🇨🇴Nat🇺🇸
||(she/her)||
||18+ ONLY|| Child of the 90’s
Current White Boy(s) of the Month: Dr. Jack Abbot, Dr. Michael Robinavitch, Baelor ‘Breakspear’ Targaryen, and the Man of Steel himself: Clark Kent. Profile pic by Beth
I honestly think Gen-Z and younger simply does not understand how recent widespread smartphone adoption is.
I am not that old, and I didn't have a smartphone until probably late high school. For most of my life, many if not most people were not walking around with a magic internet machine in their pocket that they pulled out and used constantly for everything.
Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x girlfriend!reader
Warnings: fluff, emotional, mentions of medical cases, pregnancy.
Summary: A small gift box changes Jack's entire world forever.
Disclaimer: This story is pure fiction and written solely for entertainment purposes.
It was just after 7 AM on a Sunday. You carefully balanced a wooden breakfast tray on your forearm. On it sat two plates of eggs and bacon, a stack of pancakes, and two mugs of black coffee.
Right on cue, the front door clicked open. A moment later, Jack appeared in the bedroom doorway.
"Tell me I'm not hallucinating," he murmured. "Did I die on the way home and go to heaven?"
"Not quite, handsome," you teased, setting the tray carefully on the nightstand. "Just a girlfriend who knows exactly what a twelve hour shift feels like. Come here."
He walked over, wrapping his arms tightly around your waist and left a soft kiss in your neck.
"You're my lifesaver," he whispered against your skin.
Jack sat down on the edge of the mattress. You watched as he leaned forward to unfasten the straps of his prosthetic leg. It was a routine as natural to the two of you as breathing. He slipped the socket off, setting the prosthetic carefully against the nightstand. He rubbed the residual limb with a sigh, the tension visibly leaving his lower back, before swinging his leg up and propping himself up against the pillows.
You slid into bed right beside him, pulling the duvet over both of your laps and settling the breakfast tray between you.
Jack immediately reached for the coffee, taking a long gulp. "God. I needed this so bad."
"Rough night?" you asked, cutting into a pancake.
He leaned his head back against the headboard. "The usual Saturday night madness. Two vehicle accidents, a couple of bar fights, and a teenager who thought fireworks in June were a brilliant idea. But..." He trailed off, his eyes turning a little distant as he stared at his coffee mug. "...there was one case right at the end of the shift that’s still sticking with me."
"Yeah? What happened?"
Jack took a slow breath. "A guy came in. Severe chest pains, classic myocardial infarction. We had to rush him straight to the cath lab. His kid was with him, must’ve been no older than seven or eight. Just sitting in the waiting room, crying, holding a handmade card he’d drawn."
Jack looked over at you. "The kid kept asking if his dad was gonna make it, because he couldn't give him his draw if he didn't wake up. It hit me right in the chest when I realized the date." He offered a poignant smile. "It’s Sunday. It’s Father’s Day."
You reached across the tray, slipping your hand into his. His fingers immediately intertwined with yours, squeezing tightly. "Did the dad make it?" you asked softly.
"Yeah," Jack nodded with relief. "We got the blockage in time. Stable, recovering in the ICU. Before I clocked out, I walked past the room and saw the kid sitting on the edge of the bed, helping his dad hold the draw. Just... totally protective of his old man."
The bedroom fell into a quiet silence. Jack stared down at your joined hands, his thumb tracing circles over your knuckles.
"Seeing them like that," Jack said, his voice dropping quieter now. "It made me think. I spent so many years just focusing on surviving, on the ER, on just making it through the day. I never really let myself look past the next shift."
He lifted his eyes to meet yours, intense and full of an emotion that made your heart skip a beat.
"But looking at that kid today… and then coming home to you, seeing you waiting for me like this… it made me want it, again. For some time, I've been thinking about it, really wanting it, you know?" He swallowed hard. "A family. With you. I want to be that guy one day. The one getting the messy handmade draws."
A sudden rush of warmth blooming in your chest.
"You're going to be an incredible father, Jack," you whispered looking into his eyes. "You’re already the most protective and caring man I know."
A radiant smile broke across Jack’s face, reaching all the way to his eyes and crinkling the corners.
"Yeah?" he murmured playing with your fingers.
"Yeah," you laughed softly, but a sudden wave of nerves and excitement fluttered in your stomach. You hesitated for a second, testing the waters. "How exactly do you see yourself as a father? You think you can handle diaper duty after a twelve hour trauma shift?"
Jack chuckled, leaning his head back against the pillows as he genuinely thought about it. "Honestly? I think I’d be the overprotective dad who checks their breathing every five minutes. And I’ll just use my trauma precision to handle the swaddling. And I'll probably be the guy teaching them how to throw a baseball while completely ruining my prosthetic." He smiled warmly, looking at you. "And with you by my side? I think I'd be a pretty damn good one."
You bit your lip, a wide smile breaking across your face that you couldn't suppress.
"Well," you said, your voice suddenly a little breathless, "I certainly hope you'll be a good father."
Before he could register the sudden shift in your tone, you abruptly moved the breakfast tray off your laps.
"Okay, why the rush? Where's the fire?" Jack blinked, startled, as you hurriedly carried the tray across the room and set it down on the small table by the window.
"Just clearing the blast zone," you teased, your hands shaking slightly with adrenaline. You walked over to your dresser, pulled a small wrapped gift box from the top drawer, and walked back to the bed.
Jack watched you, thoroughly confused now, his eyebrows furrowing as you slid back under the covers and handed him the box. "What’s this? Did you buy me a gift? Something on sale for Father's Day?"
"Shut up and open it," you chuckled, sitting next to him.
Jack gave you a suspicious look as he pulled the ribbon.
He lifted the lid, removing a layer of white tissue paper.
His tired look vanished from his face instantly.
Resting at the bottom of the box was a tiny small pair of knit newborn shoes. And resting right beside them was a white plastic stick with two distinct and undeniable pink lines.
The bedroom went completely silent.
Jack froze as his brain tried to process what he was looking at. He stared at the positive pregnancy test with his chest rising and falling in quick breaths.
"Are you..." Jack’s voice cracked completely, his throat tight. He looked up at you, his eyes suddenly glassy and swimming with tears. "Is this... are we...?"
"Happy first Father's Day, Jack," you choked out, tears of your own finally spilling over.
Jack carefully placed the box on the nightstand next to his bed, his hands trembling so badly he didn't want to risk dropping it.
The moment his hands were free, he lunged forward, catching your face. "I love you, i love you, i love you." he said placing kisses all over your face. "God, I'm so happy, I'm gonna be a dad," he muffled against your skin, his voice thick with emotion. "We're going to be a family."
"Yes, handsome, you're going to get a lot of messy handmade draws."
Jack hooked his arms under your thighs and waist. In one effortless motion, he lifted you directly onto his lap. You gasped in surprise, your hands instinctively flying to his shoulders to steady yourself as you straddled his good leg, your knees framing his waist.
Jack didn’t hesitate. He cupped the back of your neck with one hand, his fingers tangling in your hair, while his other hand anchored firmly around your lower back, pulling your hips flush against his.
Then, he leaned up and kissed you.
It was a passionate, deep, and utterly breathless kiss. His lips parted yours with possessive tenderness, tasting the salt of your shared tears as he poured everything he was feeling into the kiss.
It was a promise, a thank you, and a declaration of absolute devotion all wrapped into one.
You wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, leaning into him completely, melting against his chest. You could feel the emotional tremble in his lips.
When he pulled back, he didn't let you go, he kept his forehead pressed firmly against yours. His hand moved down to rest flat against your stomach, his fingers spreading wide over the fabric of your shirt, already protectively.
"You have no idea of the happiness I'm feeling right now," Jack whispered, his voice was so intense with emotions tjhat it made your heart ache. "You have absolutely no idea how much I love you."
You are my destiny! - Part I (Baelor Targaryen x Reader)
Summary: There is a custom that dates back to the Andals that says, "If you put a miniature version of the Maiden inside a large cake for the feast of the Maiden celebrations, the lady who finds it is destined to marry that same year and have a child the following year."
You are this year's lucky lady… You nearly lost a tooth as a result, but the court dismisses it as a joke by the Maiden.
You were one of only a few women in the Seven Kingdoms whose marriage was annulled due to infertility. Your husband annulled the marriage because you did not have children after nearly a decade of marriage.
Even though you were relieved to be free of your awful husband, you live a lonely life because no man wants to marry you.
You accept your fate until the feast of the Maiden, and you catch the eye of the Lord Hand.
Word Count: 3,519
Tags: Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Friends to Lovers, Falling In Love, Past Domestic Violence, Infertility, Pregnancy, Child Marriage, Period-Typical Sexism
Baelor’s mismatched eyes surveyed the ballroom.
