Summary: Jack realises it's time to put his cards on the table when an incident occurs during a TEMS operation.
Companion piece to:
Tummy Tingles - Jack feels his first flush of desire since Maria's death.
Go Your Own Way - Jack struggles with his feelings for you.
The Asshole King - Jack discovers you have an unusual technique for dealing with patients.
Courting - You don’t realise that Jack’s courting you.
A Compatibility Issue - Things get tense between you and Jack when he struggles to get a handle on his feelings for you.
Closed Door - You and Jack address the issues between the two of you when you run into each other at an unexpected place.
Bob Dylan - You help Jack to relax after an incident at the hospital leaves him temporarily blind.
Because Of You - Jack realises he's starting to heal in more ways than one after you spend the day taking care of him.
Balance - Jack reveals his feelings for you but they come with complications.
Ugly - Jack sees your scar for the first time.
Three Days (NSFW) - Jack spends three days making you his.
Messy - John doesn't mind getting a little messy when it's with you.
Off Limits - An awkward start to the day leads Jack to make a claim on your affections.
Prequel to:
This Old Cowboy (NSFW) - Jack’s jealousy gets the best of him when a member of the transplant team flirts with you at a hospital benefit.
The Go Bag - Your relationship with Jack takes a turn when you discover another go bag in his car.
Nadine - Jack's sister in law is a real piece of work.
Hawaii - Jack discovers who he really is when you book a trip to Hawaii.
Silk (NSFW) - Jack loves the sight of you in silk.
Sucker - Jack pulls out all the stops in order to win an important race.
Boston - You reflect on the past after your ex-husband makes an appearance on a trying day.
This God Damn Fucking Day - Jack steps into the fray with things get messy between you and you ex-husband.
Misdemeanour - Jack's forced to step in when you get arrested because of your ex-husband.
Fishtail - Jack helps you decompress in the aftermath of your ex-husband.
Love Language (NSFW) - Jack has his own unique love language.
What Puts You On That Ledge - Jack finds away to pull you off that ledge.
Champagne Gold (NSFW) - Jack never thought he'd marry again.
Masochist - You and Jack have an indepth understanding of one another.
Seven Shades of Fucked Up (NSFW) - You know exactly how to get Jack off.
Part of the Job - Violence has always been part of the job, but this time it hits a little too close to home for Jack.
Pittfest - Jack's day turns into a nightmare when he recieves a notification from the hospital regarding a mass casuality event.
Snapband - Jack's worst fear comes true during a mass casuality event.
Blood (NSFW) - Jack takes care of you in the aftermath of Pittfest in his own special way.
Life Raft - Jack reaches out when he sees that you're struggling.
Bread - Jack finds his own way to cope with almost losing you at Pittfest.
Overcompensating - A problem with Jack's prosthetic leads him to overcompensate during his shift.
Good Boy (NSFW) - You use alternative methods to get Jack to agree to take care of himself.
A Goddamn Miracle Worker - You always know the perfect way to take care of Jack.
Mood - Jack reacts badly when you surprise him with a trip to Germany.
A Force of Nature - Jack makes a suggestion regarding Germany.
Germany - Jack’s put through his paces when it comes to his new prosthetic.
Accessory - You tell Jack the real reason you won’t attend Jana’s party.
A Bad Night - Jack doesn’t mean to ream out a dying woman.
The Christmas Dragon - The only thing Jack wants for Christmas this year is to make his wife smile.
The Stress Ball - New Year’s Eve has never been Jack’s favourite night.
Three Good Things - Sometimes Jack just needs to hear three good things.
You don’t expect Jack to hand you the letter.
You’re sitting at the kitchen table, eating granola for breakfast and watching the sun go down when he slips the envelope into the space in front of you. It has your name written on it in his neat calligraphy, lovingly etched into the cream paper.
“What’s this?” You ask, setting down your spoon so you can pick up the envelope. It feels heavy in your hand, like it carries the weight of a thousand words as you study it.
Jack sits down stiffly into the chair alongside you, his elbows coming to rest on his knees as he rubs his palms together.
“That is my TEMS letter.” His voice is rough, a low rumble like tires rolling over fresh gravel. “When you join your team, you write a letter to the person you love, and you place it on the top shelf of your locker. That way if anything happens to you, your squad leader knows where to find it. We used to do something similar with our footlockers when I was in the military.”
