⋆˚࿔ 𝙈𝙞𝙢𝙯𝙮 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ @bambimagicz - Tumblr Blog

Jul 15

snow on the beach (3)

jack abbot x younger senior resident fem!reader

⤷ chapter summary: your play pretend family starts to settle into a routine, but trouble always ensures. ╱ 11k

⤷ warnings/tags. 18+ (minors dni), eventual smut, age gap, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, pinning, unrequited love, heavy angst, there was only one bed, hurt/comfort, domestic!abbot, fluff, reader goes by the nickname lola. tw: suicide, use of drugs (x1 marijuana). inspired by the movie life as we know it.

⤷ notes. will you believe me if i tell you i lowkey was thinking about pedro when writing a certain character here? you can't escape your roots! also, the reason i pushed this two days later is i underestimated the length (it's literally 11:59pm bruh) and chose to watch the wc instead; LET'S GO SCALONETAAA!

ㅤㅤㅤseries masterlist ⋆ previous ⋆ next

Finding out the most challenging thing of your life isn't bringing someone back to life or doing a spinal tap but changing a fucking diaper is a new low.

Jack was the one who noticed it first, which is considerably amazing since you'd think his sense of smell was fucked up as a veteran.

"No, I can't smell it. What?"

He tilts his head towards the baby. Oh. Now you get why.

"Maybe she finaIIy pooped. Did she?"

You pick her up, nose instantly regretting it as a wave of nausea hits you. Jack stands at your left.

"Yeah, I think you may be right."

Upstairs, in her bedroom, you place the baby over the changing station. You cover your nose out of habit.

"It's not that bad. Just a weird smeII, right?"

"It is," he replies but looks about to throw up, which again, as a veteran, you'd think he has a little more resistance. "Go ahead then."

Your turn to face him.

"What? Why me? Because I'm the girI?"

His eyes darken with annoyance.

"Don't go there. You're the one who loves kids here, where did that love go?"

You exhale heavily through your nose.

"I never said I loved changing diapers, which by the way, I've never done before in my life!"

Jack shrugs, "It's never too late to learn."

Without thinking, you grab his hand. You feel him tense under your unexpected touch.

"Take the tabs off," you instruct, ignoring how he volunteered you before. "See? These little, yeah-"

For some miracle, he obeys under your tight grip. As soon as he removes them and pulls down the diaper, you gasp. Abbot gags.

"Don't do that," you protest, "you're gonna make me throw up."

"She didn't eat enough to produce that. Just a banana," he mutters with disbelief. Then, looks away, "Oh, she's getting it in her toes."

"Okay, give me the wipes."

He pulls a chunk out, frantic. You wipe her feet hastily.

"Give me another one!" you bark, extending your hand.

The doorbell rings. Probably the food you ordered earlier.

"Oh. I got it."

"Abbot," you call in between gritted teeth, "don't Ieave me in here."

But he's already running downstairs, moving as fast as his body can take him.

"Jack!"

"Can't leave the Doordash guy waiting!" he calls back.

You look back at Diana, who softly coos.

"Who'd say such a tiny thing can make all... These," you whisper, then groan. "Oh, it's burning my eyes."

After what feels an eternity, you come down to find Jack sorting out take out. He looks up instantly, only to go speechless, mouth open slightly.

"What? She's fine. In fact, perfect. And I did all that without your help."

"No," he walks out of the kitchen towards you, "it's not that-"

"You're a coward," you scoff. "You think you're off the hook because your shift starts soon?"

"No, it's just-"

"What?!"

"Sweetheart," Jack's whole face threatens to break into a grin, "you have shit on your face."

Your eyes widen.

"Take her," you practically shove Diana into his hands, "I'm going to wash my face."

Both shame and his laughter follow you into the bathroom, your reflection mocking your bad luck with the clear stain in your cheek. You feel yourself gag.

"It's official," you say as you come out of the bathroom, "I'm skipping lunch."

"But sweetheart," Jack's voice is laced with mockery, "you worked so hard to clean Didi up. Accept your prize."

Diana gurgles, slamming her hands against the kitchen island's surface like it's the most entertaining game in the world.

"You're crazy if you think I'll eat a burrito full of beans after having shit streaked across my face. In fact, I think I'm never eating beans again."

He sets his food down.

"In fact, I think I lost my appetite too."

You smirk, "Can't handle the sight of a little shit, Abbot?"

"I'm handling you," he answers without looking up.

Your face burns with embarrassment.

"Try for about a year or the time we have left together."

He looks at you before answering flatly:

"Can hardly wait."

Without bothering to wait for another reply, he gets up, groaning.

"Since lunch is postponed, I might as well take a nap before I leave."

And here comes the other problem. Maybe changing a diaper isn't the worst thing. No, scratch that.

It's the horrible realization that there is only one bed. In the house you share. With Jack Abbot. The man you hate.

"Yeah, about that..."

"What?" he chuckles, "still keeping up the diaper grudge?"

You roll your eyes. "I don't hold grudges."

"Is that right?" Abbot's tone drops a shade meaner than his usual sarcasm. "Yeah, then your reason for switching to the day shift must be shallow."

Something flares in your chest, both the shame that comes from recognition and the rage that follows after it washes into something wounded.

You don't feel like poking at old scars that have healed. You don't feel like talking to Jack Abbot at all.

But he's here, as stated by Noelle and his duty to his old friend, maybe, so you need to be water when his fire meets your rage.

"There is only one bed," you deadpan.

The guest room Robby never used, avoiding its fate of turning into a storage room only because the previous owners had a bed in there he never bothered to sale or get rid of.

He blinks before running a hand through his greying locks, choking out a sound that can be a snort or a huff.

"Can't this day get any better?"

Even when he's being a douche (to you), he strays back to his manners. Jack, ever the gentleman, offers it to you.

Be it your pride or a certain guilt of letting a war amputee sleep on the couch, you deny it.

"We're obviously not sharing a bed" you anticipate before he comes up with one of his lines. "You're always free to take Robby's old room."

"So his ghost can berate me for stealing his favorite resident?" Jack coughs up, "damn right."

You can't tell if the recoil of your stomach is because you're irritated at his joke or the implications of it. You also can't tell if his voice is heavy with mockery or something else.

"Disrespecting the dead? Wow, there goes another reason to hate you on my list."

He smirks, looking the type of smug you've come to hate. You remember last week, the same loathsome cheeky attitude he used when he met Dr. Al-Hashimi for the first time. Talked about drinks after finding a common ground.

You were annoyed at how it always seemed to work. Only that. Because it didn't work on you, so it was annoying to see it do its magic on others.

"If you keep a list, I don't think you hate me as much as you say," he retorts, amused. "Boy pulling girl's pigtails type of situation."

"And who is who?"

He doesn't reply but gifts you with a boyish grin.

When you feel heat up your neck, you decide it's time to get back on track.

"We should decide on it fairly."

If it's to not contradict you or appreciation over your supposed concern, you'll never know, his expression settled into his usual stoicism.

"And how will we sort it out?"

Turns out deciding by Rock, Paper, Scissors feels childish for two indecisive grown-ups forced to live together.

"We can spin a bottle," you suggest, "I'm sure it won't be hard to find an empty one."

He smirks. "If you wanted to kiss me, you could've just said."

That earns him a slap on his arm.

Jack sighs, "we should just flip a coin."

"No," you insist, "it has to be earned."

"So you suggest we hold a rally because you feel sorry for me or can't handle some skin?"

You grit your teeth until your jaw hurts.

"I can handle you, Abbot."

You had.