Everything is going well… so far.
Today is the feast of the Maiden, and all the daughters of the great houses were brought to the Red Keep. The main purpose: to find suitable husbands. All the mothers of Westeros made sure their daughters wore the best gowns and best jewels coin could afford. They whispered among themselves about who has recently become widowed, who is looking for a bride, and who has the best land and titles.
Baelor wasn’t spared.
He doesn't have enough fingers on his hands to count how many Ladies approached them with their daughters and introduced them to him. The daughters would curtsy to him and speak to him with their sweetest voices. Some of them were as young as fifteen. Baelor politely went away from this conversation, feeling a little bit irritable with the attitude of some of these mothers.
He has been a widower for quite some time, and he has made no attempt to find himself a second wife. His mother probably wished he had a wife and, for her, more grandchildren. He has two healthy sons, one who is already married. His line is set, and there’s no need for a wife and more children.
“I can’t believe she’s actually here!” He heard one lady whisper, horrified.
“The nerve! She’s walking bad omen!”
“How could she do that to her own cousins?"
He looked over and saw who they were talking about.
A woman wearing a grey gown enters the ballroom with two young ladies behind her. Some courtiers stopped their conversation and openly gawked at her with curiosity, mockery, disdain and a bit of pity
“Ser Delaney.” He called for his steward. “Who is that Lady and why does her presence cause this much fuss?”
Ser Delaney tells Baelor the woman’s name and house.
“Her husband divorced her.” Ser Delaney whispered. “That’s why they’re staring at her like that.”
“Divorce?” Baelor asked, surprised. “On what grounds?”
"Barrenness, my Prince," His steward explained. “She had been wedded to Ser Helios for almost a decade, and her belly not once swelled. He got the same Septon that wedded them to annul the union. He got remarried a few months later.”
It’s almost impossible to get a marriage annulled. The only ways to get an annulment are impotence, non-consummation and barrenness. There must have been enough proof for a Septon to come to that decision.
Baelor looks at her as discreetly as he can. He watched as the lady and who he assumes to be her cousins sat down. The younger of the two girls is looking around at people staring at them with her head low and her shoulders tensed. The woman in grey gently tipped her cousin's head forward. They shared a look and then a smile. A silent conversation that was enough to ease the young girl’s discomfort.
Baelor smiled at that interaction; it reminded him of when he was younger and his mother would tell him to keep his chin up when the courtiers commented on his Dornish side.
A Lord comes inside with who Baelor assumes to be his daughter. The Lord looked at the Lady in grey, and he smirked mockingly in her direction. Some people take great pleasure in other people's misery.
“That’s the Lady’s former husband," Ser Delaney whispered.
Baelor hummed as he looked at her. The Lady in Grey didn’t pay attention to her former husband. She quietly sipped her wine and talked with the people at the table with a composed face.
“The young lady he just entered with is his new wife."
Baelor looked at his steward with a haughty look. He assumed she could be a younger family member. His steward shared the same expression as him.
...
“The Florent boy is looking at you," You teased.
Your cousin Muriel blushed. “No, he’s not!”
Your other cousin, Muriel’s sister, Mina, laughed. "Yes, he is!”
You smiled at their antics.
These Lords and Ladies expected you to lock yourself in your family’s keep and drown in your misery, but no. Just because you are no longer a wife doesn’t mean you are not a person. If you want to join a feast with your cousins, you will. Your former husband can flaunt his child bride all he wants; you will not cease to exist just because he made your vows void.
“He’s so handsome.” Muriel said dreamily.
“Then you should talk to the Florent boy.” You said.
“Not him!” Your cousin corrected. “The Hand.”
You and Mina stared at the high table where Prince Baelor was talking to the lord next to him. He looked handsome indeed.
“You think the song is true," Mina asked.
“What song?” You asked.
“You know…” Your cousin shrugged her shoulders. “The song.”
You glared at her through the corner of your eye. “You are not supposed to know that song.”
“I know, but it’s so catchy!” She groaned and mumbled under her breath. “Country was in peril; the Anvil was a rock. The Hammer smashed the bastard with his giant veiny—"
And as if he could hear from afar, Prince Baelor turned his head and looked directly at your table. You and your cousins turn away so quickly your necks made a snapping noise, and you three burst into laughter, not caring about the looks thrown your way.
The feast went on. Wine flowed and the music kept on. The Florent boy approached the table and asked Muriel for a dance, which the girl happily accepted with blushed cheeks. You and Mina stayed at the table talking and enjoying the cake when another Lord approached her and asked her for a dance; she too accepted and joined her sister on the dance floor.
You remained.
Part of you is happy that your reputation didn't disturb her cousins’ prospects, just like those other nobles whispered.
The other part of you feels empty.
No Lord as looked at you with anything but pity or like you were a walking disease. No Lord appraoched you and asked you for a dance. You don’t think that will ever happen.
You look at the table where your former husband and his new wife sat. He looked happy and he was surrounded by various people. How can he forsake his vows to you and still be surrounded with warmth while you are the one that has to be the pariah? Is it because you barely fought for your marriage like a good noble lady should? What was the point in fighting for something that was as barren as your womb?
“Cake, my lady?” A servant asked with a tray full of cakes.
You nodded, and the servant placed the plate on the table.
“Thank you.”
You grabbed your fork and started eating the cake. You moaned at the taste. It was a delicious cake with berries and a hint of vanilla. You eat the cake while keeping an eye on your cousins, making sure those boys didn't take any liberties with their hands. You take another bite, and suddenly pain suddenly floods your mouth. Blood floods your mouth immediately, and the metallic taste mixes horribly with the sweetness of the cake. You drop your fork and clasp your jaw as you groan in pain.
Conversations at the surrounding table stop.
You feel something hard in your mouth, and you think it’s your tooth. You forgot all the decorum and spit on your plate. Blood, pieces of cake and an object fall on the plate. You look at what you think is your tooth, but to your relief, it isn't. It was bigger than a tooth, and it was mint green instead of white.
“What a…” You mumbled.
“My lady, are you alright?” A kind male voice asked.
You look up, and to your horror, it was Prince Baelor, and you present yourself to the heir to the throne with blood caking your lips and teeth. Words were stuck in your throat.
Prince Baelor didn't care that you didn't answer him. He took out a handkerchief and handed it to you. You hesitantly accept it and press it to your mouth; you could smell wax and parchment.
Your cousins approached you and checked on you while Prince Baelor inspected the object that was on your mouth with the fork. His brows furrowed as he looked at it.
“What is that?” Muriel asked, grossed out.
“The Maiden, I believe.” The Prince answered.
You take a closer look at it, and he is correct. It was a small miniature of the maiden with her serene face and gentle smile. How did it end up on the cake?
“Bessie!” A servant cried out. “They found it!”
A woman in an apron covered in flour ran into the hall. That must be Bessie. She runs to your table, not caring about the blood in your mouth or the presence of the prince. She reaches the plate and picks up the miniature of the maiden that was covered in your blood and spit. Mina gags.
“Oh, my lady! You have been blessed.” She tells you with joy as she holds the figure of the maiden up in the air like a war trophy. "Congratulations!"
You let out an indignant noise. Blessed with what? A chipped tooth?
“The Lady is bleeding.” Prince Baelor said with a firm tone that sent shivers down your spine. He put his hand on your shoulder, and you could hear your heart beating in your ears. “She could’ve choked as well. A Lady as been harmed under my roof. Explain yourself or you and your fellow workers will find work elsewhere."
Bessie’s face became white. He didn't raise his voice, not once, but you could hear the promise in his tone.
“My Prince.” The cook cleared her throat. “At every feast of the Maiden, I put a miniature figure on our cake batter, and the maiden who finds it is destined to be wed by the end of the year and have a child within the next. It’s a tradition in my hometown, and it always comes true.”
There’s laughter behind you. It’s a cruel and cold laugh. You recognised that laughter; it’s your former husband’s. He laughed just like that when the Septon declared your union null and void.
You’ve been married for almost ten years, and red has always stained your sheets. When you were late for a few days, you held your breath and then let out a disappointed sigh. You drank tonics that midwives promised to boost fertility, but it only made you want to throw up. You laid on your back and gripped the sheets so hard that your hands cramped when various maesters put their cold hands and instruments between your legs. You held babies in your arms, and for a few minutes you pretended they were yours. You kneeled in front of the statue of the mother and prayed feverishly.
Humiliations flood your body, and you want to disappear.
“I meant no harm, m’lord!" Bessie said, thinking they were laughing at her. “The lady has been chosen by the Maiden!”
You couldn’t control yourself and sobbed into the Prince’s handkerchief.
A hand smashes against the table, rattling the cups and utensils and quieting down the laughter. You look up and see the Prince’s balled fist on the table. He looked at the table where your former husband was sitting with a ferocity that made you wonder if that is how a dragon is supposed to look.