“Oh.” You say, clasping it between your hands, before your brows furrow into a frown and you tilt your head up to study his features. “Jack, did something happen today?”
He makes a noncommittal noise before he reaches down, grasping the hem of his heather grey t-shirt, tugging it off over his head. Your gaze comes to focus on the indigo impact bruise, the one blossoming into a hue of violets and blues right over the space where his heart resides. You reach out to touch it but stop yourself before your fingers can chase over the mark.
“I took a bullet during the op I was assigned.” He tells you, winching as he pulls the shirt back on. “It knocked me on my ass when the vest caught it, there were a couple of minutes where I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe…” The muscle in his cheek twitches and for a second he’s back there, the acrid stench of cordite in his sinuses, stinging his nose and tongue. “All I could think about in that moment was all the things I didn’t tell you, all the things I had written in this letter but never said.”
He takes it from your hands, his thumb sliding under the gap in the edging, breaking the seal.
“So, I’m going to read it out to you honey, because I can’t go another day without you knowing exactly how I feel.”
Love Jack? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.
Before you join the taglist make sure to read the rules here as you otherwise you won’t be added.
Hand-delivered. Embossed. Heavy cream cardstock edged in metallic foil, the SDN insignia stamped across the top. You turn it over between your fingers, watching the chandelier light catch in the gold leaf.
SDN Annual Philanthropy Gala.
You weren’t planning on attending.
You rarely do.
But when your assistant casually mentions the name of the new dispatcher for the Phoenix Program, you RSVP within the hour.
────────────────────
The ballroom gleams.
Glass walls overlook the city skyline, all glittering steel and distant sirens. SDN banners hang in dramatic vertical lines from the ceiling. Servers glide past in immaculate black and white.
Heroes mingle.
Politicians posture.
Donors preen.
And you, well, you enter like you own the building.
Because technically, you funded half of it.
You’re not even wearing something fancy, your work clothes from this morning.
You make it three steps past the staircase before you feel it.
That familiar awareness.
Like someone tracking you across a battlefield.
You don’t look immediately.
You never do.
You accept a flute of champagne. Smile at someone from city council. Tilt your head just enough…
And there he is.
Robert Robertson.
Him
He looks… different.
Not dented armor and grease-streaked hands and frantic brilliance behind a welding mask.
No.
Tonight he’s in a tailored suit, charcoal grey, perfectly cut. His hair is combed back instead of sticking up from hours inside a workshop. Clean. Sharp.
Still intense.
Still watching everything.
Especially you.
You let him wait.
Then you turn.
His breath actually stutters.
You see it.
You enjoy it.
He crosses the room with the controlled focus of someone used to calculating structural integrity under pressure.
“Y/N.”
Your name is quieter than the room deserves.
“Mecha Man.”
A beat.
Then, softer, meant only for him.
“Or ‘Dispatcher’ now?”
His mouth twitches. “Don’t start.”
You take a sip of champagne, eyes never leaving his. “I would never.”
That’s a lie.
You always do.
You met him in a warehouse that smelled like metal and desperation.
Mecha Man Blue had already won the public's favor, having taken over 7 years before you met him, the mysterious unpowered person who was the savior of Los Angeles.
His armor was self-built. Self-funded.
Until it wasn’t.
You found him after a fight he barely survived. Systems fried. Servo motors screaming. Bank account worse. He’d refused help from anyone who wanted control of Mecha Man.
You didn’t.
You simply asked what he needed.
And wrote the check.
No press release.
No strings.
Just three words: Build something better.
He’s been indebted to you ever since.
Not financially.
Something far more dangerous.
“You look well,” he says, voice steady but eyes too bright.
“So do you.”
A pause.
“You left the field.”
He exhales slightly. “You know why.”
Yes. You do.
The suit was unfixable without more money than he had, and at that point you two had severed ties. Self destructive meets dismissive avoidant.
“And now?” you ask.
“Now I advise the people who make the decisions.”
There’s an edge there. Controlled. Sharp.
You tilt your head. “Do you enjoy it?”
“Did you enjoy helping me?”
Touché.
A small smile curves your mouth.
Tension
The music shifts. Something orchestral and slow.
