With your request open, what about Jack’s niece or daughter having a shift from hell, maybe some comfort in the end from Jack, other than that I leave it up to you to go whatever direction you want if you decide to write this 🫶🏻
Call your dad
tags: jack abbot x daughter!reader, burnt out reader, inferred suicidal tendencies (like father like daughter), best friend trinity santos, stress, angsty, all the comfort to follow tho, comforting ending, possible ooc characters (but they're my barbies to play with), one use of y/n, title is taken from "Call Your Mom" by Noah Kahan, 18+ MDNI
notes: thank you @panic-in-the-multiverse for your request! sorry it's taken me so long to get to it. I hope it hits you in the feels in the best of ways! like always if you'd like to be added to my permanent tag list, please comment here! enjoy!
When Jack’s phone rang two hours before your shift was supposed to be over, he thought the worst.
Robby wasn’t one to call him in asking for a favor of an extra shift, always strict with keeping the day shift and night shift separated for the benefit of everyone’s sleep schedule. In all his years in working at the Pittsburgh Medical Trauma Center, Jack had only been called in on his day off fewer times than he had fingers. If a mass casualty—like Pittfest—happened, he probably would have already known about it through the small police scanner he kept on his kitchen counter.
So the fact that no blaring alarm had gone through and his phone was ringing, there were really two worst case scenarios he could think of: something had happened to Robby, or something had happened to you.
You, his daughter, and Robby, his best (and probably only) friend, were the only two people Jack knew of who had him down as their emergency contact.
The number flashing across his screen wasn’t one he recognized, the sight adding to the tumultuous worry that was currently racing through his chest. He barely reached the device before it went straight to voicemail and brought it up to his ear.
“Abbot speaking,” he spoke into the phone, desperately trying to keep his voice steady.
“Dr. Abbot? This is Trinity Santos,” the feminine voice responded.
Jack’s shoulders hunched a bit as he turned to lean his back against the marble of his kitchen counter. Even through the layer of his shirt, panicked goosebumps littered his skin from the intrusion of the chill.
“H-Hey, Santos,” he stuttered, mentally cursing himself. “Sorry, I didn’t have your number saved.”
The apology was weak, and really, he should have been asking what was wrong instead of making small talk with a resident he barely knew outside of handoffs and the couple times you brought her over for a movie night where he chose to retreat back to his room instead of joining on the couch.
“I didn’t expect you to.”
Jack closed his eyes, and his body braced for impact. “What’s up?”
Was that the best he could do? “What’s up” when there might be an emergency involving the two people that kept him tied to the earth instead of joining his wife in the sky?
For a moment, it was only Trinity’s breathing that crackled through his phone, almost like she was also preparing for something unseen.
“It’s Y/n,” she finally said.
Medically speaking, hearts only ever stop when a person is having a heart attack. And when that happens, medical intervention is needed to get it pumping again before that person dies. But where Jack was standing, arm bent enough for him to grasp onto the counter with white knuckles, he swore his heart stopped completely before resuming beneath his sternum.
“Is she—” He couldn’t even say the words. “Is she okay?”
“If I said she was okay, I’d probably be lying,” Trinity confessed. “But today has just been really . . . bad.”
A flood of relief slightly overwhelmed the panic enough for Jack to take a full breath. Trinity wasn’t talking like you were dead; that had to count for something.
“Did something happen?” he pressed while abandoning his post by the counter in favor of heading towards his bedroom.
“Her chronic-illness patient died this morning.”
Jack paused, the sight of the small girl you’d been trying to help, the one who’d been to the Pitt off and on for months, flashing across his eyes. This time, his heart didn’t stop, but it did clench painfully at the thought of you going through that so early this morning.
“And she’s had to change her scrubs twice. You know the set she’d been excited about for months?”
He hummed; he knew what set she was talking about. You’d been so excited to the point you had talked his ears off for days before you finally were able to buy the limited color when it released on whatever website offered the items.
“She was helping a domestic violence case, blood got all over it. Police had to take both the top and pants for evidence.”
“What happened to her back up pair?”
“One of the med students bumped into her when she was holding her coffee. The cup splashed all over her.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.” Trinity clicked her tongue.
“Anything else?”
She paused. “Park yelled at her.”
Jack’s hand tightened around the phone. “For what?”
“Paramedics hadn’t packed a guy’s foot correctly on the way over; so, she tried to reset it correctly, but—”
“He thought she did it.”
“Dr. Abbot, I’ve never seen her cry during a shift before today. And it’s not like Park’s never an asshole, but he didn’t have basically rip her a new one in front of everyone when it wasn’t even her fault in the first place.”
Jack was already reaching for a sweatshirt from his closet, stuffing it down into his bag with one hand while the other remained holding his phone to his ear. His prosthesis had already been put on as a just in case incident, and Jack was thanking whoever was listening for that gut feeling. Limbering back into the kitchen, he grabbed the keys to his truck from the bowl on the edge of the counter, something you’d wanted to get after seeing one of those TikTok videos about a purse bowl—whatever the hell that was supposed to mean.
“Where is she now?” Jack questioned after getting the call connected to the Bluetooth.
“That’s what I was calling you about,” Trinity muttered. “We can’t find her. Dr. Robby checked all the rooms; Dana’s been trying to call her cell. I thought maybe she’d be in one of the supply closets or in the bathrooms, but . . .”
His heart clenched again.
He knew you. Whenever you’d hurt, whenever you’d cry, whenever you’d need to just get away from the world, Jack knew you’d find a place away from prying eyes, a small coping mechanism you’d picked up on whenever he himself would flee the room the moment his eyes stung. Abbots weren’t known to publicly show emotions, especially after the loss of his wife and your mother. It was always I’m fine and I’m not crying and Could you excuse me for just a moment.
Trinity—he could tell—was close to panicking by the way her breathing changed, and the way her next few sentences came out shaky.
“I’m worried. I’ve seen her with bad days before, but today’s been different. It’s like she’s close to giving up.”
Jack’s foot pressed the gas a bit more, engine straining and pushing the truck to move the tiniest bit faster, like getting to the Pitt could at least ease the tightness he had in his chest. As the city passed by in waves of blurred lights and buildings, a moment of clarity washed over Jack thought he couldn’t tell if it was closer to relief or dread.
“The roof. Have you checked the roof?”
_______________________
You hadn’t meant to stand there for so long, but every time you thought about going back down, going back to that trapped feeling, you’d stayed, feet glued to the concrete and eyes unwavering from the building tops.
Being on the roof felt the most freeing you’d felt since walking through the doors to begin your shift almost twelve hours ago.
You’d thought today would have been a good day. Dad had made breakfast before you left, your playlist shuffle on the way over felt perfectly curated, and the first few hours of patients walking out the doors with gratefulness dripping from their lips convinced you that nothing could go wrong.
That had been your first mistake, because in emergency medicine, good days never went by without a little grief—or in your case, a lot of it.
Kassy, the 9-year-old who’d seen more hospital than her own bedroom, had been brought in during the third hour of your shift and wasn’t even able to leave the building. You could still feel her failing chest and cracked sternum under your hands if you thought about it for more than a second. Her parents had been understanding; you’d been devastated, believing you could have done more.
But duty called, and you knew you had to leave every ounce of regret at the threshold of the door to her room. Easier said than done, because the next case, a younger woman, who came in with a stab wound, panicked so much about the anger of her partner that she rolled off the gurney, right into your arms, her blood instantly soaking through your scrub top and pants.
The stain should have been manageable, a little cold water and vinegar always seemed to do the trick, if it weren’t for the officers following and asking for the contaminated matching set as pieces of evidence against her attacker. You watched in a disappointed fog as they stuffed your clothes into a plastic bag that you probably would never get back.
A coffee, you had settled your mind on, was always a good choice to make your day a smidge better. Nothing sounded as good as the warm liquid mixed in with enough cream and sugar to be cavity inducing. You’d made the concoction after changing into your spare set of scrubs, albeit they weren’t the ones you’d wanted to wear, but they would work just fine.
Well, that was until a meandering med student walked right into you, their eyes more focused on the tablet in hand than where they were walking.
Scrub change number two came soon after, but unlike your personal scrubs, the hospital provided ones always sad wrong. They were itchy, tight around your neck, arms, and thighs but way too loose in the torso and waistline.
Now, you weren’t superstitious, so granted, you thought the worst of the day had passed. The morning could be filled with sorrows, but you still had the afternoon to make up for it.
An incoming leg trauma straight from a construction site was just the push of adrenaline you needed. The paramedics had rolled him right through, Robby had grabbed you to assist, and the two of you (plus the nurses) were well on your way to get this guy approved for an orthopedics consult before surgery. You held onto those hopes until halfway through the observation when you noticed his foot was tilting a few degrees too far inward. Mentally cursing whoever set the foot wrong, you had gingerly reached out for the foot to set it correctly, however, the moment your hands were on the appendage, Park decided that was the moment to walk through the door.
His eyes narrowed, mouth already opening and throwing insults your way when all you wanted to do was help.
Normally, you would have pushed back, would have stood your ground and defended yourself. But already drowning in the emotional weight of the day, you stood there, eyes cast downward as he went on and on about how you should have known better, should have done better.
Pretty much the entire floor was witness to the public execution and the tears that ran down your cheeks.
When he finished, you had simply nodded, promised to do better the next time, and silently slipped through the doors.
Trinity had caught you by the arm, and her eyes widened at the red of your own that just wouldn’t stop welling up no matter how hard you were trying to keep them dry. Softly, she had asked if you were okay, like any normal concerned friend would ask.
You wondered, while standing on the roof, body shivering at the chill wing, if that had been your breaking point, because you hadn’t been truly okay in years.
Would someone who was okay throw their life into emergency medicine?
Would someone who was okay deal with their grief in a mature and emotional way and not run from the dark feelings each time they grew too painful to deal with?
Would someone who was okay be standing at the edge of a roof after a seemingly impossible shift?
Answering any of those questions would decide if you were okay, and you ran instead facing the feelings that had been churning since you walked through the Pitt’s doors.
“You’re in my spot.”
You’d know that voice anywhere, but instead of answering, you uselessly wiped a hand under your eyes. Nothing in that moment seemed more humiliating than letting your dad see you cry after a hard shift.
Jack stayed still a couple feet away. He had been assuming that he’d find you on the other side of the railing like he had with Robby a few months ago, ready to take one too many steps forward, stethoscope hanging like an unwritten goodbye letter. But when he quietly opened the door, he breathed a bit easier when he noticed that you’d chosen to stay behind the metal.
“Heard you had a pretty bad shift, kid. Wanna talk about it?” he asked, taking another step closer. He pursed his lips when you failed to answer again. “Santos called me. Said she was worried for you.”
“She shouldn’t have,” you finally muttered, passing another unsuccessful wipe across your face. “I’m fine.”
“You know, you keep using fine, but I don’t think it means what you think it means,” he replied.
A ghost of a smile tugged on your lips at his attempt to quote from Princess Bride, a movie he had actually stayed for and enjoyed more than he would ever realize.
“It’s okay to not be fine, kid. You know that,” he said, voice a little louder in your ears now that he was standing beside you.
You didn’t flinch when his arm draped across your shoulders, muscles tensing as he drew you into his side. The smell of his cologne, all warm and comforting in the way only your dad could make you feel, brought more tears to your eyes. However, this time, you let them fall freely. Jack couldn’t help the coo that pushed through his lips when you tried harder to tuck yourself into his chest.
“I know today was hard,” he whispered into your hair. “And I’m so sorry. Hell, I had half a mind to rip Park a new one on my way up.”
“I would have paid money to see that,” you said. “I think anyone would to see him get knocked down a few pegs.”
“I bet they would.”
You stayed quiet for a few moments after, letting your body soak in the peace and calm that Jack always seemed to carry extra of. Nothing would ever be better than a hug from your dad, the one big constant in your life that you could always count on. Your eyes fluttered shut as his hand rested against the back of your head.
“I need to get back down and get my patients discharged,” you said, breaking the silence of the roof once more.
Jack let you slowly back away, but he still kept you within reach. “Next time you have a shift from hell, please let someone know where you’re going before you sneak off. Santos nearly gave me a heart attack when she said Robby and Dana also didn’t know where you’d gone.” He pushed a stray hair away from your face. “I can’t lose you too, kid.”
You nodded, understanding the heaviness of his words. “I will. Promise.”
“Good.” He held eye contact and gestured with his head back toward the door. “Let’s go finish discharge so we can get out of here.”
Your eyes widened. “Don’t you have work in like—what—a hour?”
He shook his head. “I called off. Can’t have my girl feeling down when I can do something about it.”
For the first time that day, hope rushed through your body, and you found yourself bringing him back into an unexpected hug. However, Jack was quick to squeeze you against his front again.
“Thank you,” you whispered, voice watery.
Jack rested his cheek against the top of your head. “Any time, kid. Any time.”
cw: fluff!!! I use Celsius to describe the temperature
a/n: writing for dick without laughing is a genuine challenge for me (I have the humor of a middle school boy)
Dick Grayson was never one to get super nervous, but today he was sweating through the dress shirt he was wearing.
his hand tapped continuously on the steering wheel as he drove the two of you to “a secret location”, or at least that’s what he told you.
he didn’t give you any information about the date, he just told you to look nice. Steph had convinced you to go get her nails done with her and that had made you suspicious. Especially when she told you to do something classy.
the only noises in the car were Dicks tapping, the faint music playing out of the radio, and Dick muttering “don’t mess this up, don’t mess this up, dont mess this up”
“Babe, are you okay?” You asked. Honestly, you were actually worried about him.
He broke his gaze away from the road, just for a second, to look at you. “Why are you asking? I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”
you almost laughed at his anxious tone.
“you are literally Nightwing, don’t mess this up,” you heard him mumble.
“what’s your middle name again?” He asked out of the blue.
when you told him he nodded very seriously. “Right, I knew that.”
you eventually made it to a nice scenic walking area and you realized this wasn’t just anywhere. This was where the two of you met.
“oh my god, dick is this where we met?” You asked as you stepped out of the car.
he nodded stiffly but didn’t say a word. He grabbed your hand and when he did, you realized he was even sweatier than you had thought.
“do you have a fever? You’re sweating a lot… you know we can just go home to let you rest,” you told him.
“no!” He exclaimed. Then he cleared his throat and tried to act nonchalant. “I mean, today’s the best day and I feel fine. It’s just really hot today.”
“babe, it’s literally only ten degrees today,” you deadpanned.
He cleared his throat again and lead you farther along the path.
When he found a bench he sat down and you did as well.
“I just want to say—” he let out a long sigh, “it’s just been nice knowing you. And I don’t want anything I say today to change how you feel about me.”
your eyes widened with horror and you stood up from the bench. “Dick Grayson! Did you drive me all the way up here to break up with me?!”
his eyes widened even more than yours. “No! God no! I’m just— fuck.”
he sank to the ground on both knees and pulled out a box from his pocket.
“Will you please marry me… please?” He asked as he opened the box to reveal a beautiful diamond ring.
you stared at the ring, then at him, then back at the ring. The longer you stared, the more sweaty Dick got. Finally you looked at him and he saw all the tears welled up in your eyes.
naturally, he assumed the worst. But just as he was about to apologize, you out the ring on and hugged him.
“oh my god, yes! Yes!! Of course I’ll marry you!” You cried.
he laughed and got back on his feet to spin you around.
“I had a whole speech prepared but completely blanked,” he told you.
“it’s okay, your proposal was still perfect,” you said as you kissed him.
—
“you got on both knees to propose?” Jason asked as dick showed everyone your engagement photos.
“I bet you the bucks he said please,” Steph added.
“I blanked!” Dick exclaimed. He was not ready to be the family’s laughing stock of the month. But you said yes, so it was all worth it.
a/n: if u like this, please consider liking, commenting, reblogging, and checking out my other works!!
Could I potentially please get Wolf plushie in a sleeper onesie, smelling like black cherry, with a dog leash and bow tie? Thank you 🫶🏻
park the shark//idiots in love//"why didn't you answer your phone"//omegaverse//forced proximity
wc: 1.7k
“Code Silver. All omega staff members should report to their closest pheromone shelters. All omega patients press the silver button on your bedside remote.”
Park’s head snaps up from his patient. Instinctively, his eyes scan for you even though he knows you won’t be there. You’d been paged down to the Pitt because the consult was for a basic broken tibia. Surgical vs. non-surgical approach, perfect decision for a junior doctor. But now there’s a feral alpha on the loose somewhere in the hospital and Park has never wished he took the simple consult more. He avoids simple and easy like the plague, especially when it comes to dealing with Robinavitch’s idiot students who can’t even cleanly splint a break without daddy looking over their shoulders.
But now you’re down there.
And he’s up here.
At the sound of the ortho omega shelter sliding shut down the hall, its high-security biometric locks automatically engaging with his two omega nurses inside complaining about the inconvenience of the code, Park gives his beta patient a tight smile and says, “I need to secure my omega patients until the code is over. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
It’s a lie and a hell of a lazy one. Everyone at the hospital knows it’s the job of security, not doctors, to make sure all omegas are safe during a Code Silver. But he doesn’t care about that. The only thing he can focus on is finding you, nostrils flaring to try to catch your lingering scent that always calms him down.
Trying to calm the embers flaring in his gut, Park dials your pager. No response. He calls your phone. No answer. Text. Call. Text. No answers. The silence makes his ears ring. He doesn’t bother with the elevator; the stairs will be faster with the adrenaline already pulsing through his veins. It’s been a long time since he’s felt so possessed outside of a rut, launching down each set of steps like it’s nothing. It’s business as-goddamn-usual in the emergency department and he rolls his shoulders in annoyance as he storms up to the hub.
Grabbing the first scrawny doctor he sees by the scruff just above his scrubs, treating a beta like a pup, Park demands, “Where the fuck is she?”
The poor kid’s eyes go wide. “What? Who?”
“My fucking omega,” he barks back. Loud, imposing. That gets the attention of Robinavitch and Dana, both collaborating with a security guard nearby. It’s common knowledge that Park’s an unmated alpha because, fuck, does he act like one, all gnashing teeth and peacocking. With a deep breath, he lets go of the doctor with a small shove to the center of his chest and corrects himself, “The ortho resident. R4. About yea high-” he holds one large hand to the center of his chest, the place where you fit so well when you greet him with a hug after a weekend away from each other “-and smells like birthday cake. Sour when she’s upset. She came down here for a consult a few minutes ago. Before the code.”
With hesitant terror in his eyes, the kid response, “I- I have no idea if she-”
“Park,” Robinavitch shouts to save his student, “I saw her when they called it. She said she was going to the heat wing to wait it out. Stay down here; it’ll be over soon.”
“Stay here?” Park scoffs and shakes his head, turning on his heels toward the most highly regulated part of the hospital where omegas in heat receive treatment. “No chance.”
Robinavitch puts his hand at the center of Park’s chest. “You know it’s not safe for an alpha to go to the heat wing without protection.”
“I won’t hurt her.”
“How do you know that?”
Park wraps his hands around the other man’s wrist, bruising hard, and shoves him away. He repeats, dark and intense, “I won’t hurt her.”
Robinavitch reaches into his pocket for something. “At least put on a scent blocking patch. Here, I’ve got a few extras that you can-”
But Park’s already gone, the only sign of him the ashy traces of his scent. The charge nurse cuts Robinavitch a look and asks, “Should we call security on him?”
“They’ve got enough to deal with.” He explains, “Those two have been head over heels for each other since her residency started. He won’t hurt her.”
“So why did you try to stop him?”
Robinavich shrugs. “It’s an alpha respect thing. Once they figure their shit out, he’ll know I was looking out for his omega. That’ll be good for the department’s relationship with ortho.”
She shakes her head and mutters, “Fucking weird-ass alphas.”
The first sign that you’re not alone anymore is the soft beep of the card reader outside the door. Only a select number of approved doctors can gain access to the heat wing. Your whole body stiffens with nerves because you can’t smell who it is until they’re in the room with you – and, by then, it won’t matter anymore.
Park’s familiar voice pushes through the door and his scent floods the space, pungent and burning. As he crests through the double-sealed entry, he demands, “Why didn’t you answer your phone? I’ve been killing myself trying to find you while there’s a goddamn-”
His voice drops into silence when he sees you curled up in the corner of the room with wide dark eyes, your breaths heavy and your skin glistening with a sheen of sweat. You didn’t come into this room because it happened to be the closest safe space. Your heat is starting.
And it’s good.
That mild, sweet scent of your slick mingles with the desserty smell you always carry, invading Park’s nostrils until his pupils are dilating and he’s drawing closer to you, all instinct. He tucks his nose into his elbow, looking around for a mask as every hair on his body stands on end, and tells you hoarsely, “You’re supposed to report starting and stopping suppressants.”
“I did,” you reply weakly, teeth chattering, voice unsure, “to Gloria. She- she advised me not to tell any alphas.”
“But it’s me. I’m- I’m not just your boss. I care about you.” He shakes his head and punches his eyes shut to try to focus. “I could- I can help. Make sure you-” His cock starts to swell as your scent strengthens in response to his presence. “Make sure you’re comfortable. Get you the time off you need. Keep you safe.”
“I didn’t want you to have to deal with me like this,” you reply quickly, soft and ashamed, as his scent flares like smoke and salt. It’s protective and delicious. You want to crawl inside of him and live there in his warmth and his strength and his safety. Embarrassment heats your whole being; you shouldn’t want him as badly as you do. “Please, Park, just- just go back up to ortho and make sure the nurses are alright and forget you ever saw me like this, okay?”
He growls, “Like hell. I could smell you down the hall; you’re not staying here by yourself.”
“I’m okay, Brendon, I don’t need-”
Park shakes his head and rushes forward. He drops to his knees in front of you, takes your face between his large hands, and makes blistering eye contact. Your scent is all-consuming so close to him but he can’t focus on anything but your emotions. On making sure you feel how much he cares. On assuring you and keeping you safe and being there for you however you’ll let him. “Do you have any fucking idea how much it hurt me thinking about you hiding out all alone somewhere? It was agony. I’ve never felt anything like it. I can’t- I can’t be away from you right now. I have to be here. Let me be here.”
You gaze up into his eyes, too baby blue for someone so harsh, and whimper. It takes you a minute to find the words you need and he’s patient through the long moments like he only ever is with you. Sounding so small and vulnerable, you admit, “I don’t want you to stay if you aren’t staying for good.”
One of Park’s hands slides to the back of your head while the other goes to your waist, drawing you closer. Gently – you’ve never known him to touch so carefully and it steals your breath – he tilts your head to the side and exposes your most sensitive scent gland. Then he presses a precious, tender kiss to the overly sensitive flesh. He grazes his teeth there ever so softly, just enough to make you shiver and whine in his grasp. Against the shell of your ear, he vows in a gravelly voice, “I’m staying. And I’m never going anywhere.”
Then he kisses you. You’ve dreamed about kissing him a thousand times, but you never imagined it would be so soft. You imaged him taking, demanding, devouring, not tentatively exploring and holding you like a baby bird. It’s the kind of kiss that promises so much more.
“I’ve got you, sweet girl,” he murmurs against your lips. “I’ve got you now.”
Before you can come up with a meaningful response (not that you’re very capable of one with your heat about to bowl through you like a truck), the overhead speaker crackles to life. “Code Silver has ended. The hospital campus is secure. Omegas may resume their regular duties. PTMC thanks you for complying with safety procedures ”
Park doesn’t even let you stand. Like it’s the easiest and most natural thing in the world, he scoops you up into his arms. You wrap your legs around his hip and nestle into the crook of his neck. He orders, “We’re going back to your place. Home. Got it?” He kisses you again, this one more urgent, and adds, “You need to nest and you need to eat and you need to be fucked within an inch of your life. We’re not coming back to this hospital until you’re so full of my pups everyone in Pittsburgh knows you belong to me.”
You giggle as he tightens his hold around you. “I’m still on birth control, Brendon; my doctor only took me off the heat suppressants because I was having side effects.”
He brushes your cheek with a laugh. “That’s a damn shame.”
Summary: You're the person who has to deal with the consequences of Brendon Park's actions, which means you're the only one willing to bite his head off. You want to strangle him; he wants to kiss your feet.
A/N: nobody needs a woman to yell at him like park the shark
Word Count: 6.2k
There is exactly one sound on earth known to make Emergency Department attending physicians with decades of experience under their belt run for the hills and cower under cover – and that’s high heels.
Your high heels, specifically.
It’s not a common sound in the emergency room or the hospital as a whole; most healthcare employees are in sneakers, clogs, or boots the entire time they’re clocked in. But not you. Always dressed pristinely – today it’s high-waisted tailored slacks and a mock-neck sleeveless blouse, effortless and simple with legs that go on for miles and miles – you stalk through the hospital with a mission.
Robby spots you first, strolling in from the offices with eyeliner sharp enough to slice. As his eyes widen, he flips around, briefly touches Abbot and Park on their backs, and hisses, “Find cover, gentlemen. It’s the Viper.”
Abbot breaks into a near run toward the closest open patient room he can find. While Robby scans the area for his hiding place, Park asks, “What the hell’s going on?”
Robby hustles in the opposite direction with a shrug. “Every man for himself, Shark.”
Then a bright, clear, loud woman’s voice bowls down the ED like an oncoming storm. “Dr. Park, just the man I’ve been looking for.”
