anything like that again, but it was a good memory to keep. The night when he wasn’t a cold-blooded killer, but a wondrous hero who fought in the name of justice. It made him huff a chuckle quietly, going to remove the mask— he heard you.
“What the fuck-”
The panic in your voice had him straightening his spine, alert. He darted around the corner, boots thudding against concrete. The dim street lights showed him your silhouette a couple of paces down the block, terrified as you stumbled away from the source of your horror. A rake.
They roamed this part of the trees, normally scared off by noise, yet the hordes had faded. It was rare they came wandering this far, but he guessed the accumulated scent of humans lured the beast out for dinner.
Where was your security? Not that it mattered. You were alone and in danger, and he was not going to let you get hurt. The gun was in his hand before he registered that he was running.
He charged forward, mascot head still covering his features when he slid in front of you, pistol aimed at the creature.
You gasped. “It’s you.” Clutching your hands to your chest, you jolted back harshly, watching the disfigured husk lunge at him. Brian, on the other hand, barely flinching, pulled the trigger. The bullet pierced the rake's leg, and it screeched inhumanly.
Warping its limbs violently, it whirled a claw at your saviour, and he ducked smoothly, practiced. He moved skillfully, sweeping his leg to the left, then pushing in. He swerved to avoid another slash, jumping over a low hit before jamming the steel barrel under the thing’s jaw. Its brain’s splattered with the loud reverb from his pistol, and it slumped to the pavement.
Chest heaving, he rolled his shoulders back, not facing you while he tucked the gun into his waistband. “You alright?” You stuttered, disoriented. “Yeah- yeah. I’m fine. I think.” You didn’t know what just happened, a headache forming the longer you stared at the crumpled body on the ground. You glanced up, and he spun on his heel.
“Why are you out here?”
The teasing lilt you’d gotten accustomed to had vanished, replaced by a stern edge. You swallowed. “I was- I don’t know, it gets stuffy in the trailer. I wanted to walk for a bit.” The explanation made him grunt, clicking his tongue. “Bring yer’ people with you next time. This town’s not what it seems. It ain’t safe past dark.” You nodded, your mysterious co-star turning to leave, hauling the monster up by the arm to tow with him.
Your hand shot out, grabbing his sleeve, and he froze. “Thank you for saving me. Can I, um. Do anything for you?” It most likely wasn’t terribly smart to cling to him. It’s just that you were still shaken up, and you weren’t ecstatic about walking to the car by yourself. Dangerous or not, he clearly knew what he was doing. You were safer in his presence, you’re sure.
Sighing, his head tilted a fraction over his shoulder. “You should get back, missus. I’m not someone you wanna’ be around.” You pouted, desperate. You didn’t care anymore; you would beg if you had to. “Canyoupleasewalkmeback?” The words were rushed out- he hesitated, then the man turned to you. “If I walk you back, you can’t tell nobody I was with you. You hear me?” You nodded hurriedly once more, and he shucked the corpse onto the floor, making a mental note to take care of it after.
He stayed by your side until you reached the border of the stadium entrance, the distant chatter of your crew reaching his ears.
You mumbled, fidgeting with your thumbs. “Will I ever see you again?” He exhaled through his nose. “You should pray that you don’t.” With that, he swivelled around, his figure fading out of view and into the midnight.
Despite everything, his absence left you strangely empty.
ᯓ★
Almost a full week had passed, and Brian was back on schedule.
He still collected your magazines, keeping up with your episodes. He hated how badly he wanted to linger. Alas, it wasn’t safe. You’d already seen too much, and he couldn’t risk putting you in any more danger by staying longer than he had. Though the way you looked at him would play on loop every time he closed his eyes.
Your smile, how you held onto him during the walk. It felt nice to be able to comfort you. Even if you had no idea what you were getting into or who he really was, he liked to think that you meant it when you laughed with him.
Snagging a cigarette out from the box, it sat loosely between his lips as his lighter clicked to life. The flame sizzled against tobacco, and he shuffled through the newspaper lazily.
The truck was parked out in front of a corner store near the highway. They had just finished a stakeout, so he had room to breathe. Flipping to the next page, the header was printed with bolded text. He grinned.
Love your writing and how versatile it is with characters and different fandoms. I was doom scrolling insta and your writing reminds me of this artist!
It won't let me add a link for some reason but good god i am so honored that my writing reminded you of this art bc holy fuck the artist captures plus size beauty so well, thank you so much dear have a good day 💕
Summary: PTMC’s new head of vascular surgery takes a liking to you. Brendon is pissed the fuck off unamused with this development.
WC: 3,546
Warnings: mild smut, like they don’t reaallllly bang on screen, but I used the word “cock” twice so interpret that as you will; Brendon and his stabby agenda
A/N: can read as a standalone, but technically a continuation of the Gremlin universe; grad student reader; set seven-ish years before The Pitt (Park is mid-30s); I love this emotionally-constipated sweetie pie
Masterlist
—————————————————
There’s something surreal about dating Brendon Park.
It’s been weeks since he first kissed you. Weeks since the night he called you his and then slept wrapped around you in his bed. It might as well have all happened yesterday though, because every time he touches you still feels like a novelty. How one man can be so emotionally constipated and yet so physically affectionate, you’ll never know.
Like now, when he’s kissing you senseless against the side of your car, right after telling you that you park like shit. Impossible man. You don’t mind it though — he’s there in all the ways that matter. Judging your protein intake and shoving water in your hand every five seconds. Listening to your two thousandth edit of your dissertation abstract without protest. Buying you your oat milk matcha lattes even if he says they’re stupid.
You like to think you take care of him, too. You get him sweet treats he insists he doesn’t like but then refuses to share with you. When he has a particularly busy day, you sneak snacks into his bag, because you know he won’t bother wasting time going to get food. And after long surgeries, when he says he’s fine and scowls at you to leave him alone, you’ll help him rub the knots out of his shoulders while he pretends he hates it.
A sharp nip at your mouth brings you back to the present.
“You’re distracted,” he says, half-amused, half-annoyed.
“Seems like a skill problem on your part,” you snipe back, flustered.
A slow, dangerous smile curls his lips, and you immediately regret your words. Of course he’s not insulted. Of course he sees them as some kind of a challenge. You’re starting to understand why people call him Park the Shark, because the look he gives you is downright predatory.
“No,” you say immediately. “Absolutely not.”
You try wiggling out of his arms and fail spectacularly.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did the-, the thing.”
“Smiling?”
“Yes. Smiling. That. It’s not your natural state. It signals danger.”
The smile widens.
“You’re lucky we have that early meeting. Otherwise you’d be paying for your skill comment.”
And you must be spending too much time around him, because instead of blushing and shrinking, you meet his eyes and say-
“Promise?”
The two of you are almost late to said meeting.
Which, for you, isn’t that unheard of, but you see Brendon get some weird looks from a couple of the residents and Dr. Lee. He responds to all of them with a curled lip and icy glare, and everyone looks away quickly. You hide a smile from where you stand across the room.
Besides Wilts — who Brendon had assured you will say nothing if she values her life — no one at PTMC knows the two of you are together. Some people in the ED suspect probably, and Patty and her smug smile definitely know, but no one has any proof. The two of you had decided only days after that first kiss to keep things quiet. At least for now.
You’d had a meeting with Dr. Nayar — the director of the CMU/PTMC research collaborative — that Monday, and he’d let slip that PTMC would soon be looking for a new head for its Operational Research and Development Department. The not-so-accidental lapse had been a not-so-subtle suggestion that you apply for the position when it posted, and you’d left that meeting and immediately called one of your cohort members to freak out. Then when Brendon had finished surgery two hours later, you’d done the exact same thing with him.
The position is exactly what you’ve been looking for — a role focusing on research and technical processes, but directly attached to a clinical institution. Even better, it’s at PTMC, where you’ve built the majority of your adaptive patient flow model. You already know the hospital, know the key players and know how things operate. Even better better, Brendon is here. It’s way too soon to be making any decisions based on your month-and-some-change old relationship, but him being here is certainly a bonus.
The two of you had discussed it that night over Thai takeout. Nothing was guaranteed — Nayar’s words had been a tip, not a promise — but you also know that he wouldn’t have told you about the job unless he’d heard some hint that the hospital wanted your research. Brendon had listened to your explanation and agreed. But in between harassing you to eat your chicken, not just the noodles, and being insufferably smug on your behalf, he’d quietly reminded you that your relationship could have ramifications if you decided to apply.
“It’s going to be a competitive process. You can’t give them any reason to think you didn’t earn the position on your own.”
Which would probably make dating the hospital’s star orthopedic surgeon a no-no. He has nothing to do with your dissertation or your research, but you know that won’t make a difference if someone is looking for a reason not to hire you. Or if someone is looking for a way to make themselves look like a better candidate.
The reminder is pragmatic, necessary. But it still knocks you off-kilter. You sit across from him, picking at your noodles and feeling upset about possibly having to hide your relationship because of a possible job that you might possibly apply to. It’s absolutely ridiculous and yet still enough to ruin your appetite.
The longer you stew on your thoughts, the worse it gets. He’s older, successful, makes stupid money and looks like an action movie hero. You’re a grad student with grad student-money and anxiety. You’re not shallow enough to think those differences make you worth any less, but that doesn’t mean jack to your overactive doom-spiral. Of course no one can know you’re together. Of course-
“What,” Brendon asks when you’re silent for too long.
You make a noncommittal noise and avoid eye contact. He mutters something that’s probably not very nice, and then stands from his chair and rounds the island. You’re expecting him to be upset with your inanity, annoyed at the very least, and you’re shocked when he spins you around, plants both hands on the counter behind you, and bends down to kiss you.
It’s not the soft kisses he gave you in the ED and right after. It’s also not the absolutely filthy kiss he gave you this morning before the two of you headed into the hospital. This is somewhere in between, slow and purposeful but not intended to lead to something else. You melt into it like you always do, arms sliding around his neck and fingers finding the shorter hairs at his nape.
“Ridiculous girl,” he huffs against your lips.
“I-“
“You know that day you brought me coffee? You were wearing that blue dress with the bow.”
Another kiss, this one deeper.
“I wanted to bend you over the charge desk and fuck you right there. That’s still on the table if you want it, but I figure we should at least wait until you have your job offer first.”
You smile now at the memory. Only Brendon could turn something so indelicate-sounding into a reassurance. It had worked though, and you’re content to keep things between the two of you for now. Even if it means you have to stand across the room from him and pretend you don’t know why his usually perfectly-styled hair is slightly less perfect this morning.
You’re observing the surgical department this week and the next. It’s one of the last departments you have to cover before you finish the field part of your research, and then all you’ll have left is finalizing your model and completing your manuscript. You were here yesterday, too, and you’ll admit that you like seeing Brendon in his element. He’s at his snappiest and snarliest here, and it does something unprofessional to your libido.
“Alright people, settle down.”
Dr. Konomori, the Chief of Surgery, raises her voice to be heard over the early-morning chatter, and the noise eventually subsides. She’s a fierce Japanese woman in her late fifties who barely tops five foot, but she commands attention in a way men twice her size don’t.
“We all have cases to get to, so I’ll make this short. I’m sure you all know this is Dr. Ramirez’s last week with us before heading to Atlanta-“
A couple of good-natured boos sound from the crowd, but Konomori doesn’t blink.
“-so I’m here to introduce our new head of vascular, Dr. Everett Edwards. He comes to us from the Cleveland Clinic, but he’s a Pittsburgh native, so welcome back Dr. Edwards.”