Couples drift toward the dance floor.
You should circulate. Speak to the board. Secure the next project.
Instead, you hold his gaze.
The first notes are slow. String-heavy. Elegant.
You simply look at him and say, “Dance with me.”
Robert’s eyes flick briefly to the room, board members, press, heroes. “You enjoy putting me in impossible situations.”
“You always survived them.”
A beat.
Then, resigned but not unwilling, he offers his hand. “One dance.”
You place your fingers in his. “We’ll see.”
His palm is warm, warmer than you remember, and when he draws you into him, it’s careful at first. Respectable distance. Appropriate placement of hands. A consultant dancing with a donor.
You look down pointedly at the space between you.
“Robert,” you murmur, “if you’re going to pretend we’re strangers, at least don’t hold me like one.”
His jaw tightens. “We’re not in a warehouse.”
“No,” you agree softly. “You’re much better dressed.”
His hand shifts, subtle but decisive, resting more securely at your waist. Not inappropriate.
Just intentional.
“Better?” he asks.
“For now.”
You begin to move together, slow and controlled. He leads well. Of course he does. Precision is his language. Every step measured. Every turn exact.
“You’ve practiced,” you note.
“I adapt.”
“You hated events like this, I could never drag Mecha Man to one of my parties for even a night.”
“I still do.”
“And yet here you are.”
His gaze lowers to yours, something sharp flickering there. “Here I am.”
That almost makes you miss a step.
Almost.
“You could’ve told me you were joining SDN,” you say.
“You could’ve told me you were underwriting half their infrastructure.”
“I prefer discretion.”
“I prefer transparency.”
You smile faintly. “Since when?”
His mouth twitches despite himself.
The music swells slightly, and he turns you smoothly, bringing you back against him for a breath of a moment before facing him again.
“You know,” you say, fingers sliding just slightly higher on his shoulder than necessary, “you used to complain about politicians circling you like vultures.”
“I still do.”
“And now?”
“It’s a part of the job.”
“That sounds dangerously close to compromise.”
His hand at your waist firms.
“That sounds dangerously close to judgment.”
You tilt your chin up. “You always did hate when I questioned your strategy.”
“You always did it anyway.”
“Because you’re brilliant,” you say quietly. “But you’re not infallible.”
His eyes search yours, reading the layers beneath the words.
“You funded my suit,” he says, low enough that no one else hears. “Without asking what I planned to build.”
“I trusted you.”
“You shouldn’t have.”
“But I did. Paid off, no?”
The dance shifts into a slower rhythm. Other couples fade into the background. The chandeliers blur into soft gold halos.
He exhales through his nose. “You make it very difficult to remember my place.”
Your eyebrow arches. “And what place is that?”
“Employee.”
You laugh softly. “Mine? You’ve never been that.”
His thumb presses lightly into the fabric at your waist, unconsciously testing the line between propriety and something else.
“You think this is a game,” he murmurs.
“No,” you say, stepping closer so your bodies align more fully. “I think this is inevitable.”
His breath catches, barely, but you feel it.
“You’re dangerous,” he says.
“And you build weapons for a living.”
“I built protection.”
“Semantics.”
He spins you again, this time slower, drawing you back in with less space than before. Your hand settles against his chest. You can feel his heartbeat through the suit jacket.
Steady.
But faster than it was.
“It was never about the armor,” you say.
“I know.”
“Then what are we doing right now?”
He looks at you, not at the gown, not at the donors watching, not at the optics.
Just you.
“Testing structural integrity,” he replies quietly.
You smile.
“And?”
His hand slides a fraction lower at your back: firm, possessive now, no longer pretending.
“Under significant strain,” he says. “Still holding.”
Your lips curve near his ear as you lean closer.
“Good,” you whisper. “I’d hate to see you crack under pressure.”
His fingers flex at your waist.
“Y/N.”
“Yes, Robert?”
“If you keep looking at me like that—”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m still a hero.”
“You are.”
The music begins to fade toward its final notes.
He doesn’t let go immediately.
Neither do you.
Around you, applause rises politely as the song ends. Conversations resume. Glasses clink.
But his hand lingers at your waist.
“You always did enjoy destabilizing me,” he says quietly.
You smooth your hand down his chest, adjusting his tie with deliberate care.