Even Al-Hashimi claps him on the back and runs off with a whispered, “Good luck.”
You join him in the next second. In your heels, which aren’t even that tall, you’re looking him square in the eyes. Smiling through lips coated in a deep maroon, you ask him, “How’s the transfer to the ED treating you, doctor?”
Arms crossed over his chest, Brendon eyes you suspiciously. “Ah, good, so far. I prefer trauma to ortho. The stakes are higher. Feels good at the end of the day. Accomplished.”
“Glad to hear it. I just need a couple minutes; I know you’re busy. Can we talk here or would you like to go to my office?”
Not noticing the way every single doctor and nurse is nervously glancing in your direction, Brendon mutters, “Here’s fine if it’s quick.”
“Great!” You unlock your briefcase on the nurse’s station and remove a binder as thick as a textbook. Voice still sweet and teasing, you tut at him, “You’ve made yourself very difficult for me to find, Brendon Park.”
“I’m usually in surgery,” he replies, confused and suspicious. He vaguely recognizes you from somewhere, but he can’t quite place it. Probably just flitting around the ED when he’s been here for consults, but it’s entirely possible you’re the hot woman on PTMC’s billboard over I-376. “What’s this about?”
You introduce yourself, shaking his massive hand with yours (blood red stiletto manicure and all), and explain, “I’m the Emergency Department’s Patient Advocate Supervisor.”
“Ah,” Park sighs, eyes raking up and down your accentuated curves, “you’re my new Kevin. He was a huge pain in my ass; I hope our relationship will be better.”
“No, Kevin is a patient advocate and a damn good one, considering he had to deal with your mountain of issues; ortho’s equivalent of me is an idiot who lets the monkeys run the circus,” you correct with harsh eyes. All pretense of pleasantness gone. Brendon looks at you like you’re speaking Klingon, so you slow down your words like he’s a child and explain, “The patient advocates give their evaluations to me. I analyze them and write reports on each and every doctor in the department.”
His brows furrow. “I thought that was Gloria’s-”
“I don’t work for the hospital,” you say, offended by the very idea. “Hospital employees are beholden to the board and the bottom line. I’m a medical malpractice lawyer that the hospital contracts from a private firm to whip their doctors into shape. I don’t care about anything but how patients get treated while they’re here in the ED. I’m more than happy to testify against you in court, recommend probations and suspensions, advocate for salary cuts, or whatever else you might need to be a little more motivated to do your fucking job.”
He lets out a defensive half-chuckle sound, not quite believing the way you’re speaking to him when he’s used to nothing but deference from his coworkers. “I do my job just fine.”
You tap the thick binder and say, “This is your disciplinary folder, Dr. Park. You cut up patients just fine – and that’s an apt description, considering your outcomes aren’t any better than the other surgeons you treat like imbeciles despite doing identical work to yours.” He scoffs and goes to argue, but you barrel ahead, “Don’t ever interrupt me and don’t ever try to correct me; I don’t say things unless I’m completely certain they’re backed up by the data.”
With wide eyes, Brendon confirms, “That’s my file?”
“Yes. You have more patient complaints than any other surgeon in the hospital. I had to switch it from a folder because it has so many entries your previous PAS didn’t go through, so now I have to deal with a two-year backlog. She didn’t do her job of keeping you in line and I won’t be repeating her mistake. Your luck has run out; I expect you in my office at five this Friday for a comprehensive review of your existing file and every Friday after that until your performance improves.”
With his mind reeling, all Brendon can get out is, “Ah, I usually head out early on Fridays. Do a long surgery in the morning and get home by three or four.”
“I know that; I have your schedule history.” With a pat to his shoulder, you smile and tell him, “I want you to spend every weekend from now on thinking about how fucking annoying it is that some bitch from legal won’t let you leave the hospital until seven – and remember that it’s your own fault for being an asshole to patients and it’ll end as soon as you try to be nice and smile for once.”
Slack-jawed, Brendon just watches as you turn on your red-soled heels and head toward your next victim. After a couple of steps, though, you turn back toward him and add, “Oh, and welcome to the Emergency Department. I’m sure you’ll fit right in.”
And all that’s left of you is a waft of warm, citrusy perfume. Park leans against the nurse’s station and breathes out slowly as the other attendings gradually reappear. Baffled, he just shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair. “What the fuck?”
Robby slaps him on the back. “A good public reaming by the Viper is a rite of passage in the Pitt; you were bound to get your first one sometime. You’re one of us now.”
Feeling dizzy and breathless, Brendon says softly but confidently, “I’m gonna marry that woman.”
Robby shakes his head and snorts out a laugh, “That’s a fucked up thing to say.”
“No, no, I can see it,” Jack cuts in, chuckling too. “You’d have the tallest, smartest, meanest children around.”
“I’m serious,” Park insists. A smile threatens his lips. “Give me six months, boys, and I’ll have a ring on that finger.”
“Not a chance in hell,” Robby replies simply. “I heard she dumped her last boyfriend because he polished her shoes with the wrong rag. She doesn’t want a man; she wants a whipping boy.”
Brendon looks between them both and sighs almost wistfully. “A girl like that? I’d let her whip me any time she wanted to, especially if I ruined her $1,000 heels.”
It’s Jack’s turn to laugh. Shaking his head as he grabs a new chart, he mutters, “Something is deeply wrong with you, man.”
That evening, Park waits around your office for you to leave, hustling behind you when you stroll past in your stylish knee-length coat, ready to brave the autumn air. You see him in the corner of your eye and hold up a hand. “Whatever it is, it can wait until morning.”
“No, no, I don’t need anything,” he assures, quickening his pace to match step with your relentless one. “I think we got off on the wrong foot back there, Ms. Viper.”
You cut him a smirk. “Based on your file, I have a sneaking suspicion that’s how things usually go for you.”
“Well, I’d like to apologize for making your life so difficult over dinner and expensive wine.”
You stop in your tracks and turn around; he nearly barrels into you as he stops short. “Are you seriously asking me out on a date right now?”
“Yeah, I absolutely am. Are you saying yes?”
“Wow, you really do have all the social grace of a baboon.” With your hand on his chest, you give him the cruelest and most effortlessly dismissive laugh he’s ever heard, like he’s a snail by your foot and not an attractive, successful doctor. It makes him shiver. “You’re punching above your weight class, Dr. Park.”
But he just gives you a hunky grin, undeterred. “I can bench almost twice what I weigh; how much bigger do I need to get to take you out?”
You chuckle and reply, “Lift a thousand pounds with one hand.”
“No problem; give me two days.”
Trying to push down how charming he is, you turn at the entrance to the parking garage and tell him simply, “I’ll see you on Friday for your review.”
“Perfect.” He nods and, like it’s an assignment, confirms, “I’ll be done by then for sure.”
Friday afternoon, right on time, Brendon knocks on your office door. He pushes it open when you call for him to and slips inside with the air of a child who knows he’s in trouble.
“Sit,” you order, nodding to the chairs on the opposite side of your desk. He does so right away, clearly waiting to hear what you have to say instead of jumping into something himself. You set the contents of his disciplinary file on the desk and gesture to the piles. “Well, your reputation certainly precedes you, Dr. Park.”
He tries out a smirk to keep some semblance of confidence. “Not the first time I’ve heard that.”
You tilt your head and narrow your eyes. “Been a bully your whole life, then?”
“I meant more that-”
“Yeah, I’m not stupid.” You show him each of the three piles of paperwork and explain, “Since you started in the ED, I’ve been sorting through the complaints against you. This tallest stack is complaints I can handle myself without your help or where your help would only make things worse.”
“What does that mean?”
You level him with a gaze so stern it makes him squirm. “Ones where the problem was your personality, basically.”
“Brutal.”
“Like you.” When he hears himself in your words, Brendon doesn’t like it. For maybe the first time in his life, he questions his own behavior. So it sounds like an opportunity when you go on, “This one is complaints that I’ll have to pass on to the review board if you refuse to help me resolve the problems.”
After pinching the bridge of his nose, he taps the smallest stack of two thick documents held together by binder clips. “And this one?”
You sigh and tell him, “These two are going to the review board no matter what.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah, turns out that-” you show him the cover page of each complaint “-pressuring parents into high-risk surgeries for their child isn’t very nice.”
“Well,” he bites back, still pushing up against his over-groomed ego, “being a good doctor isn’t about being nice.”
“You’re right.” You match his intensity. “It’s about effective patient care, which is impossible if your patients don’t trust you.”
Gesturing like he’s trying to find the right words to grab, he argues, “The kid would’ve died without the surgery.”
You let out a harsh laugh. “And when you gave a blood transfusion to a Jehovah’s Witness?”
“They came in unconscious and had no identification of their religious status.” He throws his hands up defensively. “Could not possibly be construed as misconduct.”
“Clearly the complainant disagrees.” You sigh and lean back in your chair, fuse burning short at his constant belligerence. “Look, Brendon. Your surgical work is fine – good, even – but your bedside manner is nothing short of atrocious. You don’t spend enough time getting informed consent, you don’t listen to concerns, and you regularly exhibit disrespect to patients and other doctors. Now, I understand that surgeons receive more complaints than other specialties – less face time with patients, uncertainty about post-op results, all that. But you, doctor, are a true outlier among outliers. And if you want to keep your job at this hospital, then you need to cooperate with me in resolving these complaints.”
Your words hang heavy in the air for a minute. Brendon hates that you know exactly how to deliver a monologue that makes him feel like he’s in the time-out corner and absolutely deserves it. There’s never been a coworker – or a woman, frankly – who’s put him in his place like this. Finally sounding on the border of humble, he asks, “What the hell am I supposed to do?”
“Whatever I say.”
“In practical terms, please.”
You can’t help but let out a laugh at his pouty tone. “You’re going to take mornings off surgery for the next two weeks to meet with aggrieved former patients. You will listen, you will sincerely apologize, and you will agree with every single thing I say to convince them not to escalate.”
His eyes widen and he balks, “You seriously expect me to not do surgery?”
“My proposal has already been cleared by hospital administration and the meetings are scheduled. I’ll add them to your calendar.”
Reaching for anything to get out of what he imagines would be the worst thing on earth – trapped with a gorgeous, cruel woman who hates him and a jilted patient – Brendon mutters pathetically, “I thought we weren’t supposed to apologize to patients for fuckups.”
“That’s a myth and one that makes my life way more annoying on a regular basis.” You rifle through some papers on the cabinet behind your desk and hand him a pamphlet on malpractice, explaining, “Physician apologies cannot be used to demonstrate guilt in a court of law and they’re actually the number one reason patients agree to mediation and ultimately drop complaints.”
Brendon absently flips through the pamphlet, trying to resign himself to his fate. “What do I do, then?”
“Come to my office first thing in the morning,” you start, giving him a ‘don’t you dare’ look when he opens his mouth to crack a joke about that. “Wear a light-colored button-down and your white coat. Mousse your hair instead of gelling it so it’s soft. Practice looking like a human being in the mirror.”
Once again, his expression turns to a mix of offense and dread, scoffing, “What, like I’m a murderer trying to convince a jury I’m not a psycho? The damn Menendez brothers in their pastel fucking sweaters?”
You can’t help laughing at the irony. “Brendon, listen to yourself.”
He sighs heavily and runs his fingers through his end-of-day-loose hair. “Christ, I really am an asshole, aren’t I?”
“Acceptance is the first step in recovery,” you lilt. Then you pick up a few of the files and say, “Now, let’s go over the meetings I have lined up for Monday morning. The more prepared you are for what they’re going to say, the better we can handle it.” Watching him tentatively take the first file and read over it with furrowed brows, you go on, much softer, “I know everyone at the hospital thinks I’m a bitch – and, to be fair, I am – but it’s only because I want your patients to have a good experience with you. When your patients view you as competent and trustworthy, they’ll return to you for care, they’ll follow instructions better, and ultimately your outcomes will improve. So just work with me here and we’ll get this figured out.”
He nods slowly, guilt trickling into his veins as he actually reads over the details of the complaints for the first time. Patients who felt dismissed, who didn’t understand his decisions, who ended up with post-op complications they didn’t feel comfortable bringing up. After what feels like forever, his voice lowers and you see a flicker of humility in his eyes. “Yeah, okay. I trust you. I don’t-” He swallows hard, averts his eyes, and manages to admit, “I don’t want to be the kind of doctor people avoid. I want to be better.”
You reach across the desk and give his forearm and small, affirming squeeze. When you smile at him earnestly for the first time, it makes his heart flutter a little too embarrassingly for him to acknowledge. “That’s all I need to hear for us to work together.”
The two of you make it through reviewing the first week’s-worth of low-level complaints by seven, going back and forth to understand his perspective, the patient’s, and the advocate’s. You hate to admit it, but when Brendon actually accepts that there’s a problem and gets determined to fix it, he’s…good. He cares. He has the work ethic of an ox and you can tell he’s the kind of man who needs to right his wrongs.
It doesn’t hurt that most of the complaints against him have to do with him being hard-headed, not incompetent or malicious, usually bulldozing patients because he’s right and wants to do the best he can. Not like some of the ED doctors who have fewer complaints that are much more serious. You know he just needs to find the balance of that skill and confidence with communication and understanding. He’ll be the best of the hospital if he can do that.
Your watch beeps at seven, interrupting the flow of your conversation. You stand up first to make it clear that Brendon’s officially free, saying, “Thank you for coming in and for your understanding. You can do this.”
As you collect your things and he does the same, he ensures, “So we’re done for now?”
“Yeah, we are. You can head out.”
“Great.” He opens up your office door to let you walk through and says seriously, “Let’s circle back on that conversation we had earlier this week now that we’re off the clock. Would you like to go on a date with me?”
You laugh and shake your head. “Your biceps aren’t looking any stronger since we last went over this; sure you’re ready to lift that thousand pounds for me?”
All cocky again, he whistles and muses, “So you have noticed how big my arms are.”
You nudge him in the arm with your elbow as he falls into step next to you. “I’ve noticed your scrub tops are a size too small, yes.”
“God, you are far and away the most brutal, beautiful woman I’ve ever seen and I can tell you’d sucker punch a bear if it didn’t mind its manners,” he absolutely swoons. While you try not to smile, he goes on, looking for all the world like he’s about to break into song, “I’m smitten over here. I’ll take you somewhere nice, dress up like a gentleman, the whole damn thing. What do you say?”
“I only date doctors with a patient satisfaction score in the double digits, Brendon.”
“God, my name sounds so good in your mouth it’s like this is the first time I’m hearing it. You can make the meanest insult sound like a song. What a gift.” While you laugh and push out of the hospital’s front door toward the parking garages, he follows behind you like a puppy and goes on, “Plus, I know for a fact my patient satisfaction score is 51 because Robby was thrilled to have a doctor who scored lower than his 65. I’m proud of that.”
With an eye roll, you remind him, “You really shouldn’t be.”
“And you really should go on a date with me. I’d treat you so well; you have no idea,” he insists as you walk through the parking garage toward your reserved spot halfway down the first row. “I’d lick this garage floor right now if you’d let me open your car door for you.”
You stop next to a sexy little silver Miata and snicker, “I’ll let you do that today, but only because I have my hands full.” Brendon immediately drops to his knees and bends toward the ground with his tongue out, making you shriek out a laugh and smack him with your purse. You cover your smile with your hand and chastise, “You’re horrifying.”
“And you’re just a few more interactions from falling in love with me.” He stands up with a satisfied, goofy grin that’s far too boyishly charming for his features and opens your car door, stepping back and gesturing with a flourish. “Get home safe, beautiful.”
You slide into the front seat, settle your belongings, and tell him, “If you smile like that at your patients, you might actually have a chance with me, big guy.”
He salutes and promises, “I’ll spend the whole weekend practicing for you.”
The whole ride home, you have to keep forcibly wiping the school-girl smile from your face. You’re totally aware that Brendon Park can 1000% wear you down. Definitely not your usual type with his wolfish smile and domineering attitude, but gorgeous, broad, and just cocky enough to turn you on without intimidating you.
The problem is that his very existence is an annoyance to you. If you were going to date a doctor in the ED, it would be Abbot, who seems to actually give a shit about making your job easier and treating his patients like people and not puzzles. Shen is by far too happy and Al Hashimi is too sweet. Robby repulses you on a visceral level for more reasons than you can name.
But Brendon Park? He’s a big question mark for you. All you know about him is from his file, which doesn’t paint a particularly flattering picture. When he talks and smiles, though, you can sense a sweetness in him that he doesn’t show often. Maybe that means he can open up and be better – but you doubt it.
That flicker of hope in your gut? You aren’t sure whether to stoke it or blow it out.
You fully expect Brendon to drop his crusade to go out with you after a couple of rejections. He could have any girl he wanted with a snap of his fingers, you’re sure, so there’s no way he’d keep going for someone as off-putting and crass as you. Especially after two full weeks of morning meetings that essentially consist of you bending him over and letting patients spank him red, you’d guessed that his interest would fizzle out into something more akin to begrudging tolerance.
But no.
Brendon Park is not a man easily dissuaded.
Every time you spend two hours on Friday afternoon verbally beating the shit out of him so he’ll become a better doctor, he inevitably goes through the same routine.
“Go out with me, gorgeous, I’m begging you,” he tries again. His latest addition to the song and dance is insisting on carrying your file box and briefcase out to your car because, quote, ‘your manicure is too sexy to risk chipping.’ Sticking right by your side, he swears, “I’ll get on my knees right now if you just say yes.”
You meet his too-pretty blue eyes and insist, knowing it’s only about 40% true now, “Not in a million years.”
“No problem,” he beams, “I’ll wait a million and one just to sweep the floor in front of you so you don’t get any scuffs on those designer shoes.”
“Cute, but how about you start working on that list of calls for me instead? Give me an update the next time you see me.”
“Oh, I’m already on it,” he assures like a dog showing off a new trick and hoping for a cookie, “but if it gets me another single solitary second breathing in that perfume of yours, I’ll go double time.”
You roll your eyes and ignore it – but you’re smiling, and that’s enough for Brendon.
By the time you and Brendon are on the last week of his patient apology tour, your resolve is about as strong as a toothpick. He’s bringing you coffee and pastries every single morning, just setting them on your desk without a word while the two of you prep. He always compliments not only what you’re wearing but the little details alongside it – your perfume’s top notes, the shade of your lipstick, the way your earrings catch the light. With every ounce of his earnest affection, he can tell your resolve is wearing very, very thin, but it’s definitely still there. He can smell the blood in the water even if he isn’t quite sure when or how to make the final strike.
Brendon figures out his plan of attack because of the wisdom of one Dana Evans.
You’re working on the floor of the ED today because a nasty bug has taken out two of your patient advocates. In picking up their workload, you end up floating through Brendon’s peripheral vision all day. For everyone else, you’re the viper who might bite their neck at any turn. But, for Brendon, it’s like, well, the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen is just there for him to gaze at in between surgeries.
While going over plans with him and a few nurses, Garcia turns to him and offers, “One of my friends wants me to set her up with a doctor and I said I’d try. Park, you’re single, right? She’s funny, pretty, successful. Maybe a little nice for you, but you never know.”
Brendon smirks, glancing in your direction, and answers, “I’m single, but I’m not available.”
Princess rolls her eyes and cuts in for the sake of the gossip: “What the hell does that mean, Shark?”
“I’ve got a girl in mind,” he replies easily, voice smooth and cool as a saxophone. “Got a feeling she’s finally gonna give me a shot soon.”
Garcia faux-gasps. “You’re groveling for a girl? You know you’re, like, eight feet tall, buff, and rich, right?”
“And that means there’s nothing sexier than a woman who needs to be courted.”
“Ew.”
Absently listening to the exchange, Dana glances up at him over the rims of her glasses. “You’re cock-blocking yourself with her, Park, you know that, right?”
Princess looks between Park and Dana, beyond nose, and presses, “With who, exactly? This girl works at the hospital?”
“The Viper,” Dana explains like that’s not some top-shelf, high-value chisme. “He’s been trying to get her to go out with him for weeks now. It’s obvious.”
Garcia’s mouth falls open in horror. “You like her?!”
“Shut up,” Brendon hisses, nervous about the potential of you overhearing just a few feet over. He narrows in on Dana and demands, “What do you mean? I’ve never put more effort into trying to convince a girl to date me.”
“Kid, she likes you already. She laughs at your bad jokes and she squeezes your arm like it’s a prize tenderloin she’s thinking about buying. She wants to go out with you.” Staring him down from over her glasses, Dana explains, “But you know what’s not attractive? Being the reason she had to work overtime almost every day this month. You wanna go on a date with someone after you spend four hours defending them to angry patients and lawyers?
This isn’t some playground back in the ‘90s when we tried to convince girls it was cute for a boy to pull her pigtails or tease her. A lady like that expects better for herself. You’re clearing all these complaints for her, but, in the meantime, you’re collecting plenty of new ones. Bring her all the coffees and donuts you want, but until you’re a guy she can actually rely on to make her life better instead of worse, it’s a lost cause.”
“Damn, Evans.” Brendon lets out a long, slow breath, watching you talk with a patient using those soft eyes you don’t give to anyone else. God, you’re so beautiful it aches. The harshness of you and the softness, too. With a sharp nod, plan solidifying in his mind, Brendon claps Dana on the shoulder and says, “Heard.”
After the very last patient from the backlog of Brendon’s complaint file leaves your office, you stretch your arms above your head, down the last of your coffee, and tell him, “Congratulations, Dr. Park. You’re officially rid of me until you get a brand new complaint – so, I’m guessing I’ll see you this afternoon?”
With a shit-eating grin, he muses, “Oh, you haven’t heard?”
You raise an eyebrow. “Heard what?”
Shrugging like it’s easy and obvious, he explains, “I’m not gonna get a single complaint this month.”
You bark out a sharp laugh and start preparing for your next meeting. “For the first time in your career? Is that so?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he vows, almost somber in his conviction. “I’ve got a brand new wave of motivation.”
You lean forward and balance your chin in your hands like you’re tuning in for a gossip session. “Do tell.”
“Turns out my bad behavior has a direct negative effect on the girl I like, so I’ve gotta shape up if I want to make her mine.”
Your heart flutters and you unintentionally bite your lower lip before catching yourself and admonishing your brain for responding to something so…so…charming. As he leans in your doorway, lingering instead of leaving, you ask, “And what do you think the odds are on that?”
“Oh, they’re astronomical.” Sounding positively wistful, he gazes at you affectionately and continues, “She never gives me the time of day and she scares the shit out of me; it’s the most amazing thing that she still absolutely knocks my socks off. I’ve got no idea what the hell’s wrong with me when it comes to her.”
“Yeah, me neither,” you giggle. Fuck, you didn’t mean for it to come out as a giggle. Shaking your head and averting your eyes to your computer because the embarrassment of being caught feeling all flirty and cute is too much, you say, “Get back to the ED, Brendon; I’ve got my next meathead doctor in a few minutes.”
“No problem, gorgeous, but I’ve gotta tell you one more thing, though.”
You look back at him, careful to keep your face together and not too wooed. “What’s that?”
He steps forward and leans over your desk, hands planted on the tabletop. His eyes bore into yours. “My odds may not be good, but they’re not zero. And that minuscule chance? That keeps me going. You’ve just gotta give me a single second and you’ll fall in love for the rest of your life, I promise you that.”
A little breathless, you meet his baby blues. “Do you?”
“I’m gonna treat you so well and make your life so much easier; it’ll be impossible not to fall for me.” Then, so confident it steals whatever’s left of your breath, he cups your cheek and says, “I’m gonna fix this whole department’s patient satisfaction scores starting with my own and then I’m gonna learn how to shine your shoes just how you like. I’d do nothing but sit in your closet with a dehumidifier to make sure the humidity for your leather heels is just right if that’s what you wanted.”
You swallow hard as his touch stays on your face long after he withdraws his hand. “Sounds a little scary.”
Brendon shrugs, smiles, and backs toward the door once more, always reluctant to leave you. “Then you’ll just have to give me something else to do to make you happy. Let me change your oil; you don’t even have to be there while I do it. Or I can mow your lawn, bring over my own push mower and everything to make sure I get the stripes just right how you want them. I’ll hand wash your floors with my toothbrush. Anything.”
You shake your head and sigh tenderly, “What am I gonna do with you, Brendon?”
“Whatever you want, whenever you want. Have I not made that clear enough?” Brendon’s eyes rake over you once more like he’s memorizing the sight of you to savor for the rest of the day. “Man, even when you’re rejecting me, you’re just about the loveliest thing I’ve ever set my eyes on. The things I would do for you if you’d even brush a hair off my shoulder.”
“That would be the most action a man’s gotten from me in a very long time.”
“Yeah? How long?”
“I’ll see you later, Dr. Park.”
“See you soon, Viper.”
Brendon makes absolutely zero attempts to ask you out for the next 30 days straight. You’re honestly starting to believe he may have lost interest until he waltzes into your office at 5PM on a Friday, the last day of the month. He knocks dramatically on the door frame even though it’s propped open.
In the middle of collecting your things, you shrug on your jacket and sigh, “Can I help you with something, Dr. Park.”
Standing with his hands suspiciously bashfully behind his back, Brendon steps into the office and informs you seriously, “You should sit down for this, gorgeous.”
You lean against your desk and nudge, “Why’s that?”
“Because,” he announces, voice grand like he’s about to call an auction, “you, the Viper of the Emergency Department, are about to agree to go out with me, your humble subject, and, after your many rejections, I have to imagine that’ll be so shocking for you that you might pass out.”