“Ser Delaney, please escort the lady and her cousins to a washroom so that she can clean herself.”
He stared at you, and all of the harshness in his mismatched eyes evaporated, and his gaze softened as he held his hand towards you. You accepted his hand, and he helped you get up. You followed the steward out of the hall with your cousins by your side and eyes staring at you, but you only hoped that the Prince still had his on you.
...
Baelor let out a tired sigh as he walked to the washroom.
The feast has gone well if you ignore the cake accident.
If Baelor had a motive, he would ban Ser Helios from the keep. He can still feel the way her shoulder tensed under his hand when that man laughed cruelly at her, and the sound of her sob echoed in his ear. He’ll make sure the lady and her cousins are settled comfortably and under his care for the remainder of the festival.
He stands in front of the door but stops the guard from announcing his presence. He listened in to the conversation. He listened to the sound of water in the basin and the two young ladies talking to each other. If his old Septa saw him now, she would pull his ear until it turned red.
“That baker is foolish!” He heard one of her cousins say. “Who puts a choking hazard on a cake? What if you had choked instead of harming your mouth?”
“Well, Prince Baelor would’ve probably saved her!" The other cousin said. “Did you see the way he ran the moment she let out that painful screech? For a moment it looked like he was flying.”
Baelor smiled softly but shyly.
The reason why he was so quick to go to her side is because he was staring at her right until she spit out that miniature.
He didn’t mean to. His gaze just kept drifting to that table, and he couldn’t look away. She smiled beautifully, and when her gaze saddened, he just wanted to go to her and bring back that smile. When the cake was placed in front of her, his heart made a funny movement when her tongue poked out and licked the cream off the fork. Then it made another when she winced and let out a pained groan. He jumped off his chair when she leaned forward and spat out blood on the plate.
“And how would he save her? Shoving his fingers down her throat? It would’ve made it worse!”
“Probably!” She giggled. “Have you seen the size of his hands?”
Baelor unconsciously looked at his hands. They’re average for all he knows.
“They probably felt nice.” The cousin teased.
The Lady finally spoke. “By the Seven! He touched my shoulder, not my tit!”
The trio burst into laughter, and the guards at the door turned their heads away to avoid eye contact with the Prince. Baelor eavesdropped enough. With the tips of his ears red, he ordered the guard to announce his presence.
“Prince Baelor Targaryen, my ladies!” The guard announced.
The laughing stopped.
The door opens and he goes in. The three ladies go to the centre of the room and curtsy to him. The cousin, Mina, was biting her lip, trying to contain the laughter that was still stuck in her throat. The other cousin, Muriel, was looking down, begging the floor to swallow her. The Lady, the woman he came to see, was looking directly at him.
“My lady.” Baelor nodded at her. “If you need a Maester, I would be glad to send my personal maester to check on you.”
“You are too kind, my prince.” She said. “The wound has stopped bleeding, so there's no need to create such a fuss.”
"Nonsense." Baelor said quickly. He cleared his throat. “You are a guest, and your comfort is my priority.”
The Lady smiled and she wrung the handkerchief, his handkerchief, in her hands.
“If there’s anything you need… you can come to me.”
The two younger cousins share a look and have a silent conversation among themselves.
“Thank you, your grace.” She looked at the handkerchief in her hand. “Unfourtnulyey, there’s blood on the handkerchief you so kindly gave me. I’ll be sure it’s thoroughly cleaned before returning it to you.”
“Keep it.” Baelor said softly. “Will I still be seeing you at the feast again?”
The Lady smiled sadly and shook her head. “I’m afraid not, my prince. I feel I had my fill of them.”
Baelor buried his disappointment. He understood why. There were a few Lords and Ladies whispering about the baker’s words and how the Gods make funny jests once in a while. He’s not much of a believer like his namesake, but he does wonder if the Maiden has plans for the Lady in front of him. Perhaps it’s just a silly superstition.
...
You stay up at night and stare at the handkerchief Prince Baelor gave to you. The bloodstains have faded thanks to the hard work of the laundress. Part of you, for an unknown reason, felt disappointed you couldn't smell that faint scent of musk and parchment.
You can still remember the way he looked at you. You wonder if he knows your story. If he did, you’ll never forget the way his gaze held no judgement whatsoever and looked like a true person.
The Prince told you to keep it, but as you traced the stitches that formed the dragon sigil, you decided you wanted to do more. At the first sign of light, you sat on the chair near the window and started to embroider. By noon you were done.
You walked through the halls searching for the familiar form of the Lord Hand. You found him in the gardens with his oldest son, Valarr. You smiled but you stopped yourself. Doubt starts to settle in like an uninvited guest.
Would he even accept your gift? He was just being kind to you, nothing else.
You look at the handkerchief in your hand. It’s not perfect now that you take a closer look at it when the sun is at its peak. You did it in such a hurry. The dragon you stitched was a bit crooked; the heads were different sizes, and it looked more like a gecko than a powerful dragon.
You bit your lips as anxiety flooded you. You should leave. You lift your head and your heart skips a beat when you see Prince Baelor staring at you. It starts to beat faster when he says something to Valarr and walks towards you.
You bow when he reaches you.
“My lady, is there anything I can help you with?" He asks gently.
You clear your throat. “I wished to thank you once more for the other day.”
He smiled. “As I told you before, your comfort is my priority."
“Even so, I wish to express my gratitude even more.” You presented him the handkerchief.
Prince Baelor barely looks at it and grabs your hand carefully. Your body shivers with the contact. “My lady, I told you there’s no need to return it…”
“I made it!” You stop him, and you curse yourself for speaking that way with him.
He blinked and looked at the hand holding yours, now noticing how different the piece of fabric on your hand is compared to the one he gave you. He grabs it and holds it carefully. His mismatched eyes analyse the stitches in front of him.
He looks up at you, and his gaze looks different. Relaxed, you could say. “Thank you, my lady.”
“It’s not perfect…” You try to say it.
“It does not matter.” He says softly. “And it being made by your bare hands makes it even more… special.”
You smiled shyly. “The dragon looks like an angry gecko.”
Prince Baelor laughed. “It does look a bit like one. Thank you, once again, my lady.”
You nodded. “You’re welcome, my prince.”
You bowed one more time and left.
Your whole body felt tingly.
...
She made it for him.
She created something with her own hands just for him. Not because she wanted favour with him but because she wanted to thank him and nothing else. Something inside Baelor warmed up.
He carefully traced the stitches. It was not perfect, but he did not care. This was his.
Baelor was so focused on the cloth that he did not hear Valarr call for him until he stood right next to him.
Baelor blinked and looked at his son. “Yes, son?”
“Are you alright?” His son asks.
“Yes, why do you ask?”
“Because I’ve been calling for you for quite some time and you didn’t answer.”
"Apologies, I was..." He tried to find the words.
“Is that the lady you mentioned the other day at supper? The one whose tooth broke was almost broken by the maiden.”
“Yes, it was her.” He confirmed. “She just wished to thank me one more time.”
“She’s also the one whose marriage got…”
“Let us not speak of someone who is not here to speak for themselves, Valarr.” Baelor snapped, feeling the urge of protecting her even though he knows Valarr wouldn't say anything inflammatory towards her.
Valarr raised a brow but nodded his head. “Of course, father.”
They started walking.
“I do wish to add one thing.” Valarr said after a while. “Her ‘husband’ is quite a pathetic man if you ask me.”
I am so ready for more of this!! The concept is perfect and I can't wait for until the marriage with Baelor happens and then the ex-husband is the one looked down on!
tags: andrew "pope" cody x fem!reader, !!!possible spoilers for the animal kingdom finale!!!, near-death experience, hurt andrew, canon typical violence, mentions of death, blood, non-descriptive injuries, andrew gets his happy ending, 18+ MDNI
notes: I saw that one Shawn interview where he spoke about how different he'd make Pope's ending, and I couldn't help but want to write it into existence in my own way. I hope you all enjoy this, if you'd like to join my permanent master list, please comment here! enjoy! and if you'd like to join my permanent master list, please comment here!
word count: 4.5k
Andrew’s bleeding body and betrayed soul burned almost as hot as the house behind him.
Flames threw heat against his back with every staggering step he took. His large hand pressed against the wounds littering his torso, his shirt squishing wetly under his palm. Each inhale and exhale caused spurts of blood to continue soaking the fabric. Exhaustion dragged him down like a ball and chain; he was so tired.
He wondered if this was it, if he was about to just give up in the house that started it all. Surely someone had already called about the fire; surely cops and other federal officers were on their way. But even with those thoughts, Andrew couldn’t help but worry about everyone but himself.