“You always did enjoy pretending you were stable.”
His lips nearly smile.
“Dangerous,” he repeats.
“And yet,” you say softly, stepping back just enough to make him feel the loss of contact, “you’re still here.”
He watches you like he’s calculating trajectories again.
Only this time, you’re the impact point.
“I didn’t fund your armor because it was wise.”
His thumb presses unconsciously into your hip.
“Then why?”
“Because I believed in you.”
That lands.
He swallows.
For a split second, as Robert’s hand steadies at your waist, the polished marble beneath your heels becomes concrete.
Oil-stained.
Cold.
It smelled like ozone and overheated wiring the first time you stayed late.
His workshop was cavernous but cluttered, metal shelving sagging under spare parts, blueprints taped to the walls in overlapping layers. Sparks snapped in sharp bursts as he welded along the seam of his chest plate.
You stood near the workbench, arms folded, watching him through the cascade of light.
“You’re favoring the left servo,” you said casually.
The welding torch stopped.
Silence.
Then his visor lifted with a mechanical whir, revealing sweat-damp hair and eyes bright with irritation.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I recalibrated it.”
“After the Midtown collapse. Before that, it lagged by 0.3 seconds.”
He stared at you.
“You timed me?”
“I was concerned.”
“You were auditing.”
“Is there a difference?”
He set the torch down harder than necessary. “You wrote a check, Y/N. That doesn’t give you command access.”
You didn’t flinch.
You stepped closer instead.
The armor loomed on its stand behind him, half disassembled, plating removed to expose the intricate web of wiring and micro-actuators beneath. Beautiful in its complexity. Fragile in its vulnerability.
“I didn’t fund you to control you,” you said evenly.
“Then why did you?”
Because you saw potential.
Because you saw a man trying to build himself into something untouchable.
Because you wanted to be the one person he didn’t have to armor up around.
But you didn’t say that.
Instead: “Because you needed resources.”
His jaw tightened.
“I would’ve figured it out.”
“You were three weeks from living in that suit.”
That landed.
He looked away first.
Up close, he smelled like metal and heat and exhaustion.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” you said quietly.
“I do.”
“Why?”
His hands braced on the edge of the worktable. “Because the second I rely on someone else, they can pull the plug.”
You reached past him, slow enough that he could stop you, and touched the open chest cavity of the suit.
Cold alloy.
Wires like exposed nerves.
“You built failsafes into every system,” you said softly. “Redundancies. Backups.”
“That’s different.”
“Why?”
“Because this—” He gestured vaguely between you and him. “—isn’t machinery.”
You looked at him then. Fully.
“Neither are you.”
That did something to him.
You saw it.
The fracture in the armor he wasn’t wearing.
“You shouldn’t be here this late,” he said, but it lacked force.
“Are you dismissing your primary investor?”
“I’m protecting you.”
“From what?”
His gaze flicked toward the half-assembled suit.
“From the blast radius.”
You smiled faintly. “Robert, if I were afraid of explosions, I wouldn’t have walked into your life.”
A beat.
The air felt heavier.
Quieter.
He reached for a diagnostic tablet, clearly needing something to do with his hands. “You don’t understand the kind of enemies I make.”
“Then explain.”
“I don’t want you in their crosshairs.”
You stepped even closer, close enough that your shoulder brushed his arm.
“I’m already in them,” you said softly. “I signed my name to your upgrades.”
His breath shifted.
“You could walk away,” he said.
“Tell me to.”
Silence.
The hum of generators filled the space between you.
He didn’t tell you to.
Instead, his hand lifted, hovering near your wrist where you still touched the suit.
“Y/N,” he said quietly, “this thing isn’t me.”
“I know.”
“It’s just what I use.”
“I know that too.”
Your fingers slid from the cold metal to the warmth of his forearm.
“I didn’t fund the suit,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “I funded you.”
The words hung there.
Heavy.
Irrevocable.
His throat worked as he swallowed.
“You don’t make small decisions,” he murmured.
“No.”
His hand finally closed around your wrist, not restraining. Not pulling away.
Holding.
“You’re going to regret this,” he said.
“Probably.”
“And you’re still here.”
“I never said I was smart.”
Something in him gave way then, not dramatically. Not all at once.