With your stomach full of butterflies you can’t deny, you hop up on your desk dramatically and gesture broadly like a queen for her jester. “Alright, Sharkie, go ahead.”
Brendon’s smile only grows at your teasing. He takes a deep breath and explains, “Dana told me this morning that I had to check my mailbox because it had gotten too full. The whole time I worked in ortho, I think I checked my box maybe once. When you get served, they put the notice right in your hand, so why bother? But I go to the mailroom and she’s right; my cubby’s got a million fucking envelopes in it.” From behind his back, he hands you a stack of cards. “They’re from patients. My patients.”
He lets it hang as you inspect the papers he’s handed over. Like he said, they’re all cards and they’re all from patients. There are hand-drawn ones from kids with pictures of sharks, sentimental ones from old ladies, ones with shitty jokes from the convenience store. There have to be twenty of them here, each one telling a story of a doctor who truly made them feel seen and cared for.
The last of your resolve crumbles into dust.
Brendon steps forward, studying your expression carefully, and says softly, “Turns out that while I’ve just been trying to impress you, I actually became a better doctor for my patients. And a better man, I hope. So, first and foremost, I wanted to thank you for that.”
When he doesn’t launch into another attempt to ask you out immediately, you let the silence linger for a moment. Thumbing through the cards, you make your mind up once and for all. You meet his baby blue eyes, let a small smile part your lips, and reply, “Okay.”
His eyebrows go up. “Okay?”
You nod and sigh out, “I’ll go on a date with you.”
He fist pumps the air in a way so dorky and adorable you almost back out and lets out a dramatic whoop, “Fuck, yes! Jesus, I really didn’t think that would work.”
You roll your eyes at him even though it’s become physically impossible to suppress your delighted smile that matches his. “Alright, slugger, calm down. I’m just a woman.”
Brendon shakes his head and scoffs, “Au contraire. You aren’t ‘just’ anything.”
“Well, regardless, you win.” You take a Post-It from your desk, scribble your phone numbers on it, and hand it over to him. “Text me your address. Make me dinner tomorrow night.”
“Make you dinner? You know I could get us a table at any restaurant you wanted.”
You cross your arms over your chest and challenge, “And I want you to cook for me. It’s the perfect test for a man.”
Staring down at your phone number in your swoopy handwriting like it’s made of diamonds, Brendon absently asks, “Yeah? Why’s that?”
“It means one of the three things.” You explain seriously, “He can already cook, which is a green flag. He can follow a recipe, which means he’s teachable, or he utterly fails and that means he can handle being humbled, which is sexy.”
“It’s sexy when a man gets humbled?”
“What exactly do you think has been going on between us?”
“Honestly, I haven’t heard a single word since you agreed to date me.”
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tags: jack abbot x reader, younger reader (late 20s), resident reader, fangirldotcom's full pope cody debut, jack thinks pope wants that cookie (reader), jealous jack abbot, reader tries not to explode with basically jack-squared in one room, pope is just there for the ride
notes: okay funny thing is I had this almost completed before I changed gears to write doppelbangers (which if you want to read click here) but I at least wanted to get this published because I love Pope, and I cannot wait to start writing for him! so please enjoy, and if you'd like to be added to my permanent tag list, please comment on this post!
word count: 6.8k
The chairs had always felt vaguely cursed to you, even on good days.
On bad days—days where the waiting room smelled too strongly of antiseptic and drying blood, where somebody’s kid was crying near the vending machines, where a grown man was acting like a child as he yelled about missing insurance—it felt like corporal punishment in its purest form. You’d been down there for nearly two hours already, bouncing between triage and lacerations and flu symptoms and a man who had somehow managed to staple his own thumb at work only fifteen minutes into his shift.
By the third anti-vax mom, your patience had worn thin. And being exiled to chairs now felt less like staffing necessity and more like karmic retaliation. How were you supposed to know Robby was right behind you, listening in on very important Pitt gossip, and that he believed in the whole “if you had time to talk, you had time to work.”
Thus, you’d been sent off to chairs until Robby deemed you cleansed of your sins.
Because, unfortunately, chairs happened to be the closest thing the Pitt had to purgatory: the perfect place for hellfire and fractures and a waiting room from hell. People were packed shoulder to shoulder while irritated family members grumbled and complained about the temperature. The television in the corner played daytime reruns at an offensively loud volume, and every few minutes somebody new approached the desk asking how much longer the wait would be for something as simple (or ridiculous) as a cut hangnail. Their questions made you believe they thought you personally controlled time itself.
Which, if you did, you would have made your shift go by a lot faster.
But no. You did not control time. Time and a chief attending named Michael Robinavitch controlled you, and you hated every second of it.
By the time you pushed back through the waiting room doors with another chart in your hand, a mechanical smile that didn’t quite meet your eyes plastered across your face. Your eyes glued to the tablet in front of you with the name Mrs. Hill stuck between your teeth.
However, the name died in your throat after you glanced up.
There, in the corner, near the far wall, sat Jack Abbot, all hunched over in one of the molded plastic chairs with his elbows on his knees, body stiff as a board almost as to not touch the chair at all, and hood pulled over his head despite the warmth of the waiting room. Your brows pinched, confusion plastered all over your face. For a second, Jack sitting there genuinely made no fucking sense.
He was the night shift attending. He could walk through the ambulance bays whenever he needed. He’d be prioritized because the Pitt didn’t just look over one of their own and ban him to the chairs off all places to sit and wait with the rest of the common people.
Jack also never sat still enough to like a garden statue. Even through exhaustion, even post-shift, you noticed that he carried this restless energy about him, like if he stopped moving for too long, he might actually wither away.
You stared at him for another beat before walking over, Mrs. Hill be damned.
“What the fuck, Dr. Abbot,” you hissed, stopping in front of him. “What happened to you, and why didn’t you walk through the back?”
Jack slowly lifted his head, and a small something snagged uncomfortably in your chest. The feeling wasn’t alarming, and it wasn’t that guy from TikTok running back and forth across a field with an overly large flag yelling Red Flag! Red Flag! either. The cause of this feeling was the small curls peaking below the hood.
Jack’s hair had always been salt-and-pepper for as long as you’d known him in the Pitt, causing the very serious nickname of a true “silver fox” to be tossed around when he wasn’t listening. But right now, Jack’s hair was dark, richer, and auburn almost. Near his temples, the deep, reddish-brown curls were flat under the fabric.
But even with the recent hair dye, his face was Jack’s, your brain filling in the gaps automatically to the point you didn’t notice the way he was missing his sun spots and wrinkles that Jack normally dawned in the sexiest ways.
“Hit my head,” he finally replied quietly.
Even his voice sounded the tiniest bit off, however, your concern for him outweighed the missing features your Jack normally had.
You frowned, couching slightly so you could get a better look at him, Robby’s “words of wisdom” about getting on the patient’s level ringing in your head.
“Okay, that explains why you look like you got dragged behind an ambulance,” you said before reaching up to gently cup his face.
This time, you didn’t miss the way he flinched under your palms before settling as you tilted his head to find the injury.
“Did you pass out? Throw up? How long ago did it happen” You didn’t really wait for his answers before continuing, already slipping deep into assessment mode. “Actually, hold on, no, don’t answer all that because your pupils are clearly telling me you’re very concussed, and if you start slurring your words, you and I won’t get anywhere with delayed responses.”
Jack’s eyes fluttered shut as you talked to him, and the weird feeling bloomed under your skin again. When his hazel met yours again, you let his face go and stood to full height.
“C’mon, Dr. Abbot,” you sighed, motioning for him to stand. “You’re not sitting out here looking like a murder suspect all afternoon. Let me get you into a room before Robby sees you and starts berating me as to why you’re still out here.”
His eyes lifted to yours fully, and the intensity almost stopped you cold. Jack looked at people all the time—quick glances, assessing looks, sharp little observations hidden behind sarcasm—but the way he was looking at you now was different. This Jack, looking at least fifteen years younger, looked directly as you with a heavy kind of focus that should’ve felt unsettling, like he was trying to learn your family’s history with once glance. Unlike your Jack (which you were still convinced was sitting right in front of you), he felt almost dangerous in how still he was and how carefully he watched.
When he didn’t stand up to follow, you asked, “You gonna pass out if I make you walk?
“No.”
“Is your leg bothering you? I can get you a wheelchair if you need.”
“I can walk.”
“Great. Love your confidence.”
He stood slowly, hands never touching the handles, body towering over you once he straightened fully. Again, another disjointed feeling washed over you. Jack was tall, yes, but he was now carrying himself so opposite of how he normally did. Here, he seemed disconnected from the room, like feeling the air was inconveniencing him. Now standing, you caught another glimpse of bruising near the edge of his jaw as you guided him through toward an empty room down the hall.
His silence was starting to get uncomfortable, so you found yourself talking just to fill the unusual quiet between you, even if talking had gotten you banished to chairs in the first place.
“You know, Dr. Abbot, most people with concussions demand to be sent through immediately even if they aren’t an attending. Please tell me this isn’t you trying to not look weak in front of everyone? I bet they would rather you come through walking and talking than someone giving you a wellness check and finding you dead because you didn’t follow concussion protocol.”
Behind you, he stayed silent.
You busied yourself by pulling gloves on, still talking as he sat on the very edge of the exam bed, hands clenching into white-knuckled fists on his thighs.
“Seriously though, Dr. Abbot, you scared me for a second out there. You looked half-dead sitting in that chair, which, honestly, kind of impressive for you because you usually can’t keep still. I guess that’s why you do SWAT and stuff, huh? One of these days you’re going to find out you’re not actually immortal even though people talk like you are. But what would I know, I’m just a nurse while you spend your free time getting shot at.”
Finally, like broken pottery, the smallest smile cracked through his face. You blinked at him while his eyes refused to move anywhere but your face.
“Okay,” you said slowly. “You are being deeply weird today. Are you okay?”
His gaze dropped briefly before returning to your face. “Head hurts.”
“That would be your concussion talking.”
You stepped closer, gently tilting his head toward the light to examine the molted bruise near his temple. Unlike in the chairs, he didn’t flinch under your fingers this time. Up close like this, Jack’s differences stood out more. The lighting in the waiting room made everything seem worse under shadows, but the direct light washed away the wrinkles and lines around his eyes.
And still, he kept staring at you with an unwavering intensity that made your knees go weak and made a warmth creep up your neck.
“You’re very stare-y today,” you murmured distractedly while checking his pupils.
“Sorry.”
Your hands paused for a half a second at his promptness for an apology.
As far as you knew, Jack never apologized that fast.
However, the though slipped through your mind before you could stop it, but again, the concussion explained enough that you ignored every strange feeling creeping higher in your chest. Head injuries changed behavior sometimes. Personalities softened, reactions slowed, and people became emotional, subdued, clingy, and disoriented. You’d seen it first-hand countless times.
Still.
You moved back slightly to jot something onto the chart. “Any nausea?”
“A little.”
“Blurred vision?”
“Yeah.”
“Memory issues?”
His eyes stayed on you. “Maybe?”
“Can you tell me where you are?”
“Pittsburg Trauma Medical Hospital.”
You snorted softly. “Using the full government name. I see you Dr. Abbot. I’ll give you a gold star for incredible patient participation.”
He didn’t laugh or smile at that this time. You continued to fill out his chart: name, birthdate, allergies. Thankfully, most of it was already in the system. Your eyes rose back to his when you finished up, chart getting tucked under your arm as you pulled the gloves off.
“Okay, let me go get Robby since I highly doubt you’d want anyone else in here—”
“Can you not tell anyone I’m here?”
You cocked your head. “What?”
His jaw tightened slightly, gaze flickering briefly toward the closed door before returning to you. “Don’t want people knowing.”
Concern replaced every single weird feeling. Embarrassment after injuring wasn’t uncommon, especially with doctors, and even so more with attendings who weren’t used to being the ones under care. God knew Jack hated appearing vulnerable in front of his coworkers.
“You do know they’re not going to make fun of you for getting a concussion. Robby might poke fun, but you are like his best friend.” Your eyes glanced toward the door. “Okay, maybe his only friend,” you added on with a mutter.
He didn’t answer right away.
You leaned against the counter, studying him for moment. The intensity was still there in the way he watched you, but his eyes held a sadness you’d never seen before. The hazel hues dripped with a scarcity that made your heart clench.
After a moment, you conceded. “Okay. Fine. Your secret is safe with me, Dr. Abbot.” You pointed at him with your pen. “But only because you’re looking at me like that. Special privileges are frowned upon here.”
The faintly cracked almost-smile appeared again.
And God help you, it looked surprisingly pretty on him, making you want more of it.
_______________________
Purgatory had ended the moment you stepped out of the room and went diving head-first into the incoming trauma after Robby grabbed you by the shoulders and physically steered you into Trauma Room One. The entire department had gone from irritatingly busy to borderline catastrophic after a minor highway pileup flooded intake with a dozen patients and emergencies that clogged up the CT scan because their necks felt “a little weird.”
Softened and concussed Jack Abbot fleed from your mind as you called out BP’s and administered correct dosages. You’d spent most of the last hour speed-walking between rooms with granola bar shoved into the pocket of your scrub jacket, half-finished notes beneath your arm, and a headache steadily building behind your eyes by the sterile light that never gave up buzzing for even a second.
At one point, Dana moved you toward the break room and ordered you to eat something before you passed out in front of a patient.
At another, Whitaker had nearly stepped into a pile of vomit while reading a chart, which honestly might have been the funniest thing you’d seen all week.
Through it all though, you kept thinking about softened and concussed Jack. Every time you passed through the hallway leading toward his room, your eyes drifted toward the closed door, checking without meaning to whether he was still there. And honestly, you were surprised Robby hadn’t yelled at anyone—you—for taking up a room and not having a resident check in.
When you finally nudged the exam room door open again with your shoulder, two awful vending machine coffees balanced carefully in your hands, the room was dimmer than before. He must have lowered the lights while you were gone, and you silently cured yourself for not doing that on your way out.
To your surprise (or horror) he was sitting exactly where you’d left him on the exam bed, shoulders straight, back even straighter, hands still glued to his thighs like he didn’t know he was allowed to touch the bed beneath him.
His head snapped up at the sound of the door opening, hitting you with that look before you could even mentally prepare for it.
Most people only half paid attention after hours in an ER room. Patients looked tired, distracted, and uncomfortable; doctors were worse. Jack especially had always operated at a hundred miles an hour, his attention split between six different thoughts at once even when he focused on you. Here in the exam room, he looked at you completely like he was tracking every little expression crossing your face the second you walked into the room.
The familiar warmth climbed embarrassingly fast into your chest and sat there.
“Oh, good,” you said quickly, mostly because the silence suddenly made you self-conscious. “You’re still alive. I was starting to think you’d turn into a statue or died sitting up in here. That would really make my paperwork worse, so I’m very glad you’re still breathing.”
His gaze dropped to the coffee cups in your hands before dragging up back to your face.
“You brought me one.”
The way he said it almost made it sound like he couldn’t quite believe why the hell you’d go out of your way to get one for him.
You shrugged, cross the room toward him before holding one out carefully. “I use the word coffee loosely here, because I’m pretty sure the machine actually dispenses motor oil, but you looked miserable earlier, and caffeine fixes at least eighty percent of human suffering.”
His fingers brushed yours when he took the cup. The contact lasted maybe a heartbeat, but it sent chills ripping up your arms. You turned away before he could possibly notice, pretending on the monitor beside him while taking a sip of your own coffee and instantly regretting it.
“Damn,” you muttered. “That’s genuinely horrific. I change my mind; this only fixes about 30 percent of human suffering and adds to the other percentage.”
A faint hint of amusement crossed his face, and the sight made you beam.
“You look handsome when you smile,” you blurted before you could even stop it. Your hands clapped over your mouth to the point it hurt. “I don’t know why I just said that.”
Jack cocked his head, eyes still burning into your face. “Do I not normally?”
Your heart clenched as you lowered your hands. “Um, I mean you do? But normally it’s when you’re about to say something so sarcastic it makes me want to pull my hair out.”
His brows pulled together slightly at that, like he was trying to remember through the lingering fog of his concussion.
You kept talking before he could say anything, words spilling naturally into the quiet space. “Actually, let me rephrase that. Usually you do smile, and it’s very nice, but it’s not normally after something I say. Also, is your head still hurting? You’re still staring at me like I’m a dessert you just want to eat, and that’s so unfair because I normally look at you like that and—”
Another hand slap to your mouth.
“Please ignore everything I’ve said in the past fifteen seconds. Or better, I’ll just stand here and wait for the floor to swallow me up. I’m talking way too much.”
You found yourself fidgeting under his stare before stepping closer, coffee cup placed gently on the counter. “Is your head any better? Or still hurting?”
“Hurting a little.”
“Have you gotten dizzy?”
“Yeah.”
“Still feeling nauseated?”
He nodded once instead of answering, and you wondered if he had hit his word limit for the hour. You sighed sympathetically while typing notes onto the chart.
“If I had to spend hours in a chair listening to daytime TV and screaming children, I’d probably feel that way too. Your concussion doesn’t help either.”
Another tiny smile quirked his lip even though he didn’t say anything else. You “allowed” him to stare at you while you finished updating the chart, his silent presence settling under your skin as you worked. The way he looked at you should have made you reach out for Robby the minute Jack started acting this way, but the intimidating way his droopy eyes never left your figure felt strangely calming.
Which probably said concerning things about your taste in men, but the whole ER was pretty much putty in Jack Abbot’s hand. You were the white sheep in the flock, and you’d follow Shepherd Abbot anywhere.
You turned away from the chart and leaned against the counter. “You know, Dr. Abbot, you’re allowed to talk in here. I know I tend to carry the entire social interactions, but this is kinda exhausting for me. Usually, I can barely get a sentence in around you.”
His mouth twitched faintly. “Why’s that?”
Your cheeks burned. “Well, um, medically that’s not important.”
His eyes lingered on your face and the small area around your mouth longer than necessary, and once again you felt like melting and dramatically draping yourself across a Victorian fainting couch to blubber about your feelings for the concussed attending.
To compensate for these feelings and the sterile quiet, you started talking more.
“So chairs officially became a nightmare while you were hiding her, by the way,” you told him. “Some guy tried convincing triage he needed immediate treatment for a paper cut, which would’ve been annoying enough on its own except he kept trying to squeeze blood out of it like he was in a Victorian tuberculosis ward. Then Dana yelled at me for skipping lunch again, which, in my defense, I fully intended to eat until somebody—probably Ogilvie, that fucker—stole my yogurt from the fridge. Again. At this point I think he’s specifically targeting me.”
The entire time you rambled, Jack listened without interrupting. He watched you pace while talking, energy buzzing unpleasantly beneath your skin from the nonstop pace outside.
“And then this woman asked if I was old enough to be a nurse, which somehow turned into her husband asking if I were single while she was standing right here! Emergency medicine should qualify as psychological warfare.”
The last tidbit made a quiet laugh escape, and the sound pulled your attention back toward him.
“At least you think I’m funny,” you said, pointing at him with exaggerated triumph. “Robby never thinks my jokes are funny. Don’t tell him I told you, but I think someone’s swapped him with a robot or AI engine that’s trying to convince everyone he’s a functioning person under all that brooding trauma.”
His face softened, and for some reason that affected you more than the laugh had. The warm in your chest spread outward before you realized you’d been talking almost nonstop for several minutes.
“Oh fuck,” you groaned, dropping your head briefly into your hands. “I’m doing it again.”
Jack sat up a bit straighter if somehow possible. “Doing what?”
“Talking too much.” You laughed awkwardly. “You’d think after enough years in medicine I’d learn when to stop speaking, but apparently not.” You looked down at your hands, suddenly embarrassed by how much space you’d filled with your own voice. “Sorry. You probably have a splitting headache and want to nap, but I’m over here narrating my entire day.”
When you finally looked back up, his gaze was still resting on you with steady attentiveness.
“I don’t mind it,” he admitted, tone close to a whisper.
You blinked rapidly.
“Your talking.”
Something about the way he said it in the sincerest and honest way made your chest tighten. He glanced down at the coffee cup in his hands before looking back into your eyes.
“Room’s less quiet when you’re here.”
A bright smile tugged at your lips. “Thank you for listening then.”
_______________________
The night shift always arrived like a storm rolling through the Pitt.
While the ER was the ground, and the day shift staff floated around with enough caffeine to possible kill a small animal, the night shift trickled in like the rain, refreshing and very much welcomed to take over the atmosphere. The residents, including you, handed over your charts with sluggish movements, desperate to go home and sleep the day and loss of patients away.
Normally, somewhere in the middle of all that transition, you and Jack inevitably found each other. Sometimes it was purely by accident; others it absolutely wasn’t. He’d appear beside you while you were finishing your charts just to bother you. You’d steal his coffee when he stopped paying attention. Always, there was some running commentary between the two of you, whether it be playful arguing or just an update on how social life outside the Pitt was going.
Tonight, though, you barely noticed the shift change happening around you since you’d ended up back in his room again almost without realizing. Through the last few hours, checking on him had stopped feeling entirely professional. You still used plenty of legitimate excuses, of course; his concussion needed monitoring in case his symptoms changed. You were also technically responsible for him until discharge, but if you were being honest with yourself, looking after him had become dangerously easy.
While the rest of the Pitt felt loud in comparison, his room felt quiet.
You’d sit perched sideways on the rolling stool near the exam bed, updating charts while absentmindedly talking through how your shift was going. He listened quietly from where he sat on the raised bed, legs swishing back and forth now, his hoodie abandoned sometime during the last hour.
Still, every now and then, your brain caught onto his staring and stumbled.
“You know,” you said while typing notes, “Dana threatened to physically drag me into the break room earlier because apparently surviving on caffeine and spite isn’t medically advisable. Which honestly is very hypocritical considering more than half the staff here are one inconvenience away from cardiac arrest.”
You looked up from the chart in time to catch a small smile.
“I’m glad you still think I’m funny even with brain damage. The cryptic staring can only last for so long.”
His eyes stayed steady on you. “Maybe.”
You giggled. “Still terrible at conversations, though. Truly tragic.”
While you were keeping him company, across the department, Jack Abbot had just walked into the Pitt, dressed in his scrubs and already talking.
“Tell me somebody restocked trauma two, because if I have to hunt down another chest tube tonight, I’m filing a formal complaint against humanity.” His voice carried easily across the department.
He shrugged out of his jacket while walking, salt and pepper curls slightly windblown from outside, already grinning at something Dana said near the nurses’ station.
“Four minutes late, by the way,” Dana informed him when he got closer.
“Still counts as on time in emergency medicine.”
“For an attending, you sure are incredibly wrong some of the time.”
“Key word being some and not all the time.”
Robby looked up from a chart with visible exhaustion. “I need you both to come down from a level eight to a level zero.”
Jack chose to ignore him, eyes already scanning around the room. When he didn’t find who he was looking for, he frowned slightly. “Where’s she at?”
Dana smirked before Robby could respond. “Interesting that you looked for her before your patients.”
“She’s less mean to me,” he replied without thinking, tossing his bag onto the counter.
“She’s been in one room half the afternoon,” Dana responded casually. “Concussed male.”
The minute her words ended, something subtle shifted in Jack’s chest. It probably wasn’t noticeable to people who didn’t know how Jack Abbot ticked, but Dana noticed, and her smirk turned downright evil.
“Aww,” she drawled. “Somebody jealous?”
Jack scoffed a tad too quickly to sound convincing. “I’m not jealous; I’m concerned.”
“Sure you are.”
Jack rolled his eyes hard enough to qualify as a medical even before pushing away from the counter. “I’m going to make sure she hasn’t adopted another emotionally damaged patient.”
Even as he said it, irritation had already begun creeping unpleasantly under his ribs.
One room all afternoon.
He knew how you got with certain patients; you were too soft-hearted for your own good sometimes, despite how hard you tried to pretend otherwise. But something about imagining you tucked away somewhere for hours giving another man the kind of attention you usually guarded carefully made something territorial and irrational bubble under his skin.
Back inside the room, you were still smiling down at your chart when you finally pushed yourself upright from the stool.
“All right,” you sighed. “I should probably go check whether the Pitt has fully descended into anarchy without me.”
His eyes followed you as you moved toward the door. “You’ll come back?”
You stopped for half a second, turning lightly and fully surprised enough by the quietness of his question that warmth spread through your being.
“Yeah,” you said softly. “I’ll come back.”
Your stomach flipped when his expression changed from a tight, worriedness to a soft, placated expression. Needing to escape before you could embarrass yourself further, you swung the door open and stepped into the hallway, holding the chart to your chest while talking over your shoulder toward him.
“Seriously, though, if you try sneaking out before I get back, I’ll actually—”
You voice cut off when your eyes landed Jack standing halfway down the hallway staring directly at you. It was almost like your brain hit the power mode and shut down completely, because Jack Abbot—your Jack Abbot was standing right in front of you.
Alive.
Healthy.
Definitely not concussed unlike the Jack—now not-Jack—you had spent hours sitting beside.
Your pulse dropped so hard it almost hurt.
Behind him, Robby slowed slightly, noticing the way all color drained from your face. Jack’s teasing grin faded into confusion as he took in the way you stared at him like you’d just seen a ghost.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he said slowly, concern beginning to edge beneath the nickname. “You okay?”