The pool lapped in crashing, rhythmic waves against the concrete side, a calm sound compared to the raging chaos around him. With a grunt, he lowered himself to sit on the edge, boots coming to rest on the first stair, the fabric instantly soaking in the chlorine scented water. His body ached, ached, ached, and his mind reeled with the last hour where everything went so horribly wrong.
His betraying nephew, his lost and probably injured baby brothers, his fading life; Andrew wasn’t sure which one hurt the most.
With shaking hands, he pulled out two items from his back pocket: his phone and a small photo. The corners of his mouth failed to turn at the sight of his younger self and his sweet-looking twin that he had failed so many years ago; J had made sure that his failure to protect her sank deeper and hurt more than his wounds. A small sob pushed out in one puff of air, and a singular tear made its way across his cheeks, mixing with the blood trickling from a cut near his eye.
Andrew placed the photo down carefully and looked at his phone second. Behind him, the fire continued to roar on, leaving no part of the famous Cody house untouched. His attention should have been on getting out of there, on finding Deran and Craig, but all he could think about was the phone call he had to make. For a split second, he hesitated, thumb frozen over the contact, before he touched the screen.
You picked up in two rings. “Andy?” you breathed, voice already filled with a panic that made his heart clench. “Andy, what’s going on. I saw—you were being transferred, but—the news, I don’t know what’s happening.”
He pinched his eyes shut, allowing more tears to squeeze their way out of his tear ducts. “I’m sorry,” he said first. “I’m so sorry.” He could almost envision your pinched, worried face if he thought hard enough. “You need to listen to me.”
“What’s going on?” you repeated. “Talk to me.”
Iron-tanged saliva pooled around his tongue. “Everything went south. J talked; Craig and Deran are gone but—” He inhaled sharply. “I don’t know if they’re going to make it.”
He couldn’t stand the sound of your shaking breathing on the other line, the one you made when you worried on his behalf.
“Andy—”
“There’s money,” he interrupted, so awfully aware of the growing heat behind him. “In your name. You’re gonna be taken care of, I made sure of it. You’ll never have to worry about anything, understand?”
“Money? What? What are you saying, Andy?”
He looked down and over at the photo then down to his pool-soaked boots. “I think this is it for me,” he whispered, heart breaking right into two at the thought of leaving you alone in this world. “Cops are comin’; the house . . . I took care of it.”
“You’re at the house?” you questioned, and Andrew could hear the tell tail sound of your keys jingling on that keychain he always told you would mess with the ignition.
He mentally cursed himself for the slip up, not wanting you to come after him and possibly find what he left behind. “Stay home,” he ordered. “Don’t-don’t come here; it’s not safe.”
“But—”
“Promise,” he stated, hand reaching to pick up the photo again. “Promise you won’t come here.” Each word hurt to get out.
“I’m not going to leave you to die, Andrew,” you argued. “Not when I can do something about it.”
“No,” he moaned, sides protesting with the word, body tensing with fear at the thought of you driving over. “Sweetheart, don’t come.”
Your keys stopped jingling, and he quietly sighed in relief. However, his heart sunk down to his toes when the sound of your car humming to life filled the speaker. The tires squealed.
“Just,” you started, pausing when words failed. “Wait for me. Please, Andy, wait for me. I’ll be there soon; you know this. You don’t get to die on me, Andrew Cody.” Your voice rose with each sentence.
Andrew sat there for another moment before his world slowly tipped to the side. His bones protested at the change, and his shoulder screamed when it came to rest on the concrete. Like sticky molasses, he shifted slowly until his hands dipped into cool water, photo of him and Julia quickly becoming soaked. His chest heaved in heavy, labored breathing. His poor auburn curls flattened under the weight of his head against the brick outline.
“Andy?” you whimpered. “Are you there?”
It took him a minute to gather the strength to speak. “Yeah,” he croaked. “’M here.”
“Do you remember what you told me the first time you walked me home?”
This time, Andrew’s lips quirked upward for a millisecond at the memory. “Yeah.”
“You said—” He heard you thickly swallow. “You said that no matter what, you wouldn’t leave me behind.”
He closed his eyes.
“A-and if-if—” It was almost like you couldn’t even speak the idea of him dying into existence in fear that it’d happen. “That’s breaking your promise.”
Andrew stayed silent as sirens wailed in the distance to the point that he thought that you could probably hear them through your phone. He didn’t want you mixed up in any of this; he had tried his damn hardest to keep you as far away from his family activity as possible.
“I’m almost there, okay? I’m coming.”
He didn’t know how much time had passed between your sentences, the world becoming blurry and sounds reaching his brain through cotton. He had lost a hold on the picture minutes ago, and it had slowly drifted out of reach, close to being so waterlogged that it threatened to dip below the surface and sink to the bottom. The only thing he kept a firm grip on—even if his strength was quickly waning—was the phone, his one lifeline to you.
Dark black spots danced in his vision, and his breathing stuttered and slowed.
“Almost there,” you kept repeated, like saying that would grant you the power of teleportation. “I’m almost there, and then, I’m going to get you all patched up. You’re going to be just fine. We’ll move somewhere safe, start a future together, just like we talked about yeah?”
Andrew’s chest heaved. “Yeah.”
“Tell me what you see, Andrew. What do you want our future to look like; keep talking to me.”
The next few words hurt, but he wasn’t just going to leave you without saying anything else. “A house.”
He heard a large sniff, followed by a watery exhale. “Yeah? What kind of house.”
“Big. Safe. Warm.”
“It sounds so nice.”
“Full.” He closed his eyes. “Full house.”
“You always did want four kids,” you tried, but the attempt to lift spirits fell flat. “What else?”
“All girls,” he muttered, his energy almost draining each time his mouth opened. “First one, then twins, and one baby.”
A small laugh crackled through the speaker. “Sounds like a dream. You’re going to be such a good dad, Andy.”
He hated the way you continued to speak like he was going to make it out alive. He knew you were still on the way, and the sirens were slowly growing louder even through his cotton (blood)-filled ears. His fingers loosened, and the phone dropped onto the ground with a thunk.
“Andrew? What was that?”
He thought he responded, but really, the words were all jumbled in his mouth. He dragged his cheek across the rough concrete to get his mouth closer to the dropped phone. The black spots had grown significantly as blood continued to pour from his body.
With one last large breath, he said, “I love you.”
His mind went quiet soon after, despite your yelling across the line for him to hold on. All fight left his body in a single moment, frame deflating under the weight of what was about to happen. Andrew Cody was close to death, and for the first time since meeting you, he felt truly at peace. Every blink of his eyes slowed; he didn’t know which one was going to be the last, but when his eyelids finally settled, and he couldn’t find the strength to open them again, he fully welcomed the darkness.
_______________________
You didn’t know what to expect to find when your car squealed into the fully-flame-engulfed Cody house’s driveway.
Andrew had gone silent on his end almost two minutes ago, and your heart thundered against your sternum. You didn’t even pull the keys out of the ignition before your door swung open. Your feet hit the ground, and you dashed around the corner to the side fence entrance. It took your shaking hands two tries before the latch gave way. Flames roared in your ears as you pushed through the gate, but all you could focus on was the Andrew-sized lump lying unmoving at the pool’s edge.
A cry of pure anguish tore through your throat. You didn’t stop running until your knees hit the pool’s ledge. You didn’t have time to dwell on the pain of your joints.
“Andrew?” you questioned, hands reaching to roll him over on his back. His body swayed under the motion, completely boneless. “Andrew?” Your hand curled into a fist and rubbed erratically against his sternum, just like you’d seen on TV. “Come on; come on!” Tears began streaming steadily down your face. “Andy, Baby, come on! Don’t do this to me!”
When he failed to make any signs of waking up, you quickly dug two fingers into the side of his neck and held your breath, waiting—hoping to feel something, anything below his skin. When you felt a dull pulse, you pulled your fingers away with a gasp of relief.
“You stay with me, Andrew Cody,” you grunted as your hands slipped under his arms, back straining under his dead weight.
Really, you hadn’t thought anything through; Andrew was almost double your weight, but the adrenaline coursing through your body was somehow enough for you to start dragging him across the backyard.
Almost back to the fence, you stumbled, ass falling down to the grass with Andrew pressing down on your front. Almost on the next street over, the sirens were getting dangerously close. If you didn’t move in the next few moments, they’d either drag you away and shoot Andrew on the spot as a convicted and escaped murderer or they’d drag you away and leave him to burn along with the house. You couldn’t let that happen; you’d rather die than let that happen.
So, with all the strength you could muster, you stood back up and kept yanking. Andrew stayed unconscious as his body bumped along the grass and then dragged across the small bit of driveway. A deep groan from the house had your head whipping up in time for you to witness the integrity give way under the flames. Plumes of smoak wafted high, but Andrew was already put in the passenger seat with the back all the way down for him to lie against. If you happened to pass officers on the way out, they’d only see you, Andrew being covered by the door.