A round of applause, surprisingly boisterous given the early hour, breaks out. You crane your head around the pair of residents in front of you. You know most of the speciality heads by now, but there are dozens of other attendings and residents that you’ve never met, so you’re not quite sure who you’re looking for. Then a man you’ve never seen steps up next to Dr. Konomori, and you actually let out a disbelieving snort.
Everett Edwards is quite possibly the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen. Raven hair, amber eyes bright enough you can see them from halfway across the room, and a blindingly white smile. He’s disturbingly attractive. Like uncanny valley levels of attractive. He’s slightly shorter and leaner than Brendon’s towering frame, but you can still tell the guy is built, even under his navy surgical scrubs and his white coat.
You’re legitimately calculating the odds that he’s some sort of robot or genetically engineered plant, when those amber eyes meet yours. It’s like looking at the freaking sun. You slow blink, trying to process the mutant demigod looking at you, and his smile widens. It goes from polite-charming to zeroed-in-charming, and you feel it like a slap across the face. Konomori then tells everyone to get back to work, and you’re relieved for all of three seconds before Edwards actually starts walking towards you.
You register several things when he stops in front of you. One, you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. Two, he smells like expensive cologne, something sharp that makes your nose twitch. And three, if looks could kill, he would be long-dead. Because Brendon catches sight of the two of you from where he’s standing by the charge desk, and the blue in his eyes goes positively arctic.
“Hi, you must be Y/n Y/l/n.”
Even his stupid voice is attractive.
“Um, yes, hi?”
Your gaze is pulled from Brendon’s attempt at first-degree murder back to the man in front of you.
“Everett Edwards, nice to meet you. Dr. Konomori told me a bit about your research here and that you’ll be with us for the next few days.”
He holds out his hand, and you shake it like it’s a snake waiting to bite you.
“I will-. Yes, Dr. Edwards, I-”
“Everett, please. I’ll be doing a lot of observation this week before Dr. Ramirez leaves, so we’ll likely run into each other quite a bit. Dr. Edwards just sounds pretentious.”
He gives you another megawatt grin, this one conspiratorial and intimate. Twenty-year-old you would probably have combusted on the spot. Current you isn’t immune to the charm, but you’re not nearly as impressed by it as you would have been once upon a time. He might be the sun given form — all bright and golden and warm — but you prefer the cool. Oceans and ice and blue so sharp it steals your breath.
“Right, well. Everett. I have to get over to OR five, but it was nice to meet you.”
You give him your most professional smile and basically bolt away from him. It’s done with absolutely no grace and probably isn’t the most polite thing you could do, but you don’t care. You can feel his amusement following you down the hall. You head towards the surgical suites and are about to pull out your phone to text Brendon when an arm hooks around your waist and drags you sideways.
“What-“
You catch a flash of burning cerulean before Brendon’s mouth is on yours. Your back meets something solid, and then he’s pressed against you from shoulder to hip. His hands fist your hair to angle your head how he wants, and he kisses you harshly, all tongue and teeth. Lightning shoots through you.
“Bren,” you gasp when he lets you breathe. “What are you doing?”
A quick glance around tells you he’d pulled you into an on-call room, and anyone could walk in at any time.
“Asshole’s been here five seconds,” he mutters in response, scowling.
“What?”
“The Ken doll eye-fucking you. Doesn’t even have a permanent parking pass yet, and he’s already trying to take things that aren’t his.”
Understanding dawns like a lightbulb.
“Are you jealous?”
A slow, delighted smile spreads across your face, and he fairly growls at you.
“No, and don’t look at me like that.”
“Brendon. He shook my hand and said nice to meet you.”
“Stop looking so fucking smug.”
“Stop being jealous.”
“I’m not jealous you nutcase . I’m pissed off that he’s flirting with you in front of the whole fucking department, while I have to pretend I don’t know what you sound like coming on my cock.”
Now it’s his turn to smirk while your face flames.
“We’re at work,” you hiss.
“Which part of I would happily fuck you in the middle of reception was unclear to you?”
Insufferable man.
But he’s your insufferable man, and you smile despite yourself. Sighing, you stretch up on your toes to kiss him again. He puts up a token resistance for approximately two seconds, then relents and makes a low sound against your mouth. Your hum in contentment and wiggle as close to him as possible.
“It’s not about me,” you say when you pull back a while later.
You place one hand on his chest and rub your fingers lightly against the fabric of his scrubs.
“He’s just a flirt. He’ll figure out pretty quickly I’m not interested and start wooing someone else.”
He scowls and presses a kiss to your jaw.
“He fucking better.”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Turns out Everett Edwards is much more patient than you gave him credit for.
It’s now the following Friday, and he’s spent the last two weeks charming the pants off every person in the department. At least two nurses and one of the plastics attendings have already shot their shot with him, and everyone else seems close on their heels. Everyone except Brendon, who is one twitch away from physical violence, and you.
Edwards is charismatic, you’ll give him that. He’s smart, well-spoken, and has a way of talking to people that makes them feel like they’re the only person in the world. He’s quick with a smile or a joke, and he isn’t afraid to poke fun at himself either. That’s what makes him so likable, you think. He doesn’t pretend false modesty, but he also doesn’t take himself too seriously.
He’s also admirably, irritatingly, persistent.
The Tuesday you met him, he’d followed you to the observation room of OR five. You’d been there to study technical procedures — anything that could improve efficiency and accuracy and reduce margin of error — and had only a basic grasp of what was actually happening medically. Edwards had been all too happy to camp out next to you and explain the spring-mediated cranioplasty.
Wednesday, he’d brought doughnuts for everyone and had saved one for the genius trying to make our lives more efficient.
On Friday, he’d found you observing another surgery and had complimented your work ethic with alarming sincerity.
Then this Monday, he’d caught you before rounds and had invited you to watch him perform a carotid endarterectomy. For the model he’d said with a wink.
By Wednesday, Brendon was ready to chew through drywall.
“I’m going to stab him with an eleven blade,” he grumbles against your hair.
The two of you are lying in his bed, clothes scattered somewhere on the floor and sheets tangled around bare legs. He’s on his back with you half-draped across his chest. One of his arms is hooked around your waist, and his fingers are gentle as they card through the ends of your hair despite the irritation in his voice.
“Dramatic,” you tease.
You shift so you can see him, arms braced on his chest. The sight of him — naked, flushed, softer than anyone else knows he can be — steals your breath momentarily. You can’t help but bend down to kiss him.
“You know I’m not interested,” you say when you pull back.
He scowls like you just spit on his mother’s grave.
“Of course I know that. I just don’t know why you haven’t told him to fuck off yet.”
“I-“
His large hands grab your hips and yank you up until you’re sitting on his lap. You gasp when the movement drags your bare cunt over his cock. He’s already half-hard again, and he smirks when your hips twitch down involuntarily. You’re still sensitive from him being inside of you not long ago, and you have no idea how he can possibly be ready for another round so soon.
“Cut it out you heathen,” you hiss. “I was going to say that I can’t tell him off, because he hasn’t done anything yet.”
It’s true. Edwards hasn’t given you any gifts, hasn’t paid you any non-professional compliments, hasn’t made any physical advances. He hasn’t done anything that could be considered inappropriate. He’s just…attentive.
Brendon is thoroughly unimpressed by your logic, and he retaliates by rolling his hips up against yours. It punches an embarrassing noise out of you.
“Aren’t you all about planning and being prepared for things?” he asks as he drags his rapidly hardening cock directly against your clit. “Tell him to fuck off proactively.”
“I can’t-, ah. He’s not doing anything you caveman.”
“He’s pebbling.“
“What?”
You actually yelp when he sits up abruptly and rolls the two of you over. He’s annoyingly agile for someone his size.
“Pebbling. He’s bringing you pebbles like a fucking penguin, and if he doesn’t stop, I’m going to stab him with an osteotome.”
Whatever response you would have given disappears when he slides into you with one, deep thrust. You make a choked noise and reach immediately to brace your hands on his chest. He groans, low and filthy, and hikes one of your legs up on his hip. The new angle makes your head spin.
“You’re mine, imp.”
Needless to say, Brendon is less than thrilled when Edwards approaches you now. You’re standing at the charge desk, scribbling in the margins of your notebook, while Brendon stands on the opposite side taking to Patty. Edwards slides up next to you with his normal Crest-commercial grin firmly in place, looking flawless despite the ungodly hour. One thing you definitely will not miss about observing surgery is their ridiculous start times.
“Hey, doc,” he greets.
“Not a doctor yet,” you reply automatically.
“Why, you planning on failing your defense?”
Your jaw drops.
“Of course not! And don’t put bad vibes out in the universe. What is wrong with you?”
He laughs and raises his hands in mock surrender.
“See? You’re going to pass, and you’ll be Dr. Y/l/n in no time.”
You smile despite yourself.
“I appreciate the vote of confidence.“
“Anytime. Speaking of which, are you going to research gala Sunday?”
It takes you a second to process the rapid shift in topics.
“Um, yes? How-, are you invited?”
The CMU/PTMC research collaborative was hosting its yearly gala to attract sponsors. The goal was to showcase some of their joint projects and emphasize the potential for both medical progress as well as financial growth. You’re not a fan of the latter, but you know it’s inevitable in the medical-industrial complex. All current grad students are expected to attend, and you’ve been waffling between excitement at a chance to dress up and dread over prolonged forced-socialization.
“Alumni have a standing invitation,” he answers with a wink.
You can’t help it. You risk a glance over at Brendon and wince when you see the stormy expression on his face. Even if you two weren’t keeping things on the down low right now, he’s on call this weekend. The hotel hosting the gala is just outside the twenty minute call radius, and he wouldn’t have been able to attend with you regardless.
“I’ll see you there?” Edwards asks, oblivious to your silent stare-off.
Well now your choices are lie or send Brendon into the stratosphere.
Brendon will be fine.
“Yes,” you answer. “I’m actually doing one of the lightning talks.”
Edwards’ face lights up.
“That’s amazing! I look forward to hearing it; I’m sure you’re going to do great.”