You couldn’t answer as your eyes darted toward the closed room behind you, then back to Jack, then back again, then back to Jack one more time. Him standing there was impossible, so entirely impossible. Your heartbeat climbed into your throat.
Jack took another small step closer when you failed to answer. “Hey. What’s wrong?”
You blinked once before bolting back into the room.
“What the hell—” Jack muttered, following after you without hesitation while Robby moved right behind him.
He was the first through the doorway and stopped right as he went in. The air dropped almost noticeably. The man sitting on the exam bed had lifted his head slowly at the sound of the door opening, and for one disorienting second, it genuinely looked like Jack was staring at another, younger version of himself.
The man’s auburn hair caught warmly in the lighting while bruising shadowed one side of his face. He sat completely still on the bed, one hand loose around a cup Jack knew you had brought him at some point, his expression unreadable as he stared back at Jack.
Jack didn’t move, and you stood frozen near the corner, chest rising too fast while your brain desperately tried to recover from the fact that somehow—somehow—you had spent nearly an entire shift accidentally flirting with a completely stranger wearing Jack Abbot’s face.
Silence stretched painfully.
Behind Jack, Robby pinched the bridge of his nose. “Absolutely not,” he muttered under his breath. “Secret twins are above my pay grade. My sabbatical cannot come sooner enough.”
And before any of you could stop him, he turned around and walked directly back out of the room, letting the door click shit behind him, leaving only you, Jack, and the stranger sitting on the exam bed staring at one another in stunned silence.
_______________________
Nobody moved.
You still stood frozen near the corner clutching the chart so tightly your knuckles were white, while across the room Jack remained rooted just inside the doorway staring at the man like he genuinely could not process what he was seeing.
The resemblance was worse with both of them in the same room. They weren’t identical, but close enough that your brain kept trying to overlap them anyway with their same eyes, same mouth, same build. The now-stranger looked like someone had taken Jack and stripped ten years off him, softened the gray from his hair, and carved away some of the sharpness age and multiple years as an ER attending had left behind.
And suddenly you felt violently aware of every single thing you’d said over the last several hours. Heat flooded your face so quickly you thought you might actually die from humiliation right then and there.
To break the cursed silence, Jack finally spoke first. “What . . . the hell . . . is this?”
The stranger’s gaze shifted toward him calmly. Unlike you, he didn’t seem particularly unsettled by the situation. If anything, he looked mildly tired. The concussion probably wasn’t helping matters, but even beyond that there was still the same strange unwavering presence about him. You found yourself staring at him helplessly.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” you blurted, voice climbing in disbelief as you looked at him. “I spent like almost twelve hours calling you Jack.”
He looked back at you for a moment before answering. “My name’s Andrew.”
Jack let out a sharp disbelieving laugh. “Andrew?”
You shook your head. “Okay, no. You had so many opportunities to correct me, and you’re just now telling me your name?”
Andrew’s expression shifted slightly into something more apologetic. “Tried to.”
“You absolutely did not!”
“A little.”
“You said maybe four words all day!”
“You talked fast.”
You dropped your face into one hand, mortification crashing over you in waves now that the shock had worn off enough for your brain to start replaying the day in horrifying detail. “I told you that you were handsome.”
Jack’s head snapped toward you so fast it was almost comical. “You what?”
“Not talking to you Jack,” you shot back.
He stared at you in open betrayal. “I walk in here and find out you’ve been flirty with my concussed doppelganger all day?”
“I DIDN’T KNOW HE WASN’T YOU! HE’S LITERALLY WEARING YOUR FACE! WHAT WAS I SUPPOED TO DO?”
“Um, I don’t know, sweetheart, check first that it was actually me?
Andrew watched the entire exchange quietly, and to your absolute horror, there was the faintest hint of delight on his face.
You looked between the two men. “This is actually my worst nightmare.”
“Mine too,” Jack muttered before his eyes narrowed slightly when he looked back toward Andrew. “Hold on. You seriously never corrected her?”
Andrew was quiet as he kept looking at you. “I liked listening to her.”
Something fluttered in your chest. His words weren’t necessarily romantic, but he said it with such earnest that you couldn’t help but melt a bit. Jack clearly felt something too because his mouth pinched in irritation. You recognized it as the look he got whenever another one of the radiologists flirted with you for too long at the nurses’ station.
Jack Abbot was reeking with actual jealousy.
He looked away first, jaw tightening slightly before he exhaled through his nose and pointed vaguely toward the hallway. “Sweetheart.”
You tore your gaze from Andrew to look at him. “What?”
“Go do your handoffs.”
Your brows lifted. “Jack—”
“Go,” he repeated, still watching Andrew instead of you. “Before Dana starts a manhunt.”
You hesitated, sensing the almost openly hostile vibe Jack was giving off. It was certainly heavy enough that you suddenly felt like you were standing in the middle of something private. Andrew sat watching Jack with the same unreadable stillness while Jack looked back at him with visible suspicion. It genuinely felt like watching two wolves silently size each other up.
You pointed between them uncertainly. “Try not to kill each other while I’m gone.”
“No promises,” Jack muttered.
Your eyes rolled back deeply. “You are unbelievably exhausting.”
Then, after one last glance toward Andrew and a silent wave goodbye, you slipped out into the hallway and pulled the door shut behind you.
Jack crossed his arms slowly over his chest, leaning back against the closed door while studying the man in front of him more carefully now that the initial shock had worn off. Up close, the differences stood out more clearly, but enough resemblance lasted to make the situation deeply irksome.
Andrew continued to stare, though his lips had quirked up well before you had left the room.
Jack exhaled sharply and shook his head. “You know, most people would correct someone after the fifth time they got called the wrong name.”
Andrew’s gaze drifted over his shoulder like he could almost see you through the wooden door. “She was nice. Didn’t want to upset her. She looked like she was enjoying the idea of getting to take care of you.”
An unpleasantly possessive feeling twisted deep in Jack’s gut at the quiet sincerity of his answer. He understood why the man in front of him had gotten such a reaction from you. Andrew didn’t deflect; he said simple truths in a low steady voice that was somehow worse than flirty in his eyes.
Jack rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Did you flirt back?”
Andrew considered the question for a moment. “Didn’t have to since she did all the talking.”
And to his credit, he didn’t smirk afterward or act smug about it. If anything, he almost looked sad as he stood slowly from the exam bed. Even concussed, he carried himself with a height that made Jack very aware of the man when he moved. Jack puffed his chest out without meaning to, an instinctive reaction to the man who had held your attention for an entire day.
Andrew stepped close enough that now they both could look each other in the eye at the same height, making Jack almost laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.
“You have a good girl,” Andrew said quietly, never looking away from hazel eyes that mirrored his own. “Don’t let someone else get to her first.”
The fact that Jack could picture you getting swept off your feet by another man felt like a punch directly to his chest. He’d been hiding behind teasing remarks and heavy sarcasm and blatant flirtation because it was easier than admitting how badly he wanted you. He couldn’t fathom the idea of someone, much softer and gentler than he might ever be, taking the chance he was too scared to. Andrew was an example of that man, someone who sat still long enough and quiet enough to let you feel seen and heard without interruption.
Because while he was falling behind, some concussed stranger who happened to share his exact face had managed to make you blush just by listening carefully.
Jack stared at Andrew for another long moment before muttering, “You know, I really don’t like this.”
“Do you not like this because I’m making you uncomfortable? Or do you not like this because I’m finally a wakeup call?” Andrew answered before stepping past him toward the door.
Jack whirled around. “Where are you going?”
Andrew opened the door with one hand. “To get discharge papers. Even though I enjoyed hearing her talk, I do not want to sleep in a hospital bed.” He paused. “You could probably go talk to her. Never know if another one of us might waltz through that door.”
The door swung shut behind him a second later, leaving Jack standing alone in the suddenly too-quiet room. For maybe three seconds, he stayed there staring at the empty doorway before he swore softly under his breath and headed out after you.
He found you near the nurses’ station halfway through handoff, leaning over a chart while Dana talked beside you. The second you noticed him approaching, your entire expression shifted somewhere between lingering embarrassment and outright panic. He didn’t slow down.
“Dana,” he interrupted the blond charge nurse mid-sentence.
She stared at him over her nose. “What?”
“I need her for a second.”
Her eyes tracked between him and you for a beat, and disappeared, though not before throwing you a deeply interested look over her shoulder. The moment she was gone, silence settled between you and Jack in a rather awkward way.
You looked down at your hands. “So.”
“So,” he echoed.
A soft groan pushed through your lips while your hands covered your face. “I cannot believe I spent an entire afternoon thinking your doppelganger was you with a concussion.”
“I can’t believe you called him handsome and still thought it was me when he didn’t do anything.”
“Hey,” you whined, lips jutting in a pout. “I was under emotional distress because I thought you had a severe concussion!”
“You know he liked you,” Jack teased with a smirk for half a second before his face dropped into a more serious look. “I don’t blame him, though.”
You swallowed once. “Jack—”
“I’m serious. And honest? I’m jealous as hell that he got to spend an entire shift with you.”
Warmth rushed to your face. “You’re jealous of your own face?”
“I don’t think that was my point, sweetheart.” He stared down at you. “I think I’ve been screwing this up for a while and seeing him just made me very aware of it.”
Your chest tightened. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he said slowly, “I keep joking around with you because if I actually said what I’ve been feeling, I’d probably mess it all up.” He ran a hand through his curls, almost frustrated by the lack of words to describe his feelings. “I like you,” he admitted finally. “Like . . . really like you.”
You couldn’t help but laugh softly under your breath in disbelief. “It took your twin from another universe getting a concussion for you to finally say that?”
“Apparently, yeah.”
Your smile widened helplessly, and Jack’s gaze briefly dropped to your mouth before lifting back to your eyes.
“Can I kiss you?”
The fact that he asked nearly ruined you on the spot. You nodded once before your brain could catch up enough to overthink it. But apparently that’s all Jack needed because the next moment, his warm hands slid carefully against your waist as he pulled you closer. Unlike all the teasing flirtation that existed between you for months, the kiss itself felt so intensely severe your knees almost buckled.
There were no games, no smug comments, just Jack kissing you like he’d wanted to for a very long time, his concussed double finally being the last straw to do so.
By the time you finally pulled apart, both of you were smiling a little stupidly.
And somewhere down the hallway, you were almost certain you heard Dana yell, “FINALLY!”
꒰ 🎀 ꒱ synopsis 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 moral support at the eye doctor except you are not providing moral support you are the one who needs moral support
REMINDER NOTIFICATIONS ARE SUPPOSED TO HELP YOU.
that's the whole point of them. you set them, theoretically, at some earlier version of yourself who had her life together enough to open a calendar app and type something in, and then future-you gets the little ping and goes oh right, thank you past me, very responsible, and handles it. system works great.
the problem is that past-you had apparently set this reminder for the day of the appointment, at eleven in the morning, for something scheduled at two, which — okay, that's three hours. that's technically enough time, but it's also the kind of timeline that made your stomach drop the way it does when you realize you've been meaning to do something for so long that it has looped back around from responsible errand to active emergency. you stared at your phone screen.
Eye doctor appointment — Dr. Reyes — 2pm. Don't forget!!
you had, in fact, forgotten. past-you had anticipated this, apparently, hence the exclamation points. past-you knew you. it was almost sweet.
the other problem — maybe the bigger one — was that you didn't entirely remember making this appointment. you clearly had done it at some point, with your own hands, using your own phone., but the context around it was fuzzy in the way that most responsible adult tasks were fuzzy, like a dream. had something been blurry? had someone told you to go? had you just walked past the office one day and thought yeah, sure, why not?
unclear.
you sat with this for about eighteen seconds and then called damian. he picked up on the second ring. "heyy!"
a pause. the kind of pause that meant he was doing something and had answered anyway, which — you knew better than to find that endearing but you kind of found that endearing. "what's wrong."
"how's your day going?"
"what."
you wandered into your kitchen to open the fridge, only to close it shortly after. “are you busy? you sound busy. were you in the middle of something?"
you could hear him exhale. not a frustrated exhale — well. a little frustrated, but the kind of frustrated that had a ceiling on it that only ever went so high with you specifically before it just sort of leveled out into something else. "i was reviewing reports."
“oooh, for what?”
“wayne enterprises.”
"oh." you thought about this. "do you like doing that?"
“it’s necessary.”
"that's not what i asked."
“…it’s fine.”
"is it interesting though? like are the reports interesting or is it just numbers."
"it's — there are figures, projections, quarterly assessments —"
"so numbers."
"predominantly."
"that sounds really hard," you said, with full sincerity, because it did, genuinely — you could not think of anything that sounded more exhausting than sitting and looking at numbers and understanding them and then doing something with that understanding. that was like three steps too many. "you're really smart."
"i'm aware of that."
"i just think it's nice. that you're smart. like it's a good thing to be." you found a hair tie on the counter that you'd been looking for for three days. score. "do you ever get tired of it?"
"of being intelligent."
"yeah, doesn't your brain ever just get full? like you put too much in there and then there's no room?" you stretched the hair tie between your fingers. "mine does that."
the silence on his end is very specific. silent judgement. probably deciding whether to say the thing he was actually thinking, which was probably something like that explains several things, and was choosing, for the moment, not to. "my brain," he says finally, "does not get full."
"that's so cool. but it never, like, overheats?”
"i don't overheat."
"you kind of do."
"i do not —"
"you get this thing where your jaw does —"
"we're not discussing my jaw."
"i'm just saying i've seen it," you note, very pleasantly. "it's okay. it's cute."
"it is not —" he stopped. you could hear him stopping himself, that very precise internal edit he did when a conversation went somewhere he hadn't planned for. "why did you call."
right. he asked like the answer was going to be straightforward, like you had called with a purpose and that purpose was sitting right at the front of your brain ready to be delivered. which — you had. you definitely had. there was a reason. you'd picked up the phone and pressed his contact specifically because of the reason.
you just had to remember what it was.
"i wanted to talk to you!”
"you called me in the middle of a workday.”
"you picked up."
"i —" he stops again. "that's not the point."
"you always pick up," you notice, saying it softly, a little wondering, like you were just now thinking about this even though you'd thought about it before. he did always pick up. "i like that you always pick up."
"you called me to tell me you like that i answer my phone."
"and to ask about your day."
"...hm." not a word, really. more like something that happened involuntarily. you smiled at your kitchen ceiling.
"oh wait," you remember suddenly, perking up and giving yourself a mental high five, "i did have a thing to ask you!”
"of course you did."
"i have an appointment."
"what kind."
"eye doctor. it's today." you glanced at the clock on the microwave, which you were pretty sure was still wrong from when the power blinked out last week, so you looked at your phone instead. "at two."
the silence that followed was the sound of damian doing the math, realizing it was currently eleven twenty-three, registering the full sequence of events — the phone call, the how's your day, the you're so smart, the i missed you — and understanding, correctly, the order in which you had prioritized these things. "you have a two o'clock appointment."
"yeah."
"and you called me twenty-five minutes ago."
"yeah."
"and you didn't mention it."
"i was getting to it!" you defended, which was true. you had always been getting to it. it was a process.
"i'll pick you up at one-forty."
"okay," you agree. then, because you didn't actually want to stop talking to him: "okay, but —"
"goodbye."
"wait—-"
he hung up.
you set your phone down. picked it back up.
he'd texted: Be ready.
two words, nothing else. you pressed your phone to your chest like a victorian person receiving a love letter and then put it down again because you had, you suddenly remembered, things to do. the appointment was at two. damian was picking you up at one-forty. it was currently — you checked — twelve-oh-four, so you had an hour and thirty-six minutes, which was fine. that was actually a lot of time if you thought about it.
you went to your bathroom. the thing was, you were going to see damian! the appointment was sort of beside the point in the sense that the appointment had always existed but damian coming had not always been a guaranteed thing, and now it was, which meant the afternoon had shifted in a significant way from medical errand to you were going to see your boyfriend, which meant, obviously, you had to look good.
you stood in front of your mirror and looked at yourself with the seriousness of someone receiving a project brief. base, you did your moisturizer — the good one — and then the primer, which you'd been told by approximately seven different sources was necessary even though it felt like a completely made-up step, like somewhere a long time ago someone had just added it to the routine and everyone had just gone along with it and now here you all were. you did it anyway. damian noticed things. he'd once told you your mascara was smudged before you'd even registered that you'd touched your eye, which was either very romantic or mildly unnerving and you'd decided a while ago it was romantic.
then eyes. this was the part that took the longest because you had a lot of options and also because you got distracted partway through trying to remember whether damian had mentioned once that he liked when you wore brown tones or whether you'd imagined that. you were like sixty percent sure he'd said something. or maybe he hadn't said it and had just looked at you a specific way when you'd worn it. those were basically the same thing to you.
you went with the brown tones.
mascara, two coats. you looked good. you looked really good actually. you pointed at yourself in the mirror, which you would never tell anyone about, and moved on. hair. this took forty minutes and involved three different products and one moment where you did something that didn't work and had to start over, which you definitely remained very calm about. by the end it was doing the thing you wanted it to do, which felt like a victory of moderate but genuine proportions. now, outfit. you stood in front of your closet with your hands on your hips and had a conversation with it. a one-sided conversation. you were looking for the specific intersection of cute but not like i tried too hard and put together and i look like this all the time, effortlessly, this is just my regular wednesday.
you tried on four things.
(the first one — no. too casual, you'd worn it to run errands last week and it felt like that. the second one was good but you'd just worn it and damian had seen it. the third one was maybe too much for an eye doctor's office, and you held it up and thought about it for a second, really considered it, then thought about damian's face if he showed up and you answered the door in it, and almost put it on anyway. you didn't. fourth try.)
you looked at yourself in the mirror. yeah, that was the one. you turned sideways. you turned back. it was one twenty-two. you were ready by one twenty-two, which was eighteen minutes before he'd said he'd arrive, which was — genuinely, honestly, an achievement. you should text him that. you should tell him you were ready early. you picked up your phone.
i'm ready early, you typed, and sent it without thinking about it. three dots appeared. disappeared. appeared again.
I'll be there in two minutes.
you put your shoes on and went outside.
the car was pulling up before you'd even made it down the front steps, which — of course it was. damian did not idle. he timed it so that the car arrived exactly when you did, which required a level of coordination that most people did not apply to wednesday afternoon pickups and which he applied to everything as a matter of course. the car was sleek and black and aggressively wayne, the kind of car that didn't need sound to announce itself because everything about it already had. you came down the last step.
he was already looking at you, you could see him through the windshield — that was the thing, you got the unfiltered version for like two seconds before he could arrange his expression into whatever he decided it was going to be, and in those two seconds damian wayne looked at you in your dress and did something with his eyes that you were going to think about for the rest of the day, possibly longer. you got to the passenger door, opened it, got in, and when you looked over at him he was facing forward, both hands on the wheel, expression doing exactly nothing. the picture of composure. a completely normal man in a completely normal car having a completely normal afternoon. "hi!" you greet.
"you're early."
"i told you."
he didn't respond to that. you watched him, shamelessly, and felt something in the vicinity of extremely pleased with yourself. "you can say it.”
"say what."
"that i look nice."
a pause. a very controlled pause. "i didn't say anything."
"i know. you can though."
he put the car in drive. "address."
“what?"
"the address. of the appointment." he glanced at you, briefly, and then back to the road. "i need the address to drive there."
"oh." you picked up your phone to open your email, because the confirmation had to be in there somewhere — you scrolled past several things that were not the confirmation, a sale you'd forgotten about, three newsletters you'd never unsubscribed from, something from your landlord you should probably read — "one second —"
"take your time." he said, in a tone that meant the opposite.
"i'm looking, i'm looking —" you found it. read him the address. he put it into the navigation system with the efficiency of someone who found asking for directions a personal affront but had made peace with gps as a reasonable technological compromise, and then pulled out onto the street. you watched the neighborhood go by for a second, then you put your phone in your bag and looked out the window and thought about nothing in particular for a while, which was one of your better skills.
the office was nice. that was your first thought when you walked in. it was nicer than you'd expected an eye doctor's office to be — not like, fancy, but clean and bright, with a display case along one entire wall that was just. glasses. so many glasses. every shape, every color, little tags with names on them like they were art pieces in a gallery, which honestly they kind of were, and you stopped just inside the door to look at them because you couldn't not, that was just a response you were having involuntarily —
"keep moving." damian instructed from directly behind you.
"i'm just looking —"
"you can look after. check in first."
"i'm going —" you moved toward the desk, he moved with you, and the woman at the front looked up and did the thing that people did when they looked at damian, the brief recalibration, and then smiled at you both. "hi! i have an appointment, it should be under —"
"she is a new patient." damian interrupted.
"okay, perfect, then i'll just need you to fill out —" she was already reaching for a clipboard — "some intake forms, and then —"
you took it. looked at it. it was a lot of boxes. a lot of small boxes with small lines next to small words and you looked at the first section which said patient information and started with full legal name which you could do, you knew that one, and then went to date of birth which you also knew, and then primary care physician which —
damian took the clipboard out of your hands.
not snatching, just the smooth transfer of an object from one person to a more qualified person, the way you might hand a complicated piece of equipment to the person in the room who knew how to use it. he looked at the form, took the pen that was attached to the clipboard by a little plastic coil, and started writing.
you watched him for a second. "i could have —"
"sit down." he says, not looking up.
"i know my own birthday—"
"i know you do." still writing. "sit down."
you listened and sat for approximately forty-five seconds before the glasses wall started happening to you again. you got up — slowly, like you were just stretching — and drifted toward the display. they were so fun. there were little round ones and big square ones and thin gold wire frames and thick dark acetate ones and ones that were a color you'd call terracotta if someone asked and ones that were just classic and perfect and there — in the corner, second shelf from the top — tortoiseshell. warm brown with those lighter flecks through it, slightly oversized, the kind that made people look like they had their life together in a soft and interesting way. you leaned in to read the little tag.
"those are for farsightedness," said a voice to your left, you looked over and there was a kid, maybe seven, with very small round glasses and the confident bearing of someone who had been coming to this office for years and considered themselves a local expert. "my friend has those ones. she says they help her read."
"they're really pretty.”
"i like mine better." the kid pointed to their own frames, bright blue, slightly crooked on their face. "i picked them myself."
"those are so cute," you said, because they were. "did it take you a long time to choose?"
"forever," the kid said gravely. "my mom almost cried. why are you looking at glasses if you don't have glasses?”
you opened your mouth.
"she's a new patient." damian cut you off from behind, you turned and he was standing there with the completed clipboard — both sides, pen back in the coil — looking between you and the seven-year-old with an expression that was doing several things at once. he looked at you specifically. then at the tortoiseshell frames you were standing directly in front of. then back at you.
"i was just looking!!"
"the doctor hasn't seen you yet. you don't have a prescription."
"i know —"
"so you can't buy glasses."
"i know, i was looking —"
he handed the clipboard back to the receptionist then came to stand next to you in front of the display, which you hadn't expected that. you'd expected to be steered back to the chairs. he stood next to you and looked at the wall with his arms crossed like he was reviewing a report. "those are reading glasses." he observes, apparently your boyfriend likes to state everything and you have to just let it happen, nodding at the ones you'd been looking at. "you don't need reading glasses."
"i might —"
he turned and looked at you with an expression that was so flatly, specifically patient that it had lapped itself and come back around to something almost gentle. "you called me this morning because your calendar app sent you a notification. your vision is fine."
"it's been a little blurry lately," you said, which was true, you'd thought of this in the car, there had been some blurriness. "like sometimes. at screens."
a pause. he looked back at the wall. "we'll see what the doctor says.” he answers, which was not you don't need glasses anymore, which felt like a meaningful distinction.
you looked at the tortoiseshell ones again. "those ones.”
he looked at them the same way he looked at things he was actually assessing. "the frame width is proportional." he compliments eventually, which meant he thought they'd look good on you and had chosen to say it like that instead.
you smiled at the display case. "yeah.”
a nurse opened a door across the waiting room and called your name. the pre-screening was in a small room with a machine you were supposed to put your chin on, which you did, and the technician — young, the practiced calm of someone three years into a job they were good at — said just look at the image in the center. you looked and there was a tiny picture of a hot air balloon over a field.
"why a hot air balloon?”
"sorry?"
"the image. in the machine." you were still looking at it. "why is it a hot air balloon?"
the technician blinked. "i — honestly i don't know, it's just —"
"do all these machines have the same image? or do different brands have different ones."
"i think there are a few different —"
"i feel like i've seen a farmhouse before, at a different place. so they're not all the same."
"yes, i believe the farmhouse is a different manufacturer —" she paused. "okay, so while you're looking at the balloon, just try to keep your eyes relaxed —"
"relaxed how?”
"naturally. don't strain."
"okay." you looked at the balloon. you tried to relax your eyes. you weren't totally sure what relaxed eyes felt like. "like this?"
"yes, perfect." a click, a small puff of air directly at your eye, and you jerked back immediately with a small noise that you would not be describing to anyone later. "sorry," the technician apologizes, "i should have warned you, that's just the pressure test —"
"what was —" you blinked rapidly — "what did it do —"
"it measures the pressure inside your eye. it's very quick, it doesn't —"
"it shot something at my eye —"
"just air —"
"air?" you were blinking rapidly, one hand coming up toward your eye on instinct before stopping because you'd been told not to touch. "like, why? my eyes get air. they're out all day getting air. they don't need extra —"
"it measures the pressure inside —"
"by shooting it —"
"it's a very small —"
"it didn't feel small, it felt like —" you turned around to look at damian, who was sitting in the chair against the wall with his arms crossed and the expression of a man who had known, with complete certainty, that this was going to happen and had made peace with it before it did. "did you know about this?”