Just like when you pulled in, your tires squealed on the way out. Your left hand gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles while the other held onto Andrew’s limp hand, thumb brushing against his split knuckles. Through the air, your phone rang a few times before a voice answered on the other line.
“Deran?” you called out.
He answered with your name in a saddened tone. “Yeah?”
“Where are you? Is Craig with you?”
A sobbed choke followed. “Craig’s . . . Craig’s—fuck!”
You bit down on your bottom lip to stop it from wavering, and your hand gripped Andrew’s just a tad bit tighter, knowing he was about to meet the same fate.
“Please,” Deran said, not waiting for you to say anything else. “Please tell me you’ve heard from Pope. He went back to the house to go after J; he said he’d find us, but—” He shakily exhaled. “But it sounded like he was saying goodbye instead.”
Your eyes drifted from the road down to Andrew, who still remained unconscious. “I have him, but Deran—” You looked back toward the road, blinking rapidly to rid your eyes of tears. “It’s bad. There’s so much blood. I—” You sniffed loudly. “I have to get him to a safe place. Is there anywhere you can think of?”
The line went silent for a few moments. “Smurf had a house . . . in Encinitas. I can meet you there, but . . . do you think he’ll last that long?”
“He’ll have to. Or I’ll bring him back just to kill him myself,” you muttered, spinning the steering wheel under your palm to take the closest exit. “Send me the address, and Deran?”
He sighed heavily. “Yeah?”
“Stay safe, okay? I’ll see you there.”
You hung up without another word, and the address came through not even a breath later. Your thumb continued to run across Andrew’s knuckles the entire 13.4-mile drive, hand never once letting go of his. The only thing that kept you from losing hope entirely was the slow up and down movement of his chest. Oh how you prayed for his hazel eyes to open, but even with your muttering and begging, they stayed closed.
Every so often, you’d look over your shoulder or stare right through the rearview mirror, heart thudding in awful anticipation of possibly seeing any battalion of police cars following you. But as your car stuttered to a halt in front of a non-descript house, the fear of being found was slowly overtaken by the fear of truly losing Andrew.
You exhaled slowly, forehead coming to rest against the wheel for just a moment, giving yourself a small chance to breath before you got out of the car. You quickly rounded the hood and opened the passenger door. Deran was nowhere in sight, and you didn’t want to wait for him to get there to help you transfer Andrew indoors. He needed to get inside as quickly as possible.
So, for the second time in thirty minutes, you shoved your arms under his and pulled with all your might. His feet hit the ground hard, but it was at least better than his full body. Your feet scuffled along, sandals definitely not the best choice for lugging your almost-dead fugitive boyfriend into a safehouse.
His weight pressed against you as you tried to get through the door, mentally thanking whoever last stayed there for stupidly forgetting to lock it. With one hand, you twisted the knob, and a wave of heat washed over you once you got through the threshold. You didn’t dare stop until you lugged Andrew onto the closest couch.
You all but collapsed next to him, shoulder pressed against his arm that had fallen over the side. Without thinking, you reached up and gingerly brushed a curl away from his face. He didn’t move one inch, and that terrified you.
You weren’t a doctor. You weren’t certified to give him any medical attention. However, that didn’t stop you from ripping his shirt off, finally laying eyes on his multiple wounds and bruising that almost swallowed his skin. Your hands hovered over his torso, mind not knowing where to even begin.
The sound of the door creaking open, though, had you grabbing the gun from his waistband and pointing it toward the front. Your finger shook against the trigger, but when the door opened fully and reveal an exhausted Deran, a sigh of relief wheezed from your lungs.
“Deran,” you sobbed, pushing up from the ground and speed walking over to his open arms. He smelled of thick sweat and blood, but the solidness of his arms around your shoulders was enough to make you feel safe. “P-please; I don’t know-know what to do.”
Deran took one look over your shoulder, and his breath hitched of his older brother looking closer to death than he’d ever seen. His arm slipped from your body as he walked over in small, hesitant steps. “He—” He sucked in a breath. “He’s not dead, right?”
“No,” you breathed out almost instantly. “He’s still holding on. But with all the blood loss, it’s going to take him a long time to wake up.” Your arms wrapped around your middle. “But he has to-has to wake up.”
You watched Deran lean down and press his forehead against Andrew’s before withdrawing. Recovery was going to be long, and the moment he woke up, you’d have to move him quickly to someplace safer. But all you could do for now was join Deran at the couch and stand like guard dogs, watching over Andrew as he slept.
_______________________
Andrew tensed the moment he became cognitive enough to know that he wasn’t dead.
His hands clenched at his sides before taking fistfuls of plush couch cushion. His bones ached as he lied there, unknowing exactly there was. If he’d been caught by police, a couch would be the last place they’d put him. And if he actually died, he wondered if God was playing a trick on his mind, putting him someplace comfortable before he’d be judged for his sins. Neither idea though seemed to stick while he pushed himself in an upward position. He blinked rapidly, and the scene before him came into a sharp, vivid image.
Bloodied rags and bottles of alcohol covered the spans of the small table that seemed to have been haphazardly pushed out of the way. Lines of drying, brown blood made a small path from his couch to the front door, and Andrew could only guess it all belonged to him. He kept a hold of the cushion in a grounding fashion. The last thing he remembered was your scared voice begging him to keep talking.
Flashes of pain raked through his soul, and panic began to bubble under his skin.
He’d been taken from his burning grave. He didn’t know where you were or if you had even made it to the Cody house. The idea of you pulling up, running inside just to not find his body had him itching to stand. But his knees buckled the moment he tried to get up, and a low groan pushed from his chest.
The sound must have echoed, because a thunder of footsteps followed almost instantly. Andrew tensed again, mind running with the possibility of who had actually taken him away. His hand reached for the gun he knew he had tucked in his waistband, but all he grabbed onto was an empty space.
His hands would have to be enough. They curled into fists and rose in front of his chest; however, they immediately fell back to his sides when you and Deran came around the corner into view, both pausing when you noticed who exactly had made the large thump.
You gasped loudly before continuing to rush toward him. Only sobs spilled from your mouth while you kneeled in front of him, hands gently coming to rest on his naked shoulders. You tucked your face into the crook of his neck, and your left hand quickly buried itself into the curls at his nape.
Andrew, almost frozen in disbelief, shakily placed his hands on the small of your back.
“You-you’re awake,” you stuttered, pulling your face back to look him in his hazel eyes. “You woke up.” You softly swiped you thumbs across the skin under his slowly blinking eyes. “You came back.”
Andrew closed his eyes fully. “You told me to wait.”
Wanting to be closer, you leaned forward until your forehead touched his, your eyes also fluttering shut as the two of you held each other. It wasn’t until Deran shifted that you parted. Andrew’s eyes opened and looked over your shoulder at his brother, and his eyebrows pinched when he wondered what was wrong with the picture.
“Craig?” he asked, tone all gravely with an ever too present underlying pain.
Deran shut his eyes and shook his head, silently telling Andrew everything he needed to know.
He all but crumbled back into your arms, thick hands finding a strong hold on your sides as he finally allowed himself to grieve; grieve for the life he had, for the life he lost, for Craig, for J’s betrayal, for Cath, for Julia.
But the tears also healed.
They signified that he was alive, breathing, and in your arms.
His sobs sputtered to a slow stop until he quieted. You stayed still through it all, wanting Andrew to be done only when he was ready. Your hands continued to pet and run through his blood-matted curls while he stayed buried in your front. Your lips gently placed intermittent kisses against his temple, and Andrew lightly hummed at the feeling.
He didn’t know where the two of you were supposed to go from there. You and he would have to flee California while he knew Deran would want to stay, lie low, and find Adrian at some point. Andrew knew that time was ticking down, that it was only a matter of time before the cops started looking for him and Deran. But all he could care about in that moment was the rise and fall of your chest under his ear and the feeling of having his arms wrapped around your middle.
_______________________
For one split second four years ago, you didn’t think the life you always wanted was possible.
But as you stood in front of the small, farmhouse that seemed to glow against the sunset, you took a large inhale of air. Well, as much air as you could with two developing babies currently pressing upward against your lungs and all your other important organs. Your stomach stretched far, and you ran a hand down the swelled bump.
A squeal from the front yard had caught your attention, which was how you found yourself standing on the wrap-around porch, baby bump held between your hands. Your cheeks warmed with a smile as you watched Andrew carry your almost 4-year-old daughter through the tall grass where the lightning bugs were just starting to twinkle.
Your shoulder rested against one of the pillars, and the cool breeze of April settled against your cheeks in soft and fleeting puffs that carried the smell of approaching spring and rainwater. You knew that if you walked down the steps and into the grass, the ground would squish softly between your toes.
