you know what is so funny about this picture? Both of these bitches are going THROUGH IT one of them is actively suicidal and the other has a scalpel in her pocket. and yet they stay silly.
the parallels between trinity and langdon constantly being at risk of relapsing because the hospital is the perfect combination of “drug of choice at your disposal” and “clusterfuck that makes you wanna relapse”
summary: jack comes home to an unexpected guest—and finds them rather reminiscent of himself
cw: nothing but fluff and a little bit of excitement in the beginning
wc: 1.5k
a/n: ah, so this is not the first jack fic i’ve started, but the first one i’ve finished. hope you enjoy it. lowkey only read it over once, so ignore any mistakes, I promise they’re, um, stylistic choices.
some abbot smut is def incoming, especially after i heard shawn's second episode this morning while getting ready and almost missed my bus because of how distracted I was.
Jack prides himself on having a pretty good gut feeling about your well-being. It’s almost like a sixth sense that lets him know that you’re fine. And that sense hasn’t sounded the alarm yet, but something feels amiss.
He doesn’t get to check his phone for longer than a few seconds every time during his entire shift—only ever allowing him a glance long enough to see that you haven’t texted him.
He tells himself you’re fine. You’re most likely tucked away in bed, sound asleep and deeply unaware of all the terrible things that happen to people late at night—a privilege he’ll never get back.
But the pit in his stomach doesn’t ease up.
By the time 7 am rolls around, he’s more eager than ever to get out of the PTMC, get into his car, and drive home to check on you. He considers calling you from the car, but he doesn’t want to wake you in case everything’s fine and you’re asleep. Part of him thinks it might be some sort of PTSD kicking in, a desperate need to protect everyone around him, you at the very top of that list. He promises himself to bring this up in his next therapy session, but before that, he needs to see your face.
The quiet that greets him when he gets home is not the kind he’s used to after years of working the night shift. It’s different, thicker, more loaded.
And then it’s interrupted.
A sound he can’t quite place echoes down from upstairs. It’s like a soft pitter-patter, fast and a little uncoordinated.
Jack’s eyebrows furrow together. The noise is much too soft to be originating from your movements, but he struggles to come up with any other explanation.
He takes two steps at a time, his leg stinging quite a bit after his long work day/night, as he walks up the stairs.
The door to your shared bedroom is closed all the way—it rarely ever is.
As suspicion makes space for fear, Jack’s fingers wrap around the lamp on the side table in the landing area. He can’t imagine that a burglar would try his luck in the early morning hours, and he pays more than enough for the security system of the house, but his concern for your safety outweighs logic.
With his makeshift weapon in one hand, he takes a step forward and inhales deeply before he makes contact with the door handle.
But just as his fingers touch the cold brass, he hears something. Your voice. And you don’t sound scared at all.
“Shh, sweetie, you gotta be quiet.”
At first, he only feels relief. Then your words process. And Jack realizes you aren’t alone in there. His mouth falls open.
It’s not jealousy he feels in response to what you said—it’s immediate heartache.
It can’t be, he thinks. You wouldn’t do that. You wouldn’t bring some stranger into the house and—he can’t even bring himself to finish the thought. But then he hears your voice again, so soft and tender as you whisper words he can’t quite make out.
You wouldn’t talk like this to a man—or woman, for that matter. Jack’s confusion grows into utter perplexity.
There’s only one thing he can do.
He pushes the door open and stares.
The scene he’s met with barely makes sense in the beginning. You’re crouched on the floor, a fluffy wand with a feather attached at its end in your hand.
The room smells a little bit like fish, and there is all this white and grey hair sticking to your black sweatshirt—no, not hair. Fur.
“Sweetheart? What’s going on here?”
Jack is frozen between rooms, the divot between his brows growing deeper. You smile sheepishly, and he instantly knows you’ve done something you weren’t supposed to.
“Hi, honey,” you mumble, your voice lowered. “I, um… I have a surprise for you?”
Jack figures this was supposed to come out like a statement, but it sounds more like a question.
“What are you doing on the floor?” he asks, extending a hand to help you up from the floor. You take it, but instead of letting him pull you to your feet, you tug on his hand (the one that’s not holding the lamp) and guide him to sit down.
“Don’t be mad, please,” you request.
He furrows his brows as if you’ve just said something utterly ridiculous.