One year of putting up with his silences when the shift got heavy, of being able to dodge the coldness of his interactions with others. Of suppressing the rush of heat to your face whenever he got too playful for your liking. It had to account for something.

He just smirks. "I'd like to see you try."

You don't think you can survive another year like this.

"The bed should be mine just because of what comes out of your mouth."

"And that is?" he taunts.

"Crap," you throw blankly.

"Oh," he crosses his arms, "but I thought that's what came out from-"

"Okay!" you interrupt, feeling your skin burn where the streak used to be in your cheek, "I get it."

You look around the room, trying to figure out if sleeping on the couch would be better than enduring one more second of Jack's nonsense.

It's like throwing darts in the dark.

Wait.

"I have an idea."

You remember one Saturday you had the rare, free weekend. Because of some small talk with Robby and having nothing better to do, you ended up volunteering to help him do some "Spring Cleaning" on his garage, or in Dr. Garcia's words, free labor for some dick.

"Then it wouldn't be free," you answered, several shades red. She never confirmed her suspicions nor did you deny them.

That's why you remembered it, obviously. Not because the garage had meant hours trapped inside with your boss under the unbearable heat, sweat mixed with his musk and perfume lingering in the air. Or every time you teased him when boxes filled with crap kept showing up, asking why he had many or moved to such a big house.

"Your idea of a sad bachelor pad is pretty warped, Robby."

"It's because this is an update."

You find a cobweb the size of America and sneeze.

"Whatever you say."

He gave you a cryptic smile, enough to make your heartbeat pick up.

"It's never too late."

You try not to cry over some stupid darts.

"You want us to play that?" Jack laughs, but it's not, for the first time in a while, to make fun of you. No, he looks like just the mere suggestion is entertaining to him. "I hope you're not thinking of stabbing one through my heart."

The baby laughs from the carpet like the thought of a dart piercing through Jack impenetrable Abbot is the funniest idea in the whole world.

Your voice drips with sarcasm as you grab the darts, "Wow, it's like you can still read my mind."

"Old habits die hard."

You try to brush by the real intention behind his tone and not think about it.

"I can still win."

What you need is to focus on the dartboard. And if you feel your stomach recoil, that's breakfast, not nerves of him. Never. Maybe nerves at the prospect of losing; you're a sore loser. "

"Not to burst your bubble, sweetheart, but you're playing against a veteran. My aim is literally better than yours."

"It's not all about aim."

Abbot laughs―actually laughs, loud and unapologetic, as if you're friends drinking on a bar and playing darts, not strangers trying to sort a dumb decision out in the name of avoiding the hassle of sharing a bed.

"It is all about aim."

You're determined to prove him wrong. Like some cheap guru or self-help book you'd buy last minute at the airport: It is all in the mind.

"I will win this bed from you."

"Out of spite or because you'd like to sleep well?"

"Whatever annoys you more."

You take down a frame that clearly still has the default picture it comes with. In the nail left, you hang the dartboard.

"Ladies first," as he makes an obnoxious reverence.

"You're giving me an advantage?"

Jack smirks. "It's cute you think you can still win, sweetheart."

He's being annoying on purpose, like he always is with you. Short fuse, he called you once (you weren't a stalkerm but alas, you found it on Robby's chat with him).

"I can. Move."

Jack got off on provoking you, since that was his way of getting under your skin―your sensibility always made you react; an easy target.

Speaking about targets.

Whizz.

Thump!

It lands on a single.

Fuck.

Okay, maybe picturing his face as the target on the dartboard isn't a good strategy.

"It's your turn," you dare, but when you see him, your courage dies.

Suddenly, it's not Dr. Jack Abbot in front of you, but that war veteran he never talked of yet sometimes haunted over how he moved through the ER and life: practical, logics over heart, sharp eyes, detached; nothing but an impenetrable mask with one goal in mind.

He plants his feet like he's never been more sure of anything on his life and takes a deep breath.

Swish.

Thwack!

Inner ring, effortlessly.

"Guess I'm a little rusty," he smiles a little bit sheepish, totally not distracting.

Nor were the muscles of his back, flexing with effort. Or the same force on his voice reflecting on the sole move, authority oozing from his hand, coming from years of saving and taking lives both alike. He commands a certain energy that makes it sure you doubt you can win this.

This, obviously, you won't tell him.

"It's my turn again, move."

He chuckles, doing as told. "Eager?"

Since imagining Jack doesn't work, copying him could. So you squint your eyes until they are on the brink of closing, focusing on a spot. Below his dart, on the lower half of the inner ring. Your body fails to imitate his rigid posture, almost like it's allergic to the discipline that's forged the man in front of you.

Swoosh.

Thwick!

Just one breath away from landing on the sad single section again. But it didn't.

"Did you see that? I did it!," you clap, jumping up and down with excitement, "It landed on the perfect spot. Ha! Take that, Abbot!"

He shrugs, "Beginners luck."

You feel like a toddler who's been told by the big kids they aren't cool enough to play.

"Never " you mock, "or just jealous?"

"Of your bad throwing skills?"

Is Robby watching from somewhere the two people he loves the most, settle silly bed arrangements with the dartboard he doesn't even know how it ended on his garage? With his forehead lines and mouth pressed into a flat, annoyed scowl?

"I'm a natural, landing so close on my first game and-"

Swish.

Plock!

He cracks his knuckles as you swallow your heart, "Guess I'm not that rusty after all."

Outer bullseye. He has to be kidding.

"But- How did you...?"

Jack chuckles, satisfied. "Like I said, you'd never beat a veteran."

You deflate a little, and yet say: "There's still a chance. There always is."

Here is the part where he calls you naive, to take off your rose tinted glasses. Instead, a tempting smile draws over his features.

"Okay, Lola. Double or nothing."

He sees the fire crackle in your eyes. Jack knows you love to put up a fight.

"Meaning?"

"Whoever hits closest to the bullseye, wins."

You go first.

You feel like you're about to kick a penalty for your team during a final.

"Don't worry, you've done pretty well so far for a beginner."

He doesn't give you time again to dwell on his words and feelings.

Swoosh.

Thump!

"Hey, it was my turn! Oh-"

Close, but not enough. Jack threw first and missed?

He gives you a certain look. "Well, it's over for me. It's up to you, sweetheart."

You close your eyes and take a deep breath. You think of things that make you happy to gain strength from, or something like that had been said by those bullshit healthcare influencers who kept rehashing the same points in the name of self-growth.

Swizz.

Thwack!

"Holy shit!"

Directly into the bullseye. What is an anxious overachiever's steady pulse over a veteran's?

You giggle like you just won the lottery. The baby jumps into your happiness, cooing as she extends her hands.

Did Robby see that? How you beat Abbot for the first time?

"We won! You saw that? We won over uncle Jack!" you pick her up. She gurgles, little mouth curved into a grin. "We did it! He didn't believe in us but we did it!"

The baby extends her hand to the board as you prance around the kitchen.

"What? Wanna touch the board where I beat Jack's ass?"

"Language," he calls, leaning against the cool granite of the kitchen.

"She can't understand. She's not even one."

Jack's lips curve up, "but she feels."

You huff, absolutely hating he throws back your words to you. So you move to the board and let her touch it.

"You know, these have a pretty funny name in spanish," Abbot turns, unsure who you're speaking to but spellbound enough to feel it's for him. She extends her tiny hand to touch the material of the dartboard. "They're called Dianas."

Jack blinks, surprised. The baby keeps in trance, her mouth opening and closing. At the last sound, she giggles.

"D- D... D-"

You find it adorable how she clearly tries to imitate the sounds.