"you are fine," he said, the tone he used when he was trying to transfer his own certainty directly into you through sheer force of vocal delivery. "it's a standard test. it doesn't hurt."
"it surprised me.”
"i know." a pause. something in his expression adjusted approximately two degrees toward something more human. "you have to do the other eye."
you looked at the machine. the hot air balloon sat there in the little screen, serene, completely untroubled, floating over its field with no awareness of what it was complicit in. "i don't want to.”
"it'll take two seconds. you already know what it feels like. so it won't surprise you."
you looked at the machine. you looked at him. the technician was being very patient in the way that people in medical offices were professionally required to be patient, stylus hovering over her tablet, waiting. "okay." you turned back to the machine, put your chin on the rest, and looked at the hot air balloon. "fine," you said, mostly to the balloon. "do it."
the puff happened. you flinched, same as before. you turned back around immediately after and damian was already looking at you and he gave you a single nod, very small, the kind that meant see, that was nothing, and you made a face at him that meant it was not nothing and he made no face back because he didn't do that. "great," the technician said, with genuine relief. "okay so next we're just going to —"
the letter chart was fine. you knew your letters. you got most of them and on the ones you weren't sure about you said so, which felt like the honest approach, and the technician said that's okay, best guess and you guessed and moved on. the one where you had to cover your eye with the little plastic spoon thing was also fine except you kept accidentally leaving a gap and she had to tell you twice to cover the whole eye and you did, you were trying, the spoon was just awkwardly shaped and also covering one eye made you feel slightly strange in a way that was hard to explain.
the one where she held up the little light and looked at your actual eye up close was fine except you looked at the light instead of past it and she had to redirect you three times and at one point she said look at my ear and you looked at her ear and said which one and there was a pause and she said either one and damian, from the chair, exhaled through his nose. "sorry." you were on your fourth apology, to the technician, and then to damian, and then to the general room.
"you're doing fine." the technician said. damian said nothing, which meant the same thing from him.
the doctor came in the way doctors did, clipboard, smile, the energy of someone who had six more appointments after this one — and you liked her immediately, which you did with most people. she was looking at your chart when she sat down and said, without looking up, "so what brings you in today?"
you opened your mouth.
"routine exam," damian answered for you from the chair. "she's been experiencing intermittent blurring. primarily at screens. no history of corrective lenses."
the doctor looked up. looked at damian. looked at you. "is that — yes?"
"yes, what he said."
she made a note. "any headaches? eye strain at the end of the day?"
you thought about it. "sometimes? like, i get headaches —"
"where."
"in my head?”
"location," damian said. "she means location."
"oh." you touched the space between your eyebrows. "like here, sometimes. when i've been on my laptop a lot."
"any difficulty driving at night? halos around lights?"
you looked at damian.
"occasionally," he said. "she mentioned it."
you didn't remember mentioning it. you thought about it and actually, now that it was being said, yeah — sometimes at night the lights did a little thing. so that was apparently information he had remembered from some conversation you'd had and then immediately forgotten. you looked at him for a second. he was looking at the doctor. you looked back at the doctor. "yeah," you said. "that."
the actual exam part went mostly fine. the big machine, the phoropter, which she told you the name of and which you immediately lost, had two little windows and she clicked through lenses and said one or two, which is clearer and you said one, then two, then one, then actually maybe two again, and she was very patient about it, and damian was very still about it. "take your time." the doctor encouraged.
"they look the same.”
"look at the letters on the bottom line —"
"they both look the same amount of blurry."
"okay, how about now —" a click —
"that one's worse.”
"good," she said, "that's helpful —"
"wait no, i think i was looking at it wrong, can you do it again —"
damian, from the chair, made a sound so quiet it was barely a sound. you did it again. you said two. she wrote it down. you were fairly confident about two. (you were like sixty percent confident about two.)
then she swung the machine away and did the part with the handheld light, the one where she came close and looked directly into your eyes, and you knew from the technician's version of this that you were supposed to look past the light, not at it, you had this information, and you looked past it, and then the light moved and you followed it because that felt like the natural response to a thing moving and she said try to hold still and you held still and she looked and then she leaned back and looked at your chart and said, "okay. so the good news is your eyes are very healthy overall."
"and the other news?”
"there's a small refractive error. very mild astigmatism, and the beginnings of some nearsightedness, also very mild." she turned her screen toward you and showed you numbers that meant nothing to you, a row of them with plus and minus signs. "your prescription would be quite weak —"
"but she needs glasses." damian said. not a question.
"technically she'd benefit from them, yes. primarily for driving and screens. it's a small correction but it would reduce the strain and the headaches —"
"right," he said, like she'd confirmed something he'd already decided. he uncrossed his arms. "the frames she wants are in the display case out front. tortoiseshell, second shelf. do you have them in her prescription?”
the doctor blinked. "we'd have to check with the optician, but most of our frames can be fitted with any —"
"we'll need two pairs. one for daily use, one for screens. if the tortoiseshell ones come in a blue light variant —"
the optician was a small woman named rita who had been doing this for twenty years and had seen everything, or thought she had, until damian wayne stood in front of her display wall with his arms crossed and said his girlfriend can try whichever ones she wants in a tone that closed the door on any alternative, and then proceeded to stand there while you tried on glasses for —
okay. a while.
it was a while.
you tried the tortoiseshell ones first and they were exactly what you'd thought they'd be and you held up the little mirror and looked at yourself and said "okay these ones for sure" and rita said "great, so just the one —" and damian said "what else do you want to try" and you looked at him and he was looking at the wall with the expression of a boyfriend who had nowhere to be, which you both knew was not true, and you felt something warm in your chest, so you tried more.
the little gold wire ones, which were delicate and cute but felt like they'd blow off in wind. (damian looked at them on your face for a second and said "fragile" and you said "i know, but cute" and he said "you can get them" and you put them in the maybe pile.)
the big square dark acetate ones, which were very serious. you put them on and did a stern face.
the clear frames that were having a moment right now, which rita said were very popular, which was actually a point against them as far as damian was concerned — you saw his expression do something small when she said very popular — but they looked good, so. pile.
the round ones that made you look like a person who frequented independent bookshops and had opinions about tea. (you tried these on and said "do i look smart" and there was a pause and damian said "you always look like yourself" which was the most non-answer answer he had ever given and you were still thinking about it.) pile.
the cat-eye ones that were a dark emerald green and completely impractical and you loved them immediately with your whole heart and picked them up and put them on before rita could even offer and turned to damian and said absolutely nothing because you didn't need to. he looked at you in the emerald cat-eye glasses for approximately three seconds. "those.”
"i know.” you said.
"get those.” he said.
"i am.” you said.
rita was writing things down.
in the end — rita would later describe this to her husband over dinner as a wednesday — the list was: the tortoiseshell ones, obviously, which had started this whole thing and remained the cornerstone. the gold wire ones because they were delicate and you were willing to be careful. the big dark acetate because damian had looked at them on your face. the clear frames because they looked good regardless of what anyone said about popularity. the round ones because you'd already decided. the emerald cat-eyes because of the three seconds. and two pairs of the tortoiseshell in the blue light version, one for your desk and one for your bag, because damian had asked rita specifically about the blue light coating and rita had said yes and he'd said two without consulting you, and when you'd looked at him he'd said one will get lost and you'd thought about arguing and then thought about your track record with small objects and said nothing.
by the very end of it rita had a full page of notes and the focused look of someone doing significant arithmetic and damian was standing at the counter looking at the list with the same expression he'd used on your medical intake form, that complete practical engagement, the this-is-a-task-and-i-will-do-the-task quality. "eighteen," rita said, looking up from her notepad professionally. the way you might say it is currently raining. "eighteen pairs."
"yes." damian doesn’t seem the slightest bit phased.
"that's —" she paused. made a decision. "we can have most of them ready in about two weeks. the specialty coatings might take —"
"however long they take. ship them when they're ready."
you were standing next to him looking at the list. eighteen pairs of prescription glasses. you had needed none of them this morning. you had a prescription so mild the doctor had said technically before recommending it.
rita nodded, started processing while you stood at the counter, looked at the list and felt the particular satisfaction of an afternoon that had gone significantly better than it had any right to. you were a person who owned eighteen pairs of glasses now, or would be in two weeks, which was basically the same thing. you were already that person. you could feel it. damian signed something rita slid across the counter, then you looked at the display wall one more time, just to check, just to make sure there wasn't anything you'd —- there wasn't. you'd been thorough. you felt good about it.
the light had shifted in the time you'd been in there, gone from afternoon to the beginning of the part that came after afternoon, everything golden and a little long-shadowed. damian was walking beside you toward the car with the unhurried precision of someone who was, you knew, ready to go home, who had been ready to go home since the fourteenth pair of glasses, who was running on the reserves of patience he kept set aside for you specifically and which were, you sensed, getting toward the bottom.
you got in the car.
he got in the car.
he put his seatbelt on. "okay," you said.
"okay." he said, and reached for the ignition.
"i need to go to the store."
his hand stopped. resting on the key, not turning it. "the store.”
"yeah —"
"which store."
"i don't know yet." you were already on your phone, which you'd pulled out with the momentum of someone who had just had an idea and needed to follow it before it fully formed. "like a — a hat store. do those exist?"
"a hat store."
"or like, anywhere that sells hats." you were scrolling. "like berets specifically."
"why."
"because — so i'm getting glasses, right? and glasses are like a whole thing. like they're part of a look."
"they're a medical device —"
"they're also a look, and the look i'm thinking about —" you turned to him fully, because this required full-body communication — "is like. nerdy french girl."
damian looked at you.
"like a beret," you continued, "and the glasses, and maybe like a little bag —"
"you have bags —"
"a french bag —"
"there's no such —"
"damian." you put your hand on his arm. "i could be so tumblr."
he looked at your hand on his arm. looked at the windshield. looked at some middle distance that existed beyond the windshield, somewhere further, somewhere that might have answers. "we're going home." he said, and turned the key.
guys this old ash sorry if it’s lowkey dookie :/// i know it’s been a minute since i updated this series SIGHSSS im sorry but hopefully this was lengthy enough to make uo for it
pairing: jason todd x fem! reader, platonic!damian wayne x fem!reader, platonic!tim drake x fem!reader, platonic!dick grayson x fem!reader
summary: Teaching Jason's girlfriend self-defense didn’t turn out as they expected.
word count: 890
warning(s): English is not my first language, not proofread, no use of y/n. Only dick, damian and tim on this fic, sorry! fake gun and knife
author's note: my ig's feed keeps popping this account, and i knew i had to do something with this hahah
˗ˏˋ ♡ fic inspired by this video and this one tooˊ˗
Boredom had arrived at Wayne Manor.
Everyone was gathered for a family lunch. It was customary for the whole family to get together at the Manor once a month to spend some family time—away from their vigilante lives.
It had been a couple of months since Jason had introduced his girlfriend to the family. Or rather, formally introduced her; after his siblings had invaded his apartment looking for answers about his disappearances.
The group was in the living room. Each one held a drink in their hands or had one by their side.
It had been a while since boredom had swept over the group, and now they were talking about the first thing that came to anyone’s mind.
“We could teach you some moves,” Dick said to the girl.
The conversation had drifted toward the lack of coordination among Gotham’s criminals.
Jason’s girlfriend turned to look at one of her brothers-in-law, frowning in confusion.
Jason laughed under his breath, the bottle of beer just inches from his mouth.
“Yeah... good luck with that.”
For space reasons, they moved several pieces of furniture so they could move around freely without worrying about breaking something and getting a scolding from Alfred.
“What is this?” the woman asked, referring to an extendable wooden ruler Tim had handed her.
“It’s a ruler.” Jason’s girlfriend looked at him, stating the obvious. “But we’ll use it as a knife.”
Dick leaned against a table next to Jason, crossing his arms.
“Bruce used it with us at first to train us,” the boy explained. “After that, he moved on to real knives.”
“Huh,” she muttered under her breath, inspecting the ruler. “What a nice family,” she murmured sarcastically, raising both eyebrows.
“And yet you’re still here, doll.”
The girl winked at her boyfriend.
“All right. First I’ll show you how it’s done, then you’ll try,” Tim announced. “Extend your left arm forward with the ruler.” The girl did as asked. “Perfect. I’ll block your move.”
With a nod, the woman extended her arm forward again.
Tim raised his left forearm upward to prevent her from attacking him by pulling her arm toward him. With his other arm, he would strike the girl’s wrist with his elbow to disarm her.
However, the girl raised the ruler upward, pretending the blade was up.
Faced with the new movement, Tim stopped his arm.
“What just happened?”
Jason smirked and took another sip from his bottle.
Dick’s turn.
“After that weak job from Red Robin, Nightwing will show you how it’s done.”
The three boys rolled their eyes and sighed tiredly.
“Go ahead, Wonder Boy!” Jason exclaimed with amusement.
“All right,” Dick said, mentioning her name. “You’ll attack me from above and I’ll block your move, okay?”
The girl nodded.
Dick had given fewer instructions than Tim, which showed he wanted to catch her by surprise and prevent her from making a move he didn’t expect.
“Now.”
With her left hand, she raised the ruler above her head. Dick, with a quick movement, blocked the action by forming an X with his arms, preventing her from lowering her arm any further.
However, the girl dropped the ruler, quickly catching it with her other hand, and hit Dick on the head with it, taking advantage of the fact that he was distracted by the unexpected move.
Jason burst out laughing at that.
“Another wonderful job by the incredible and marvelous Nightwing.”
“Tt. I’ll show these fools how it should be done.”
Pff... it didn’t turn out as the boy expected.
Unlike his brothers, Damian hadn’t even given her instructions.
The boy let her approach to secure victory.
The girl, just as she had done with Tim, extended her left arm.
Damian grabbed that arm to immobilize it and take the weapon away.
However, when the boy turned his head, Jason’s girlfriend pulled a toy gun from her pants and pressed it against his head.
“Bang!”
The room was suddenly plunged into silence, as three out of four vigilantes blinked, assessing the situation that had just occurred.
Damian looked up to observe the woman, who was smiling at him while still holding the toy gun against his head.
“Impossible.”
Damian’s eyes went to the toy gun.
“How do you do that?”
“Where did you get that from?!”
The girl laughed, handing both things back and moving closer to her boyfriend.
“I took it from the box while Dick was thinking about what move to make.”
Jason extended his arm around the girl’s waist, pulling her closer to him.
“I used to take self-defense classes when I was a kid,” she said, feeling Jason’s fingers slowly caressing her waist.
“Before I knew he was Red Hood and before I could do anything, she stopped us from being robbed with a broomstick.”
Damian looked at the girl and narrowed his eyes.
“Would you be interested in being a vigilante?”
Before the girl could say anything, Jason began pushing her away to get his girlfriend away from his crazy family.
“We’re leaving, it’s time for our son’s dinner.”
When both disappeared from the room—which happened incredibly quickly thanks to Jason—to say goodbye to Alfred, Dick frowned and tilted his head in confusion at what had been said.
ADKASDAKSDJASDA i need this man so bad its not even funny
you knew everything about your boyfriend. you knew what his favorite food was. you knew all his icks. you knew exactly how he styled his hair— and why the hair gel he used was a specific brand— no other one would work. the point is, you knew everything about Dick Grayson. Or so you thought… because there was one thing missing from your list: your boyfriend was nightwing and you had no idea at all. which is why you were sitting on your kitchen counter, bored and alone— at 2 am. your boyfriend was supposed to be here hours ago, but he got held up. and now you’re brooding. alone. in the dark. your cat is curled up below your dangling feet, deep in thought with you.
currently, you’re thinking about strawberries. you want strawberries, but you don’t want to get up and eat them. you’d rather be dramatic and visualize sad music playing in the background. another sigh escapes your lips before you swipe up your phone again, opening TikTok. your algorithm does nothing but piss you off. its all boring news or looksmaxing edits, and it makes you want to throw your phone at something. you’re about to relax a little more and fall asleep right there when you hear a noise come from behind you. you turn around and see the window opening and then— Nightwing.
the moment he sees you, he freezes and he looks like a kid getting caught stealing candy. you’re still on the counter, head tilted around, “Nightwing?” you ask, “what the—”
and then you did something that changed everything. you pulled out your phone and texted your boyfriend.
you: Dick. Dick. Dick.
And then, Nightwing’s phone buzzes. you look at him curiously, then shrug it off. it had to be some coincidence. then you turn back and text Dick again as Nightwing fumbles around with his phone, attempting to silent— not that you know that.
you: Dick
you: NIGHTWINGS IN OUR APARTMENT
you: if you don’t reply im dumping you
And funnily enough, nightwing’s phone buzzes three more times. when you look down at your phone, you see that Dick has his notifications silent. And for a split second-- part of you feels like it's dick beneath that mask. but you brush that thought off and settle on a more believable conclusion: nightwing is a thief.
You jump off the counter in one quick motion, landing too fast, too suddenly, and cross the space between you before you can think twice. Nightwing barely has time to react before you’re reaching for his phone.
It’s unlocked. That’s the first thing that makes your stomach drop. The wallpaper is the second. It’s your boyfriend’s.
The same one you’ve seen a hundred times before when you’ve stolen his phone just to mess with him.
Your scrolling through the notifications, and four texts from you sit there unanswered.
The air in your chest tightens.
Nightwing shifts slightly, and for the first time, he looks like he knows exactly where this is going.
You don’t ask questions.
You don’t even think.
You just react.
Before you know it, you start aggressively kicking and whacking Nightwing.
It's stupid really, because your fighting skills are choppy and uncoordinated, unlike Nightwing's. It’s pure adrenaline and confusion and betrayal all collapsing into movement. You start punching him and aimlessly waving your arms around., every motion fueled by the very simple and incorrect conclusion your brain has landed on: he stole your boyfriend’s phone.
“Are you kidding me?!” you snap, voice rising. “Give it back!”
He raises his hands. “Wait—”
You don’t wait. Why should you? This rando STOLE dick’s phone. Only you get to do that.
You hit him again.
And then, because somewhere deep in your memory your boyfriend once showed you something in training and you stored it incorrectly in your brain as “acceptable emergency procedure,” you go lower.
Hard.
Nightwing immediately folds, groaning in pain and confusion.
“Babe—why??” he manages-- and he sounds a lot like... Dick.
You stop instantly.
Your head snaps up.
“…babe?” you repeat.
Something shifts in your expression. He couldn't be... could he? You pause carefully before reaching up and pulling his mask off.
The second you see his face, everything stops.
“Dick?!” you say, in shock. “What the fuck.”
He’s still bent slightly, still recovering, one hand braced against the counter. He looks exhausted, in pain, and very much like someone who just watched reality go off the rails in real time.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Hi, sweetheart.”
You just stare at him. The pieces click into place too fast and not fast enough at the same time.
“You’re Nightwing,” you say flatly.
“Yes.”
“You’re Nightwing,” you repeat, louder now, like repetition will fix the logic error, "You've BEEN nightwing."
“Yes,” he says again, carefully.
Silence stretches and part of you wants to try and whack him again— JUST to see what’ll happen.
You sit back on the counter slowly, like your body has given up processing input entirely.
“…I kicked you in the balls,” you say again, but now it sounds less like anger and more like disbelief.
“You did,” he confirms.
Another pause.
“I thought you broke into our apartment,” you add, "I thought you- well nightwing stole your phone."
“I did break into our apartment,” he admits.
You point weakly at him. “That doesn’t help you.”
He exhales, somewhere between pained and amused, like he’s still trying to decide whether this is the worst or funniest moment of his life.
“I was going to tell you,” he says.
You immediately raise you hand and wave you finger around to say no.
“Nope,” you cut in. “I can’t do explanations right now. I’m tired and the shock is already over."
He nods, then leans down, pecks your forehead, and says, "I'm gonna go shower okay?"
Later, after the shower, after everything has been temporarily postponed, he comes back into the kitchen, more relaxed now.
He’s shirtless, hair damp, sweatpants hanging low in a way that makes you wanna do cartwheels with joy.
You are still on the counter.
“So,” he asks, careful now, “do you want to talk about it?”
You don’t even look up.
“No.”
“…no?”
“I’m tired,” you repeat simply. “I want strawberries.”
He opens the fridge without arguing.
When he hands you the carton, you take it like it is the most important thing in the universe. You immediately point at accusingly him as you settle back in.
“I waited three hours for this,” you remind him.
“I was Nightwing,” he says again, like that explains anything.
“Yeah,” you reply. “and i wanted strawberries. that's more important.”
That makes him laugh under his breath.
“and you couldn’t grab them yourself?” He teases.
“nope. I was comfy. didn’t wanna move. YOU would’ve moved for me. Don’t make me beat you up again. Cuz I will. We both know i can take you.”
you analyze the carton for the best one. you settle on a pinkish red one with the prettiest leaves. you take a little bite before offering it to Dick, who pushes it away and presses his lips to yours instead.
“nope.” you grin into the kiss, “i wanna eat my strawberries.”
he groans again, “you’d rather eat strawberries than my mouth?”
you roll your eyes scoff in reply, though a smile does tug at your lips, “you’re disgusting Grayson.”
“Okay, okay.” He rolls his eyes before grabbing a strawberry and bringing it up to your mouth.
you take a bite without hesitation and lick your lips. “These are really good,” you look up at dick, gaze full of seriousness, “try one.”
when he shakes his head, you want to hit him.
“Try. One.” You said again, slower this time, daring him to say no.
“N. O. No,” he replies, “unless…”
“Uh uh not happening tonight Grayson. I’m tired because I was up ALL NIGHT waiting for you.”and when you fake a pout, he immediately grabs a strawberry and shoves it in his mouth.
“wait… you’re right.” he smirks a little, before passing you another one— which you take gladly, “these are amazing. I’m gonna need to taste some more.”
You nod, barely swallowing your strawberry before his lips are suddenly on you AGAIN. This time it’s not so gentle.
To be added to the taglist: click here, go to my taglist and comment there :) I’m sorry— I know it’s extra work, it just makes it easier for me to remember who I’m tagging and which taglist im tagging them for. :) tysm for all the love
ALSO I WROTE ANOTHER FIC read it here.
also should i do a jason version or is this gonna flop.
Reader have no idea that they're dating the batboys for a quite some time already, although reader does hope for it, they just thought that the batboys being so nice to them, while the batboys waiting for reader to be ready to do couple stuff, they just thought reader is shy 😭
I been thinking this for a while now
Reader: what you mean we're dating?!?!
Batboys: we've been dating for a while now???
“I like you so much, and you don’t even know it.”
Sorry lowkey disappeared again.Im having my daughter next month,scared asf💔💔.My fanny is gonna be DESTROYED.also random does anyone else hate podfics.Like it will have the perfect plot and then say” podfic” like turn that shit off omg.
Batboys x Reader: clueless Reader
Bruce Wayne
The “exclusive relationship” was IMPLIED, apparently
•Bruce thought things were very clear.
• In his defense:
•you spend most nights at the manor
• he takes you to galas
•Alfred refers to you as “Mr. Wayne’s partner”
•Bruce literally kisses you goodbye before meetings
•So naturally he assumes:
yes, this is my significant other.
•Meanwhile you’re spiraling internally every day.
•Because Bruce Wayne is:
•holding your hand
•buying you things
•resting his forehead against yours when tired
•But he’s never technically said:
“Will you be my partner?”
•So your brain goes:
Maybe he’s just emotionally confusing.
•The realization happens because someone at a gala says:
“You and your boyfriend make a lovely couple.”
•You laugh awkwardly.
“Oh..we’re not-“
•Bruce looks over immediately.
“…Not what?”
•You stare at him.
“Dating?”
•Silence.
•Bruce blinks once.
“..We’ve been exclusive for eight months.”
“EIGHT??!”
•You almost choke on your drink.
•Bruce is now deeply confused.
*“You sleep in my bed.”
“AS A FRIEND.”
“I kissed you.”
“PEOPLE KISS CASUALLY SOMETIMES-“
•Bruce just stares at you like your operating system is corrupted.
• Then realization slowly dawns on him.
“…You genuinely didn’t know.”
• You hide your face immediately.
“I thought you were being nice because you liked me as a person.”
•Bruce physically has to sit down.
•Because somehow this is more stressful than fighting Bane.
⸻
Dick Grayson
Actually devastated you didn’t know
•Dick is the MOST affectionate naturally.
•So this misunderstanding gets BAD.
•This man:
• calls you baby
•kisses your forehead
•cuddles you constantly
• takes you on dates
•says “missed you”
•introduced you to the Titans
•And you STILL think:
He’s probably just emotionally open.
•Dick genuinely thinks you’re just shy about labels.
•One day he casually says:
“My girlfriend’s coming over later.”
•You:
“Oh? Who?”
• Dick laughs.
•Then stops laughing.
“…You.”
•You stare at him.
“Wait.”
•He stares back.
“WAIT.”
“You didn’t know we were dating?!”
“I THOUGHT YOU WERE JUST REALLY FRIENDLY.”
•Dick falls backwards onto the couch dramatically.
“I HELD YOUR FACE AND TOLD YOU I ADORED YOU.”