He keeps talking, something about a friend who’s also giving a talk and another friend who something something. You don’t hear him. You’re too busy looking at Brendon, who meets your gaze with his lip curled just enough to mean danger.
older!jack who takes your care of your cars maintenance and gas. when you first mentioned how you needed to drop your car off and how you had been putting it off jack immediately offered to take it himself. when he noticed the relief in you shoulders after a bit of back and forth he never let you take it again. he always fills your car up with gas every week, mostly to make sure you’re not paying for it but also because it would help keep him calm knowing you won't get stranded anywhere without gas.
older!jack who gives bear hugs. they squish you and knock you over because of his size and they are perfect. his large arms envelope around you as he cradles your head in the cushions of his arms. you can smell the musk coming off of him as your head lays perfectly in the crook of his neck. he sometimes sways you back and forth, enjoying the rhythm of his movement with you following gently. his buried in the side of your face. sometimes he'll crouch down a bit to lift you off the floor out of pure love and adoration as if he can't get enough of you
older!jack who eats like a man. he will eat anything you make him, and will make sure you are eating too. he loves to eat meat and count his protein, making sure you also have something in your plate that will give you energy. if your plate looks light, he notices immediately. “that all you’re having?” he asks, already splitting half of his portion onto your plate before you can answer. he likes seeing you well-fed, energized, cared for. it soothes him in a way he’d never admit out loud.
older!jack who wears his reading glasses and uses his pointer finger when on his phone. he's a bit self conscious about his glasses adjusting them with a grumble like they personally offended him, but you love how they soften his whole face. every night before he sleeps, he'll read a book with those glasses on and you can't help but kiss his and cheeks as he tries to read his book.
older!jack who cannot stand you doom scrolling right before you sleep. he will bury his face in the back of your neck, his arms squeezing around you tight to hide from the light coming off from your phone as you scroll though twitter. he complains about the light, about the “nonsense on that app,” about how no one needs bad news at midnight. he will try to kiss the back of your neck to distract you and pull your attention away from the phone and to you but if that doesn't work he will flip you over so you are on top of him and wrapped up in his arms, your phone lost somewhere in the sheets.
older!jack who gets impossibly concerned and soft when you’re sick. suddenly he’s quieter, gentler, moving around you like you’re something precious and fragile. the medicine js on schedule, soup too hot so he blows on every spoonful first, blankets fresh from the dryer. he periodically checking your temperature and he’ll sit at the edge of the bed with a hand on your ankle just to keep contact while he reads or answers emails. if you try to say you’re fine, he gives you that look and tells you to hush.
tags: jack abbot x fem!reader x samira mohan, reader is a dr. house variant, reader is early 40s, chronic leg pain, medical inaccuracies, unhinged comments about jack's ass, flirting that'd make HR blush, 18+ MDNI
notes: and finally we have chapter 2, the last one seemed to do well, so I'm planning the rest for this mini series, like always, if you want to be added to this specific taglist, please comment on this post! all parts can be found here! enjoy!
word count: 5.2k
The Pitt had the misfortune of beginning with a quiet morning.
Now, it wasn’t truly quiet, because there was no such thing as “quiet” in an emergency department. Almost always, somebody or something was making noise. Somewhere down the hall a patient was demanding to speak to a supervisor for the third time in a row even though he’d been calmly told that an ER didn’t technically have a supervisor. A trauma alert had come through just before noon, though thankfully it had turned out to be less severe than anticipated. Residents moved with purposed between rooms, monitors still chimed from behind curtains, and the waiting room remained full of people convinced their emergency was the most important one in the building.
Compared to mass casualties, however, the Pitt felt almost civilized.
Unfortunately, civilized left room for obsessing over a diagnosis.
And Frank Langdon was . . . well . . . obsessing over a diagnosis.
The patient occupying room seventeen had arrived nearly four hours earlier complaining of persistent joint pain, intermittent fevers, severe fatigue, and a facial rash that had initially pointed everyone toward an autoimmune diagnosis. Her bloodwork, on the other hand, was irritatingly inconsistent. Every test seemed to support a theory while simultaneously undermining it. Frank, bless his heart, had spent most of the afternoon circling possibilities with increasing determination, convinced he was one clue card away from proving everyone else kept hesitating to commit to.
Lupus was what he was trying to land on, but every time his brain came up with the word, something else refused to fit.
The kidney involvement wasn’t severe enough.
The inflammatory makers were elevated, but not where they should have been.
The timeline was off.
The symptoms fit until they didn’t.
Which meant Frank had now spent the better part of an hour following Robby around the department explaining exactly why he was still right despite being entirely wrong. And poor Robby had endured this longer than most human beings would have.
By the second trip to the nurses’ station, Trinity had quietly abandoned her charting in favor of getting away from the conversation under the guise of checking on another patient.
By the third, even Dennis had found an excuse to disappear.
By the fourth, Robby finally gave up. “Just call her for goodness’s sake.”
Frank looked up from the tablet, and Robby was already regretting the decision.
“On second thought, never mind.”
“You literally just said—”
“I know what I said, Langdon. And I changed my mind.”
“Then why are you pulling out your pager?”
Robby stared at him for a few minutes, pager gripped tightly in his hand like he’d been caught with dessert right before dinner. “Because if I have to hear you say It’s definitely lupus one more time, I’m personally transferring myself to veterinary medicine.”
Twenty minutes later, you were dragged from the relative peace you liked to keep during your rounds and forced downstairs against your will. The elevator had done nothing to improve your mood that had been one large storm cloud since the morning, probably because of the pain your leg was giving you.
Rain had rolled through the city overnight, and somehow, your leg always knew before the weather service did. A dep ache pulsed steadily through your hip with every shift of your weight, crawling down the damaged nerves along your thigh and settling unpleasantly into your knee. Your daily (and micromanaged) dose of Vicodin had taken the edge off several hours ago, but it was beginning to wear thin around the corners.
You were tired and annoyed and judging by the message Robby gave you, nobody was actively dying, which also did nothing to make you excited about going down to the ER when you could have stayed upstairs talking to coma patients.
The familiar sounds of the emergency department greeted you the moment the elevator doors opened. Conversations overlapped from every direction, phones rang, and the air carried that uniquely antiseptic-y smell that held hints of stale coffee and exhaustion.
Your cane clicked rhythmically against the floor as you moved through the department, earning a few eyes from the nurses and even a flinch from a med student you accidentally made eye contact with. That had made you wonder how much your reputation had grown after the serotonin syndrome incident.
Thankfully, you found Robby rather quickly near the nurses’ station as he reviewed a chart while simultaneously pretending not to be waiting for you.
The pretending lasted approximately two seconds.
“There she is,” he said, eyes wide behind his circular glasses.
You narrowed your eyes. “Nobody’s dead, right?”
“Right.”
“Nobody’s actively trying to die, right?”
“Not currently.”
You sighted heavily, dragging a hand through your hair. “Then why am I here?”
Robby handed over a chart that you just stared at without taking. Your nose scrunched at it, frown tugging at your lips.
“I don’t like being handed things, Robert.” You looked around the station once—then twice—then a third time just to make sure before your expression flattened. “Where’s Jack? It’s been too long since I’ve laid eyes on that scrumptious ass.”
Robby closed his eyes like a man whose worst fears had just been confirmed that they were coming to get him. “We aren’t doing this today.”
You looked over his shoulder. “Where’s Samira?”
“Also no.”
“Then whose patient is this?”
“Langdon’s.”
Your frown somehow deepened. “You didn’t mention him.”
“Because I knew you’d react like this.”
“React like what, Robert?”
“Like a child.”
You finally accepted the chart, flipping through several pages while leaning against the counter, your cane resting near your leg. Halfway through the first page, your wariness deepened. Halfway through the second, it became certainty. When you finally looked up, Frank was approaching from room seventeen with the expression of a man who believed salvation had arrived.
Too bad for him, you were the furthest thing from a savior.
“Oh no,” you said loud enough for Frank to stop.
“What?” he asked.
“You look hopeful.”
His confusion deepened. “You were called here to help.”
You glared towards Robby. “I was called here under false pretenses.”
Robby pinched the bridge of his nose as Frank looked between the two of you with a look that screamed I’m very lost in the sauce . . . actually I’m drowning in said sauce.
Frank shifted his weight. “What are you talking about?”
You shut the chart louder than you should have, but a lack of hot healthcare workers did little to ease your mood. “I need motivation.”
“I have a patient?”
“No, you don’t have anything since you gave me your patient.”
“Same thing.”
“It really isn’t.”
Frank stared blankly, and you stared back equally. Around you, several nurses had started paying attention. Dennis and Trinity even appeared from seemingly nowhere, sensing entertainment with the instincts of a scavenger. Frank crossed his arms, and that didn’t even appeal to you.
“Two weeks ago, you diagnosed a crashing serotonin syndrome patient in three minutes—”
“Old news.”
“—And now you’re refusing to look at this one?”
Pushing off the counter, you shrugged, cane back in your hand and holding your weight. “Jack was there. Like, have you seen the man when he’s looking at you like that? I almost popped girl boner.”
The silence that followed was immediate. Trinity looked delighted, Robby looked exhausted, and Frank continued to look deeply confused. To make it all worse, you smirked and continued before Robby could give you a disappointed father look.
“Samira too. Double girl boner.”
“And there it is,” Robby grumbled. “Can we please not cause an HR violation before lunch.”
“It’s 3:30, and I haven’t even gotten started, party pooper.”
“You just got here.”
“Exactly! Many more hours for me to go.”
“Wait,” Frank suddenly said as he what you weren’t saying together.
“No,” Robby interrupted. “Don’t speak it into existence.”
“Wait,” Frank repeated, incredibly appalled. “You’re refusing to help . . . because Abbot and Mohan aren’t here?”
You mulled over his words between your teeth. “Refusing is a strong word—”
“You’re literally doing the definition of refusing—”
“I prefer selectively participating.”
Trinity snorted loudly, and across the station, one of the nurses nearly dropped a pen. Beside you, Robby looked moments away from developing a stress-induced migraine, and you? You, meanwhile, remained completely serious (or at least appeared completely serious).
The distinction mattered.
Finally, after a silent standoff, Robby sighed the long, defeated sigh of a man who had spent years losing arguments against someone fundamentally immune to reason. You took that as your opening to smirk wildly up at him. That alone told everyone exactly what was about to happen.
“Robert,” you drawled out in a teasing fashion. “I know you want to.”
“No.”
“Get Samira for me, please?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Get Samira.”
“You are a physician.”
“And she’s very pretty.”
“Not relevant.”
“I completely have to disagree with you on this one.”
Robby looked toward the ceiling briefly, perhaps searching for divine intervention. When he found none, and the heavens didn’t open up, he pointed toward Dennis.
“Whitaker.”
Dennis straightened. “Dr. Robby?”
“Please for the love of keeping her quiet, go get Dr. Mohan.”
The grin spreading across your face was instantaneous. As Dennis disappeared around the corner, Frank had the decency to look horrified while Robby looked five minutes away from handing in his two-week notice.
And somewhere deeper in the department, entirely unaware of the trap currently being assembled around her, Samira Mohan was about to have her afternoon become significantly more complicated.
_______________________
By the time Samira arrived in room seventeen, she had already been informed by three separate people that she was being summoned for reasons that were apparently not medical. The first had come from Dennis, who had looked far too amused and scared while delivering the message. The second came from a nurse trying—and failing—not to laugh as she passed by. The third came from the sight that greeted her the moment she stepped through the doorway.
You were sitting in the patient’s visitor chair.
Not examining the patient, not review the cart, just plain old sitting down.
Your bad leg—she guessed-was stretched slightly in front of you, your cane propped against the edge of the bed while Frank stood beside the monitor looking increasingly offended by your mere existence. Robby lingered near the doorway with his arms crossed, wearing the expression of a man who knew he was actively supervising a disaster but had accepted it as inevitable.
The moment you noticed movement by the door, your attention snapped toward Samira, and a wide smile spread across your face so quickly it should have been illegal.
“My eyes have been blessed,” you announced while looking right at her.
Samira felt heat threaten to creep up into her face, which was a bit irritating because she’d spent the last several days mentally preparing herself for future interactions with you. Apparently going over any flirty comments you might throw at her in preparation hadn’t helped.
“You called for me?” she asked.
You nodded. “I did.”
“You do realize that’s not how consults work.”
“I disagree.”
“You aren’t even looking at the patient.”
“I looked at her,” you said, eyes glancing toward the women briefly before looking back towards Samira. “But now I’d rather look at you.”
Samira glanced toward Robby, which earned her a pointed finger from the man.
“Don’t encourage her,” Robby warned.
“I didn’t do anything?” she shot back hesitantly, not understanding what she had done other than step into the room.
“Unfortunately, your existence is currently encouraging her.”