"Diana, baby. Like Wonder Woman, or Lady Di. Yes, Di! Don't you think it's cute? Di?"

She coos, like you just called her. Her eyes shine, and for a moment, the world stops: just cold burritos, six dusty darts over an even dustier dartboard, baby in your arms and Jack looking at you like you cracked the code to unlock the world's biggest fortune.

"I have her name," you mumble in awe, as if things have never been more clear before, "Diana."

Maybe it's your smile, or the warmth that crawls to his chest without permission. The way you look at Diana, eyes softening when she stirrs in your arms and laughs whenever you say Di, Di, Di.

Whatever it is, Jack Abbot, for the first time since this mess started, feels things can be okay.

To you, his face shows relief at another task completed. To anyone else, not in denial, it looks dangerously close to affection.

"Next case. The matter of Diana Robinavitch, Index Number 05893-01."

This is not how you pictured how your first free week in years would be. Certainly not sitting at court hearings and definitely not with your deceased attending's latest fling sitting as emotional support behind.

Robby's lawyer, a man on his sixties who only answers to Mr. Slater is next to both you and Jack, who carries Diana on his arms. She's busy gurgling and playing with the rubber duck that makes too much noise for a court hearing at seven in the morning.

You can tell Abbot is trying very hard not to fall asleep standing, but his eyelids keep on dropping every other second.

"AII right. I've read your submissions aIong with the wiII. Given that you foIks were named as guardians..."

Maybe that's why he doesn't realize the toy is a brisk movement away from falling until it hits the floor and squeaks loudly in protest. He jolts in a way that's too obvious to mask.

The clerk clears their throat and continues.

"...I see no reason to countermand the parent's wishes."

Jack tries to retrieve it when Diana starts to get fuzzy. He bends quickly, the sudden movement making him wince and grab his right leg. Seeing her toy isn't coming back to her hands any sooner, Diana's mouth begins to quiver.

"However. Permit-"

You try to do it yourself, but the lawyer stops you before you even consider leaving your spot.

"Just Ieave it," Jack whispers at your side.

"But she's about to cry," you insist with a whisper-shout, kneeling again.

Slater rolls his eyes at your unprofessional behavior.

"Let's Ieave the duck. What do you say we stand up?"

You're under the table when you reply, "I'm almost done, just-"

The loud Squeak! cuts right through the awkward silence as your hands grab it.

"Stand up," Slater grits through his teeth, "and don't squish it too hard."

You nod, hastily. That's why, trying to gain back your dignity, you end up doing everything but that, bumping your head on the table.

"Sorry," you stand up, passing the toy to Jack. He catches it with one hand while the other carries Diana, who at the sight of the toy, stops her whimpering.

The clerk gives you a look. They sigh and decide to just wrap it up.

"Until now, I hereby grant joint IegaI and physicaI custody of Diana Robinavitch to Y/n L/n and Jack Abbot."

They pound the gavel, meaning it's over. You smile, knowingly, but Jack seems frustrated.

'That's it? You're not gonna ask us anything?" he protests. "How do you know we're not drug addicts or crazy people? You can't be that trusting."

You fake laugh loudly. "He's a funny guy, isn't he?"

"Are you drug addicts or crazy people?"

"No," he mutters, "we're doctors."

"Then that's even better. Don't you think, Mr. Abbot?"

And just like that, it's official: you're in for a long ride.

The worst part of living with Jack Abbot is finding out it isn't so bad.

Well, that being because you don't see each other that much―just the right amount. Now that you're back to work, him doing nights and you days, the time spent together is relatively short, especially because most of that time is spent taking care of Diana.

Two weeks: That's how long you've been able to live without killing each other. Sure, there's the sarcastic comment here and there, but nothing too bad to ruin the perfectly curated balance you've reached. As embarrassing as it is, you and Jack have fallen into a routine: the one written on a whiteboard, hanging at the entrance of the house.

Can't get any more domestic than that.

Or it could, if you take into account the last weekend where you three went into the park and an elderly couple thought you made the Cutest couple ever. Perhaps it's when you go to the supermarket, Diana in her basket, and realize you buy things you know he likes, as if, no matter the years you have of not being his subordinate, you still remember things as if you know him (like how he hates soy milk and prefers oranges over tangerines). Maybe it's when you passed out on the couch after a night trying to put Diana down and woke up on your bed, Jack back at his spot in there.

(At first, you insisted on rotating. He said it wasn't practical and that you'd won the room fairly. Also, the couch was comfortable, something you doubted after you heard him grunt while touching his back and found a receipt for painkillers on the trash can)

When you arrive at six thirty, he's already wearing his scrubs, clothes tight against his skin. If possible, what's even more tense than his uniform is himself. You don't know how you know it the moment you see him, you just do.

(Maybe is how his quiet feels forced; voice softer, like he doesn't trust what may come out of his mouth. His gaze turns unfocused; distant―frozen on a time ridden by guilt and ghosts. The lines deeper, almost carved into his freckled skin, making him look his age. How he repeatedly sniffs, like the scent of blood has followed him back home)

"Everything okay?"

He grunts in response. "Just a long shift ahead."

It could be that. Sometimes it's his past life, others his wife. Lately, it could be mourning his best friend; living in what used to be his house isn't certainly helping.

"Where is she?" you attempt to smile, "I want to see my little girl."

Diana coos in his arms, sucking her fingers. Abbot passes her to you without sparing her a second glance, making her little lip wobble.

"You aren't going to say goodbye to her?"

Jack doesn't meet your eyes, "There's food in the frigde."

You watch him go, burdened by weights he won't share. Your heart can't help but grow heavy as his car leaves the suburban street.

Aside from the lack of sleep both because of the couch and Diana's piercing cries through the night, as well as your demanding jobs, you know Jack's frustrated he can't go out with the SWAT team anymore. Instead of being a SWAT physician, he's stuck playing house with a baby he didn't want and still doesn't, no matter how he watches every corner of the house when she crawls or how he smiles with a quiet pride when Diana eats all her food.

And he doesn't say it, but it's quite close to.

First, saying that you needed to sleep and balancing a baby with your R4 year was not healthy. Then, complaining when making Diana stop crying meant playing nursery rhymes on YouTube instead of his hockey games ("I know more Cocomelon lyrics than scoreboards this season"). Also each time the stress was too much to handle managing the midnight chaos on the ER and coming home to a tiny human who needed their help on everything.

But even then, he never lashed out on you. He shut out, and you let him. At least then, he had time for himself.

You're currently bathing Diana, secretly wishing it was you on the tub. Back at your apartment, if the one room place could be called that, you don't have a tub this big to take a nice, warm bath. One time, Robby let you use it. Safe to say, you fell asleep.

"We don't need Jack, do we?" you push some bubbles around idly, "we girls can manage just fine without that dummy around."

She giggles, clapping her hands. Dummy is her favorite word of the week, eliciting a cute laugh whenever you say it. Abbot, on the contrary, does not find it funny: he's always the Dummy.

"That's right, Diana," you giggle, "Jack Abbot is a dummy. Can you say that? No, too early for that."

She gurgles, attempting to replicate the sound.

"No, not like that. Di-a-na. Di, baby. Di-di."

Diana laughs at that last part.

"You like that don't you? Didi?" she coos, toothless smile on display. "Didi!"

She cheers, excited.

"That's right, look who makes you laugh. Not dumb, pricks whose idea of fun is stopping raiders," you grin. "who needs a co-parent? I'm doing just great without him!"

You pull her out of the water, her wet hair a little sticky swirl against her tiny head. That's when you notice it.

"Huh," you hold her closer to inspect. "What is that?"