“YEAH BUT YOU’RE DICK GRAYSON. YOU SAY THINGS.”
•He’s losing his mind now.
“I TOOK YOU ON ROMANTIC ROOFTOP DINNERS.”
• “I THOUGHT YOU WERE TESTING LOCATIONS.”
•He actually laughs so hard he can’t breathe.
•Then immediately crawls across the couch to grab your face.
“Okay,” he says, still laughing,
“just so we’re SUPER clear now-”
•Kisses you directly on the mouth.
“Boyfriend. Dating. Romantic. In love with you.”
•You’re bright red.
•Dick thinks this is the funniest thing that’s ever happened to him.
⸻
Jason Todd
• Jason absolutely assumed you knew.
•Because from his perspective:
•you wear his hoodies
•you sleep at his place
•he threatens people for disrespecting you
•you’ve made out multiple times
•Clearly:
Relationship.
• But you’re an overthinker.
•So every time something romantic happens you internally go:
Don’t assume. Don’t ruin the vibe. Stay calm.
•The realization happens when Roy casually says:
“So how long have you two been together now?”
•You immediately answer:
“Oh we’re not together-“
•Jason:
“…What.”
•Roy:
“…WHAT.”
•You panic immediately.
“I MEAN-unless-“
•Jason is staring at you like his soul just left his body.
“Baby.”
“DON’T BABY ME RIGHT NOW.”
“I literally told a guy at a bar you were my girl.”
“I thought that was… metaphorical.”
•Jason actually puts his hands over his face.
“How are you alive.”
•Then he starts laughing.
HARD.
“Oh my god,” he says between laughs,
“you really thought I was just casually obsessed with you.”
•You hide in your hoodie immediately.
His hoodie.
•Jason notices. Smirks.
“You know normal friends don’t share apartments keys either, right?”
Silence.
“…oh my god.”
⸻
Tim Drake
•Tim honestly can’t blame you because he ALSO never formally asked.
• But he thought the relationship progression was obvious.
•You:
•have toothbrushes at each other’s places
• share passwords
• nap together
•hold hands constantly
•went to a wedding together
• Tim categorized this as:
Relationship Acquired.
•You categorized it as:
Extremely emotionally intimate friendship.
•The moment happens because Kon asks:
“Wait, did you never ask them out officially?”
•Tim pauses.
“..I thought I did.”
• You immediately look over.
“You WHAT.”
•Tim starts mentally replaying every interaction you’ve ever had.
“I said ‘you’re my favorite person.’”
“THAT ISN’T A CONFESSION.”
“I BOUGHT YOU FLOWERS.”
“AS A FRIEND???”
•Tim puts his head in his hands.
“This explains SO MUCH.”
“LIKE WHAT?”
“WHY YOU LOOKED PANICKED EVERY TIME I HELD YOUR HAND.”
•You whisper:
“I thought I was imagining things…”
• Tim looks up immediately.
“…Wait, you LIKE liked me?”
“YES???”
⸻
Damian Wayne
Actually offended you thought he behaved this way platonically
•Damian is NOT naturally affectionate.
•Which means from his perspective, this should have been EXTREMELY obvious.
• He:
•seeks you out voluntarily
•touches you first
•allows prolonged physical affection
•lets you hold Titus
• says “beloved”
•In Damian Language this is basically a marriage certificate.
•Meanwhile you:
He’s just… intense.
• The realization happens when you say:
“You’ll make someone really happy one day.”
•Damian stops walking.
• Slowly turns around.
“…Excuse me?”
“What?”“What do you mean ‘someone’?”
•You blink.
“Your future partner?”
•Damian stares at you in complete disbelief.
“Beloved. We are together.”
You laugh nervously.
“Wait, seriously?”
He looks genuinely disturbed now.
“You believed I was behaving this way PLATONICALLY?”
“YOU NEVER ASKED.”
“I ALLOWED YOU IN MY PERSONAL SPACE.”
“…that’s fair actually.”
•Damian pinches the bridge of his nose.
“I have called you ‘my love’ repeatedly.”
“I thought you were being poetic.”
Long silence.
Then:
“…Father was correct. You are catastrophically oblivious.”
summary: post-mission, you land yourself in the hospital with a concussion. in your daze, you plead for someone to tell damian so he won't tear the hospital down to find you, for him not to worry. only problem? you and damian are supposed to hate each other.
pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader
The faint beeping, the low hushed voices—it's an annoying, distant commotion disrupting your sleep, enough to rouse you from the heavy, dark haze enveloping your senses. Your heavy lids peel open, blinking slowly as your vision adjusts to the sight of the hospital ceiling.
The striking scent of disinfectant hits you, and your nose instinctively wrinkles. A low rasp escapes your throat, just enough to stop the whispers.
"—She's awake!"
It’s a familiar voice, you think. Dick. It wasn’t the voice you wanted to hear, no matter how reassuring—not when the one you're familiar with holds a much more begrudging tone.
"I need..." Who? There's an urgent pressure building up in the back of your mind, an important request hanging right off your tongue. "To tell him."
"Hey-hey, you're okay. Just a little disoriented." Dick’s face comes into view, his messy locks covering the fuzzy halo of light above you. “You have a minor concussion, but no fatal injuries.”
"No. You need to tell him." Your face contorts, straining with visible effort to rack your brain for a name, trying to fight past the thick fog. "I am okay. It's him you have to worry about."
The corner of Dick's mouth tugs down briefly, confusion lighting his features. "Who?"
There's that damn question you're trying to answer. The fluorescent lights are much too oppressive—overly bright and sharp. You needed a shadow, someone who would know what to do when your teeth grinds together in discomfort.
"...Damian." You mutter. Ah, there it is. You don't notice the abrupt confused glances exchanged around the room, of how Damian's name was the last thing they expected to hear.
Your lids fall shut not a second after your job was done, body screaming to rest. At least you won't have to deal with Damian tearing down the hospital to find you.
"They despise each other." Tim reminds for the fifth time.
"I am aware.” Dick mutters, thumb scrolling through his contacts list. "What did I say about hacking my contacts list, Best Robin?"
"You didn't say anything about that specifically." Tim's foot taps impatiently against the tiles. “And why'd you think that contact name was meant for the demon spawn—never mind, that's besides the point right now. She's clearly disoriented.”
“I just have a gut feeling.” Pressing the phone against his ear, Dick runs a habitual tug over his locks whenever another situation pops up that he has to solve. Being in this line of work is bound to give him early greys.
"A gut feeling." Tim huffs, shaking his head in disagreement. “We better hope this doesn’t start another scuffle. Wouldn't want to toss another bone to the press. 'Blood son of Bruce Wayne attacks hospital patient'. I can already smell the print.”
Dick's frown sticks as he eyes you through the open door frame, laying in a hospital bed—unconscious ever since your first waking. The dots aren't connecting, not when the soot from the explosion still singes the edges of his jacket and his mind is all fuzzed up from a lack of sleep and endless documents. Still, the world had a knack for surprising him whenever he least expects it.
The ringing on the other side stops after two seconds.
"Damian." Dick addresses, re-running his fingers habitually through his hair. "There's been a situation at the hospital..."
Here's the thing, Dick knows Damian. He understands the trait of impatience passed along their family, which is why he's already summarised the facts down to twenty seconds. The call abruptly ends at ten.
"Huh." Dick mutters, brows pressed together as he looks back to Tim. "He hung up."
Dick had barely made it beyond the mention of your name and their current location. Your voice echoes in reminder as he stares at his screen, the duration of the call staring back at him. It's him you have to worry about.
Damian's anything but subtle. Of his frigid attitude—his blatant dislike towards you. Putting the two of you in the same room, it was guaranteed disaster. Yet, Damian was the first name out of your mouth.
"Told you it doesn't make sense." Tim shrugs. "Logically, he's the last person we should've called."
"We'll see." Dick answers, head leaning back to rest against the wall. "He's surprised us both plenty of times."
"Yeah, by attempting murder on us both. Your point being?"
Dick restrains a much-needed sigh.
Barely fifteen minutes later, Dick stirs at a loud commotion beyond the walls of the waiting room. His neck is cramping from this unergonomic chair, and his feet are nerved with pins-and-needles. Tim's ears are plugged in with wired earphones, jammed high with Green Day as he concentrates on his tablet, opting to work through his insomnia instead.
There’s a slamming of doors, rapid footsteps thundering against the tiles, coming closer and closer. Dick barely has time to nudge Tim’s shoulder before the hallway door slams open.
Damian comes through like a storm, movements overly controlled in the way a person would seize up before a fight. As if he's expected the worst, and is prepared to battle whatever he might encounter—in a hospital.
“Where is she?” Damian commands, voice echoing off the tiles.
Staring back at Dick are frantic, darkened eyes pinpointed on locked targets—searching for his answer. It's so abruptly intense, almost inhuman, that his mind stutters in regaining its grasp on reality. He hasn't seen that look in a long time, not since their first meeting where one wrong answer would make Damian your enemy.
“She’s asleep.” Tim answers for him, one side of his earphones still plugged in throughout this entire mess. “She needs the rest.”
Damian disregards his words, brushing past him. “I have to see her.”
Dick must’ve subconsciously shifted his glance to your room, towards the shine of the metal carvings of 78 placed in the centre. Damian's gaze follows, and he doesn’t spare a second of hesitation in heading towards the door.
Dick catches Damian's forearm right before he enters, and the glare he receives? Murderous. As if everything in his way of getting to you has become mere obstacles he has to overcome.
"Grayson." Damian's voice is all wrong, shortened and taut, syllables used to convey only what was needed. "Unhand. Me."
"Dames." Dick tries to make sense of this adverse reaction, but nothing from that brief phone call provided him any clues. "She's still unconscious, and I don't think it's a good idea for you to be in there—in this state."
Damian's chest heaves once, but the storm in his gaze has only darkened. "She called for me, didn't she?"
Dick blinks once. "Well, yes but—"
"Then I will be there for her."
Damian disarms his grip with an alarming quickness, and Dick doesn't even have time to recalibrate his mistake before he's slipped through.
Dick's palm splays onto the door right before it closes, pushing it fully open with a warning ready on his lips to not disturb your recovery, only to find that—Damian hadn’t moved from his spot since he entered. Dick feels Tim pressing into his side, curious eyes flickering at the situation, but Dick is too busy watching to care about how they're practically hanging onto the doorframe.
When Damian catches sight of you, his entire frame freezes into place. He's watching you, and Dick's watching him—and he sees it then, and realises what an idiot he's been.
Damian's entire expression immediately shifts. Loosening in relief at the sight of you mostly unharmed, at the sound of a calm beeping from the heart monitor. It's frighteningly out of place, the tenderness softening his wrath-like panic mere seconds ago. He moves almost mindlessly towards your side, forgetting the presence of his two brothers gawking at him from outside the doorframe, peering into what must be a fever dream.
"Idiot." Damian mutters, but it sounds more like a prayer answered.
"We've got it all wrong, didn't we?" Tim mutters, staring at the sight in awe.
"Told you." Dick whispers, his lips tilting upwards into a smile. "Gut feeling."
You stir not long after Damian’s arrival, as if your body is already attuned to his presence. Lids peering half-open, you squint at the shadow towering over you. For a moment, there was nothing but held breaths and a long pause as you familiarise yourself with forest green.
Then, the most miraculous thing happens. You smile, completely unaware of the turmoil and confusion you've caused.
“Dami.”
Dick decides today is an absolute possibility for the world to end.
“You're an idiot.” Damian hurls the practiced insult out like he’s been running it off in his mind for the past couple of minutes, but his weakened voice holds no bite in comparison to his overwhelming relief.
Under the sheets, Dick swears he sees his brother’s fingers intertwining with yours.
“I told them to tell you not to rush.” You mutter hazily, still readjusting to reality. “At least—I think I did.”
Damian sucks in a breath, low, undistinguishable mutters whispered. Your lip twitches up slightly, which could only mean another insult you're brushing off.
“Yet, you’re still here.” You tease. “Fretting.”
The thin line of his lips creases deeper. “I do not fret.”
“Arguing with the patient?” Your body shifts, tilting closer to Damian.
“I prefer arguing with you unharmed.” Damian mocks lowly. Dick sees the stiffness bleed out of Damian’s expression the longer his gaze is locked onto you, as if materialising your talkative state in his mind.
"I am unharmed."
"A mild concussion, a hospital bed." Damian's frown deepens. "At least attempt at a reasonable lie."
Damian’s body tilts just slightly, lowering to match yours, and the light catches your features once more. Your lips tilt downward for a single second, the sting of the fluorescent lights irritating your vision.
In a sudden movement without words exchanged, Damian adjusts. His shoulders block the light over your face once more, covering you with his shadow.
You can't help the grin that escapes. "That is what I was thinking about, before I passed out again."
Damian's expression contorts, as if his mind can't decide on hyper-focusing on the details of you falling unconscious again or on what you were imagining about him. You decide for him.
"The lights were all in my face and—" You suck in a breath. "I kept trying to remember your name. I tried so hard to find it, this person who knows that I hate hospital lights without me needing to say it. Then, your name just slipped out."
“Oh.” Tim murmurs from afar.
“Oh.” Dick agrees.
“Don’t do that again.” Damian mutters in the quiet buzzing of the machines.
“Save people?” You tease.
“Put yourself in harm’s way.” Damian pushes back.
"Hey, what about the two of us?" Tim calls out, and Dick's quick to shove his elbow into the idiot's stomach. "Ow—what? We never got this treatment and all the fretting."
Damian's gaze shifts at the disruption, the softness creased into the corners of his eyes fading into annoyance. "Leave us."
"Woah." Tim holds a hand to his abdomen, still feigning hurt. "That's just cold."
Damian's eyes narrow further, and Dick's reminded instantly of how the press is probably waiting outside the hospital for any hints of a scuffle. It's already news enough for not two, but three members now of the Wayne family rushing to the emergency ward. Grabbing Tim by his hoodie, Dick tugs roughly. "We'll leave you two be to—catch up. No attempted murders, if the reminder's still needed."
It had slipped out so easily, the old warning, but it feels strangely out of place with this tender atmosphere. Dick's most definitely intruding on something he's not meant to see, but questions can be reserved for later.
Eyeing Damian one last time, he sees the way his brother's vision is trained on you—and he knows his job is done here.
You snort, a sheepish expression caught between your teeth, watching for confirmation as the door shuts with a click. When you have a shred of confidence that they're at least out of hearing range, you turn your attention back to Damian, unable to hide your grin.
“You know they’re probably freaking out right now?” You mutter conspiratorially. "They'll never buy into us hating each other anymore."
“That is not my concern.” Damian frowns. “You are.”
“That might be the sweetest thing you've ever told me.” You coo. "I matter enough for you to deal with family dinner interrogations now."
Damian's stare remains unimpressed. “I will smother you with pillows.”
“That’s unhygienic—and cruel.”
His tongue clicks softly as his hand comes up behind the pillow, instinctively propping them up higher as you adjust your neck, an action completely unrelated to his threat. “Only you would be concerned of bacteria before attempted murder.”
“Yeah, I’m a piece of work." You murmur distractedly, choosing to gaze intently at him instead. His hair's fallen into different directions, all un-Damian-like. "That’s why you rushed all the way here, didn’t you?”
He stiffens, hand shifting away from the pillow, but still hovering near you. He's been holding back from the moment he's entered this damned institution, and his mind is ticking, battling between his habit to be the steady one, and the crushing need to hold you.
After a moment, the inner workings of his mind switching between his logic and his emotions must've finally faltered, as his fingers delicately cup the back of your head. He doesn't move you towards him, choosing to come over to you instead, his body hovering halfway over yours before finally letting his weight topple gently over you.
His arms wrap around you gently as his comforting weight falls over you, and the first thing you feel is how quickly his heart is racing. He needs this, you realise, as he settles with his arms wrapped protectively around you. To be physically present as your shield, even when there is no danger present.
Damian is affected. More than he seems from his tightly concealed expressions, obvious now that you can physically feel the effects on his body. Slight twitches of his fingers that appear when he's still afraid, waiting for the noise in his head to calm down.
“I didn't want you to worry.” You mumble into his embrace.
“Impossible.” Damian huffs softly, tracing his other hand over your wrist, feeling the soft thudding of your pulse. “You're my problem to handle."
You feel a soft, imperceptible kiss pressed onto your temple, and your eyes flutter shut. This is the side of Damian only you get to have, the proof of its existence ghosting your skin. You have to force your eyes open, the lure of sleep already trying to dig its claws into you—and that's something you absolutely refuse. You don't want to miss this rare side to Damian, all soft and disarmed.
"You scared me." Damian admits after a long pause, barely audible.
You blink, surprised. "You're never scared."
"For you, I am." Damian confesses, his grip tightening slightly. "You tend to render me painfully exposed to weakness."
"Weakness, huh? Still haven't got rid of me though." You hum lightly.
"No." His tone is decisive, stern. "If I haven't decided that I've had enough of you, the world doesn't get to."
"I'm starting to think threats are your love language, Dami." Your hand lifts, struggling twice before you manage to run your fingers through his hair, resting its weight over the nape of his neck.
His body shudders slightly, and his nose buries itself deeper into the crook of your neck. If anyone were to look into hospital room 78, they'll encounter the strange sight of Damian Wayne embracing you as if you were his lifeline. No one would believe them, but the truth remains.
He was yours. Completely yours.
He was also definitely sentenced to a long interrogation the moment he steps out of this room.
"Who was the perpetrator?" He mutters after a moment.
"Damian." You're stuck deciding between a snort and a sigh. "It was an accident."
"You don't know that." He huffs. "I sincerely doubt in your ability to detect an attempted murder while you're unconscious."
Your grip tugs at his hair playfully, a pretty effective way of shutting him up. "Argue with me later."
You feel his lashes flutter against your skin, processing. "...Fine."
He breathes you in, his heart rate finally starting to calm the longer he hears your voice so close to his eardrums, your touch grounding his senses.
"It was torture." His voice is too still, stating the facts without the emotion that's driven behind them. "The drive here. I kept envisioning the worst, that you had called out for me—and if I didn't make it in time—"
His grip tightens with his words, and you're pressed into his chest, feeling what his words refuse to convey, starting to thud again below his ribcage.
"Damian." Your hand traces reassuringly over his neck. "I'm right here."
He listens, his rampant thoughts slowing in pace at the reminder. "I had never been so terrified." His voice remains level, his attempt at reinforcing his reality over his fears. "To receive a call from Grayson, hearing your name—I couldn't let myself think of anything else other than finding you."
"You did." You mutter reassuringly. "You found me. I'm safe."
He lets out a low breath, a slow exhale at the sound of those two words he'd been needing to hear. "Sometimes, I think you've ruined me." He murmurs in truth.
You think he's unused to this. Letting down his walls, experiencing the blatant terror for another person's life that is completely out of his control—that he's left with nothing but pieces to readjust, to compromise. By letting you into his life and allowing you to be his person, he has abandoned his need to preserve himself, to be above fear.
"You're not escaping the argument." He notes down distractedly, trying to regain his ground despite being wrapped into you. "I still have my reservations."
"Anything you need, Dami." You reassure softly.
"Anything?" He murmurs, head shifting out of the crook of your neck to face you fully.
His green eyes are narrowed with intent now, gazing at you with unhidden intensity.
You swallow, nodding slightly.
When he leans in, the palm of his hand slips from the back of your head to over your jaw. His thumb traces over your lips softly as he leans in, replacing the ghost of his touch with his own mouth. It's tender, a separate language to convey the emotions he hasn't learnt to spell out, on what you do to him. Yet, with the way he's handling you, nose brushing against yours, in a way so precious it makes your heart ache—you think that impending argument's worth it.
likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333
𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬 ✷ established relationship. domestic arguments. fluff & angst. financially reckless behavior. independent!reader. morally gray income sources. soft!red hood. bickering. slightly clingy jason. implied violence. criminal interrogation. protective behavior. unhealthy coping mechanisms disguised as acts of service. rich boyfriend problems.
Dating an independent woman, Jason had learned, was an exercise in chronic frustration. Not the exhausting kind—the kind that settled warm beneath his ribs, irritating and addictive in equal measure. The kind that made him want to grind his teeth one second and kiss her stupid the next. Because loving y/n was easy. Christ, it was the easiest thing he’d ever done. Existing around her, however, was another story entirely.
She refused help with the same ferocity Jason usually reserved for gunfights and emotional repression.
And that was saying something.
Jason liked taking care of people. It was buried somewhere deep beneath the violence, the sarcasm, the helmet, the terrifying reputation, and the lifetime’s worth of anger issues, but it was there. Raw and instinctive. He liked memorizing what people needed before they asked for it. He liked patching wounds, carrying heavy things, walking on the outside of the sidewalk, checking locks twice before bed. Maybe it came from a childhood where nobody took care of him properly. Maybe it came from being Robin once upon a time, before the world had split him open and rebuilt him meaner. Whatever the reason, taking care of someone he loved felt as natural to him as breathing.
Unfortunately for him, y/n would rather throw herself into oncoming traffic than accept assistance gracefully.
Which was deeply inconvenient considering Jason Todd had money now. Not respectable money, obviously. Not “stocks and mutual funds” money like Bruce. Jason’s finances existed in a morally gray area populated by terrified drug lords, black-market deals, confiscated cash, and the occasional envelope Bruce shoved into his hands disguised as “mission funding” when they both knew it was guilt money.
Jason accepted all of it without shame.
And when he got a girlfriend? Jesus Christ.
He immediately developed the overwhelming urge to spend every cent on her.
Not in an obnoxious way. Not because he thought she couldn’t survive on her own. If anything, y/n surviving independently despite Gotham actively trying to eat people alive was one of the things he admired most about her. She worked herself ragged, paid her own bills, handled her own problems, and carried herself with this stubborn, infuriating pride that made Jason want to simultaneously shake her and marry her.
But he loved her. Of course he wanted to make her life easier.
Apparently that made him public enemy number one.
Every single attempt at paying for something turned into a war of attrition.
Coffee dates were the worst. Jason would buy their drinks with the smug satisfaction of a man fulfilling his divine purpose as a boyfriend, only for his phone to buzz ten minutes later.
Y/N SENT YOU $10.00
Jason would stare at the notification with pure resentment.
Once, after their fourth argument about it that month, he’d deliberately paid for dinner while she was in the bathroom, thinking he’d finally outsmarted her.
The next morning she’d transferred him exact reimbursement down to the tax.
Psychotic behavior.
Another time, he’d tried being direct about it.
“You know normal girlfriends let their boyfriends spoil them,” he muttered while leaning against her kitchen counter.
Y/n, sitting cross-legged on the counter eating a banana with the confidence of a woman impossible to embarrass, looked unimpressed. “Normal boyfriends don’t source their income like Batman’s most wanted.”
“That’s hurtful.”
“That’s accurate.”
Jason narrowed his eyes before pulling a thick stack of cash from his jacket pocket and tossing it onto the counter beside her. “Take it.”
She glanced at the money, then at him, then back at the money. “I don’t want your guilt money from your daddy.”
“It’s not guilt money,” Jason corrected immediately. “It’s drug money.”
Y/n stared at him slowly, banana halfway to her mouth, looking genuinely uncertain whether she should kiss him or book him a therapist.
Jason had shrugged like that clarified everything.
Because to him, honestly, it did.
Then there were the bills.
God, the bills argument nearly killed him.
It had been late evening, rain tapping softly against the apartment windows while Gotham drowned itself in neon and smog outside. Y/n’s apartment wasn’t terrible, but it was small in that distinctly Gotham way—thin walls, unreliable heating, pipes that screamed like dying animals whenever someone showered. Jason practically lived there anyway despite technically owning a much nicer place. Mostly because he preferred her cluttered little apartment over any penthouse money could buy.
She was sprawled on top of him on the couch, wearing one of his hoodies and soft sleep shorts, her cheek pressed into his neck while he worked on his laptop balanced precariously against her lower back. One of his arms rested around her waist automatically, hand underneath the hoodie, fingertips tracing absent patterns against her skin while he typed with the other hand.
“Ugh,” she groaned suddenly into his throat. “My landlord is up my ass about rent.”
Jason’s fingers paused over the keyboard instantly.
“How much?”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I was gonna say.”
“You were gonna offer money.”
“I was gonna offer money.”
She made a triumphant sound against his skin. “Exactly. Denied.”
Jason clicked his tongue in annoyance, shifting slightly beneath her. “Baby, I basically live here anyway. Let me help with bills.”
“No.”
“You’re working doubles.”
“I’ll survive.”
“You shouldn’t have to survive,” he muttered.
That made her lift her head slightly. Her expression softened around the edges when she looked at him, because no matter how much they argued about this, she knew where it came from. Jason wasn’t controlling. Wasn’t condescending. He wasn’t trying to own her.
He just loved hard. Recklessly. Like a man who never learned moderation.
“I wanna do things myself,” she said quietly. “I need to prove I can.”
Jason looked at her for a long moment.
Most people saw anger first when they looked at him. Violence. Volatility. But underneath all of that, Jason understood pride better than almost anyone. Understood what it meant to claw your own survival out of the dirt with bloody hands. Understood how humiliating dependence could feel.
So instead of arguing, he just sighed softly through his nose and kissed the top of her head.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Okay.”
Which should’ve worried her.
Because when Jason Todd stopped arguing, it usually meant he’d already decided to do something significantly worse.