Just enough.
He released your wrist slowly, but his fingers lingered against your skin like he was memorizing the contact.
“Stay back when I test the thrusters,” he said gruffly, turning slightly toward the suit again.
You smiled to yourself.
A concession.
“Fine,” you replied. “But if you blow up my investment, I expect a full report, double-spaced.”
He huffed a quiet laugh.
And when the thrusters roared to life moments later, bright and powerful and controlled—
You watched him.
Not the armor.
Him.
────────────────────
You don’t remember deciding to leave the dance floor.
One moment you’re swaying under crystal chandeliers.
The next you’re stepping out onto a quiet balcony, the doors sliding shut behind you.
Cold air.
Distant sirens.
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years.
“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” he says automatically.
You turn to face him fully.
“I’m not.”
Silence.
Then—
“You could have asked for anything,” he says. “Back then. For the money. Influence. Control. Me. You didn’t.”
“I didn’t want those things. That's not why I helped you.”
“What did you want?”
You step closer.
Close enough that the front of his suit brushes your gown.
“Respect,” you say softly. “And honesty.”
His hand lifts, hesitates near your waist again.
“Then here’s honesty.”
His voice lowers.
“You were the only person who looked at me and didn’t see a liability.”
The admission is raw.
Real.
It hits harder than anything else tonight.
Your fingers slide up his lapel, smoothing fabric that doesn’t need smoothing.
“You still aren’t. Even if, I’d take the gamble.”
Something shifts.
The tension snaps.
His hand settles at your waist, firm now. Certain. The other cups your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone like he’s memorizing it.
You tilt your face up.
He kisses you like a man who’s held back too long.
It’s not frantic.
It’s deliberate.
Deep.
His control is there, but barely.
Your hands slide into his hair, undoing that careful polish. He exhales against your mouth, grip tightening, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you.
Heat replaces the night air.
You feel the tremor in him, not weakness. Containment.
You kiss him harder.
He responds instantly.
His hand slides along your back, fingers splaying, holding you like something precious and powerful all at once.
“Y/N,” he breathes against your lips, warning and plea intertwined.
“Robert,” you answer.
No warning.
No plea.
Just certainty.
Your mouths meet again, slower this time. Intentional. The kind of kiss that promises rather than steals.
The balcony door reflects you back, wealth and iron, power and precision, two people who never quite let go.
His forehead rests against yours.
“If we do this,” he says quietly, “it can’t be another debt.”
You smile faintly.
“It won’t be.”
“Then what is it?”
Your fingers trace the line of his jaw.
“An investment.”
He laughs softly, real, unguarded.
Then he kisses you again.
And when his hand slips into yours, when he guides you back toward the private elevator at the end of the hall —
Somewhere between gold and steel, you finally stop pretending this was just business.
i looked this up cause i wanted to know if you could and you can technically but then you’re instantly guilty of contempt of court and go directly to jail
If we truly care about male victims of abuse, I hope we can boycott and hold accountable Amber Heard with the same vigour we earlier treated Johnny Depp with.
I have not seen a single source to anything saying Amber Heard abused him. No articles, just the same 4 pictures. And the ones I have seen are from untrustworthy news sources and I had to look them up myself!
Here’s what else I looked up, that you should Google too:
Johnny Depp assaulting a security guard in 1989
Johnny Depp having a fight with his girlfriend Kate Moss in 1994 and trashing his hotel room
Johnny Depp punching a crew member from City of Lies
Or if you’re feeling particularly cheeky, Google “is tmz a trustworthy news source” and stop putting that picture of the finger on posts
Okay but I just went and watched this for myself and it’s WORSE
He’s. So uncomfortable. It’s obvious. I cut out the part where John kind of muttered, “That is true, isn’t it” about how all men think they’re funny, but his face is just screwed up in this ‘oh god what have i done what have i signed up for this is not good and this will probably go into my next comedy special of awkwardness’
Look I don’t care what you think. Zukos level of scar tissue indicates a severe second degree burn.
Second degree burns burn down to the Dermis and epidermis of the skin. It’s highly possible that nerves are damaged, and possibly the optic nerve. Especially if any part of his eye came into contact with fire.
What I’m saying is that there’s like a 90% chance he’s blind in that eye. Or at least severe vision loss.