It's a lump on her abdomen.

Your brain feels foggy, thoughts scattered. Maybe Jack was right and the missed hours of sleep were catching up to you.

It's not her beIIybutton.

You begin to worry, composed mind now running wild with scenarios and diagnosis. You remember the kids you've treated before, but this is nothing like it. No, this panic that makes you breathe through frantic puffs of air is very different. You don't like it.

It's enough to make you pull out the car and drive to The Pitt, the only place you trust yourself to go even if your hands tremble as they grab the wheel with white tight knuckles.

Lena spots you first.

"Oh, dear. Came to visit?"

"She's got a lump in her abdomen," you repeat, voice shaking lightly.

It probably isn't a big deal, and by the look on Lena's face, it most likely isn't. But you look like you might have a nervous breakdown, so to calm you down, she gets you in.

The thing about wanting to get a fellowship in Pediatry, is you meet all the Pedes team in the hospital you work in, whether for a procedure Robby let you join to see or holiday parties. Some you wave from afar, others you treat on a first name basis.

Like him: Derek Callahan, PTMC's Pedes attending physician. He works the day shift, but for some reason, he's here today.

"Hey, Lola. What do I owe the pleasure to?"

He's all smiles and warmth, comforting in a way and Pedes material all through and through. Obviously, he doesn't notice you're one sleepless night away from being admitted into a psych ward.

"It's- please, help me."

His eyes dart to the baby in your hands and your glossy eyes. Instead of asking what the hell happened or why the ER's favorite R4 is holding a baby, he extends his hand to a free bed.

"Go on, sweetheart," Lena encourages like she's talking to a scared child, hand on the low of your back. "You're in good hands."

You feel yourself calming down a bit, "I know."

"If you need anything else, I'm downstairs."

He leaves you and Derek alone, with the quiet humming of the AC and the occasional squeak from a nurse's shoes nearby. It's nothing like the ER: chaos. Here, you can actually breathe without tasting blood.

Aside from being encouraging whenever you had questions about the subespecialty you wanted to pursue, there was this one time, two years ago, at the Christmas party.

Garcia was bored of your mopping around, so to break your celibacy and seasonal depression, she dared you to . A couple of eggnogs later, you accepted.

That's how you ended up in the bathroom with the newest fellow on PTMC: Derek Callahan, a forty-something with curly brown hair and equally auburn molten eyes. He was medical-tv-drama handsome, and as word got around, single. By the nurse gossip chain, sponsored by your favorite shit-stirrers Perlah and Princess, you also learnt he had recently divorced; no kids. Nothing screamed easier to get.

All you had to do was bat your eyelashes and say your name softly like an invitation, then find common ground, which wasn't entirely an act, as you expressed your interest in pursuing Pedes too once residency was done. He flashed you an easy relaxed grin and said you could keep talking somewhere more private. It was a matter of time and some deliberate playful touches on his arm for him to corner you on the first stall you came across, needy whimpers drowned by music and small talk from outside.

But your brain betrayed you. Each time his lips kissed you, you went back to his, not gentle but demanding. The way his nose would brush your face as the kiss deepened, pouring all his frustrations and hunger on you. His stubble prickling. His hands finding the lower of your back to pull you flush against him. His heart fluttering wildly when you went still, like his touch could undo you. His groans when you moaned with both relief and satisfaction at having him, what he was willing to give.

You kept coming back for those scraps, understanding things he didn't say but where there when he made excuses or left early without a trace. Because you were willing to keep him in the way he allowed himself to.

God knows you did.

Until he closed the door after him one morning and didn't come back, letting you know it was over.

Holding someone like he held you. Jokes that used to be only yours now shared with others, like the weight he gave them, alike a secret, never mattered to begin with. Searching for eyes that weren't yours. Kissing lips that weren't yours.

Letting someone else hold him because you'd wanted more.

"Are you okay? Did I hurt you?"

Derek sounded actually concerned, which made the guilt cloud your eyes.

You could have anyone. Why did your heart keep choosing him?

He didn't ask who or why you were crying, just held you close and let you wet his shirt with your hot tears that, embarrassingly, never seemed to stop flowing. That's who Dr. Callahan was: understanding, patient. Which is why right now he takes Diana from you slowly, placing her on the bed.

"I heard about the accident. I'm so sorry about Robby," he offers.

You suck in a breath and muster, "Thanks".

Diana begins to cry, probably at the strange environment, given she's been in the house for two weeks for the most part.

"It's aII right, Didi," you try to calm her down.

"Is she sIeeping okay? ReguIar boweI movements?"

"Not at first, but now very reguIar," you answer, remembering the cheek streak, "but she does have this protrusion on her stomach. I don't know, what it is-"

He sighs with a knowing smile that makes you flush.

"Diana's got an umbiIicaI hernia. It's nothing to worry about, most go away on their own. We'II watch it if you'd like."

You nod like you're the same clueless town kid back at medical school.

He starts writing something on the computer.

"Wait, you said it goes away."

"Yeah," he chuckles, "this is for you: One bottIe of Pinot Noir, one to two gIasses as needed. Or white, same dosage."

You snort, "Very funny. I'm fine."

"Y/n, you want to get into UPMC," Derek chuckles, teasingly, "you're supposed to know this."

You flush. "I did. I just... needed a second opinion."

"Right," he chuckles.

"From my favorite attending," you add.

He laughs, "Now I know you're just talking."

You feel better, at ease. Enough to attempt to joke. "Parenting nerves have me forgetting I'm about to finish my residency. I feel like I'm back at school and I forgot the answer of a question in front of the class."

Parenting nerves, as if you're an actual parent and not Diana's guardian.

"We don't judge here," he shrugs, "I forget some things too."

"The great Derek Callahan? Now I know you're just talking."

He blushes lightly, standing up from bedside.

"I'm glad sleepless nights didn't break your spirit."

"It takes more than that," you retort.

Derek moves to drop his gloves on the trash can. With his back to you, he speaking again:

"So it's true, huh? You and Abbot."

Heat crawls up your neck in a disgusting way that makes your skin feel sticky and prickly.

"What about us?" the us tasting sour.

His brown eyes find yours, curiously.

"That you're co-parenting Dr. Robinavitch's foster baby."

You feel oddly defensive for some reason.

"Her name is Diana."

"I know," he clarifies as he grabs Didi's chart, "I read it."

You cough, cheeks dusted pink. "Sorry, I'm on edge lately. It's been... so stressful."

"Balancing R4 while raising an unexpected baby? It's very noble."

"Some will call it stupid," you reply, deflated.

"I disagree. I think you're doing a good job. Besides, I meant it: you're still you. Which is great, because you're my favorite Pedes enthusiast around."

"You like me because I boost your ego asking questions you already know the answers to," you roll your eyes, a small smirk creeping up.

"I like you for other reasons too," he vaguely adds without looking at you.

Diana coos, looking at him intently.

"Even she knows you're full of shit."

He feigns offense, before laughing. It's a rich, deep sound.

"Like I said, your spirit is still intact." The older man pauses before he speaks again, "I guess that means you don't want my recommendation letter anymore-"

You interrupt him: "You were going to write me a letter?!"

He grins at your beaming smile, completely different from the nervous woman who entered the ward moments ago and more you.

"I didn't lie when I said I liked you. I think you'd be a great fit at UPMC."

That warms your chest. Before you can say anything, the curtain yanks open with a brisk movement.

"Where is she? Is she okay?"

Jack Abbot, looking flushed like he just ran a marathon. His chest rises and falls with quick puffs of air that accentuate the definition of it and his lips.