The patient laughed loudly, entirely happy with being in the middle of the whole exchange, which somehow made the entire situation worse. You kept your eyes on Samira, completely unbothered as you made a come here motion with your finger.
“Come closer; I promise I won’t bite,” you said before adding, “unless you want me to.”
Your request wasn’t really a request and more of an expectation in the same way attendings expected residents to approach a scan or review a lab result. Your voice held no arrogance, no attempt to show off. The tone told Samira that you had a certainty that you expected her to keep up. Oddly enough, it felt different than most of the physicians she’d worked with.
Robby taught by leading with a booming voice and a no-nonsense attitude.
You, on the other hand, taught by dragging people directly into your thought process and forcing them to survive, completely with all the nonsense available.
With that, Samira stepped closer to the bed.
The patient—a woman who looked to be in her early forties—offered her a sympathetic smile. “Do you always work with her?”
Samira shook her head. “No, ma’am.”
“That’s unfortunate. She’s been very entertaining.”
With once glance toward you, you looked please by the compliment while Frank, who had now moved closer to your chair, looked wounded by it, like he was sad he had been thrown to a corner while this had started off as his case.
“Can we focus please?” he asked.
“No,” you snapped. “But we’ll diagnose her anyway. You already dragged me down here, might as well show off a bit, yeah?”
You finally stood, reaching for the chart resting at the end of the bed. The movement was smooth enough until your weight shifted fully onto your bed leg. Something painful tightened around your eyes before disappearing against just as quickly. Samira noticed; you noticed her noticing; neither of you acknowledged it.
Instead, you handed over the chart. “Walk me through it.”
Frank opened his mouth to retaliate but quickly shut up by the look you threw his way. The whole time, the woman looked delighted and Robby looked like a middle school teacher asked to chaperone a group during a free trip on his supposed day off.
Samira accepted the chart, deep, brown eyes skimming through the notes, and rattled off the symptoms. “Joint pain. Facial rash. Intermittent fevers. Fatigue.”
“Good.”
“Positive ANA.”
“Keep going.”
Samira flipped another page while the room settled around her as she reviewed the information. Frank stopped looking like a kicked puppy, and even Robby looked interested now, leaning slightly away from the wall. Samira thought that there was something strangely intimate about being taught this way, and she realized it was similar to the way Jack walked her through a procedure during a trauma.
Even though he didn’t openly flirty with her like you did, the two of you watched with a certainty that she would be able to figure it all out with enough guidance. Where most listened for mistakes, you actively listened for possibilities without being overly critical if she got it wrong. You opened the door wide open for mistakes and welcomed them. Every answer she gave seemed to spark another question rather than another correction.
When she finished, you stepped over to the patient. “Now, what fits, Dr. Mohan?”
“Autoimmune disease,” she answered with confidence.
“Specifically?”
She hesitated. “Lupus would fit—”
“That’s what I said,” Frank cut her off.
You didn’t even look at him. “But what doesn’t fit?”
Your question hung in the air, and Samira frowned as she mentally went through the notes again.
The rash.
The joint pain.
The fevers.
Everything pointed in one direction except . . .
Her eyes moved further down the page, and then back up, and then down again before her eyes widened. She looked up grinning.
“The kidneys.”
You grinned back. “There you go.”
Frank frowned deeply. “What about the kidneys?”
Samira stepped closer. “The involvement isn’t progressing correctly, and the inflammatory markers aren’t matching what we’d expect if it was lupus.”
You nodded. “And?”
She pushed forward. “The rash isn’t completely right either.”
“What else?”
She studied the chart one final time before stopping on a note buried halfway through the intake paperwork. A symptom everybody had acknowledged but not focused on was jotted down in neat penmanship. Through the past couple of hours, the one symptom hadn’t fit until now.
“Oh,” Samira breathed, and somehow your smile widened even further.
Robby was on the edge of his metaphorical seat. “What?”
“It’s not lupus.” Samira shook her head. “It’s Lyme disease.”
At her diagnosis, you looked like a child that had just been handed a present.
Frank stared defeatedly. “No.”
“Yes,” you said.
“No.”
“Langdon.”
“The ANA—”
“Can be positive.”
“The rash—”
“Can also happen.”
“The joint pain—”
“Very happens.” You rolled your eyes. “And you call yourself a doctor.”
Frank looked personally betrayed by everything in existence.
You folded your arms, and with all the satisfaction of someone delivering a punchline they’d been waiting twenty minutes to use, you said, “It’s never lupus.”
The patient started laughing again, and even Robby smile.
The diagnosis confirmed itself surprisingly quickly after that when a more focused history revealed a hiking trip several months earlier. Additional testing was ordered, and treatment plans were discussed. And just like that, the mystery vanished, allowing the room to relax. Eventually, Robby ushered Frank back toward the station before he could launch into another lupus argument.
The woman thanked everyone, especially Samira who whispered a small you’re welcome before walking out the door.
You were the last to leave, wanting nothing more than to go back upstairs for peace and quiet, or at least you planned to leave quickly. The first few steps went normally before your leg gave out enough that your balance shifted sharply and that your cane struck the ground harder than intended to overcompensate to get you back to being stable.
However, before you could truly do that, Samira’s hands were around your arm and pulling before either of you fully processed what happened. Her hands, you thought, were warm against your skin.
Concern was written plainly across Samira’s face. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” came flying out in a way that sounded too rehearsed to be genuine.
Unfortunately, she didn’t look convinced. And even more unfortunately, you were currently trying to pretend your hip hadn’t just sent a bolt of pain all the way into your spine.
“You almost fell,” she said softly.
“I almost did, you’re right. Very importantly distinction than to actually falling.”
Her concern stubbornly remained, and her expression made your chest tighten in a way you didn’t particularly enjoy looking at. So, instead, you reached for a safer territory: humor.
“You know,” you said lightly, adjusting your grip on your cane, “most people wait until the third date before grabbing me like that.”
A flush climbed Samira’s face, and you believed that was so much better than the concern she had for you. You smiled, proud of yourself for the reaction you got out of her, before straightening.
You looked down at her hands that were still currently holding onto your arm. “You know, if you ever need help with a case . . .” You nodded vaguely toward the elevators at the end of the hall. “Come find me upstairs.”
Samira gently let go of you once she knew you were stable on your feet and smiled almost bashfully. “I might take you up on that.”
On a rare occurrence, you looked away first. “Good.”
You started toward the elevators, cane clicking steadily against the floor before you paused halfway down the hallway, face turning to glance back over your shoulder.
“Just so we’re clear, Dr. Homan,” you called.
Samira laughed. “Here we go.”
“If anyone asks, this was entirely your diagnosis.”
_______________________
The trauma arrived twenty-three minutes before shift change—not that anyone in the Pitt particularly cared about the clock anymore. Well, they did, but they’d learned long ago that their shifts never ended on the dot.
The day had stretched long past the point of exhaustion almost two hours ago, settling into the familiar start where the day shift started operating on instinct and year-in-the-making caffeine addictions alone. They moved through the department with practiced sluggishness while the night shift seemed to bound through the doors wide away, alert, and enthusiastic.
For the smallest, tiniest moment, everything felt manageable.
Until the trauma alarm decided to ring and send everything to shit.
Samira found Jack in the Trauma Bay 1 before the patient even arrived.
He was already pulling on gloves, already mentally several steps ahead of everyone else in the room. This suited him in a way she suspected he hated hearing about. He seemed to just come alive as much as an overly exhausted night shift attending could. His aura just exuded an I got this handled boldness that was never arrogant and garish. The Pitt just followed his lead without him even having to speak a word.
However, Samira enjoyed the small moments between dropping pressure and gushing blood that Jack seemed to cherry pick to guide her through a chest tube or some procedure he’d read the night before from a foreign magazine.
And each time, he conjured that special patience and openness that you gave her earlier. It was something she liked much more than she would ever admit out loud.
She shook her head of the thoughts when the patient arrived surrounded by paramedics and confusion.
“Thirty-something-year-old male. Motorcycle accident. Conscious and talking on scene,” one of the paramedics rattled off as he guided the gurney into the room.
However, the man on the gurney looked significantly sicker than his injuries should have allowed. As information was spat out, the room began developing the same uncomfortable feeling Samira had experienced earlier in room seventeen.
She was quick to get a reading. “He’s hypotensive.”
“And tachycardic,” the nurse near his head announced.
Jack racked his eyes over the man’s face. “And sweating like a sinner in church.”
“Oxygen 82 percent, and BP is dropping.”
Samira shook her head. “This doesn’t make sense.”
“Someone get me a CT and labs,” Jack grumbled, hands ripping away the man’s vest before someone cut away the rest of his shirt. “Ultrasound too.”
A nurse pushed the machine toward Samira, who quickly squirted the gel on his abdomen before pushing the wand into his skin. Her eyes glued to the black and white monitor. “No free fluid.”
“What are we missing,” he hissed.
Around the room, everyone exchanged increasingly uncertain looks as Jack and Samira scrambled to reassess, reorder scans, and reimagine the injuries in a way that would make sense to them. If they spouted a theory, it never survived more than a few minutes because another piece of evidence arrived to destroy it.
Samira stood near the foot of the bed listening to vitas being called out while watching Jack work through possibilities one by one. The frustration wasn’t obvious, and most people wouldn’t have noticed. But she did.
Her eyes shifted toward the patient, then up toward the monitor, and then to the side toward Jack. Somewhere among the three, her answer on what to do became crystal clear. The diagnosis was still miles away, but the solution happened to be close.
Three floors up close.
Before she fully thought through the decision, she was already stripping off her gloves. The motion had Jack looking up.
“Where are you going?”
His confusion was reasonable considering she appeared to be abandoning an active trauma. Samira was already backing toward the doorway.
“I’ll be right back.”
Jack stared after her, and she was around the corner before he could even blink.
Luckily, the trip upstairs took less than two minutes, and she found you exactly where she’d expected: curled sideways in chair with a chart balanced across your lap and a half-finished cup of coffee siting nearby. The moment she appeared in the hallway your eyes lifted from the paperwork before narrowing.
“When I said if you ever need help with a case, I really thought it’d be like days.”
“Jack and I have a patient that’s crashing, and nothing’s sticking.”
You sighed dramatically and slapped the chart down onto the side table. “I guess I assumed there’d be at least a twenty-four-hour waiting period.”
But despite the complaint, you were already reaching for your cane. The minute you stood, Samira noticed the way your jaw tightened when you stood and the way your hand lingered on the armrest and the brief flicker of discomfort that crossed your face before disappearing completely.
You, like that last time, noticed her noticing, and chose violence instead of ignorance.
“If you keep looking at me like that, Dr. Mohan, we might have to do some medical research in the supply closet downstairs.”
Samira rolled her eyes but was able to keep the heat in her cheeks at bay.
By the time you entered the trauma bay, the atmosphere had shifted from concern into outright confusion. You took one glance around the room and immediately noticed that no one had been able to help the man in the bed.
Jack was the first to look up, and for half a second his expression brightened with obvious relief before he remembered himself. “Oh.”
“Other than my eyes on your ass, what’s happening, Jack Rabbit”
“Well, this guy here is actively dying.”
“Sounds like a fun time.”
You limped further into the room. The pain radiating through your hip had graduated from irritating to miserable somewhere during the elevator ride, but that was tomorrow’s problem. Right now, Jack looked frustrated, Samira looked concerned, and there was a patient actively trying to die in front of them.
Priorities.
“You know,” you said while reaching the bedside, “most people who drag me around at least offers a dinner first.”
Jack muttered your name. “The patient please.”