“Mama!” Julie yelled from where Andrew was currently holding her out like she was flying. “Do you see! Do you see da glow bugs!”
“I see!” you called out in response, not even trying to fight the smile that pretty much never failed to stretch your face since you found this small part of paradise.
“Daddy! Put down! I wanna see Mama!” she squealed right into Andrew’s ear.
You watched as Andrew contemplated setting her down before he flipped her face up and pretending to bite at her tummy, the sound of his playful growl mixing so wonderfully with the sound of Julie’s giggles. He took large steps in your direction, deciding to just carry his daughter instead of having her walk through the soft and slightly muddy yard; his nicely cleaned and polished floors would thank him later.
The sound of her pitter patters up the steps caused your heart to flutter; it was a noise you’d never get over hearing.
“Be careful,” Andrew warned when he noticed Julie coming at you with a bit more speed than your poor knees could probably handle. “Remember to be gentle with Mama.”
Julie all but screeched to a halt before continuing on at a much slower speed. Her small arms wrapped around your left leg, and your left hand trailed through the mop of auburn curls. She was, in all aspect of her tiny life, Andrew’s twin. And you were more than fine with it, even if you’d grown her for nine months just for her to come out with a frown that matched her daddy’s to a tee.
“Go wash your hands; dinner’s almost ready,” you said, giving her one last pat on the head.
She squeezed your leg one last time before dashing into the house, squealing her entire way in. You couldn’t help chuckle at the noise.
It hadn’t taken long for Julie to be on her way after you and Andrew found this small piece of land. The house had needed fixing, but it was something you could envision your family growing in. And just five weeks into renovations, you’d shown him three tests with double lines so dark they almost looked black. Andrew had cried openly after dropping to his knees in order to rest his forehead against your then flat stomach. For the next nine months, he panicked, prepared, cried some more, and panicked again. But the moment Julie was placed in his arms, you knew exactly then that Andrew Cody was meant to be a father.
His hand sliding across your belly brought you out of your reverie. “They being good?” he asked, leaning down to press a kiss to your bump before straightening to kiss you.
He was answered by a few kicks to his palm that sent flutters thought your body.
“They want out,” you muttered against his lips before pressing back into him. “Can’t believe you called it. First Julie, now A and B. You think you’re gonna be correct with the last?”
Andrew pulled back and smirked. “Definitely. Like I said, sweetheart, all girls.”
Your eyes gently raked across his face, taking in each and every freckle that dotted his face like constellations you could see on a clear summer’s night. You caressed his cheek with your fingers, and his eyes fluttered as he leaned into your hand.
“Thank you,” you whispered. “For staying.”
“Thank you,” he echoed. “For never giving up.”
The two of you stood there, enjoying each other’s company, until Julie called for you deep in the house.
“Duty calls,” Andrew muttered, curling an arm around your waist.
“Yes,” you mused. “Yes, she does.”
The rest of the evening went in warm touches and moments you never wanted to end. And like many nights before, you went to bed surrounded by your small family with a large smile each time Andrew tugged you in a bit tighter in his sleep, knowing that everything would continue to be exactly as it should be.
hi love, i know you’re so good at helping people find isos for certain pitt fics, so i thought i’d shoot my shot. i read this one a while ago, maybe last year? here’s what i remember m:
it was robby x reader
they worked in the er
the reader had an ex that was abusive
he followed her around after
the cops got involved
he either hid near her car or stabbed her tires?
he stabbed or shot ahmad
I am thrilled you thought of me to help you. I love to help find fics.
Unfortunately this isn't ringing even a little bell for me. It sounds great and hopefully someone can help us find it.
synopsisRobby wants to take you- his beautiful wife- on a romantic get away, he forgets about the knuckleheads that means leaving at home
warningskids, robby is a dad in this, you are a mom, language, smut-ish (pentration) hospital stuff, bone breaking etc
author notewasn't i so original with the names? my genius frightens even me sometimes. this is a short little thing I just had in my head and really wanted to write. if you're not into kid fics i apologise, really this was just an excuse to write something featuring a version of john carter again. I have lots and lots and lots of pitt drafts and thank you for requests!! I am slowly getting through them:)
the pitt masterlist. another Robby fic!
The smell of wood and coffee drifted to you as Robby nudged open the door with his boot, grunting slightly at the weight of the bags he carried that you'd offered to help him with but hadn't even got a reply as Robby slung one under arm, taking the other two in hand and walking past you with a smirk.
“Home sweet home,” he said.
The cabin was small and hidden away from the city. It was miles away from the hospital and any roads to hide the noise of wailing sirens.
Peace. That's what this getaway was about, taking you somewhere the two of you could live as a young couple, un-disturbed. It was about the only thing that had gotten Robby through the last tough weeks of work. All the blood and death and bathroom breaks of locking himself in stools to silently cry was all so he could come home to you and his family in one piece.
Now, he could shred every responsibility that didn't include being your husband and that wasn't a responsibility. More an honour.
Robby looked down at you with a smile, expecting to see one back. Instead, you were looking down at your phone. “Sweetheart, what are you doing?”
“I'm just checking in with the kids.”
He groaned and grabbed your phone, throwing it ahead into the cabin. It landed somewhere soft on the rug. “They'll be fine, they're what? Twenty something?”
You laughed and stepped closer into his circle of heat, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and drawing yourself closer. “Look at you, pretending not to know your kids ages.”
Robby dropped the bags, snapping his arms around your waist and holding you up. “What can I say? I'm loving... attentive...”
His beard scratched up and down your neck as he littered slow kisses there.
“Should I carry you through the doorway? Like when we were married?” Robby wasn't exactly encouraged by the idea with your laughter shaking in your chest.
“I don't think your back can handle that, old man.”
His brows rose up, tongue poking the inside of his cheek and you bit back a smirk. He couldn't help but think how sexy you looked, even after kids and marriage you never failed to stop looking beautiful.
And Robby had never found being called old sexier.
“Well,” he grunted, lifting you further till your toes were scraping the floor. “How about you go up to that bedroom and I show you just what this old man can do?”
“Dad's gonna kill me... Dad's gonna kill me.”
Noah watched his brother, John, pace the small hospital room. For such a tiny pace he was making good job at trekking miles. “Relax, at least we're in a hospital,” he said. “That way they can shock you back to life.”
“So he can kill me all over again!” John hit his forehead with the palm of his hand, the smack bouncing around the walls.
Their sister, Casey, laughed on the bed.
She was taking all this surprisingly well considering it was her arm broken and limply lying in her lap.
The brothers looked to her as if remembering she was there. Like she wasn't the reason they were there. Well- technically it was John's fault. Because he was older and he was supposed to be looking after Casey. He should have been the one watching her on the trampoline. Should have seen how she fell on her arm and a sickening crack followed.
To her credit, Casey didn't cry.
Instead she let out a string of curse words that would make a sailor shudder.
Noah didn't know which is dad would hate more: the cast she'll inevitably be put in or the words she'd some how picked up.
“How're you feeling?” John asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Hungry,” she said, pulling out the puppy dog eyes and pout that only a six year old could do effectively.
“Can't eat I'm afraid, not till we've got that arm looked at.”
“Will I need stitches?”
Noah let out one loud, ha! “Worse!”
Casey shrieked.
“Noah!” John lectured.
“What? I'm being honest! Honestly is the best policy.”
“Not when it scares her!”
“I'm not scared,” said Casey, momentarily misplacing her broken arm as she tried to flail them around only to end up teary eyed at the pain.
John shuffled closer to her side in panic, throwing an arm around her shoulder and comforting her. “It's okay, oh, it's okay.”
“I want daddy!”
John and Noah looked at each other, gulping.
It had been a total of four hours. Four hours they'd been gone and already things had gone wrong! The drive up to their cabin alone was five so they'd maybe only had three hours of relaxation. That was enough, right?
For months their dad had drilled it into them he was taking their mother away for an anniversary he had to work three months ago. This was the only time off together your schedules could work out. After all, PCMT didn't run steady without the attending and nurse.
We'll be gone three days, their dad told them, sitting the two brothers a year apart down. Carter will be busy at Presby so I need you two to look after Casey, alright? John you're eighteen, you're in charge.
Noah had never been happier to be younger.
It was all amusing to him really, besides the fact his sister was hurt- obviously.
“I want daddy too,” Noah laughed.
John paled.
Suddenly the door flew open and just when Noah thought it might have been a doctor they'd never seen, or Abbot or Dana, it only got worse.
Carter rushed in, white lab coat billowing a second behind him. Their dad thought it was tacky and dumb (med students haven't worn them since the 90s, he'd said) but their mom thought Carter looked handsome so- the doting mommy's boy he was- Carter always wore it.
Noah rolled his eyes.