"Dr. Abbot," Derek greets, extending his hand.

He ignores him, going straight to you.

"What happened? Is Diana okay?"

You blink, taken back. The attending lowers his hand, embarrassed.

"Did you run all the way here?" you blurt out, the first thing you manage to speak to him ever since he left, the sight of him confusing.

This is the same man who wouldn't even look you in the eye a couple of hours ago, and right now, he's playing the worried father a little too well.

"The elevator didn't hurry, so I took the stairs. Once Lena told me you were here, I came as fast as I could," he explains, like his behavior is the norm.

You don't question him, especially because, no matter how much you hate him, you won't discredit him in front of other staff.

"It's nothing. Derek says it's an umbiIicaI hernia. It goes away."

"Oh, really?" Abbot sounds defensive. "Why didn't you call me? I could've tell you that."

You don't know if that is true. You also don't know why your heart flips like it's recognizing some underlying possessiveness rational you tosses aside on a whim.

"I didn't know you wanted to be called," you respond dumbly, instead of saying Why would I? Don't you remember how you've behaved these past days?

Reasons To Hate Jack Abbot, The Unofficial List: (New) He's a walking contradiction.

Abbot sighs, exasperated. After a few seconds, he adds. "But she's alright?"

You nod, slowly.

"Just... call me next time."

You nod again, feeling like a bobblehead at the offensive amount of times you've nodded wordlessly so far.

"I will," you force out, mouth tasting like sand.

Jack turns to the Pedes attending, finally acknowledging him.

"So, that would be all?"

You stand up, equally thrown off and annoyed at his inexplicable behavior. You grab Diana, who's falling asleep.

"Yeah," Callahan clears his throat. "Also, you should probably buy her some new clothes. She's outgrowing these."

He looks back once at you and then at Jack's jaw locked.

"We'll do," he replies, an unexpected hand over your shoulder, sounding offended like a parent at someone prodding at their business.

You roll your eyes even if your heart begins to beat faster.

"Sorry for the late visit..." you try to joke to lighten the mood as you leave.

Derek shrugs, "Just make sure to follow doctor's orders, alright?"

The wine. You smile, ruefully.

"We should go," Abbot interjects, "it's late and Diana needs to sleep."

Sighing, you turn around one last time, "Goodnight, Dr. Callahan."

He looks like he wants to say more, but Jack's unflinching presence makes him shrink. That's a lot, considering he's at least a head taller.

"Goodnight, Dr. L/n," he bids goodbye, dejected.

Jack's hand finds its place in the low of your back, and as the elevator doors close, you see his warm smile falter.

If you didn't know any better, you'd say Jack Abbot was jealous.

After the scare, Dr. Al-Hashimi suggested you take the day. Even if it was a quick discharge and it sounded like a nice consideration, you know she's most likely avoiding a walking liability in the ER.

Everyone is aware you don't work well when you're down. Considering she's pretty strict and a rule follower, it wouldn't be a surprise she chose such s decision, among other reasons you don't feel like finding out.

"At this point, I'll have to take weekends too if I want to finish my residency on time."

Jack clicks his tongue, "What's ten more days to a burn out resident?"

"A lifetime? I could have a whole kid on that time."

Jack looks at a soundly sleeping Diana that hasn't woken up since you put her to sleep after arriving back from the ER, her lashes fluttering with each tiny breath.

"You sort of do."

He doesn't say it with resentment or mockery. It sounds genuine, and that scares you.

"I guess. I must have looked like an insane first mother yesterday."

You haven't properly spoken about it. After being discharged and putting Diana in bed, you passed out with your clothes on. When you woke up, you found Jack cooking breakfast and Al-Hashimi's e-mail.

You want to ask a million things, but he seems to act as if it never happened, so you won't stick your nose into business you clearly aren't called for.

"You did, but it's okay. Understandable, in a way: you care about kids. Diana too, naturally."

"I just," you pause before beaming, "I love kids!"

A mother nearby shoots you a look. Your face heats up.

"I now realized that sounded weird."

Jack follows your line of view.

"I'd say overtly excited for baby shopping at eight in the morning," Jack smirks. "Is being back on the night shift hard for you?"

You wanted out of the house as soon as you woke up. If you couldn't work, you weren't going to spend the day sitting around while feeling useless and trapped.

It was Jack's idea to come see baby clothes, following Dr. Callahan's comment, not before muttering: "What does he know about raising kids?"

"No. Having to see your face for almost twenty-four hours is," you grumble. "Maybe they know I don't have kids."

He laughs. "That's only something you know, sweetheart. Remember the old couple at the park?"

You're surprised he even remembers that, given his apathy to the whole family act. But after yesterday, anything is possible.

"I mean," he adds, "to all these mothers, we seem like a picture perfect family."

Maybe if he said it with his usual sarcasm or the edge of his voice where it's hard to tell if he's flirting or mocking, you'd know Abbot's joking. You know he is, but the way his words sound lighter, as if the misconception from the rest of shoppers doesn't offend him at all, makes a foreign flutter bloom in your chest.

"I visit the ER one time at night and suddenly I'm part of your ensemble of weirdos again?"

"First of all, ouch. Second, how dare you?" he feigns hurt, hand over his heart.

"I can't have you having second thoughts. It was a surprise visit."

"Such a surprise you didn't bother telling me. Having to find out through Lena that you were there?" he sounds seriously suddenly. That until a cocky grin takes over his features. "Besides, I'm a much better doctor."

You scoff.

"You're very funny when you're running on caffeine and pushing baby strollers before the sun's fully risen."

"And you're even funnier when you care what random mothers think about you."

You shrug, trying to avoid the though from bothering you.

"I just don't want to fuck it up with Didi."

He stops in the middle of the aisle, looking your way. A slow smile creeps up on his lips, unsure but meaning it.

"You won't. You're doing a great job so far."

Similar words to Derek's, but they don't have the same effect because now? Your heart does that weird thing where it flips like an acrobatic performer at a circus―the same from yesterday, when he yanked the curtain and his face showed up behind.

And you recognize it all too well, because it's the same one you felt whenever he praised you, before everything went to shit and you stopped being his subordinate.

"Thanks," you say, shy all of the sudden. "I'm trying."

"We both are," he admits, tiredly running a hand through his face. "Too hard, I'd say. Can't remember the last time I slept more than three hours straight."

"You'll survive. Haven't you until now?"

He smirks. "Well, they say you don't know what you have until you lose it. Guess I miss being able to choose if I wanted to skip my seven hours of sleep for some SWAT time instead of waking up to... Diaper time."

You can't help but laugh, even if his words carry some dryness to it.

"I'm sure you'll get used to it. Eventually."

"You tell my nose that," he sighs. "But it's temporary, isn't it?"

Your stomach plummets. Of course. You look at Didi, sleeping peacefully, unaware Abbot still tries to get rid of her.

Your pace quickens. You hear him curse under his breath before catching up with your step.

"I'm not having this conversation now."

Instead of backtracking, he presses on.

"Then when are we? After she's one year? After she's five? After she graduates school, college?"

You pretend to look at some summer dresses, the season around the corner.

"And what about us?"

Your chest tightens as you face him.

"Us?" you cough up, incredulously.

"Yeah, us. Will we live in the same house for the rest of our lives? Or will we sell it and move? Live in different houses, share custody. This system we set up isn't for forever!" he raises his voice, stroller stopping in the middle of the hallway. "You'll move for your fellowship and I'll keep working the night shift. What if you have to switch, or cover another time? Hell, study even. Who's going to take care of Diana then, a nanny? Because I sure as hell won't compromise my profession because you're being you."