“I’m looking at him.”
“No, you’re looking at my chest right now.”
“You like it.”
“I’d like it if you looked at the other guy first and me later.”
You snickered. “So there is a later? Good to know.”
A nearby nurse turned away, and Samira bit down a laugh. Jack looked as though he was reconsidering several life choices. Very satisfied, you finally turned your attention toward the patient. The room quieted as your attentiveness narrowed like it always did. The shift from impossible to brilliant remained unsettling no matter how many times people witnessed it.
Your eyes moved rapidly between the monitor, the patient, the scans clipped to the screen nearby. You barely spoke, barely moved as the room continued feeding you information while you assembled it into something coherent.
A minute passed, and suddenly, the answer appeared before anyone else caught on. Jack watched as your expression shifted.
“There,” you said, eyes trained on the man’s face.
Jack stepped closer, trying to get in your line of sight. “What?”
You pointed your cane at him. “Everybody’s looking at the accident.”
“Because he was in one,” Jack scoffed.
“Exactly.” You nodded. “Which is why you’re all missing the thing that was trying to kill him before the motorcycle got involved. Look closely at his mouth.”
Everyone’s eyes followed up to his face.
There.
Samira’s eyes widened at the slight tug downward of the man’s left cheek, a stark contrast to the tense right side of his face. She breathed a sigh of odd relief.
“He’s having a stroke,” she said out loud.
The bay erupted into a different kind of rhythm as Jack barked for changed orders and more consults after the treatment shifted. Within minutes, the entire trajectory of the trauma had transformed. The patient stabilized, and the panic evaporated, and suddenly the room no longer needed you.
Your leg noticed first that the adrenaline that had carried you through the consult vanished almost immediately. By the time the trauma team started settling into cleanup and charting, every step felt increasingly questionable. So, you left, simply making it around the corner before finding an empty bench tucked beside a quiet halfway and lowering yourself onto it with a long exhale.
The relief was instantaneous, but not enough.
Your hip throbbed steadily beneath the surface while the rest of your body slowly remembered how tired it actually was. You rested your cane beside you and leaned your head back against the wall to spend the next few blessed minutes where nobody bothered you.
When shadows appeared across the floor, you opened one eye.
Jack and Samira were standing over you, both their faces full of concern.
You closed your one eye again. “Am I under investigation, doctors, or is staring down at a cripple a new implement in patient care?”
Samira settled onto the bench to your right while Jack leaned against the wall to your left. The two of them looked frustratingly united in purpose. You disliked it.
“You should be taking it easy,” Samira said.
You hummed. “Tell that to the gorgeous resident who came to get me.”
“You could have said your leg was bothering you.”
This time, you opened your eyes and turned your head to fully look at you. “My leg always bothers me.”
You glanced toward Jack for support, but instead, he folded his arms.
Traitor.
Jack watched the fight practically melt from your body. “You almost collapsed leaving the trauma bay.”
“Collapsed feels dramatic even for you. Do we need to talk about that one time your prothesis—”
“No we do not; we’re talking about you and how you nearly fell.”
“Nearly is carrying a lot of weight in that sentence.”
Neither looked convinced, and worse, neither of them looked like they intended to leave. You knew that the two were probably stubborn as hell. You’d spent years becoming very good at redirecting attention elsewhere. Patients and diagnoses were easier. People worrying about you was uncomfortable zone.
“You know,” you said thoughtfully, adjusting your position on the bench, “I’ve noticed something medically fascinating while we’ve been sitting here.”
Jack sighed loudly, making both you and Samira smile.
“My leg hurts less when attractive doctors are hovering nearby. I don’t know if it’s science or divine intervention, but I think the results have been extremely promising.”
“That’s not how pain management works,” Jack huffed, but his smile gave everything away.
You pointed toward him. “I totally understand what you’re saying. We definitely need more research.”
Samira laughed, and the sound warmed something unexpectedly soft inside your chest. The feeling made you want more.
“What exactly are you proposing?” Jack questioned, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
You considered for a moment and glanced toward the ceiling before smiling. “I’m saying if the two of you keep hanging around me, I might start requesting your presence for reasons entirely non-medical.”
Jack closed his eyes. “You are unbelievable.”
“Samira laughed! Besides, don’t you think doctor-recommended treatment plans are important?”
“You’re making this up.”
“Jack, that is a serious accusation. I might have to write you up to HR for that.”
“I think HR would take my side over yours.”
You looked over at Samira. “Do you hear the audacity he has?”
She rolled her eyes fondly. “I think he might be right.”
You tipped your head back until it thunked against the wall. “This is the worst dream of my life. Surrounded by hot doctors and yet they’re ganging up on me instead of bending to my wishes.”
The three of you remained there for a few moments longer while the sounds of the Pitt drifted around the corner. For once, nobody seemed particularly eager to move. While the pain in your leg remained exactly where it had always been, sitting there between two people who had followed you simply because they were worried made it a little easier to ignore.
And though you would absolutely never admit it out loud, that might have been the most effective treatment you’d found all day.
Summary: Two weeks before your second year of med school, your sublet falls through, your options disappear, and the only affordable room left near campus belongs to the one person you swore you could not stand. Jack Abbot is your academic rival, your personal headache, and the man who has been competing with you by a single miserable point since first year. Unfortunately, he needs someone to split the rent. Unfortunately, you need a place to live. Unfortunately, he’s also very nice to look at.
Warnings: academic rivals, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, roommate situation, med school stress, housing stress, banter, sexual tension, suggestive dialogue, no smut in this chapter, Jack being cocky and irritating, Reader being equally irritating right back
Author's Note: Med school Jack Abbot has been haunting my every waking thought: academic rivals, forced roommates, one bathroom, thin walls, and two people who genuinely cannot stand each other… except for the deeply inconvenient fact that they are both very attracted to each other. They do not like each other yet. They respect each other, which is worse. They notice each other, which is dangerous. And now, because rent is expensive and pride does not pay bills, they have to live together. Welcome to The One Point Difference. One apartment. One bathroom. Two academic rivals separated by one miserable point and absolutely no emotional maturity about it.
Xoxo, Del
Two weeks before your second year of med school started, your sublet disappeared with one phone call, one half-hearted apology, and absolutely no useful solution.
“I’m really sorry,” Bethany said through the receiver, her voice tinny and thin beneath the buzz of the fluorescent light above your head. “My cousin needed the room, and my mom already told her she could have it.”
You stood in the hallway outside the medical school student affairs office with your backpack sliding off one shoulder and your notebook pressed open against the wall.
For a second, you said nothing.
Bethany cleared her throat on the other end of the line. “I know this is last minute.”
You looked down at the date you had written at the top of the page.
August 18th. Two weeks. You had two weeks.
You pressed the pen so hard against the paper that the tip left a dot of ink beside the first crossed-out apartment listing. “You knew I was moving in at the end of the month.”
“I know,” Bethany said. “I feel terrible.”
“You cashed my deposit,” you said.
“I can send it back,” Bethany said quickly.
“That does not get me a place to live,” you said.
The hallway door opened beside you, and a group of first-years spilled out, laughing, their new white coats still creased from whatever ceremonial packet they had come in with. One of them nearly bumped your elbow, then murmured an apology before following the others down the hall.
You watched them go with the bitter envy of someone who had once believed the beginning of medical school was the hard part.
Bethany sighed. “I don’t know what else to say.”
You looked at the housing board across the hall.
Half the flyers were already stripped clean of phone-number tabs. The remaining ones curled at the corners beneath layers of tape and thumbtacks, sun-faded from weeks of desperate students pretending affordable housing existed.
“You could have told me before every other room within walking distance got taken,” you said.
Bethany went quiet. That was answer enough.
You closed your eyes, counted to three, and opened them again.
“Send the deposit back by Friday,” you said.
Bethany’s voice sharpened with defensiveness. “I said I would.”
“By Friday,” you repeated.
Then you hung up before she could apologize again.
The receiver landed in the cradle with a plastic clack that sounded much too small for the catastrophe it had just delivered.
You stood there for a moment with your hand still on the phone.
Your sublet was gone. Your boxes were half-packed. Your current lease ended in thirteen days.
Second year began in fourteen.
You were, by every practical definition, fucked.
“Okay,” you whispered to yourself.
Your voice sounded steadier than you felt, which was something, at least.
You pulled your notebook closer, flipped past the page where you had neatly written Bethany’s address, rent amount, move-in date, and phone number, then drew one dark line through all of it.
The ink smeared under your hand.
“Great,” you muttered.
For the next hour, you stood in the hallway outside student affairs and worked through every phone number you had collected over the past month.
The first landlord told you the room had been rented that morning.
The second said he did not rent to students anymore, as if students were a species of raccoon known for getting into walls.
The third number had been disconnected.
The fourth had a woman on the other end who sighed and said, “Oh, honey, that flyer is from June.”
You called three classmates after that.
One had already filled her extra room. One was moving in with her boyfriend. One offered you a couch for “a few nights,” but her apartment was forty minutes away by bus and smelled aggressively like incense even over the phone.
By the time you crossed the hall toward the corkboard, your notebook page had become a graveyard of crossed-out options.
The housing board had always been depressing, but that afternoon it looked personal.
AUGUST SUBLET AVAILABLE had been crossed out in red marker.
FEMALE ROOMMATE WANTED had no phone number tabs left.
CLOSE TO CAMPUS turned out to mean a twenty-seven-minute bus ride if the bus was on time, which it never was.
QUIET HOUSE, SERIOUS STUDENTS ONLY sounded promising until the fine print mentioned three cats, one parrot, and a landlord who lived on the first floor and preferred “no late-night movement.”
You stared at that one for longer than it deserved.
A parrot would probably outlive you.
You moved on.
One flyer advertised a basement room with “natural light,” which felt medically and legally suspicious. Another listed a studio for an amount of money that made you check the decimal point twice. A third had been written in purple marker by someone named Dawn who wanted a roommate who was “clean, kind, spiritually open, and comfortable with reptiles.”
You were starting to consider whether reptiles were where your pride finally went to die when someone stopped beside you.
“Rough day?” someone asked.
You turned your head and found Taylor standing next to you with a stack of photocopied lecture packets hugged to her chest.
Taylor was in your year, friendly in the way some people managed without ever becoming close. She knew everyone, knew everything, and had a terrifying ability to hear gossip before the person involved knew they had become gossip.
You tried to smile. “My sublet fell through.”
Taylor’s face shifted with immediate sympathy. “Oh, shit.”
You nodded toward the board. “That’s one word for it.”
Taylor glanced at your notebook. “Have you called any of these yet?”
You lifted the notebook slightly. “Six landlords, three classmates, two disconnected numbers, and one woman with an iguana.”
Taylor winced. “I’m assuming that was the spiritually open reptile situation.”
You looked back at the purple flyer. “Unfortunately.”
Taylor shifted the lecture packets against her hip and scanned the flyers with you. “Okay. What do you need?”
You rubbed the heel of your hand against your forehead. “A room. Four walls. A door. Ideally, no reptiles, birds, cult activity, or hourly lectures from a landlord about my moral character.”
Taylor studied your face. “Budget?”
You told her.
Her face did something terrible.
You groaned. “Don’t make that face.”
Taylor tried to smooth her expression. “I’m not making a face.”
You pointed at her. “You are absolutely making a face.”
Taylor reached past you and lifted the corner of a flyer pinned beneath three others. “Okay. Don’t kill me.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That is never a good start.”