“Hey, hey, what's going on here?” he rushed over to Casey, pressing a kiss to her forehead and petting down her hair. “You okay? She okay?”
“She's fine,” said John, standing from the bed.
“My arm hurts,” whined Casey.
“I'll give you ten bucks to say nothing,” said John.
Casey made a dramatic move in holding in her words.
John should have done it for five.
Carter looked around the room like he was wholly confused even if he was in his second year of med school in Presby and was accustom to the look of a hospital room. “Where's her chart? Has she been looked at? Has Dana been in?”
“No, I got us in on the down low,” said Noah, standing from his chair.
Carter hovered over the computer, trying to find a way to log in that didn't mean hacking into the system. “The down low?”
John reached his other side. “I bribed Donnie to get us a room.”
“Why would you do that?”
“So they don't call mom and dad!”
“They're not here?” Carter asked, a furrow between his brows.
“No, they're up at the cabin,” said John.
“Their romantic getaway, you remember that?” asked Noah.
Carter's expression dropped. “That was today?”
“Yeah that was today, where have you been living?” said Noah, knowing his brother lived in the second biggest room of the house and had been pretty much vacant from it with his studies. Noah had took to invading the room at any chance.
John rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “We called you cause... you know, you're a doctor.”
“Well, no, I'm a med student,” said Carter, though briefly the word 'doctor' had gone to his head. And ego.
“But you're so good at it,” encouraged Noah, thumping their eldest brother on the chest and fixing his crooked stethoscope. “What better time will you have to put your skills to good use then to help our sister?”
The three looked back to Casey who was watching them, blinking.
“How's your pain on a scale of one to ten, Casey? One being no pain at all, ten being horrible, terrible, worst pain of your life?” asked Carter, keeping his voice as light and brotherly as possible.
Casey looked to John.
He sighed. “You can talk, Casey.”
She thought about it for a second. “A seven?”
Carter cursed under his breath.
John and Noah shared a look, knowing who to blame Casey's exclamations on. “You can order labs,” said John.
“Yeah, get her a scan or something,” added Noah.
Carter laughed them off. “I can't, I don't work here!”
John put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Of course you can, you're a Robinavitch.”
“Hey,” said Santos, approaching the nurses station as if in a daze. “I'm like totally not crazy and I totally don't miss the guy or anything but I swear I just saw a younger version of Robby walk in here.”
“What?” Javadi laughed.
Whitaker nodded along, as if he'd expected it. “You must really miss the guy, huh?”
Santos rolled her eyes. “No, Jesus that's not it. I just mean Robby's literal doppelganger just walked in, white lab coat and all.”
Dana didn't make it a habit to listen into gossip... sometimes she couldn't help it. She lingered at the nurses counter, listening with one ear to everything else around her in case there was an actual emergency.
“Really, where?” Javadi asked.
“Hey! You three!” Dana called, snapping her fingers as she approached the three, peering at them over her glasses. “We got beds to empty, people to see, let's move it!”
The three were resigned to do their job, as so many usually were, but Dana watched them go, ensuring they were all going to three separate locations but not before she caught Trinity leaning into Javadi, whispering in her ear an exam room where this mysterious young Robby was hid in.
Dana wondered but not for long as she found the room with not one, not two but four Robinavitch children inside.
A grin formed. It was always good to see them, especially since she'd been seeing them since they were babies, having held each one of them in her arms and held each of their hands as they started to walk. Sometimes they still needed the hand.
Carter, John and Noah's backs were to the door, the three standing over the bed in clear thought if their folded arms and tense backs were anything to go by, so like their father they were.
Casey Robinavitch, the youngest of the set, was first to spot her, smiling wide. “D! D!”
“Well look what the cat dragged in!” she celebrated.
Casey did what she could to move but Dana was there at her side, embracing her and helping her back down onto the bed.
The boys were less enthusaticaly.
“Hey, Dana,” John said quietly.
Carter was by far his father's son in looks. The same sloped nose and brown eyes. Dressed up as a doctor he looked even more the part. It freaked Dana sometimes, like having the ghost of young and cocky Michael Robinavitch hovering around the place.
John and Carter- still alike their father- had a bit more of you in them. In their smile and eyes. Casey too.
“What the hell's going on here, you miss me that much you invaded the place, huh?” she asked though she could tell by all three of the boys looking worried and Casey sitting still that there was some reason to have been here.
“It looks like Casey broke her arm,” said Carter, brushing back his hair. “A simple Distal Radius fracture.”
“You got all that without a scan? Presby must be teaching you something,” she teased.
Carter blushed.
Dana cast her gaze to the quiet John and Noah. “Which one of you supposed to be looking after my girl here anyway?”
They both pointed at each other.
Dana shook her head and rolled her eyes before focusing ahead to Casey. “Okay, honey, you hungry? I keep a stash of candy in my draw, you want a piece?”
She nodded enthusaticaly.
“But she'll need surgery for her arm, she can't eat,” said Carter.
“Even I knew that,” added John.
“Yeah well the OR's a little backed up,” said Dana with a pat to Casey's knee. She stood up and drew the curtain around them, closing them in. “We had an accident and there's a long que.”
She didn't want to get in the specifics of crash that involved all the OR's time but Carter approached her.
“Anything I can do?” he asked.
Dana smiled. She had to say, it was good to see the kids that were made from her favourite attending and nurse. “No, kid. You stay here with your family, I'll handle everything.”
“What's with the curtain?” asked Noah.
“Are we grounded?”
“You're all a bit of a celebrity around here, the new residents and med students don't know you guys exist, heck they only realised your parents were married after Huckleberry caught them in the lounge.”
“Ew,” said John.
“Caught them what?” asked Casey, full of child like innocence.
The boys looked to Dana in amusement.
“Doing things adults shouldn't do at work,” she said.
Casey wasn't satisfied. “Like what?”
“You can ask them when they get here.”
“You're not gonna call them, are you?” asked John, adam's apple moving in his swallow.
“Have to kid, sorry! I'll get Princess to take you to X-ray, sound good?” she asked Casey, knowing Princess was her favourite (other than herself of course) because she was better at braiding than both her parents.
John fell into his seat, hunched over. In comfort, Carter clamped a hand on his shoulder.
Dana left the family, shaking her head and trying to hide her smile. She'd pushed you and Robby to go away, trusting that the three boys you held in such high esteem would handle looking over one small girl who really wasn't that much trouble.
She hated to be proved wrong.
Hated even more she had to interrupt the two of you after she'd had to watch the sultry looks passed between the two of you and stop the two of you from disappearing together into rare empty beds and store rooms.
Dana called you first, shaking her head while she did.
“Robby!”
He groaned into your neck, his arms caging in your head as he moved in and out of you with a rapid pace. Sweat covered both your bodies from the long-awaited sex he planned to drag out. “My god,” he groaned.
Your nails scratched down his back leaving angry welts in your place. He licked lazily at your neck, moaning and groaning at the taste.
The both of you were as loud as you liked, without kids barging in to say they couldn't find the remote or wanting to know what was for dinner. The cabin stood alone with only trees as its companion so you could be as loud as you liked.
He'd had you coming on his mouth and fingers- then once more for luck- before he finally found himself home in you and that was how it felt, coming home.
Your back arched into him as his hips met yours. “Michael... Michael...”
You could feel him grin into your neck. “Gonna come again? Come on my cock, jus how I like.”
Robby found your lips and kissed you openly, all teeth and tongue. His breathing was laboured, his lips a hungry mess. His hips drove in more and more, his groaning louder, face scrunched in concentration to last.
“Please, Michael, please,” you whined against his lips.
Robby licked at your lips, nodding-
Suddenly there was a loud ringing and vibration against the wood off the bedside table where you'd left your phone.
Robby groaned but not in pleasure. As his lips pulled away from yours you turned to look at your phone. “Ignore it, ignore it,” he begged, cupping your cheek to move you to look at him again.
You let him kiss you, let him distract you with his tongue as he drove his cock in and out quicker, desperate to chase your high.
“Oh god, hurgh, fuck!”
Your phone still rung and his grip hardened on your face.
“Could be... could be the kids...” you uttered.
“They're fine, they're fine-”
But you couldn't help but stretch, under the feign of pleasure you arched up and grabbed your phone, turning it face up.
“Jesus-” Robby grunted but stilled inside of you, impossibly close.
Hospital. Work. Calling.
“Jesus-” he chuckled dryly. “Hasn't even been a day.”
Before you could even think about answering it Robby snatched it from your hand and threw it half way across the room.
“Robby!” you laughed.
Your arms wrapped back around him and drew him in, legs going around his waist as his cock continued his work.
“Jack, thank god!” Dana gasped when she spotted the night attending making his way in. He greeted her with a bag already over his shoulder, giving her a brief hug.