The next afternoon, while Jason was in the middle of interrogating a weapons trafficker, his phone vibrated in his pocket.
He glanced at the caller ID and immediately smiled beneath the Red Hood helmet.
“Hey, gorgeous.”
“You paid my fucking rent?”
Jason leaned casually against the damp brick wall beside him while the criminal tied to the chair whimpered quietly in the background.
“For the next six months, yeah.” He checked his gun lazily. “Oh, and your car’s in the shop. Your brakes sounded like a dying walrus. Figured I’d get them replaced.”
There was silence on the other end.
Then came one long inhale that positively radiated fury.
Jason grinned harder.
“I’m going to kill you.”
“Yeah?”
“You are insane.”
“You still love me though.”
“I’m considering arson.”
“That’s my girl.”
The line went dead with an aggressive beep.
Jason stood there for another second staring at the phone in his hand, helpless affection spreading warm through his chest before he could stop it. The kind that made him feel seventeen again. Human again. Soft in places he usually kept armored shut.
If anyone ever saw the look on his face right now, Jason would actually have to kill them.
With a sigh, he slid the phone back into his jacket and finally turned toward the terrified criminal still zip-tied to the chair in the abandoned warehouse.
“You know,” he muttered while pulling another zip tie tighter around the guy’s wrists, “I buy one woman six months’ rent and suddenly I’m the bad guy.”
The guy had apparently developed a death wish.
“F-females,” he laughed nervously, sweat dripping down his temple. “Am I right?”
Jason’s smile vanished instantly.
Gone was the lovesick idiot paying for brake repairs. This was the man criminals whispered about in panic.
Jason grabbed the chair sharply, yanking it forward until the man nearly choked on his own breath.
“That,” Jason said quietly, “is my girl you’re talking about.”
The criminal went pale.
“And trust me,” Jason continued, voice calm in the way that scared people most, “you do not wanna disrespect the woman willing to date me voluntarily.”
“R-right. I’m sorry. Sorry.”
Jason stared at him another second before sighing heavily and releasing the chair.
Summary: Your best friend Dick Grayson took you to one of Bruce's galas a while ago. When Dick finds out his brother has a crush on you, he decides to play cupid.
Pairing: Jason Todd x Fem!Reader
Word Count: 4.8k
Content Warning: Fluff, Cursing, (kind of) grumpy/sunshine, insecure Jason at the beginning, second person, no use of y/n
A/N: This is for this request , i hope it lived up to the expectations :) As always I hope you enjoy my lovelies <3
•───────•°•✶•°•───────•
“Dick, cut it out. I already told you no.”
“C’mon, just one date- that’s all I’m asking.” He carelessly throws his hands in the air. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
Jason swore that if the former circus act opened his mouth one more time that he was going to make him wish that he fell off that trapeze with his parents.
Dick had spent the past two weeks trying to set him up on a date with you. Every single time he saw Jason on patrol, he’d harass him about it. The gymnast had taken you to the charity gala Bruce held a little under a month ago, as friends.
You caught his eye the moment you walked in, you were impossible to ignore. There was radiance in your figure that rivaled the sun’s. The way your eyes lit up the whole room lit a match in Jason that had been extinguished years ago. Your laugh was a melody that Jason would spend years learning the notes to, in a pitiful attempt to replicate. Anytime you were dragged from one conversation to another with a Gotham Elite, the room parted for you like a sea that Jason would drown in if he was given the chance.
Jason has been taken by you from the moment your heels clicked on the pale marble floor. Being the pathetic loser he is, he steered clear of you the whole night. Dick had introduced you to the whole family, except him. He got too worked up in his mind, fearing he’d stumble over his words or worse,
You’d see him.
He didn’t think he’d be able to handle the expression of horror that would inevitably cross your face when you saw the scars painting a history on his face he’d be cursed to remember.
The looks always came, there were days he felt like he was a walking car crash. The wandering eyes always roamed his face, his body, at the question where the pain came from. Some asked about it, and some tried to hide the concern behind empty small talk and glances when they thought he wasn’t paying attention. It stopped bothering him years ago, those people never mattered to him. So, he wasn’t sure why he was so anxious now. Why all of a sudden, all the old feelings he’d buried under packs of cigarettes came up at the sight of a girl at a gala.
He thought he had disguised the way his heart fluttered every time you looked in his direction better than he actually did. He hadn’t noticed the youngest bat in the corner of the ballroom observing the way his shoulders tensed when your eyes floated over the sea of guests. The way the pink flush drowned Jason’s face when your eyes met with a small smile. The way his grip tightened around the stem of the crystal champagne glass.
Damian saw all of it.
He approached Jason and ridiculed him for not being able to approach you. He tried to push his stubborn older brother in your direction. Told him to get over himself and just introduce himself. When Jason planted himself on the floor of the ballroom like a tree, he told him he was pathetic. He brushed him off, but Damian didn’t stop there. Being the annoying eleven-year-old that he was, he went and told Dick all about his minor attraction to you.
That’s how he finds himself in the cave at one in the morning after a particularly long patrol, fending off another attack. Dick’s voice echoed off the stone walls of the cave with a slight tease, solidifying Jason’s fate to be forever doomed as a little brother.
“I just don’t want to.”
His explanations were short and simple every time, never revealing more than was necessary.
Unfortunately for everyone, Bruce had managed to pass down his infuriating behavior of bottling emotions to his second son. While Bruce hid his emotions behind a carefully guarded mask and uneasy looks, Jason hid his behind a pack of cigarettes and a poorly executed bad boy persona.
He too lived by the mantra that it was easier to push people away, easier to be alone.
He couldn’t explain to him how the idea of going on a date for the first time since… everything, made him want to throw up. He couldn’t explain how the idea of letting someone in again made him want to pack his bags and go to one of the safe houses he kept from Bruce. How the idea of a dinner with a girl who was everything good in the world threatened him with hope.
Hope he couldn’t afford.
Jason had heard about you over the years, existing in the same circle. Dancing around each other but never together. It was the only good thing that came from Dick’s incapability of shutting up. Jason was half convinced that Dick just enjoyed the sound of his own voice. He heard stories about you, seen pictures that Dick had posted on his social media. You were mutuals, but that was as far as he had let himself go.
He could handle decapitating someone, he could wash the blood of his hands and eat dinner afterward. He could invoke a fear that lingered in the nightmares of the worst bastards in the city he was raised in. But going out with a girl who brought out the sun on the cloudiest days, was what petrified the Red Hood.
“Jason come on,” Dick was practically whining now. “Just give me one reason why you don’t want to.”
He wasn’t going to let this go, was he?
Dick was, tragically, the pushiest motherfucker on the planet. He knew what he wanted and very rarely failed at getting it.
“Dick for the last time, I just don’t want to.” Jason leveled his brother a look that was as deadly as he had once been, silently begging him to drop it.
But Dick, not being able to take any of his little brothers seriously, just smiled at him. It didn’t matter how grown each of them were, it didn’t matter that Jason was now taller than him. Every time Dick looked at him, he only ever saw the freckled face and the smile with missing teeth of the little boy Jason had once been. The little brother who used to have faith in the world. The little brother he would go to hell and back for. The little brother he would do anything to see one more time.
Dick opened his mouth probably to annoy Jason for the millionth time, when a voice cuts in from across the cave.
“Don’t want to what?”
Tim emerged from the shadows behind the batcomputer. He was in a pair of grey sweatpants and a black long-sleeved shirt that was too big for him. The shirt hung off his frame in a way that made him look sickly, his hair damp and plastered on his forehead. There was a redbull in his hand that he took a sip from, with a raised eyebrow while walking toward the pair.
“Todd is refusing Grayson’s pathetic attempt at finding him a partner.” Damian announced from where he was training with Bruce in the middle of the cave.
Jason hadn’t realized that the whole family had been eavesdropping on Dick playing cupid. He shouldn’t have been surprised really, Dick announced everything he said with a level of importance that his words usually lacked. He couldn’t handle not being the center of attention, Jason supposed he had the circus to thank for that.
“Ohhhh” Tim drew out the vowel with a level of understanding. “This is about the girl Dick brought to the gala right?”
Jason scoffed and crossed his arm, a small reflex he had developed as protection. The arms pressing against his chest creating another layer against the world. He was building a cage for the fragile heart that was beating too quickly. The extra blood his body was pumping right now migrated to his face, tinting it to a color eerily similar to the hood he branded himself with.
He turned his gaze to his youngest brother with an irritation so biblical, it was one only brothers could bring it out.
“Son of a Bitch,” Jason grumbled under his breath closing his eyes for a moment before accusing him. “Did you tell everyone about this?”
“Your affections were obvious. I merely confirmed what everyone knew.” Damian stuck his nose in the air, refusing to admit he did anything wrong.
“Jason,” Bruce started out carefully. “There’s no shame in liking someone. I’ve spoken with her a few times. This could be a good place to start-”
“Bruce oh my God, stop.” Jason shook his head, frazzled. “The last thing I want is relationship advice from you.”
Bruce’s previously softened gaze disappeared. His lips pressed into each other forming a thin line. There was a guilt suddenly weighing on his shoulders from producing a son as emotionally constipated as him.
Dick, sensing the tension creeping in through the cracks of the stone floor, opened his mouth again.
“Jason, really. What’s the worst that could happen? It doesn’t go well and you never see her again?”
Jason just stared at him. He didn’t know if he could admit the source of all his fears. He didn’t want to name it, didn’t want to make it real. If he kept it in his head and heart, he could ignore it. It’d be something that he deals with sometimes and buries with the mountains of bodies he has in his closet.
“I-”
“And don’t say you don’t want to again.” Dick puts a finger up, pointing at him. “Give me an actual reason.”
Jason closed his mouth and saw the eyes of the rest of the family on him. Even Alfred, who had been lingering in the back with a tray of finger food for everyone, had found his gaze on the former boy wonder. He ran a hand through the white tuft on his hair, pulling it slightly to try and find the words he couldn’t form.
“She could see me.” Jason finally said. The words came out awkward and quiet. There was a weird pause in between each of the words, like they didn’t fit in his mouth.
“Dude, I hate to be the one to break this to you. But if that’s what you’re scared of, then you’re kind of fucked.” Tim looked at him barely hiding his expression of disbelief. “She’s already seen you, she knows what you look like.”
“Barbara told me that she told her that she thinks you’re hot.” Dick rushed out in a genuine attempt to comfort him, trying to drown out Tim’s unhelpful words. “So, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
Dick knew that wasn’t what he actually meant, but he was going to play dumb. He wasn’t going to give Jason the easy way out of this one. He was going to make him do the unthinkable, he was going to make Jason Todd talk about his feelings.
Jason gave him an exasperated look with sweat spilling from his forehead. He knew Dick knew what he meant, but he sat there with an open expression and a guiding smile. He was trying to coax the words out of him, giving him a safe space with the prying eyes of his family.
“You know that’s not what I meant” Jason’s eyes narrow.
“Then explain it to me, I’m not a mind reader ya know.”
Jason threw his head back and his eyes fell upon the roof. All the bats that the cave was home to were asleep. They were gone to a more peaceful world that couldn’t even begin to comprehend the horrors Jason had seen and experienced in this one. He envied them sometimes, wishing he could live isolated by himself with no one to bother him.
“Dick, I- just look at me.” He finally tears his eyes from the roof, and his eyes meet his older brother’s again. His arms outstretch in front of him as if he was putting himself on display at an auction that no one would bid on. “I-, I’m,” He was stuttering, he couldn’t figure out how to word it.
How did he explain that he was a monster. He had killed. He had been killed. Who was going to want to get entangled with that mess? Who would want to put up with this level of disaster? He couldn’t impose this life on anyone else. He couldn’t drag anyone else down this hole, especially not you.
“I’m not exactly a star candidate.” Jason avoided everyone’s eyes and his fell upon the old Robin suit across the cave. The reminder of who he used to be bleeding into the failure he became. “She’s only going to be disappointed.”
Jason hated when he did that, when he shifted from annoying older brother to someone he could trust. Someone he could love. He couldn’t explain what it was exactly that shifted in his demeanor that opened the flood gates. He didn’t know if it was the way his eyebrows creased with a level of sympathy he didn’t deserve, or the way his shoulders slumped dropping the playful act, or the way he had a small trusting smile making him feel safer than any safe house he could run to. It was infuriating how easily Dick could lower anyone’s walls.
“If you really don’t want to, I’ll let it go. I’ll tell her you’re not looking right now. But I think there’s a small part of you that wants this.” Every word he was saying slowly peeled back the layers of protection Jason had been guarding as if they were life or death. He had never felt so disarmed, so naked. “And it’s okay to want this, Jason.”
“Is it?” He couldn’t help but ask, looking around at the faces of the rest of his family. Vulnerable in a way he had never allowed himself to be in front of them. Exposed in a way he had never dreamed of letting them see. “When she finds out about everything, when she finds out what I am, she’s going to run. She’s going to turn around and leave me with the fact that I’ve given myself away to get it given back.” He huffs almost cynically while passing his fingers through his hair for the millionth time. “And the worst part is, I won’t even be able to blame her for it.”
Jason wasn’t looking at anyone but Dick while talking. He can imagine that most of their faces fell along with his.
Dick who regretted everything that happened with Jason when they were younger. Dick who wasn’t the best brother to him. Dick who wasn’t there for him, like he was for the others. He never paid that much attention to him. He had been so tied up in his own emotions, his own feelings toward Bruce, that he abandoned Jason. He left him alone in this house, and it killed him. He never forgave himself for that, so he vowed to himself to never abandon another Robin. Trying to do for them what he couldn’t do for Jason: showing them the ropes, giving them tips and tricks he never had. Now, watching the self-deprecation clawing at his little brother’s throat made him want to call Wally and force him to take Dick and travel back in time. He wanted to rewrite the story and rescue him. To hug the version of Jason that would let himself be hugged. He wanted so desperately to save him from himself, to save him from the nightmare he called home.
He never intended to dig up old trauma by bothering Jason about the date. He wanted him to be happy. He had lived so much of his life as a shell of who he once was after the resurrection. No one blamed him for it, no one could even begin to imagine what it must be like to go through that. To watch the countdown to your death, to die scared and alone.
Dick only ever wanted him to be happy.
So, when Damian came up to him after the Gala saying that he had a crush on you, he was ecstatic. Jason hadn’t had a crush since high school. Dick was also privy to some information that you were down bad for his brother. He had to do something for Jason, and he thought this was the best opportunity. He had to start somewhere after all; there were years of being a horrible brother to make up for.
“She could also stay, Jason.” Dick offered him, the rest of the cave silent as he threw him a bone. “She could like who you are, help you come out of hiding.” He paused holding the fragile eye contact, scared that if it broke all the progress he made would dissipate. “I’m not going to force you to go on the date, but I want you to think about it. A date doesn’t have to mean marriage. It can just mean trying again, and you owe it to yourself to try”
Jason sighed to himself. He was the one who finally broke eye contact with his older brother. He dragged his calloused hand down the length of his face. Tonight had been tiring enough as it was after patrols, adding all the emotions he allowed himself to confront and talk about only added to the exhaustion. He wasn’t sure if it was the exhaustion or the small hope that bloomed in his chest that made him agree, but he looked back at Dick and nodded.
“Alright, I’ll think about it.”
•───────•°•✶•°•───────•
It had been three days since that conversation when you got a call from Dick. It was a quarter past noon, and you were on your lunch break. You had chosen to walk the two blocks to the small pizza shop near your office when you feel the familiar buzz in your pant pocket.
Pulling out the phone, you see the name of your best friend light up the screen and your eyes narrow slightly at it. You love Dick with your whole heart, but a call from him was nothing short of rare. Hearing from Dick before one or two in the afternoon was even rarer. His sleep schedule was so messed up you were half convinced he was nocturnal.
The call and time of day was concerning for you, if Dick Grayson was calling you that meant the world was ending tomorrow. If Dick was calling you before one, the world was ending now. Your thumb hesitates slightly before sliding the green call button across the bottom of your screen and bringing the phone to your ear.
“Hello?”
“Hello, my beautiful best friend!” Immediately, you’re put off. He’s way too enthusiastic for it to be a Wednesday afternoon. “What are you doing Friday night?”
“Nothing… Why?” There’s a questioning edge in your tone as you side eye the phone.
“I have the most spectacular news!”
“What did you do?” The question is immediate with suspicion prominent in your tone. He was up to something, and when Dick Grayson was up to something, it was rarely good.
“Have you so little faith in me?” He was always one with a flair for dramatics. There’s a small sigh he adds to the act, and you can’t help the eye roll. “You’re going to owe me big time after this.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve made your biggest dream come true.” He says so sure of himself that you scoff.
“I didn’t know you convinced Harry Styles to finally release Medicine. How’d you do it?”
He groans your name as if you’re personally responsible for the pain in his side.
“No, but seriously what did you do?” There’s a slight hesitation in the small laugh you give him as an opening.
“I have scored you a date with the one and only Jason Todd.”
You misstep on the sidewalk hearing the name. A quick stumble before recovering and freezing on the cement.
There was no way.
There was actually no way that Dick had got you a date with the guy you’d been crushing on for the past two years.
“What?” He hears the disbelief in your tone and laughs, like he’d been expecting this reaction.
“Yes ma’am. I have gotten you a date with my brother.”
“Wait-” You’re still standing still on the sidewalk and even though he can’t see you, your free hand flies up motioning for him to stop. “Why would you do that?”
“Because you like him….” He phrases it like a question, similar to when a child sounds overly confident with their take on a situation and then realizes they may be misinformed.
Your face turns bright red and are suddenly eternally grateful that you weren’t having this conversation in person.
“H-How do you know that?” Alarm bells start ringing between your ears. You hadn’t been that obvious had you? There was only a handful of people who know about your quiet crush on Jason.
“Well I called Barbara the other night-” You groan and hit your palm on your forehead. You knew telling her would be risky, they’d all known each other since they were kids, but she promised she wouldn’t say anything.You knew exactly who you were calling after you hung up with Dick “… when I told her that Jason thought you were pretty she got sup-”
“Jason thinks I’m pretty?” You cut him off not caring for the rest of the sentence.
“Well duh,” he responds as if the answer was painfully obvious, as if you’d asked him if the sky was blue. “What kind of question is that? You are pretty.” There’s a sincerity in his voice that sounds so innocent it leads to a genuine smile creeping onto your face.
“But anyway,” he goes to rerail the conversation back on to his initial mission. “I’ve got it all planned out for you. Friday at 8:30, I’ll send you the address. Don’t be late!”
“I-” You didn’t get the chance to say anything before he hung up on you.
You hold your phone to your ear for another second, then bring it to your chest. It was cringy and possibly a little cliché, but you cradle the phone against your heart. Nothing could bring you down from this high.
No annoying boss. No incompetent coworkers. No pestering call from your mother.
Because you lived in a world where you had a date with Jason Todd.
A world where Jason Todd thinks you’re pretty.
•───────•°•✶•°•───────•
08:28 p.m.
The time on your phone screen mocks you while you wait outside the bowling alley.
Of-fucking-course that would be the type of date Dick Grayson planned. You should’ve seen this coming from a mile away. The moment Dick told you that he would send you and Jason a time and place to meet you should’ve prepared for the worst.
You’re standing at the neon lit entrance shuffling your weight from foot to foot, when you start fiddling with the charm on your necklace. Glancing at the families and groups passing by you suddenly hear steps that echo heavier than the normal persons. Recognizing the steps you’d learn to anticipate at Dick’s family reunions, you turn your head to see your date walking toward you.
It was frustrating how good he looked. He was lit up by the flickering streetlights that lined the streets of downtown. He was dressed in a pair of jeans that might have existed since the dawn of time and a plain red hoodie with a giant leather jacket layered over it. His broad shoulders were slouched almost as if he was trying to shrink into himself and become as small as possible. The hands you’d caught yourself staring at too often are shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket. The cool breeze that lingered in Gotham’s darkest nights is blowing through his hair, as if nature itself came to witness the unbelievable story of Red Hood on a date.
He was an anxious bundle of nerves for the past two days. After agreeing to this, he almost instantly regretted it. Jason hadn’t let himself want anything like this since the resurrection; he was too broken, too haunted, too cursed. Yet somehow, Dick had managed to get through to him, managed to break down the labyrinth of walls he’d built to protect himself.
It’s just a date; he kept repeating to himself. It was just one date. He can survive this.
He thought once he saw you that all the anxiety from the past week was going to bubble over and make him explode, but it was actually the opposite. When his eyes met yours and you had that warm smile you were never seen without, the anxiety fizzled out. There was a warmth that blossomed in his chest melting away all his fears.
He watched you raise your hand and shyly wave at him. Taking in your body language, he could sense that you were nervous too. Your uneasiness comforted him a little, the anxiety stringing you both together made this almost normal. Like he wasn’t just some pathetic mess of a man trying to go on a date with a girl who was way out of his league.
“Hey!” The simple word paired with your honeyed voice evaporated all his concern.
Offering his best attempt at a smile, he realized it came out awkward at best. He raised his hand to mirror the shy wave and gave out a small “Hi.”
“You’re early” You mentally face palm. Why was that the first thing you said? God, why were you so awkward?
“So are you.” He sounds relaxed but his motions betray him. His right-hand flies out from his pocket to the back of his neck to scratch it absentmindedly and pull at the hair on the nape of his neck.
“Yeah, well Dick had this whole thing of not being late because of the time slot I guess.” If you laughed awkwardly one more time, you swore you were going to sew your lips shut in the bathroom.
“Yeah…” Jason sighed looked at the dimly lit bowling alley with dread. “I can’t believe I let him talk me into letting him plan this.”
“Why?” A teasing smile finds its way onto your face as you try to relax or be semi-normal about this. “Is someone bad at bowling?”
“Bad is…” he pauses for a moment pondering his word choice. “…generous”
“Well, you know what they say about bad bowlers” You attempt the sly joke to revive his confidence.
“What do they say?”
A snort escapes you while walking past him to go inside. When you realize he isn’t following, you turn your head to look at him over your shoulder. The creases on his forehead caused by a single eyebrow raise expressed his genuine confusion at the joke. His mouth was parted slightly while trying to piece together the universally acknowledged truth about bad bowlers, a truth he seemed to be left out of.
“You really don’t know?” Heat begins to rise to your face, realizing you were going to have to explain this to him.
“Should I?” There’s a playful hint in his voice that’s trying to hide the embarrassment of confusion.
“Um, Well-” you laugh and swallow nervously. Your eyes start darting around to see if any other lingering soul would want to intervene and explain this to him. “It’s just a joke that guys who are bad at bowling are um-” you huff out some air and shake your hands to see if he’d get the hint. He doesn’t.
“Good in bed.” You finish the explanation for him.
Now it was your turn to scratch the back of your neck and pull your hair. Fingers twirling around the hair at the nape of your neck, hoping he wouldn’t think you were too crude to joke about this straight off the bat.
“Oh-” his face had turned beet red, and his mouth had made the shape of the vowel he’d just repeated.
The expression on his face made all your flustered feelings disappear. You started laughing so hard your hand flew to your mouth to try and hide it so he wouldn’t feel too embarrassed.
And in that moment for the first time in years, while Jason stood in front of this horrifically lit bowing alley listening to you laugh so openly; the clouds parted and the sun shone on him in the form of a girl he’d spend the rest of his life trying to deserve.
•───────•°•✶•°•───────•
A/N: I had a 3 hour drive last week and “when he sees me” from waitress came on and inspiration struck lol
summary: an old bet has accidentally resurfaced and you question where you stand in your relationship with Jack.
warnings: hurt/comfort. insecurity. jealousy. misunderstanding trope-kinda. spoilers for the pitt s2 (especially ep 08).
note: gosh it’s finally here. thank you so much for all the love in the og draft! I can't believe it got over 4k notes???? thank you guys ❤️
wc: ~4k
images by @wesandresons ; dividers by me lol
When you work in the ER, surrounded by life, death, sorrow, guilt, grief… it’s important to take joy in the moment when you can. Because you can’t dwell too much on the patients you lose. You gotta learn to compartmentalize, no matter how small. And in the Pitt, you do bets. Ahmad is usually the one setting them up, and big or small, there’s always something to bet on.
Today, on the 4th of July, the hot topic is what’s causing Westbridge to divert their patients and how long will they close their ER?
You bet $30 on system overload for 4 hours.
And now, the betting pool only gets bigger.
“So. System overload, huh?” Robby asks, stepping up beside you as he studies the board. “How’d you come up with that one?”
You grin, “Too many medical dramas.”
“God, you watch those?” Robby grimaces, shaking his head.
You shrug, “Jack watches them, too. Actually, it was his idea.”
He chuckles. “I’m sure it was. Speaking of Jack, I’m surprised you let him join SWAT today.”
Sighing, your shoulders immediately fall. It’s a topic you’ve argued with Jack several times. You don’t understand why he wants to volunteer today. The job is dangerous, he’s retired from the army, you can’t wrap your head around why can’t he just work a regular shift. But at the end of the day, you still chose to support him. Because Jack has his demons, too. And maybe this is his way to face them. Whatever the outcome, your job is to be there when it’s over. To hold the line. To catch him if he falls.
“Let him?” You scoff, “No, he does what he wants.”
“Maybe it’s an adventure thing.”
You hum sarcastically, “Mm-hmm, like you and your bike?”
“We all need some sort of therapy, right?”