Taylor pulled the flyer free and held it between you. “There is one room I know is still open.”
You looked at her carefully. “Why do you sound like you’re about to suggest organ donation?”
Taylor handed you the flyer.
The paper was plain white and typed. No cute border. No exclamation points. No desperate attempt at warmth. Just black ink, even spacing, and the unmistakable efficiency of a person who could make a roommate search feel like a military briefing.
ROOMMATE WANTED.
Two-bedroom apartment near medical campus. One bathroom. Available immediately. Rent due first of the month. Utilities split evenly. No smoking. No pets. No parties. Must be clean, quiet, and able to pay on time.
Medical students preferred.
Call after 6 p.m.
Serious inquiries only.
Your eyes moved to the bottom of the page.
Jack Abbot.
“No,” you said.
Taylor pressed her lips together.
You looked at her. “Absolutely not.”
Taylor lifted both hands, lecture packets and all. “I know.”
“You do not know,” you said.
Taylor’s mouth twitched. “I know enough.”
“No,” you said again, because one refusal did not feel strong enough for the cosmic insult currently printed in black ink before you. “There is no universe where I live with Jack Abbot.”
The name itself felt like a provocation.
Jack Abbot was not just some classmate you disliked on principle. He was a year-long headache with good grades and reddish-brown curls. He was the man who had sat three rows ahead of you during first-year anatomy and corrected your answer on the brachial plexus before the professor could. He was the man who had beaten you on the first histology practical by half a point, then had the audacity to say, “Close one,” as if you were supposed to thank him for noticing.
You had hated him immediately.
That had been inconvenient, because hating Jack Abbot required attention, and attention was exactly the problem.
By October, the two of you had somehow become a thing.
Not friends.
A rivalry.
Your classmates noticed before either of you admitted it. If you answered a question in physiology, someone looked at Abbot to see if he would add anything. If Abbot dismantled a case presentation in small group, someone glanced at you to see whether you would challenge him. When exam scores went up, people checked your names first, like the entire class had placed bets on which one of you would come out ahead by a single miserable point.
Sometimes it was him. Sometimes it was you. Never by much.
That was the most infuriating part.
If he had been wildly better than you, you could have dismissed him as unreachable. If he had been worse, you could have dismissed him as arrogant.
But Jack Abbot was good.
Annoyingly, consistently, almost beautifully good.
And he knew it.
Worse, he knew you were good too.
He never underestimated you. He did something far more irritating.
He expected you to keep up.
In anatomy lab, he had corrected your dissection angle with a quiet, “You’re too medial.”
You had not looked up from your scalpel as you said, “Touch my hand again and lose yours.”
Jack had moved his hand away, but his mouth had done that almost-smile that made you want to commit an academic integrity violation just to frame him for it.
In biochemistry, you caught a mistake in his explanation of an enzyme pathway during small group.
Jack had looked at you across the table and said, “That’s not what I said.”
You had smiled sweetly and said, “No, but it is what you meant.”
The professor had coughed into his fist and moved on.
By spring, you had learned the particular shape of his arrogance.
He was not loud about it. He did not brag. He did not need to. Jack Abbot’s confidence was quieter and much worse. It was in the way he leaned back when other people were still panicking. The way he waited before answering, as if he were giving the room a final chance to disappoint him. The way his eyes moved to yours after a difficult question, not asking whether you knew the answer.
Checking.
You hated that too. You hated the checking. You hated the almost-smile. You hated that he drank black coffee like it was a personality flaw, wore old sweatshirts, pushed his curls back when he was tired, and had the nerve to look almost sweet when he was reading.
Almost.
Then he would open his mouth.
And you would remember.
Taylor tapped the flyer. “It’s close.”
You stared at her. “It’s Abbot.”
Taylor tapped the rent amount next. “It’s affordable.”
You shook the flyer once. “It’s Abbot.”
Taylor gave you a painfully reasonable look. “It has two bedrooms.”
You leaned closer. “It has Jack Abbot.”
Taylor tipped her head. “You asked for no reptiles.”
You looked back at the Dawn flyer. “I would rather negotiate with the iguana.”
Taylor almost smiled. “I believe you.”
You shoved the flyer back toward her. “Why do you even know this is still open?”
Taylor took the flyer but did not put it back. “Because his old roommate is in my anatomy group.”
You frowned. “Daniel?”
Taylor nodded. “Daniel. He moved in with his girlfriend last week and left Abbot with the lease.”
“Good for Daniel,” you said. “Terrible for me.”
Taylor shrugged. “Daniel said Abbot was pissed, but not surprised.”
You looked at the flyer again despite yourself.
Taylor added, “Daniel also said the apartment is tiny, but clean, and Abbot is barely home unless he’s sleeping or studying.”
You crossed your arms. “That is not a selling point.”
Taylor raised her brows. “For you? It might be.”
You gave her a flat look. “Taylor.”
Taylor held up one hand. “I’m just saying, he’s reliable. Daniel said he paid everything on time, never had people over, and owned exactly four plates.”
You stared at her. “Four plates?”
Taylor nodded gravely. “Harsh, but financially stable.”
You looked back at the flyer.
Near campus. Two bedrooms. Available immediately.
Rent you could actually pay without selling plasma or living exclusively on vending machine pretzels.
You hated that the numbers made sense. You hated that the location made sense. You hated that Jack Abbot, of all people, had managed to become the practical option.
Taylor must have seen something on your face, because her voice softened. “You don’t have to marry him. You just have to split rent.”
You looked at her. “I would rather not do either.”
Taylor nodded. “Fair.”
You stared at the phone number printed in neat little tear-off strips along the bottom.
Only three had been taken. Of course. Even the housing board had survival instincts.
Taylor leaned closer and lowered her voice. “At least he’s nice to look at.”
Your eyes snapped to hers. “Taylor.”
Taylor widened her eyes with fake innocence. “What? He is.”
You folded your arms tighter. “He is also arrogant, rigid, condescending, and allergic to joy.”
Taylor nodded slowly. “Sure.”
You glared at her. “Do not say it like that.”
Taylor tilted her head. “Like what?”
You gestured vaguely with the flyer. “Like you think those things cancel out because he has a stupidly charming smile.”
Taylor’s mouth twitched. “I wasn’t going to say stupidly.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You were thinking charming.”
Taylor shrugged. “Maybe the curls.”
You looked back at the flyer with immediate resentment because the curls were unfortunately part of the problem.
Jack Abbot had reddish-brown curls that should have belonged to someone less irritating, and a smile that looked almost harmless until you realized he usually used it right before saying something unforgivable. They softened him in a way his personality did not deserve. They made him look almost boyish when he was bent over a textbook, pen tucked behind his ear, mouth set in concentration like the entire world had disappointed him.
Then he would open that mouth and say something so insufferable you remembered God was testing you.
“Attraction is not a housing plan,” you said.
Taylor smiled brightly. “No, but it might make sharing a bathroom more interesting.”
You ripped one of the number tabs from the bottom of the flyer.
Taylor’s eyebrows rose.
You folded the tab into your palm. “This means nothing.”
Taylor nodded with exaggerated seriousness. “Obviously.”
You tucked the number into your notebook. “I’m gathering information.”
Taylor hugged her lecture packets to her chest. “Very responsible.”
You closed the notebook a little too hard. “I have not agreed to anything.”
Taylor stepped back to let someone pass between you and the corkboard. “Of course not.”
You started down the hall. “You know he’s going to say no.”
Taylor fell into step beside you. “Probably.”
You looked down at the notebook in your hand. Somewhere inside, between renal physiology notes and a crossed-out disaster of a sublet plan, was the only affordable room left within walking distance of campus.
You exhaled through your nose.
“Good,” you said. “Then at least one of us will get what we want.”
Taylor laughed.
You did not.
Because the worst part was not that Jack Abbot might say no.
The worst part was that you were no longer sure you could afford for him to.
At 5:58, you stood in your half-packed kitchen with the torn phone-number tab flattened beneath your thumb and told yourself that two minutes were not a moral failing.
The flyer had said Call after 6 p.m.
You had never liked being told what to do.
Especially not by Jack Abbot.
Your apartment was too quiet around you. Half your books were boxed. Your current lease ended in thirteen days. Your future had been reduced to cardboard, crossed-out phone numbers, and one terrible practical option with reddish-brown curls and a superiority complex.
You stared at the phone.
“No,” you told yourself.
Then you picked up the receiver and dialed before common sense could recover.
The line rang once.
Twice.
On the third ring, someone picked up.
“Abbot,” Jack said.
Not hello. Not hi. Just his last name, low and clipped through the receiver, as if he were answering from the middle of something more important.
Your spine straightened on instinct. Of course that was how he answered the phone.
“Charming,” you said.
There was a pause.
Not long.
Long enough.
Then Jack said, “It’s not six.”
You looked at the kitchen clock. 5:59.
You hated him.
“You answered,” you said.
“I thought it might be important,” Jack said.
“It is,” you replied.
“It’s you,” Jack said.
You gripped the receiver harder. “Those things are not mutually exclusive.”
Jack was quiet for half a second. Then he said, “No.”
You closed your eyes. “You don’t even know why I’m calling.”
“I know that tone,” Jack said.
Something in your stomach tightened, which was inconvenient and medically unhelpful.
You opened your eyes and stared at the cabinet above the sink. “Then you know I’m calling about the room.”
“No,” Jack said.
You inhaled through your nose. “Is that the full sentence?”
“Yes,” Jack said.
You counted to three. It did not help.
“You’re looking for a roommate,” you said.
“I’m looking for a quiet roommate,” Jack said.
“I can be quiet,” you said.
Jack said nothing.
You narrowed your eyes at the wall. “I can.”
“You challenged Dr. Laramie on a clotting cascade before eight in the morning,” Jack said.
“That was academically relevant,” you said.
“You called his diagram ‘emotionally misleading,’” Jack said.
“It was,” you said.
Jack exhaled once, barely audible through the phone.
You hated that you could picture his face. The flat look. The almost-smile he would refuse to admit was a smile. The curls probably messy because he had been studying, because he was always studying, because apparently the man did not believe in rest unless it could be scheduled in fifteen-minute increments.
You forced your voice even. “Look, Abbot. I don’t want this any more than you do.”
“That makes a compelling argument,” Jack said.
You ignored him. “My sublet fell through. I need a room. You need rent. We’re both adults.”
“That remains under review,” Jack said.
You stared at the phone.
Then you said, “I am going to pretend you did not say that because I need housing more than I need dignity.”
Another pause. This one felt different.
When Jack spoke again, his voice had lost a little of its edge. “Your sublet fell through?”
You looked down at the crossed-out page in your notebook. “Yes.”
“When?” he asked.
You tried to contain your sigh. “Today.”
Jack was quiet for a beat.
You hated the quiet more than the sarcasm.
You lifted your chin even though he could not see you. “I can pay first month’s rent and the deposit by Friday. I have references if you need them, though asking for references would make you unbearable in a new and creative way.”
“I wasn’t going to ask for references,” Jack said.
You blinked. “You weren’t?”
“No,” Jack said. “I already know you’re responsible.”
Your grip loosened on the receiver. That was almost a compliment. That was suspicious.
“Are you ill?” you asked.
Jack’s voice flattened again. “Do you want to see the room or not?”
There he was. Relief, irritatingly, moved through you.
“Yes,” you said. “I want to see the room.”
“Tomorrow,” Jack said. “Six-thirty.”
“I have lab review until six,” you said.
“Then seven,” Jack said.