He says it like an insult. Your eyes burn.

"Me? What is that supposed to mean?"

He avoids looking at you. "You know what it means."

"No, Abbot, why don't you spell it out for me, since I'm too stupid to understand."

He looks offended at the accusation.

"I didn't say that."

"Then why do you care so much?" you raise your voice.

Now those mothers won't think of you anymore as an exemplary family, will they?

"Because I need you to be realistic!" Jack shouts. The store falls silent. "You're an R4, Lola. You can't keep being this naive."

You push past him, ignoring his calls.

Of course it had to happen Saturday night.

After a stressful week and the incident at Carter's, you've been deliberately avoiding Jack.

He's respected your silence and interactions exclusively limited to Diana related affairs. He doesn't question either your disappearance from the house whenever he's around; he just stares.

It's probably around eight, you having just arrived, when the doorbell rings.

"Someone's at the door. Who is it?

"It's probabIy a neighbor," you reply without sparing him a glance. You don't know if he sighs at that or at the possibility you could have a nosy face show up after a long day; you'd had plenty of those for the past two weeks.

He answers, "Yes?"

"Hi," a woman with pristine hair and suit answers, "I'm Alma Reyes, your caseworker from SociaI Services."

At Jack's confused face, she adds: "You were toId we'd be making a few unannounced visits."

"Yeah, weII. This is definiteIy unannounced," he laughs ruefully. "Just... Give me a minute."

Before she asks if she can come in, he closes the door in her face.

You're licking your finger in the kitchen at the mustard leftovers over it after preparing a sandwich.

"You look like you saw a ghost," you mock. "Is it Mrs. Adelaire asking again when are we getting married because cohabitation is a sin that offends God?"

"No," he lowers his voice. When he doesn't laugh and instead sounds even more worried, you start to freak out. "It's social services."

"What?" you ask, dumbly.

"You have one minute to wash your face to come back downstairs and start acting Iike the responsibIe pain you've been since we moved in."

You blink slowly. "But, my sandwich-"

"Just go," he pushes you out of the kitchen, "Go. Go. Go."

While you're upstairs, Jack tries to charm the woman to no avail. She's attractive, that's for sure, but she doesn't laugh at his jokes, not even in compromise, like you. She's got a nice olive tone to her skin though, as well as long, luscious hair.

"You sure you don't want to see the garage again? The other day we found a dartboard in there. It could be dangerous."

"Since it's dangerous," she repeats, "have you disposed of it?"

"I, well-"

"HeIIo, I'm so sorry," you show up. Finally. He feels relieved at just the sound of your voice. "I had to get changed. I literally just came home."

"It's okay," she assures, "I only want to taIk."

You squirm, uneasy, like this is a trial. Or an oral test. Perhaps it brings out memories of you grounded, maybe even when being dumped.

"Don't freak out, it's normal. I only want to, you know," she motions with her hands, "get a sense of the both of you, your pIans. Where do you see yourseIves in five years?"

"Ooh! Ask me, I have a great answer," you beam. She lets you speak. "In five years, I'll have finished my residency and started my fellowship in Pedes at UPMC. Which, obviously, isn't a problem," you shoot a sideways glance to Jack, "because it's just six minutes away from our street here in Roslyn Place. And besides, it shows I love kids!"

Jack snorts, "You haven't even got in."

You feel anger bubble up. For the sake of courtesy, you keep it down.

"Yet," you clarify. "Anyway. I'm aIso hoping someday I can become an attending at the Pedes ward there, althought PTMC sounds good too."

"So you can be with your friend Derek?" Jack teases, smug smirk back on his stupid face.

"No, so I can get a job doing what I love..." you trail off, "Oh, God. I didn't incIude Diana."

He laughs under his breath, tilting his face. "You didn't."

"Let me just take it back," you grow nervous, hands suddenly clammy. "She is a big part of my plan-"

Alma raises her hand. "That's fine, thank you."

"Okay," you mutter, looking at your hands clasped over your lap.

"Jack?"

"First name basis already? I like that," he hears you scoff, making him grin. "Well, I'm the attending physcian of the night shift at PTMC, and I guess in a coupIe years... If I don't kill myself over the pressure, I'll retire and spend all my money on building a boat house. I like fishing."

Your eyes widen. Did you just joke about suicide? you mouth. He looks away, pleased.

"Okay. So, Mr. Slater teIIs me that you're both singIe and presentIy not engaged in a reIationship," she pauses. "Not sIeeping together?"

Your face burns in seconds and Jack looks like he's been shot.

"No, oh- No!"

He shakes his head, "God, no."

You feel offended at the way he says it, like its straight up punishment taken from a circle of hell.

"Not a chance," you add sharply.

"Obviously," Jack adds, "it's never going to happen."

"Okay..." Alma speaks carefully, "that's great."

You both look at her, questioning.

"It's just, this situation," she points to you, "Two singIe peopIe... Living under the same roof... Raising a recentIy orphaned chiId... WeII, it's compIicated enough without the added compIication of..." she cuts herself, "you know, that."

"Like I said. Trust me, Alma. We won't be compIicating anything with that."

"Yeah. I get pIenty of that eIsewhere," Jack jokes.

Why does your stomach drop, all of a sudden. Because of distant memories, surely, not because you care if Jack is sleeping around.

You're not together: just two people forced to live together to raise a baby.

Maybe, if you keep repeating it, you'll fully accept it and drown these weird feelings that pop here and there when he gets too annoying or too pleasent.

You try to save yourself, "I'd get pIenty of that in my day as weII."

Jack snorts, "Way back in the day."

Before you can reply, she cuts you off:

"Listen, you two both seem Iike two sweet, burned-out doctors and faux parents about to have the worst year of your Iives. I'II be honest with you," she sighs. "Wanna make jokes about killing yourself? Go for it, I don't care. Hell, I get you. In fact, half of the famiIies that I deaI with make me want to. You are my good cases. The onIy obstacIe here is you two, and whether or not you're both cut out to be parents."

"What we want to avoid is Diana Iosing more peopIe in her life," you feel your throat tighten. "I know she won't remember but-"

You stop speaking before you vent out to this tired woman your fears or break down in front of Abbot; no one deserves it.

She smiles, condescending. "Your friend thought you couId do this, but I'II be honest, I'm not so sure..."

After she left, you release a breath you didn't know you were holding. Laying against the door, you drop a low Shit.

"That went surprisingly well for a first time."

You roll your eyes, "Fuck off, Abbot."

"Can't take a compliment?"

"Oh, wow," you give him a pointed look, "now we're complimenting? I thought you preferred to berate me."

He sighs, "Look, I don't want to fight-"

"I'm going to check on Di," you interrupt him, too drained to stomach another confrontation.

He stops you, gently grabbing your hand. You jerk away, as if his touch burns. His hand falls to his side, fingers lightly twitching.

"I put her to sleep," he speaks softly, "you'll only wake her up."

"Oh, so what do I do? Stay and enjoy your nice company?"

He offers half a smile. "You can always eat your sandwich."

So that's how you end up standing in the kitchen, plate over the island, eating with aggresive bites so you can go upstairs and retrieve to your room, as you've been doing.

You catch Jack staring. If it wasn't for the house's dimly lit illumination, the shadows across your face wouldn't mask the blush.

"What?" you mumble with a moutful, "you're staying there like some watch dog until I finish to eat?"

Instead of defending himself, he says: "I still can't get used to seeing you wearing anything other than your scrubs."

"I'm glad you appreciate the assortment of my closet, but staring is rude."

You finish the sandwich and set the plate on the sink. You're too tired to wash, or do anything for the matter.