“I guess,” You sigh again, “Jack’s probably gonna stop by later at the end of the shift. Before you head off on your grandadventure.”
“You know, you’re the only person today who’s called my sabbatical an adventure and not a mid-life crisis.” Robby grins.
“Nuh-uh,” You put up a hand, “I still think it’s a mid-life crisis trip. No helmet, Robby? Really? I saw you pull up.”
He sucks in a breath through his teeth and pretends to busy himself. “Oh, would you look at that. Patients. Back to work, doctor.”
You just shake your head at him.
You spent the next hours moving nonstop. Treating patients, teaching med students and interns, spending some time with Baby Jane Doe. So far nothing has blown up in your face yet, which is a good sign, but it’s the 4th of July. Crazy things are bound to happen on this day.
You just finished taking care of a head lac, sanitizing your hands while you exit the patient room and checking your phone. Jack’s last check-in was a couple hours ago, and you didn’t see it.
→ Change our bet. Cyberattack. 5 hours.
Your brows raise, but there’s a sigh of relief. How does he get intel like these?
Regardless, you make your way towards Ahmad. At least Jack’s safe.
“Oh, I know that look.” Ahmad guesses, “Changing your bet? Gotta double it.”
“Double??” You scoff, “Come on, man.”
“Hey, I didn’t make the rules.” He raises his hands in surrender, “So what’s it gonna be?”
You exhale through your nose, handing him the extra $30. “Cyberattack. 5 hours.”
“Interesting,” He notes, “Princess said the same thing.”
You shrug, analyzing the board for anything interesting. That’s when you notice a sticky note buried under several others. One corner sticks out just enough for you to catch the name written across it; ‘Abbot’. A bet on Jack? What could it be about?
You reached up and picked it out. When you read the content, your face falls immediately.
'abbot <3 mohan. how? when?'
And you see several bets being placed on it.
$20 they makeout in the oncall room. end of month -princess.
$10 they fuck to relieve stress. after 4th of july -santos.
$30 abbot confesses first. before end of year. -donnie.
$40 never. jack wouldn't have the guts to do it. -robby.
$40 also never. mohan rejects him. -dana.
There are several others, but you can't read them anymore. You feel like your ears are ringing, you can't think straight, and you need to breathe.
Jack and Samira? Jack had something with Samira? Why didn’t he tell you? Was it one sided? Does Samira know? Who won the bet? Did anything happen between them? Does Jack still feel something towards her now?
You shove the sticky note in your pocket, rushing out of the room to go somewhere you can breathe some fresh air. You run to the ambulance bay, but Robby’s there right now and you cannot deal with that, remembering that he bet Jack wouldn’t dare make a move on Samira. Which means he knew. No, everyone knew.
Fuck. Just how embarrassing is this? You joined PTMC a little over a year ago and fell in love with Jack. You were never shy about it, never hesitant to be seen with him, or to let people know you were together. And now you’re realizing you might not have been the actual woman he originally wanted like that.
Your stomach twists at the thought. It shouldn’t matter. He had a life before you. You know that. He didn’t owe you anything. Still, something about finding out this way makes you feel stupid, like you walked into an inside joke everyone else was already in on. And you’re the punchline.
You turn to a random patient’s room, pretending to check on them.
“—Our little secret.”
You manage to hear a voice before you open the curtains, and you see your Jack sitting on the bed with his shirt off, with Samira with her gloves on, standing behind him.
Your eyes widen and you stop in your tracks.
If you were being rational and logical, you would be able to make the connection that Samira is patching Jack up from a wound, but you're dealing with too much information too fast, and the twisting feeling in your chest only gets worse.
Jack can see it in your eyes. The way they’re tearing up, how your chest is heaving, and how you can’t really make eye contact—you’re about to panic. Fight or flight. And he knows exactly what happens next if it hits full force: you’d shut down, you’d barely speak.
“Sweetheart—”
“No,” You say immediately, bringing a hand to your mouth because you feel like you could throw up, “Don’t— I can’t—”
He stands up, already wanting to hold you, but you're already stepping away from the room to find somewhere you could be alone.
Are you just a rebound because he couldn’t get Samira? Just a replacement? Did he settle for you? Was he just lonely, and you happened to be there at the right time, saying the right things, filling a space that was never really meant for you? Is he dating you just to get her jealous?
You walk as quickly and as calmly as you can out to the ambulance bay again, seeing it’s empty now.
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, the cool air brushing against your face. Your chest isn’t heaving anymore. The breaths you take are still short, but your head is clearer now. However, the tightness in your chest, the aching pain, they don’t go away.
Your breath becomes a sob, and before you know it, tears are falling from your eyes.
“Damn it,” you mutter under your breath, wiping the tears with your sleeves.
It’s a ridiculous thing to cry over.
You have Jack. He’s yours. You’re just being insecure. Jealous. Overthinking and overreacting. That’s all this is.
So why does it still hurt so much?
There’s no doubt that Jack wants to be with you. He shows it every day. But if Samira had reciprocated back then… if things had lined up differently… where would that have left you?
Fuck. No. Stop. Stop thinking like that.
You’re not sure when you’ve dropped to the ground, crouching while keeping your head hanging low. All you know is, you’ve probably stayed too long out in the bay, because Robby’s found you and he looks concerned. So you quickly duck back inside.
You’re not trying to avoid Jack. It’s just been incredibly chaotic ever since they announced the system was going offline to prevent a cyberattack—which also means you and Jack won the bet, yay—that everyone’s drowning trying to keep up with the paperwork.
Besides, you haven’t really seen him ever since the little… incident you saw. Right now he’s occupied in a trauma with Robby and Whitaker, your eyes meeting for a fleeting second through the glass doors and you can see him fighting the urge to go to you before Robby calls him again.
You swallow hard. The sticky notes in your pocket feeling like it weighs a ton.
Right after you’ve finished the discharge papers of one of your patients and ding the call bell, you feel his presence next to you, holding your arm and guiding you to the lockers.
He doesn’t look happy.
Once the door closes, Jack lets your arm go, and you’re backed against the wall. His arms are in his pockets, but they might as well be next to your head with the way he’s looking at you.
“What’s going on?”
You open your mouth to speak, but you don’t know where to begin.
I found out about you and Samira. Do you love her or me? What was that ‘little secret’ you guys were talking about? If she told you she loved you now, would you choose her? Why didn’t you tell me?
Jack exhales through his nose, the tension clear. He turns to his locker to grab his things. “Look, I gotta go. Gotta sleep a bit before my night shift later. I know this isn’t ideal, we don’t have much time, but… I’d rather we talk about some of it now than later.”
You close your mouth, nodding and understanding.
He softens slightly. “Baby, please. Tell me what’s bothering you.”
You glance at your feet, biting your lip, pressing your nails to your palms to calm your nerves and finally gather the courage to ask: “Do you have… feelings… for Samira?”
Jack’s head snaps toward you so fast it almost startles you. His brows are furrowed. His eyes are sharp and almost pointed at you, he definitely was not expecting that question.
“Or, did you?” You add, trying to correct yourself.
His hard expression hasn’t changed, but he’s no longer looking at you. He closes his locker, fumbling with his bag.
And it’s his silence that breaks you.
“Jack?” You ask, voice sounding like you’re in disbelief.
“No—” He immediately answers, “—I don’t. Sorry, that question just… took me by surprise.”
You don’t look convinced.
“Baby,” Jack softens, stepping closer, “There is nothing going on between me and Mohan. I promise.”
You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to will the tears away. “Are you sure?”
His brows raise, because why would you ask him that? “Yes—look, where is this coming from? Baby, I promise what you saw earlier was just a coincidence, okay? I was gonna patch myself up but she was already there. There is nothing going on.” He’s holding onto you now, looking deeply into your soul with concern.
Because he needs you to understand there’s no one else in this world for him. His entire existence, his entire life, revolves around you now. He doesn’t know how else to convince you, not when you look like he’s betrayed your trust.
Your lip trembles.
You should believe him. You know he’s probably telling the truth. But you can’t help but feel there’s still something he’s hiding from you. So you fish the wrinkled sticky note in your pocket.
“I found this buried behind the other betting notes,” You mutter, putting the notes in his palm.
Jack hasn’t opened the notes yet, looking at you for an explanation first.
“I would’ve understood if you had just told me in the beginning,” you continue, your throat tightening despite how hard you’re trying to stay calm. “I mean, it’s not like you owed me an explanation. I just… I don’t understand why I had to find out like this.”
He finally unfolds the wrinkled notes, and his jaw clenches when he reads them.
He doesn’t really react. He’s not shocked. And that tells you what you need to know.
“Oh my God,” you breathe, a hollow laugh escaping, the sadness and hurt simmering into disbelief. “You knew about the bet.”
“Whoa, no—” Jack immediately interjects. “Not in the way you think. I found out about this a long time after it ended.”
Your eyes snap to him. “It ended?”
“Yes—”
“Who won the bet?”
“Why does it matter?” Jack sighs but then answers anyway, “I don’t know, honey.”
You bite your lip, trying to look anywhere else but his eyes, but you can’t escape him.
Your mind is still so loud. It keeps going, keeps spinning, feeding you every worst-case scenarios where you're the one who loses. It's exhausting, living in your own head like this. And you don't know how to tell Jack that. How do you explain that your biggest fear isn't what did happen, but what could. That somewhere in the back of your mind you're terrified that if Samira changed her mind, you'd lose him without warning.
“Hey.” His voice drops quieter. His hand comes up to your jaw, tilting your face back toward his. “Look at me.”
You do, reluctantly. And you hate how much just looking at him undoes you.
“I need you to hear me right now,” he says, his thumb brushing your cheek. “Just listen to my voice, okay? Not whatever your brain has been spinning all day. Me.”
“Jack—”
“Yes, I had a crush on Mohan,” he says plainly. “It was nothing. It went nowhere because I didn’t want it to. And then months later, you showed up, and I never thought about her ever since.” He shakes his head slowly. “You’re the light of my life. First time I saw you, I knew you’re it for me.”
Despite yourself, a small, watery laugh escapes you. “We were yelling at each other.”
“In my defense, it was your first day and no one told me there was a new hot doctor in town. And we also made out right after, so…”
You shake your head with a small smile. The ache in your chest hasn't fully gone yet, but is much more manageable now. You swallow hard after a beat passes. “You could've told me.”
Jack nods, not making excuses of it. “You’re right. I should have. I didn't think it mattered enough to bring up. And that was stupid of me. But I promise, it was never something I was hiding from you. I’d forgotten about it. I didn’t even think of it.”
You nod back. “What was the little secret?” you ask quietly. “What I walked in on earlier… what did she mean by that?”
He exhales and opens his mouth to explain, when the locker room door swings open and Robby comes in.
“You guys better not be playing hide the zucchini,” Robby jokes, “Jack, Howard is ready for transport. They need you out front.”
Jack's jaw tightens. He looks at Robby, then back at you, and you can see it in his face, the frustration of fucking terrible timing.
“Give me a minute.” He says.
Robby hesitates for just a second, then gives a small nod and lets the door shut behind him.
Jack turns back to you. His hand finds your face again, tilting up so you're looking at him. “She was helping me with my wound on my back. A bullet grazed my vest. I wanted it to be off the books. That was the secret.” He gave you a summary.
He slings his backpack on his other shoulder and gives your forehead a kiss. “We’ll talk more later, okay? I promise you that’s all it was.”
You nod, not fully trusting your voice.
He lingers a second longer than he should, thumb brushing your cheek, and then he's gone. And you don’t like how everything feels too quiet without him in it.
One year ago…
“Are they still at it?” Robby frowns, hearing the loud voices coming from the supply closet.
You and Jack only met moments ago. It’s your first day in PTMC, and by some luck, you arrived on a stretcher, doing chest compressions on a patient. Robby’s met you before, so though he was surprised, he didn’t get in your way.
However, Jack, having never met you, immediately carried you off the patient, taking over the compressions himself.
“Wha— Hey!”
“Somebody get her out of here!”
If it weren’t for Robby finally explaining that you’re the new attending joining them and not a patient or visitor, Jack would’ve probably dragged you out himself.
“Sounds like it.” Dana confirms. “She’s feisty. I like her.”
Robby hums, “Reminds you of yourself, punchy?”
Dana chuckles, “You’re lucky I haven’t actually punched anyone, Cap.”
Your argument with Jack continues.
“You didn’t have to man-handle me like that!”
“I wasn’t man-handling you, it was just easier to carry you rather than pulling you to come down! What if you’d fallen??”
“Well I could’ve fallen with you 'carrying' me anyway!”
Jack scoffs, “What, you think I'm not strong enough to carry you, princess?”
“Don't fucking call me that. And no, I don't think you are.” You step closer as if challenging him.
You stay like that for a second. Eyes glaring at each other, out of breath, bodies so close that you can feel each other’s warmth… and with one glance at his lips, Jack’s resolve breaks. You’re kissing him before you know it. His hand on the back of your neck, the other around your waist to feel your body press against him, while yours are bunched in his scrubs, pulling him closer.
You moan when you feel his tongue intrude your mouth. And Jack’s about to slip his hand under your shirt when there’s a knock on the door.
“Alright guys, quit it.” Robby’s voice booms from outside. “It’s gotten quiet so I’m assuming you’re… doing something else. We got a trauma coming in. Let’s go.”
You push yourself off of him immediately. Wiping your mouth of his saliva and looking away despite your heavy breaths and flushed face.
Jack smirks, licking his lips and opening the door for you, signaling you to go first. You roll your eyes and walk first anyway, cursing on your way out.
“Jack-ass.”
“Brat.”
The memory brings a smile to your face now.
It’s definitely not the most romantic way to meet the love of your life, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. And needless to say, you’re grateful Robby didn’t report you to HR on your first day.
You’ve decided to work an extra couple of hours since things are still chaotic and the night shift would need help. Not to mention that you don’t really want to go home to an empty house right now.
It only took you and Jack about a month before admitting that you wanted to be more than just friends who occasionally make out. And once you’ve embraced the fact that you’re in love with him, everything became easier. It felt like the most natural thing in the world. You still argue, but none of it makes you want to walk away.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
You feel Jack’s arm around you as he kisses your head.
You lean into his touch. “Hi.”
He looks better now after a few hours of sleep, changed into another black t-shirt and dark cargo pants. He stands beside you, shoulders touching. He doesn't say anything right away, and neither do you.
You’ve had the rest of the day to think about what happened. Your feelings. Your relationship. And you have to admit, your earlier reaction was… a lot of anxiety and panic. Jack left you texts throughout the day, and his reassurances have calmed you down, and now you’re ready to talk to him.
“Staying for the night shift?” He asks.
“Just a few hours.” You say, then turn to him.
“Can we… talk?”
His hand finds yours, fingers slipping between yours. “Come on.”
He takes you to the rooftop, where it’s quieter and the chances of someone walking in is low. The rooftop was also where you and Jack managed to um… relieve some stress back then. It was a daring thing that you don’t think you can do again.
The breeze hits your face and you take a deep breath, following Jack to sit a few feet from the edge. He knows you hate dangling your feet, you once told him it’s very dangerous because “what if your leg falls off??”. It puts a smile on Jack’s face just remembering it.
Silence stretches between you, and you know you can’t delay it any longer.
“I’m sorry.”
Jack’s head snaps towards you, looking confused.
You continue anyway. “I saw the bet and my mind immediately assumed the worst. I guess it triggered an insecurity in me…”
“Honey—”
“No, I… I need to get this out,” You take a deep breath, fidgeting with your fingers. “I hate that everyone knew you had a thing for Samira except me.” You admit. “It makes me feel stupid. Most of them were rooting for you to get together and I… I feel like I’m a replacement. Because you couldn’t get her.”
You swallow the lump in your throat. You feel like crying but it seems like your tears have dried out. “And I’m scared that you might leave me for her if she turned out to have reciprocated your feelings.”
Jack softens, scooting closer to you and taking your hands in his, kissing them dearly.
“You shouldn’t say sorry.” He says, “I’m sorry because I didn’t tell you. You’re not a replacement, sweetheart. You never were, you never will be. You're not someone I settled for because things didn't work out somewhere else.” He tilts his head, making sure you’re still with him.
“That crush was just… admiration. Purely surface level. I wasn’t interested in her that way.” Jack explains, “And I guess… knowing my staring problem, I probably wasn’t sublte and people started reading too much into it. And you know gossip here spread like wildfire.”
You press your lips together, nodding while you listen to him.
“But look,” Jack straightens, “I don’t want to downplay your feelings. They’re completely valid, okay? If you told me you had the same thing with… with Robby, I would’ve lost it. I should’ve told you. I’m sorry I didn’t.” He repeats. “You deserved to hear it from me first.”
You let out a breath of relief, nodding again and leaning your head on his shoulder.
Jack puts an arm around you, kissing your temple. “And as for Mohan, there is no scenario where I leave you for her. Or for anyone. You hear me?”
“Mm-hmm.” You hum.
“Thank you.” You say after a second, “for understanding. For apologizing. For accepting me. I love you.”
Jack tilts your head to look at him. “No thanks needed. I love you. I love every part of you.”
You smile at him, finally able to let go of the weight on your shoulders.
The silence that follows is different from before.
“I don’t think you were subtle with me either.” You say after a while, chuckling.
“Honey, we snogged the first day we met. We don’t do subtle.”
You groan, “My God. Who says snogged anymore?”
“This old guy.” Jack laughs. “Now come on. We should go down and talk to Robby before he leaves.”
You exhale, gathering the will to go back into the fray before getting up, then offering Jack your hand. “Alright gramps, let’s go.”
He snorts, shaking his head, but taking your hand anyway so you can help him up. “Don’t push your luck, sweetheart. You’re gonna be screaming this ‘gramps'’ name tonight.”
You gasp, “Ew! Jack! That sounds so creepy.”
“You started it.”
You’re both laughing as you make your way down through the elevator.
“Hey,” Jack calls your attention, smiling and sending you a knowing look. “Just you and me, alright?”
You smile back, “you and me.”
it's finally doneeeeeeeee ❤️ thank you for supporting me and I hope you guys like it 🥹 the pressure is fr fr
Pairing - Jack Abbott x Attending Physician Dr. Angel
Word count - 1.6k
Summary - Santos, Whittaker and Javadi find out their attending is married and are desperate to find out who it is and how long she’s been keeping this a secret from the ER. A betting board ensues, making everyone more desperate to find out.
Warnings - 18+, MDNI, cursing, reader is married with children, fluff, no use of Y/N, reader not physically described, nickname is Dr. Angel.
Main Masterlist & The Pitt Masterlist
You’re hunched over the break room table, arms folded like a makeshift pillow, cheek pressed into the crook of your elbow. Soft, uneven snores leave your lips as you catch a few precious minutes of sleep before a gruelling double shift.
Christmas is the busiest time in The Pitt, falls from ladders whilst decorating, lacerations from prepping Christmas dinner, burns, scalds, food poisoning- not to mention the amount alcohol induced injuries that come through the doors.
Your peace however, lasts maybe 5 minutes.
The door to the break room swings open and in trudge Santos, Whittaker and Javadi, mid-conversation and talking way too loud for the hour.
“I’m telling you, the bar’s supposed to have a mechanic bull-”
“-and bottomless wings on Thursdays!”
You groan internally, refusing to lift your head. Maybe if you stay perfectly still, they may think you’re dead and leave.
Dennis is the first to notice his very much alive attending collapsed over the table. He freezes before frantically waving down the others to try and lower their volume.
Trinity squints at you before letting out a small snort. “That cannot be comfortable”
“Be quiet!” Victoria hisses, smacking Trinity’s arm as she circles the table to grab a snack from her bag. On her way back she stops dead, eyes widening. “Holy shit.”
Santos and Whittaker follow her stare straight to your left hand.
The huge engagement ring catches the fluorescent lights, the sparkly wedding band tucked beneath it looks like something out of a luxury commercial.
Your voice emerges, muffled and unimpressed from the cradle of your arms. “None of your business kiddos”
“Fuck- how long have you been awake?!” Santos jumps.
You lift your head just enough to glare at them through sleep-heavy eyes. “This whole time, you guys are the loudest people here. Now either lower the volume or go take your break somewhere else”
“But-” Whittaker opens his mouth.
“That’s an order from your attending” You raise your eyebrows, punctuating it with a soft, involuntary yawn.
They scatter instantly, shooting each other incredulous looks.
Once the door swings shut, you twist the glittering ring with your thumb. You slide both bands off after a moment, loop them onto the chain around your neck and tuck them beneath your scrubs.
You drop your head back into your arms, determined to steal at least another minute before being pulled into the thick of the emergency room.
You’ve just made it through pre-rounds with Robby when Trinity appears at your elbow.
“So .. Dr Angel, how was your evening?” She asks, her voice pitched with fake innocence.
“Very productive” You stare up at the patient chart displayed next to the nurse’s bay.
Dennis sidles up to your other side. “Productive like .. paperwork productive? .. Maybe marriage paperwork?”
“Really you two?” You drum your fingers over the desk. “Go and help your patients”
An hour later, you’re sanitising your hands after consulting with a patient when a cup of coffee is shoved into your hands by Javadi.
“I just think it’s really beautiful, you know? Marriage. Commitment. Love. Rings. Big rings, huge rings. Rings that look like they cost more than this years tuition-”
“Thanks Victoria” She beams at you, in total belief that she’s about to receive more information. Instead you walk to your next patient with a parting smile.
By lunch, the Pittlings have recruited reinforcements, Perlah, Donnie, even Jesse. All of whom try desperately for any sort of information about your mysterious husband.
You’re then cornered at the med cart by Princess, who’s pretending to grab supplies for a patient. “So, hypothetically if someone was married-”
“No”
“and hypothetically hiding it-”
“Nope”
“Would it be because the husband is famous? .. or dangerous? .. is he famous and dangerous?!”
“North 4 is waiting on their meds Princess”
Dana’s voice carries from the nurses desk as you drag your hands down your face for the millionth time this shift. “Trauma inbound, Angel, 2 minutes tops- you got this one or do you want Robby to take it?”
“I got it Dee, they give you anymore details?” You ask, snapping on a pair of blue gloves.
“Nope” She pops the P and sends you a smirk. “But I hear some people ‘round here are wanting more details from you”
She wiggles her left hand, you can’t help but roll your eyes, fighting a smile before heading to the ambulance bay.
On the way, you pass Ahmad’s betting board which is now decorated with neon sticky notes.
Who is Dr. Angel married to?
ER Doctor- Dana, Robby, Santos
Civilian - Ahmad, Perlah, Mel
Cop - Javadi
Criminal (morally grey) - Ogilvie
Firefighter - Donnie, McKay, Mohan
Made up to stop people from hitting on her - Joy
Someone famous - Princess, Emma
OR Doctor - Langdon, Whittaker
Peds Doctor - Mateo
Ahmad stands proudly beside it. “Morning Doc”
“What the hell is this Ahmad?” You stop dead in your tracks to examine it.
He lifts his hands up, trying to stifle laughter. “Don’t blame me! The people want to bet!”
You find yourself back hunched over the break room table just as you were before the start of the shift. 12 hours gone, only 12 more hours to go.
Every spare minute has been dodging questions, redirecting conversations about husbands and threatening (but not really) to write everyone up.
The door swings open again and you brace yourself for another onslaught of questions.
Instead Jack strolls in, backpack slung over his shoulders and a red shirt peaking out of his black scrubs. Completely unaware that the whole ED has been theorising about his existence.
“Hey Angel” he heads straight for the coffee pot.
You lean back in your seat, arms crossed loosely “You’re not supposed to be here for another two hours Jack”
“Well, you sound thrilled to see me” he teases, placing the cup in front of you before pulling up a chair.
“I know- I’m sorry, I am happy you’re here” You run your hand over your face, keeping eye contact with him. “.. Just tired”
“What’s bothering you?” His expression softens.
You let out a humourless laugh “Did you not see Ahmad’s betting board? ‘Who is Dr. Angel married to?’ I’ve had residents and med students alike questioning me like I’m a spy”
Jack’s mouth twitches upwards. “Sweetheart, you’ve been keeping this on the low for the past 15 years, how did they finally figure it out?”
“Whittaker, Santos and Javadi saw me with my rings on” You smirk slightly. “Victoria said that it looked like it cost more than her car”
He chuckles, taking your hand and lifting it to his lips. Pressing a kiss to the spot where your rings usually sit. “Only the best for my wife”
You brush a hand through his greying curls. “Kids okay?”
He nods “Dropped them at your parents, said we’d be back in time for them to open presents from Santa in the morning”
That pulls a real smile from you. You stand, squeezing his shoulder as you pass. “Gotta get back out there, waiting room’s a disaster”
“Hey” His fingers curl around your wrist gently, tugging you back. “I love you”
“I love you too” You lean down to press a chaste kiss to his lips.
Jack places a hand on your jaw, deepening the kiss slightly-
“Holy fucking shit!”
You jerk back, nearly knocking the coffee from the table.
Trinity stands in the doorway, her eyes wide and hands thrown in the air like she’d just witnessed a miracle.
“I knew that Robby and Dana knew who your husband was! Yes!” She turns on her heel, sprinting down the hallway to already collect her winnings.
“Best Christmas present ever! Suck it Huckleberry!”
“Merry Christmas to you too, I guess” you murmur, shaking your head in disbelief as Jack cackles squeezing your hand.
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