You glanced at the number tab, then at your notebook, then at the half-packed box of books sitting by the wall. “Fine.”
“Don’t be late,” Jack said.
Your mouth fell open. “I called two minutes early and you’re already mad about it. I think punctuality is the least of our problems.”
“You called early on purpose,” Jack said.
“You can’t prove that,” you said.
“I don’t have to prove it,” Jack said. “I know you.”
The words landed too cleanly. For a second, neither of you said anything.
You looked down at the phone cord twisted around your finger and slowly unwound it.
“You don’t know me,” you said.
Jack’s voice was quieter when he answered. “I know enough.”
That was worse. That was much worse.
You cleared your throat. “Seven, then.”
“Seven,” Jack said.
Then he hung up first.
You lowered the receiver slowly and stared at it like it had personally betrayed you.
Then you looked around your apartment. The boxes. The bare wall where your calendar used to hang. The textbooks stacked in careful piles because your life might have been collapsing, but at least renal physiology had a place to go.
You rubbed both hands over your face.
You were seeing Jack Abbot’s apartment tomorrow.
You were considering living with Jack Abbot.
You were apparently the kind of person life could corner hard enough to make that sound practical.
After a long moment, you picked up your pen and wrote the address beneath his number. Then, because you still had some pride left, you added two words beside it.
Temporary. Obviously.
The building was three blocks from campus and exactly as depressing as the rent suggested.
Red brick. Narrow steps. A front door that stuck when you pulled it. Mailboxes with crooked labels. A hallway that smelled faintly of old carpet, radiator dust, and someone’s dinner.
You checked the address in your notebook. Second floor.
Apartment 2B.
Of course Jack Abbot lived in apartment 2B. Even his address sounded like a multiple-choice answer.
You climbed the stairs with your bag bumping against your hip and your pulse doing something irritating beneath your ribs.
This was practical. That was all. You were looking at a room. Four walls. A door. A place to sleep that did not involve Dawn’s iguana or a forty-minute bus ride.
You were not thinking about Taylor’s stupid comment.
At least he’s nice to look at.
You reached the landing and stopped outside his door.
Apartment 2B had a plain brass number, a scuffed threshold, and a doormat that said nothing at all.
Not welcome. Not hello. Not even one of those ugly floral mats people bought when they felt guilty about beige.
Just a rectangle of coarse brown fiber.
You knocked before you could decide to hate the doormat.
For two seconds, nothing happened.
Then you heard movement inside. A chair scraping. Footsteps. A lock turning.
The door opened.
Jack Abbot looked at you from the other side.
For one horrible second, you forgot every reasonable objection you had ever had to him.
He was in an old gray T-shirt, soft from too many washes and fitted just enough across his shoulders to be personally insulting. His jeans were faded. His reddish-brown curls were mussed in the way they got when he had been pushing his hand through them for hours. There was a pen tucked behind one ear like he had been interrupted in the middle of being unbearable.
He looked younger like this. Not softer. Just less armored.
Then his eyes dropped to your watch.
“You’re early,” Jack said.
And there he was.
You blinked once, and the attraction evaporated so quickly it should have made a sound.
“It’s 6:57,” you said.
Jack leaned one shoulder against the doorframe. “We said seven.”
“You complained when I called two minutes early,” you said.
“You did that on purpose,” Jack said.
You lifted your chin. “You can’t prove that.”
Jack’s mouth moved. Not quite a smile.
“You’re here three minutes early,” Jack said.
You stared at him. “Maybe I’m punctual.”
“You’re antagonistic,” Jack said.
You looked him up and down before you could stop yourself. “And yet charming.”
Jack’s eyes stayed on your face. Something shifted there, quick and irritatingly observant.
“Is that what we’re calling it?” Jack asked.
You smiled tightly. “Are you letting me in, Abbot, or are we conducting the tour from the hallway?”
Jack stepped back. “Come in.”
You walked past him into the apartment and immediately understood the flyer.
The place was small.
Not unlivable. Not ugly, exactly. Just small in a way that made privacy feel theoretical.
The living room sat directly inside the door, barely large enough for a worn couch, a low coffee table, and a narrow bookshelf packed with medical texts. A floor lamp stood in the corner beside a stack of note cards tied with a rubber band. Two windows faced the street, their blinds half-open, letting in late August light that turned the dust in the air gold.
The kitchen was to the left, separated from the living room by an archway so narrow two people would have to negotiate passage like a diplomatic crisis.
A short hallway led away from the living room. Three doors.
Jack nodded to the closed one on the right. “Mine.”
You did not look at his bedroom door for longer than necessary.
The middle door was the bathroom.
The door on the left sat open.
Jack gestured toward it. “Room on the left.”
Yours, if you were desperate.
Which you were.
Unfortunately.
You turned back to him. “That’s the tour?”
Jack crossed his arms. “It’s an apartment.”
“You could try selling it,” you said.
“I’m not selling it,” Jack said. “I’m showing it.”
You looked around again.
No posters. No plants. No throw pillows. No framed photos in the living room. Nothing that gave away much of anything except that Jack owned too many textbooks, drank too much coffee, and apparently considered decoration a moral weakness.
“You live like a witness in protective custody,” you said.
Jack’s eyebrows lifted. “You’ve been here thirty seconds.”
“And I’ve learned a lot,” you said.
Jack glanced toward the hallway. “Room’s on the left.”
You followed him because you needed the room and because standing in his living room felt too much like standing inside a part of him you were not supposed to see.
The hallway was narrow enough that when Jack stopped in front of the first door, you nearly walked into his back. You caught yourself with one hand against the wall.
Jack turned his head slightly. “Careful.”
“You stopped,” you said.
“It’s a hallway,” Jack said.
“It’s a crawlspace with ambition,” you said.
That almost-smile touched his mouth. There and gone. Annoying.
He opened the door on the left. “Room.”
You stepped past him, careful not to brush against him, and looked inside.
The room was small, but clean. One window faced the side of the neighboring building. The hardwood floor was scuffed in a few places. A narrow rug had been rolled against the wall. The closet had one sliding door that stuck halfway when you tried it.
There was enough space for a bed, a desk, and maybe a dresser if you were optimistic or bad at measuring.
It was not much. It was also not Dawn’s iguana.
You walked to the window and tried to open it. It stuck, then gave with a squeal.
“Window sticks,” Jack said from the doorway.
You glanced over your shoulder. “I noticed.”
“I was informing you,” Jack said.
“You were narrating,” you said.
Jack leaned one shoulder against the doorframe. “Heat’s unreliable in January. Radiator knocks. Outlet by the desk is temperamental.”
“Temperamental how?” you asked.
“It works when it feels respected,” Jack said.
You looked at him. Jack’s expression stayed flat. You hated that the joke almost surprised you.
“You have jokes,” you said.
“Occasionally,” Jack said.
“Tragic that they’re like that,” you said.
His mouth threatened another smile. Your stomach did something stupid.
You turned back to the room before your face could betray you.
The desk would go under the window. Bed against the opposite wall. Bookshelf near the door, if you could find one cheap. Maybe a lamp in the corner. Maybe your notes taped over the patch of wall where the paint had faded.
You could make it work.
You hated that you could make it work.
Jack watched you from the doorway. You felt it between your shoulder blades.
You turned back. “What?”
Jack’s gaze flicked once around the room. “You’re measuring.”
“I’m looking,” you said.
“You’re measuring,” Jack said. “Desk under the window. Bed there. Shelf by the door.”
You stared at him. He stared back.
“Do you always narrate people’s thoughts,” you asked, “or am I special?”
Jack’s eyes moved over your face. “You’re not subtle.”
“You’re not charming,” you said.
“That wasn’t in the flyer,” Jack said.
You walked past him into the hall. “Clearly.”
The bathroom door was half-open beside you.
You pushed it the rest of the way with two fingers and stopped.
Small. Very small.
Pedestal sink. Narrow tub. One medicine cabinet. One towel rack. One mirror with harsh lighting that would make anyone look like they had recently failed a liver function test.
You stood there for a second too long, already imagining two toothbrushes by the sink, two towels fighting for space, two sleep-deprived medical students trying to get ready at the same time without committing a felony.
Jack stood just behind your shoulder in the narrow hall. “The room’s yours if you want it.”
You looked back at him.
The words were so plain that it took you a second to understand them as an offer. Not a challenge. Not an insult. Not a correction.
An offer.
“Just like that?” you asked.
Jack’s gaze stayed on yours. “You can pay rent.”
“I said I could,” you said.
“I believe you,” Jack said.
That was almost worse than suspicion.
You shifted your weight. “And what, you’ve decided I’m clean and quiet enough?”
“No,” Jack said.
You stared at him.
Jack’s mouth twitched. “But I decided those were unrealistic expectations.”
You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Lovely.”
Jack nodded once toward the bedroom. “You need the space. I need the rent. You’re responsible. You’re not a stranger.”
You crossed your arms. “That sounded dangerously close to a compliment.”
“It wasn’t,” Jack said.
“Thank God,” you said. “I was worried.”
His eyes held yours for half a beat too long.
The hallway felt too narrow suddenly. Too quiet.
You looked away first, back into the bathroom, because that was easier than looking at him while he was being almost decent.
“Thank you,” you said.
The words came out smaller than you meant them to. Jack did not answer right away.
When you glanced back, something on his face had shifted. Not much. Barely enough to count. But his eyes were softer than they had been a second ago.
“You’re welcome,” Jack said.
For one strange, dangerous moment, neither of you moved. No correction. No jab. No competition. Just the two of you standing in a narrow hallway, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him beside you, with the room on the left waiting like an answer neither of you had wanted.
Then your brain caught up.
You looked back into the bathroom. “This will require rules.”
Jack’s mouth moved. Not quite a smile.
“Already thought of that,” Jack said.
You stared at him. “Of course you did.”
Jack started back toward the living room. “One bathroom. Two med students. It’s not complicated.”
“It’s horrifying,” you replied.
“That too,” Jack said.
You followed him into the kitchen. “You sound very calm about this.”
Jack reached for the legal pad beside his coffee. “I like preparation.”
You exhaled loudly. “You like control.”
Jack glanced back at you. “That too.”
At the top of the page, in his neat, disciplined handwriting, were two words.
ROOMMATE AGREEMENT.
You looked at the words. Then at him.
“Abbot,” you said, “this is the least surprising thing you have ever done.”
Jack held out the pen. “Sit.”
You looked at the chair across from him. “Try that again.”
Jack stared at you. You stared back.
After a beat, Jack said, “Would you like to sit down?”
“Not really,” you said.
His mouth twitched. “But?”
You took the pen from his hand.
Your fingers brushed his.
Barely.
Not enough to matter.
Enough that his gaze dropped to the contact.
Yours did too.
For one stupid second, the apartment went quiet around the place where your skin had touched his.
Then you pulled out the chair. “But I need housing.”
Jack sat across from you and tapped the legal pad once with his knuckle.
“Rule one,” Jack said. “Rent due on the first.”
You looked at him over the top of the page.
“Wow,” you said. “I never would have survived without that one.”
Jack picked up his coffee mug. “That’s why I wrote it down.”
You stared at him.
He took a sip like he had not just said the most irritating thing possible.
You exhaled through your nose. “Fine. Rule two?”
Jack set the mug down and wrote beneath the first line. “Utilities split evenly.”
You leaned back in the chair. “Fine.”
Jack glanced up. “That was suspiciously easy.”
You smiled. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”
His mouth almost moved. Not quite.
He wrote again. “Food separate unless otherwise discussed.”