"Right, where are my manners?"

You walk to the couch and sit, or more like a I've-had-a-long-week-and-I'm-emotionally-and-physically-exhausted plopping as you melt within it.

"Beer?" Abbot offers from behind.

Fuck it. It's Saturday and Diana's knocked out cold; you might as well enjoy yourselves.

Is this how newborn parents felt? Well, in a Robby-fucked-us-up way, you are.

"I really hope Alma doesn't show up right now, saying some bullshit like- she forgot more stupid, invasive questions or... Her nonsensical meddling. I'm not so sure, who does she think she is?"

"Don't worry, sweetheart. She won't interrupt our domestic bliss," he sarcastically drops, "like hell I'm going to let that happen!"

His teasing is followed by the Snap! of the bottles' cap and hiss of the foam coming up. He walks to the living room and sits next to you, not close enough, passing you the cold bottle. It's almost frozen.

The smile breaks in before you can stop it.

"Twenty minute rule?"

It means he knows how you like your beer, something you remember mentioning once at a barbacue at Langdon's. It also means he put it in the fridge before you came home and Alma's interruption.

He chuckles. "Of course. Wouldn't want to disrespect my co-parent's wishes."

"Then I forgive you."

Abbot looks a little too happy, like your words have injected some energy in him that makes him look younger.

You raise it your bottle in a toast. "For a peaceful night."

"Whoever is out there may hear us."

One bottle turns into two, then three; enough to feel tipsy but not too much to numb your instincts in case anything happens.

You're... Surprisingly relaxed, even when you both remain quiet, busy sipping the drinks in silence. The empty corpses of bottle stare back at you, witnessing how coworkers who hate each other became comfortable with the other's presence, enough to live under the same roof and fall into a routine. Tolerate the other's presence. Smile unexpectedly for unknown reasons. Fight and make up. Still be around.

You feel Jack staring again. Something (most likely alcohol fueling stupidity and bravery at the same time) compells you to turn around and look back.

His pupils are dilated under half lidded eyes; relaxed or actually happy, you can't tell.

"What?" you laugh, but the sound comes out strained, "don't tell me I have shit in my face again."

His eyes drift lower, right to your arm. You feel your body burns with a strange fever.

And then, all he says is: "Huh."

You lift an eyebrow, waiting for an (probably drunk) explanation.

"I guess you never really know people."

You're about to open your mouth to ask when he speaks before:

"You have a tattoo."

That takes you by surprise. Due to the recent summer heat, you'd swapped the t-shirts you usually wear for sleeveless tops.

"I'd never seen it before," he continues, like this is a defining moment on his life. Or the biggest discovery. A discovery he's deemed precious enough to muse over. "You're always wearing a shirt under your scrubs."

"Hospital policies," you chuckle. "Or, dare I say, Gloria's policies."

His voice comes out surprisingly soft.

"What is it?"

Words get caught up on your throat, his tone making you suddenly shy.

"The tattoo?" you ask just to fill the silence since you can't trust your own mouth, "it's a magnolia."

His next words knock the air out of you.

"Can I... Can I touch it?"

Your brain stops functioning, but you must've at least nodded your head, since his fingers reach tentatively, like you might change your mind halfway and he'd be left pathetically hanging in the air, so close yet so far. But you don't move away from his touch, not even as his calloused tips draw goosebumps out of your skin as he traces over the ink.

"It's really good," he says suddenly after an inspection that feels forever. Jack's fingers remain glued to it.

"Thanks," your mouth tastes like sand and it has nothing to do with the beers, "I... Dr. Ellis' referred me to her tattoo artist."

"Sounds about right," a beat goed by, as if he's unsure to ask. "So, does it have a meaning or you chose it because it's pretty like you?"

Sober you would've rolled her eyes and throw in a scoff at Jack Abbot's well-known flirting lines. Drunk you however, is rendered a mess without words and treacherous red all over her face. Drunk you absolutely notices the lower tone of his voice, the raspy tilt to each word he drags with his slurred speech, like he wants to make a point.

"Magnolias are one of the oldest flowers on Earth; they even predate bees," you ramble, eyes gleaming with pride. "There are many meanings behind. Like- did you know in the Victorian era people used them to show love without saying it? They send them on letters to symbolize affection. And, on China, these flowers usually represent femininity, while in other countries, they use them for bridal bouquets because it represents purity and nobility. Some others say they represent resilient bonds, as these flowers have stood the test of time."

Abbot let's you finish. He looks immersed, absorbing the information.

"And you?"

You blink, "Me?"

"Yeah. Why did you chose it."

His tips continue tracing mindless patterns over the ink.

"Perseverance," you confess. "I like to think, like them, I've survived. Since there weren't bees around, magnolias had to evolve to be polinated by beetles. Since they chew to get the pollen, they evolved until their petals became hard-like, almost leather." After a deep breath, you continue: "I didn't have a home growing up, parents that loved me. I could've drowned, but I made it out. At least, I think I did."

"You're a warrior," he whispers, devoid of his usual mockery.

Your mouth curl into a satisfied smirk.

"Was that a compliment, Dr. Abbot?"

He rolls his eyes, fingers backing away from your skin. You try not to be too disappointed about it.

"Don't get used to it."

You purse your lips, "And here I thought we were a team."

"We are. Doesn't mean I need to inflate your ego bigger than it already is."

"Say it. I'm a great foster mother."

"No. You know it, and that's enough."

"C'mon, Abbot," you whine his name, pushing him lightly, "it's just a sentence."

"A life sentence? Sure it is. I'll never hear the end of it."

You bat your eyelashes in the way Dana sighs loudly and Santos rolls her eyes.

"Please..."

"It's Robby's fault, really. Always saying you were good with kids, like some..." he gestures around, "magician."

The memory crawls up, uninvited, just like the shivers you feel when Jack stares for a beat too long.

It was summer, and of course the Pitt was doomed like it always was, bound to chaos. This time? The AC failed.

Donnie opened up a call and bet his money on power problem, but no promise of a big prize was enough to lift up the cranky mood the unbearable heat caused.

Somehow, the lack of cold air.

"So this is what the lower class of Triage feel."

You slapped Donnie. "Shut up. If Dana hears you, she'll make you do rounds there."

"If this is normal to them, I don't even want to imagine right now. It's probably hell."

You click your tongue. "Try again," you point at your badge, right where it says Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, "were already there."

By hour five, most of the staff's scrubs are drained with sweat, like they've been only doing compressions for the past two hours. When you walk by the break room, the usual door closed for privacy now open, you know it's bad.

"Fuck it," you exclaim with exasperation to your friends inside the breakroom, looking like they'll melt away any second, "I have a top I was saving for the gym tonight and I'm not afraid to use it."

This is how you end up wearing only half of your scrubs, the upper half replaced by a white tank top that leaves a little peak of cleavage on display Lena would've call HR Material.

It's risky, but at least treating patients becomes a little more bereable when you're not feeling sticky and wet (not in a good way).

It happens when you're about to clock out. Dana shows up from God knows where, her usual composed clipped hair sticked to her forehead.

"I've got one for you."

"If you give me another lightheaded, nauseous teen from smoking too much vape, I might clock out early. Is that all kids do these days?"

She snickers, "You're not that old yourself, kid."

"At least I knew how to have fun summers without accelerating my death."

"As a smoker, I might not have much room for an opinion myself," she jabs. Then, her eyes soften. "Don't worry, it's a kid."

You instantly beam up.

Golden Rule Of The Pitt #8: If a kid comes into the ER and she's free, case is Y/n's.