“I won’t be mad, princess, but… what… what is going on?”
You take a deep breath, then mutter, “I found a—”
Before you can finish speaking, a fuzzy little ball of grey and white shoots out from under the bed. With its considerable speed, the furry thing knocks into the dresser, then disappears under it.
“What was that?” Jack gasps, crouching down ungracefully to peer under the furniture. “Was that a rat?”
You tut instantly and shake your head.
“That was not a rat, Jack.”
Your soft laughter fills the room, but he is still trying to get a glance at whatever was currently trying to make its home underneath his socks and underwear.
Just as you open your mouth to keep explaining, a pink nose peeks out. White whiskers are attached to said nose, and Jack has to admit that it’s much too big to be a rat.
When the rest of its furry face becomes visible, Jack’s goes a little pale.
“Baby,” he begins. “Is there a cat hiding under the dresser?”
You smile awkwardly, then nod.
“A kitten,” you reply.
He leans down even further to get a better look at the animal, then gives you a look full of disbelief.
“That’s not a kitten. That… that is a cat, in every sense of the word.”
You frown softly, and all he wants to do is kiss your face, even though you brought some possibly flea-ridden stray into his house without asking first.
“She’s a baby.”
“She? She? She is a cat—wet nose, whiskers, and four paws.”
“Three.”
Jack blinks at you, then mutters, “Excuse me?”
“She has three paws,” you explain, then whistle softly. The kitten—cat—whatever she is, peers out of her hiding place and glances between you and Jack. He receives a rather critical look, prompting him to scoff. Then she stalks out of the tight space right into your lap.
The little feline truly has only three legs and a little stump where the fourth was supposed to be.
“What happened to her?” he asks quietly, reaching out to let the cat sniff his fingers. She does that, rather disinterested though.
“I don’t know,” you mumble.
“And how old is she?” he continues.
“I don’t know. Baby age,” you repeat.
He gives you a sour glance, but if he’s honest, he is fighting a smile.
“And what is she doing here?” he questions.
You look down at the little fur ball and smile.
“I found her.”
“And decided to keep her?”
“Yep.”
Jack sighs deeply and scratches behind her ears. When she starts purring, he’s no longer able to suppress a grin.
“She’s a little sweetheart,” he mutters.
As if to contradict him, the cat swats at his fingers—at least without claws—and then turns in your lap to look away from him.
“I stand corrected,” he says. “She’s feisty. You found a little diva.”
You keep petting the cat, who has taken a much bigger liking to you than to him, and look up at him. He knows the dreaded question is coming before you even open your mouth.
“Can we keep her?”
Jack exhales audibly, then takes another look at her.
“We don’t know where she came from,” he reminds you. “She might have a family, sweetheart, people who are looking for her.”
“But she’s so thin and her- her fur’s all matted. There was no collar, and I even checked to see if there’s a tattoo in her ear, and there isn’t. We could take her to the vet and have her checked for a chip. And if—” you argue, but he stops you before you get your hopes up too high.
“Baby, wait, wait,” he says. “Alright. We’ll take her to the vet, but I… please don’t think about names and cat trees and all that just yet, okay? Let us see what we can find out about her first.”
He can’t believe he’s agreeing to this, but then adds, “And if there’s no chip and nothing else to indicate she might belong to someone else, we… we can keep her.”
The cat jumps from your lap as you fall into Jack’s arms, the biggest smile he’s ever seen on your face.
“Oh, thank you, honey,” you answer, the words a little muffled as you speak them against the side of his neck.
He gently rubs your back and shakes his head.
“I can’t believe half the things you get up to while I’m away at work.”
The cat stares at him, her yellow eyes following the movement of his hand on your back rather critically. Jack sighs again, realizing he might have just lost the number one spot in your heart to a three-legged ball of fur. But then again, you’ve always had a thing for strays with missing limbs.
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genuinely put my whole fucking fist in my mouth when baran al hashimi showed up in that fucking tank top. and then cassie mckay in that fucking tank top. baran's mane of gorgeous curls. cassie's arm around victoria's shoulders. meltos scene. the fucking song choice. is she perverted like me? trinity TAKING DOWN MEL'S BRAID. this episode was for the lesbians oh my fucking god
I want to be heard (doesn’t speak) I want to be understood (doesn’t explain) I want to be seen (acts like if a missing person was right in front of everybody)
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