You looked toward the kitchen cabinets. “Do coffee and canned soup count as food?”
Jack did not look up. “Yes.”
You stared at him. “That explains a lot.”
Jack’s pen paused. “About my grocery budget?”
You said, “About your personality.”
Jack resumed writing. “Dishes washed within twenty-four hours.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Are you timing them?”
Jack looked up. “Do you plan to test me?”
You held his stare. “Constantly.”
Something quick crossed his face. Amusement, maybe. You hated that you noticed.
Jack wrote the next line. “Bathroom schedule on clinical mornings.”
You blinked. “Bathroom schedule?”
Jack’s pen paused. “One bathroom. Two med students.”
You looked toward the hall. “You say that like it’s a math problem.”
“It is if one of us is late,” Jack said.
You looked back at him. “You mean if I’m late.”
Jack’s eyes flicked to yours. “I didn’t say that.”
“You thought it loudly,” you said.
Jack wrote anyway. “No touching my textbooks or notes without asking.”
You scoffed. “I don’t want your notes.”
Jack looked up. “Good. I don’t want yours.”
You stared at him. “Rude.”
“Efficient,” Jack said.
You took the pen. “Mutual, then.”
He let you write it, watching your hand move across the page.
Somehow, that annoyed you too.
Jack took the pen back when you were done. “Quiet after midnight during exam weeks.”
You looked at him. “Do you turn into a landlord after midnight?”
Jack wrote without looking up. “I turn into someone who wants to pass pathology.”
You said, “Tragic. I was hoping for a bat.”
This time, his mouth did move.
Jack added another line. “No parties.”
You gave him a flat look. “Do I look like I throw parties?”
Jack’s gaze moved over your face.
Not down.
Not obviously.
Just enough to make your skin remember that you were sitting in his kitchen, in August heat, across from a man Taylor had very unhelpfully described as nice to look at.
“You look like you cause problems,” Jack said.
Your face warmed before you could stop it. “That is not the same thing.”
“Often overlaps,” Jack said.
You pointed at the legal pad. “Keep writing.”
He did.
“Guests require notice,” Jack said.
You crossed your arms. “Define guests.”
Jack looked up. “People who do not live here.”
You smiled tightly. “Brilliant. You should teach.”
Jack ignored that and wrote again. “No overnight strangers.”
You tilted your head. “Strangers?”
“People I don’t know,” Jack said.
You leaned back. “You want to approve my social life?”
Jack’s jaw shifted. “I want to know who’s in my apartment while I’m sleeping.”
You studied him for a second. That answer was too practical to mock easily.
“Fine,” you said. “No strangers overnight.”
Jack nodded once and wrote it down. Then his pen hovered over the next line for half a second. You noticed.
“What?” you asked.
Jack lowered the pen to the legal pad. “No loud, obnoxious sex.”
You blinked. “Loud?”
Jack’s expression did not move. “Yes.”
You leaned back. “Obnoxious?”
Jack tapped the pen once against the paper. “That’s what I said.”
You stared at him. “Do I look like someone who has loud, obnoxious sex?”
Jack’s gaze dropped. Not far. Not long. Just enough. Then his eyes came back to yours.
“You look like you’d be vocal,” Jack said.
The words landed between you like a lit match.
You sat up straighter. “That is an insane thing to say to a person you’re trying to convince to sign a lease.”
Jack leaned back in his chair. “I’m not trying to convince you.”
You narrowed your eyes. “No?”
Jack glanced toward the hallway. “You need the room.”
You took the pen from him. “New rule. No making assumptions about my sex life.”
Jack’s mouth almost smiled. “Noted.”
You wrote the rule down harder than necessary. Then, because he had apparently decided to open that particular door, you kept writing.
“No random women hogging the bathroom,” you said.
Jack’s brows lifted. “Random women.”
You ignored his tone and continued writing. “Or using my shampoo. Or my towels. Or my face wash. Or my razor. Or my hairbrush.”
Jack watched the list grow. “How many products do you own?”
You looked up. “Enough that your random women would be moisturized.”
His mouth twitched. “You think I’m going to have a parade of women through here?”
You looked him up and down because fair was fair.
“I don’t know your life, Abbot,” you said.
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours for a beat too long.
“No,” Jack said. “You don’t.”
Something in his voice made your stomach pull tight.
You looked back at the page and slid the pen toward him. “Your turn.”
Jack took it. His fingers did not brush yours this time. You had no reason to notice that.
“Then no random men using my things,” Jack said.
You leaned back. “Your things?”
Jack wrote without looking up. “My razor. My towels. My coffee.”
You laughed once. “Your coffee?”
Jack looked up. “Especially my coffee.”
You studied him. “I’m starting to think you’re more worried about the coffee than the hypothetical men.”
Jack’s gaze held yours. “Depends on the man.”
You hated the small, stupid twist that put in your stomach.
You pointed at the legal pad. “Write your little coffee rule, Abbot.”
Jack looked back down, mouth almost curved. “Already did.”
You took the pen again. “No touching my laundry.”
Jack said, “Gladly.”
You looked up. “That was too fast.”
“It was an easy rule,” Jack said.
“Good,” you said. “Keep that energy.”
Jack’s gaze flicked once to your face, then back to the page. “Planning to.”
You ignored the heat that crawled up your neck and wrote another rule before you could think better of it.
“If one person makes coffee, they make enough for both,” you said.
Jack stared at the page. “That contradicts rule three.”
You looked at him like he was embarrassing himself. “Coffee is different.”
“How?” Jack asked.
“Coffee is survival,” you said.
Jack paused. Then he took the pen from you and wrote it down.
You pointed at the page. “Was that agreement?”
Jack looked up. “That was triage.”
For one second, you almost smiled. Not politely. Not tightly. Actually. You caught yourself before it got dangerous and looked down at the legal pad instead.
The agreement was ridiculous. Neat lines of rules, half practical and half deranged, written in both your handwriting and his. Rent, utilities, dishes, bathrooms, textbooks, guests, sex, shampoo, coffee.
Your life, apparently.
Or the next few months of it.
Jack turned the legal pad around and slid it toward you.
You looked at him. “You want me to sign this?”
Jack held out the pen. “You want the room?”
You stared at the pen. Then at him. Then at the hallway, where the room on the left waited, small and plain and possible.
You took the pen.
“Fine,” you said.
Jack watched you sign your name beneath the last rule. His expression gave away almost nothing. Almost.
When you slid the legal pad back to him, he signed beneath you with that same irritating precision.
Then he tore the page carefully from the pad and stood.
You watched him cross to the small counter by the phone, open a drawer, and take out a key on a plain metal ring.
He returned to the table and held it out.
You stared at it for a beat longer than necessary.
A key.
To Jack Abbot’s apartment.
To your apartment.
No.
Not your apartment.
A room.
Temporary.
Necessary.
You took the key from his hand.
This time, your fingers brushed. Barely. Again.
Jack’s gaze dropped to the contact. Yours did too.
The room seemed too quiet around you. Then he let go.
“Room on the left,” Jack said.
You closed your fist around the key. “I remember.”
Jack nodded once. “Move in whenever.”
You stood, pushing the chair back beneath the table. “I’ll bring boxes tomorrow.”
Jack’s eyes flicked toward the hallway. “What time?”
You adjusted your bag on your shoulder. “Around four.”
“Around four,” Jack repeated.
You gave him a look. “Is that a problem?”
“No,” Jack said. “It’s just not a time.”
You stared at him. “Fine. Four-thirty.”
Jack’s eyes flicked toward the hallway. “Need help?”
The offer caught you wrong. Too direct. Too useful. Too close to kind.
You adjusted your bag on your shoulder. “I can carry boxes, Abbot.”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t,” Jack said.
You looked at him. He looked back. For once, he did not add anything sharp.
That was worse. You looked away first.
“Four-thirty,” you said.
Jack nodded. “Four-thirty.”
You walked to the door with the key warm in your palm. Behind you, Jack did not move until your hand closed around the doorknob.
Then his voice followed you, low and dry. “And don’t be late.”
You looked back over your shoulder.
There he was, standing in his small kitchen with messy curls, crossed arms, and the faintest trace of a smile he had no right to have.
You smiled back just enough to be a warning.
“I live here now,” you said. “Lower your expectations.”
Jack’s mouth twitched.
You hated that you liked it.
Then you opened the door and stepped into the hallway before either of you could say anything else.
Seeing people I know and like using AI is making me understand the protagonists of those old time sci fi dystopia's.
"Oh I don't normally use AI, I just wanted it to plan my trip"
You lived on this planet for decades, you know what you like, there are hundreds of websites where you can type into any search engine " things to do in [area]" and have at least a hundred different options.
"Oh I only use it so I can figure out what to make during the week with what I have"
The most popular website as you type in "recipes" into google have sections where you click dinner- quick and easy and those usually rely on staples + 1 or 2 items. I found 30 recipes on chicken alone.
"I had a writing idea, so I typed a few sentences into Chat GPT and I was able to write 20 pages with it."
let’s be real the pressure to use AI as an adult is exactly what they said the pressure the do drugs as a teenager would be like but the people that told us that caved immediately for the AI and definitely did not just say no
older!jack who takes your care of your cars maintenance and gas. when you first mentioned how you needed to drop your car off and how you had been putting it off jack immediately offered to take it himself. when he noticed the relief in you shoulders after a bit of back and forth he never let you take it again. he always fills your car up with gas every week, mostly to make sure you’re not paying for it but also because it would help keep him calm knowing you won't get stranded anywhere without gas.
older!jack who gives bear hugs. they squish you and knock you over because of his size and they are perfect. his large arms envelope around you as he cradles your head in the cushions of his arms. you can smell the musk coming off of him as your head lays perfectly in the crook of his neck. he sometimes sways you back and forth, enjoying the rhythm of his movement with you following gently. his buried in the side of your face. sometimes he'll crouch down a bit to lift you off the floor out of pure love and adoration as if he can't get enough of you
older!jack who eats like a man. he will eat anything you make him, and will make sure you are eating too. he loves to eat meat and count his protein, making sure you also have something in your plate that will give you energy. if your plate looks light, he notices immediately. “that all you’re having?” he asks, already splitting half of his portion onto your plate before you can answer. he likes seeing you well-fed, energized, cared for. it soothes him in a way he’d never admit out loud.
older!jack who wears his reading glasses and uses his pointer finger when on his phone. he's a bit self conscious about his glasses adjusting them with a grumble like they personally offended him, but you love how they soften his whole face. every night before he sleeps, he'll read a book with those glasses on and you can't help but kiss his and cheeks as he tries to read his book.
older!jack who cannot stand you doom scrolling right before you sleep. he will bury his face in the back of your neck, his arms squeezing around you tight to hide from the light coming off from your phone as you scroll though twitter. he complains about the light, about the “nonsense on that app,” about how no one needs bad news at midnight. he will try to kiss the back of your neck to distract you and pull your attention away from the phone and to you but if that doesn't work he will flip you over so you are on top of him and wrapped up in his arms, your phone lost somewhere in the sheets.
older!jack who gets impossibly concerned and soft when you’re sick. suddenly he’s quieter, gentler, moving around you like you’re something precious and fragile. the medicine js on schedule, soup too hot so he blows on every spoonful first, blankets fresh from the dryer. he periodically checking your temperature and he’ll sit at the edge of the bed with a hand on your ankle just to keep contact while he reads or answers emails. if you try to say you’re fine, he gives you that look and tells you to hush.