As soon as day shift learned you adored kids, they let you tend to them, mostly the ones who didn't have the patience to deal with crying toddler and their screaming parents.

You had a certain something that made kids stop fuzzing and restless parents tone down a notch.

Perlah appears by your side as Dana goes back to her station, sliding you the chart.

"Kid, four years old. She fell off the slide on her backyard pool. Mostly superficial bleeding. No signs of concussion, but it's always better to rule it out. Besides, her mother insists."

"Four?" your eyes widen as you read the chart. "I hope that slide wasn't tall. Sounds like someone wasn't supervising to me."

"Save it. That woman is one comment away from a breakdown." She then looks at your outfit, "Can I ask this bold fashion choice?"

"No," you deadpan as you yank the curtain open.

Inside, a child with two wispy messy braids from Chlorine and red rimmed eyes awaits with her trembling mother.

"Hello," you greet, giving them your name, "and I'll be your doctor today. This is nurse Perlah," she smiles sweetly to transmit calm like only she can, "and we'll be looking at you today. What's your name?"

"So-Sophie," she stumbles over her words, hiccuping.

"What a pretty name for a gorgeous girl," you compliment. She beams at that. "How old are you? Can you raise your fingers for me?"

She sticks her hand out. "Four!"

"You have a very smart girl, Mrs. Goodwill," she looks surprised you're addressing her and then smiles, a little more relaxed. "Can you tell me how this happened?"

After doing general assessment following results from Triage and a visual inspection where you see no asphalt on her scrapes, you decide to desinfect the area and use some topical numbing.

"We will apply LET gel topically to the wounds," you inform, "and then cover with an occlusive dressing for 20 minutes. I'll come back then to remove it and get it checked."

Her little voice squeaks. "It hurts?"

"Not at all," you reassure, "but it will feel weird when it touches tour skin."

Her eyes get watery, "It sounds scary."

"Well, you can hold to one of our plushies if you'd like. Or, you can grab my hand if you want."

Sophie transforms from a kid on the verge of crying to one beaming like it's Christmas. She grabs your hand strongly, suddenly deciding you're her favorite person in the room.

"Okay" you giggle, "you've got a good grip. Now, Perlah is the one who will put the gel on you. As you can see, my hands are kinda busy at the moment."

She giggles with you, but said laughter dies down a bit after Perlah's gentle warning.

"Ready?" Sophie closes her eyes until they scrunch up, grip tight. "Okay, here it goes."

She's surprisingly brave for such a little girl.

You're so focused on her tiny hand within yours that you don't realize she's talking to you.

"Huh?"

"She asked about the drawing in your arm," Perlah fills you in, briefly looking up from a scrape under her knee. She jerks slightly as she continues applying the gel.

"Oh, this?" you motion to the tattoo. Now without the scrubs and thanks to the heat, it's on its full glory, right on your bicep. "Think of it as a permanent drawing. Do you like it?"

Perlah is done with her knee. She moves to the next scrape, so you continue distracting her.

"I like flowers," she giggles, tracing it. "It's pretty, like you."

You smile warmly, a slight blush to your face.

"You think so? I'll tell you," you lean in, conspirational, "it's a magnolia."

Sophie struggles, "A man... Ma...l."

"Magnolia," you repeat. "Can you say it?"

She tries again, but fails. She continues trying until Perlah anounces she's done. Sophie looks deflated she could never pronounce Maloila.

"It's okay, you did incredible," you let go of her hand and take the badges from Perlah. While you wrap, her eyes stay glued to you. "You were very brave, Sophie."

"I was?" she beams.

"Yes, so when I get back to check on you, I'll bring you a lollipop from my personal stash. What's your favorite flavor?"

As you exit, Perlah turns back with a smile. You're about to question why when a voice stops you.

"Didn't know you were this good with kids."

Dr. Michael Robinavitch, day shift attending and your new boss after switching. He's quiet unless he's barking orders or scaring interns for fun.

You're an R2, he doesn't scare you anymore. But you sure want to impress him.

"Didn't think you'd notice."

"Words goes around," he answers simply with that press of his lips that not quite a smile but that's all he can afford. Because, as you've learned so far: he doesn't laugh often, unless he knows you and it's always something closer to a snort as if he doesn't allow himself to. But when he does, his crow's feet deepen and his eyes look a bit lighter. And if he smiles, it's like this: Dr. Robinavitch doesn't offer much from his side.

"Only good things, I hope," you smile, shyly.

Another thing you've learnt so far: Robby's (as he insisted to be called) good looking, in a way most don't find it to be. He looks like a man lived, one who has earned every year passed and is weighed down by it, left with a certain air that demands distance but only makes approaching more inviting.

"It doesn't matter what they say," he shrugs, then crosses his arms. You think he's trying to look more casual and less intimidating. "I'm looking at it."

For some reason, you blush. "Yeah?"

"Think I can join you for discharge?" he rubs a hand on the back of his neck, "I need to do rounds, anyway."

The request makes your heart oddly thump. Nerves, you think.

This is how you find yourself 20 minutes later with Robby by your side.

"Hello, Sophie. I'm here with Dr. Robby," she raises her hand shyly. "Ready to go?"

She nods, vigorously. "Yes! Where's my lollipop?"

You laugh. "Huh, that's a good memory. Here," you fish it out of your pocket, "all yours."

"Thank you," her mother speaks in behalf of Sophie while she pops the candy on her mouth, "I've never seen her so enthralled. You're like a magician."

Robby snorts at that.

You blush, embarrassed. "Oh, it's nothing. I love kids."

"No, you don't get it. She's like, enamoured with you. Won't stop talking about how cool you are. I'm worried her next obsession will be medicine; she's four."

"Healthcare workers are always needed. The more the merrier," Robby says. You laugh.

"No, you're right. And it's better than her talking about tattoos, anyway."

Robby's eyebrows shoot. "Tattoos?"

"Your resident here has some secrets," Perlah comments with a smirk, pointing your bicep.

"You?" he turns towards you and looks, properly. It makes something in you squirm. "Wait. Why are you wearing a tank top?"

"The heat. Why are long sleeved still?"

Despite himself, he smirks. "Don't change the subject. This is about you and your-"

"Maiola!"

All heads turn to the little girl. She smiles, toothy grin like today never happened and she was in a trip with friends.

Robby blinks slowly, confused. "Sorry, what?"

"The magnolia in y/n's arm," Perlah interjects. "She can't pronounce it."

Sophie nods, "The pretty flower on miss y/n's arm! The... Mailola."

"Malola?"

And then, it happens―Michael Robinavitch actually laughs.

Not the one he swallows done and comes out like a cough. It's light, shoulders tense now shaking slightly as he still holds back; old habits die hard.

"Oh my God, Dr. Robby, you're bullying a kid!" you whisper, back turned from Sophie and her mother.

"Manlola? That might be the word of the day," you whine, making his crow's feet deepen. He pauses, "Hold on. You know what that sounds like?"

"No. And I'm not sure if I want to know. Your smile scares me."

His lips curve up in a genuine smile, as rare as slow days at the ER. It makes something in your chest tug.

"It sounds like Lola."

taglist.ㅤ@klmr0 @zmbi3gr1 @sara-alonso @shahabaqsa0310 @itzpixiebabe @alexxavicry @thefemininemystiquee @justtryingtosurvive02 @cestmoijola @heavengirls111 @kathy-hats @jesscolon529 @steverogers123 @peepawhatosy

bambimagicz

Genuinely how it felt finding a fic using one of my nicknames:

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

⋆˚࿔ 𝙈𝙞𝙢𝙯𝙮 𝜗𝜚˚⋆