“Hey, got your message, what's going on?” he asked, brows knitted together in worry.
It was a last ditch attempt. Dana had called you a handful of times from the hospital phone and her own. She'd tried Robby and been sent straight to voice mail. Nothing. She couldn't exactly blame the two of you, it was supposed to be a holiday.
None of the kids were willing to be the one to make the call and other than tackle them to get a phone Jack was the last result.
“Got a family situation, the parents won't pick up,” she explained.
“What kind of family-”
Dana led him into the exam room.
Casey was sitting in the bed, her arm up in a sling with a pizza box in her lap. Next to her Noah was cosied on the bed while John and Carter were on each side of the bed, chairs pulled him and pizza slices in hands.
“Uncle Jack!” Casey cheered.
The boys at least looked happier to see him than they had Dana. They knew if Jack was here it meant they couldn't get in contact with either you or their dead.
“What's this? A pizza party and I wasn't invited?” he said, setting down his bag and heading for Casey, checking in on her first.
“What's this? Where's the pizza come from?” asked Dana.
“They were hungry, I ordered,” said Carter.
“And surgery for her arm?”
Carter chocked down the last of his pizza. His doctors coat was still sat on his shoulders but his tie was lose around his neck and several pens were missing from his pocket. “The OR's backed up, you said that, you gave her a lollipop!”
Dana tried her best efforts to be mad on behalf of Robby but it didn't work. Robby could maybe be mad at the boys if he had the right too but Casey he could never seem find to be angry with. A daddy's girl through and through.
“Hey, Carter, how's Presby?” asked Jack, all the while testing the pain with Casey.
“Good, it's er, it's good,” he said. “I told them there was a family emergency.”
There was only one reason Carter had gone to Presby and that was to keep work and home away from each other. He couldn't be a student under his dad and mom.
“So you er-” Noah started. “Couldn't get through to mom or dad, huh?”
There was an un-denying gleam of joy at that.
“No, we couldn't,” said Dana. “But we're gonna keep trying.”
Carter crossed his arms over his chest as if he were the concerned doctor and not the worried older brother. “We need their permission for the surgery, what happens to her arm if it's not put right soon?”
“Well good news is I can pull weight in the OR, though we'll have to wait for the pizza to go down,” said Jack, taking a bite from the slice Casey held in hand. She laughed. “What colour we thinking? Pink? Red? Black?”
“Can I have three colours?” she asked.
Jack shrugged. “I'll put the request in.”
“Why aren't they answering? Maybe they're asleep?” said John.
Noah smirked. “Or maybe they're enjoying their free time.”
Jack shot him an unamused look.
“I meant playing games!” he defended.
“Like twister?” asked Casey.
Carter looked away, scratching the back of his head as Dana hid her smirk along with him.
“Yeah, twister.”
You'd managed to escape the clutch's of Robby, managing to throw his shirt on and get to the kitchen for a glass of water. Your legs had been shaky in the sort of delicious way you'd missed.
It was dark out, the small orange glow of the lights around the cabin lighting your way as you downed half your drink.
The wooden floor creaked behind you. The curve of Robby's belly met your back.
His hands wound under his shirt on your body, fondling your hips. “I thought the point of a get away was no clothes allowed.”
You bit your lip, gently setting down your glass of water. “And if I turn around are you going to be following that rule?”
Robby chuckled into your skin. His lips found your neck again, kissing over the bruises he'd left from before. It started slow, the sort that reminded you of your first time before his teeth met your skin and nipped. His hands got further up your skin, running over the curves of your body. “Why don't you look and find out?”
The idea of Robby in all his beauty had you salivating at the mouth and lower parts when a vibration alerted the two of you.
Robby groaned again, the both of you finding his phone left in his pants pocket crumpled on the floor.
It seemed you'd been in a hurry to get them off.
“The thing keeps going!”
Robby was naked, and it distracted you all through the walk to get his pants, fishing for his phone. Not that he cared, he only finished your glass of water.
Your hormones were going crazy, begging you to climb your husband like a tree but you still managed to answer the phone. “Michael's phone.”
“Jesus what's it take to get you to pick up a phone!” Dana said in a way of greeting.
“Oh, hi Dana, how are you? Sorry, we were... busy.”
“Yeah busy my ass, listen you guys need to come back.”
“Why, what's happening?”
Robby heard the worry in your voice and turned to look over his shoulder.
“Your kids are here, Casey's hurt.”
“So let me get this straight: You're letting Jack sign your cast first, then Carter, then John, then me!” gasped Noah.
The family had made themselves at home at in the small room, Casey in the bed like the queen of the castle though even queens needed sleep.
Carter was watching his sister come in and out of sleep while John stayed close to her side, stroking back her hair. They'd put her in the list for the OR, it was backed up enough that by the time she got in her eating wouldn't have been a problem. In three more hours he'd have to get back to Presby and carry on a shift. He should've used the time for napping but found the hospital chairs not so comfy.
Casey nodded, as if proud.
“It's John's fault and he gets to sign it before me!”
“He didn't steal my favourite crayons!” she said.
Jack raised his brows at Noah. “Crayons?”
Noah stuttered with all the eyes on him. “I was taking notes.”
“In crayons?” asked Jack.
“Colour helps you retain information! Look it up!”
There was a gang of laughter before the doors burst open.
Robby was first into the scene and you were close behind.
“Dad!” said Casey.
“Hey, sweetie,” he greeted, by-passing everyone else in the room to press a kiss to her forehead, keeping a hand on her fine arm. “What the hell happened?” he asked to the room.
John and Noah fell into your side, trying to be safe there away from the wrath of their father. “She- she was on the trampoline and she fell, broke her wrist.”
“Distal fracture,” corrected Carter.
“Why weren't you looking out for her?” Robby asked as he took Jack's stethoscope from around his neck, pressing it to her chest as if there could be something wrong and as if they hadn't already checked.
“I-I turned my back for a second,” said John.
“It's okay,” you said, stroking back John's air just a little.
You walked past the boys, greeting Carter quickly before you set on the edge of Casey's bed. Your daughter had your eyes. “Hey honey, how are you feeling?”
Robby gave her another kiss on the forehead before stepping away and letting Jack- the closest thing the kids had to an uncle- take his place. There was a small wave of his hand and the boys- even Carter- fell into step. “So tell me why not even five hours into the trip with your mother we're called back in because you let your sister get hurt?”
“He didn't let her get hurt, dad,” Noah defended. “It could've happened whether or not John was watching her.”
Robby's hands ran up and over his face, pulling at the lines of age and worry. Deep down he knew that was true and the boys knew he knew that. It didn't change that Casey had been hurt and ended up in the hospital. If it had been one of them- Carter, John or Noah- Robby and you would have drove with the same speed.
“Okay, okay,” Robby nodded. “And who let her have pizza when she's in line for the OR?”
John and Noah turned to Carter.
Robby frowned. “Are they teaching you anything at Presby?”
“Dana said the OR was backed up!”
“Don't drag me into this kid!” called Dana from the open door and over the crowd that had formed.
On second look Robby spotted Whitaker, Javadi, King and Santos at the door with Samira- all of who knew you and Robby well, knew you had a flirty thing going on yet had no idea the life you'd shared and continued to create behind the scene.
Next to them stood Langdon, the one holding the door open for them all to see. The one that did know and had even played a hand in Casey's birth.
“Holy shit,” said Whitaker.
“You have kids?” asked Javadi. “Like actual, real-life off springs?”
Carter frowned, looking from the crowd to you. “Why do they seem so surprised at that?”
You smiled, leaning your head on Casey's as she babbled about the accident and everyone she wanted to sign her cast (including barbie herself). “Well, we didn't really mention the whole kids part.”
“So nobody knew we existed?” asked Noah, offended. “What happened to pride and joy?”
“What happened to pain in my ass?” said Robby, lovingly. At least, Carter thought it came off that way. “Okay- yes, yes,” he said addressing the crowd. “We have kids, we didn't say anything because well frankly it was none of your buisness-”
“I knew I saw a younger Robby!” said Santos. Her phone was in hand and clicking with the sound of a picture of the room- specifically Carter-before anyone could stop her.
“It's not like I don't have my hands full with you lot already,” Robby mumbled, rubbing at his temples. “But yes, we have four beautiful children, anything else?”
There was a clear of a throat. Surprisingly not from the crowd of doctors but from behind him. From you.
“What?” asked Robby.
You gave him a pointed look.
He'd said four kids. Had he got it wrong? Somewhere along the lines it did get hard to keep track of them all. Who had exams when, who was in line to follow in their footsteps in practising medicine, who wanted a dog for christmas, etc.
Just in case, Robby did a head count, counting his kids off on his fingers: Casey, Noah, John, Carter. Casey, Noah-
It wasn't till he looked at you and saw your hand lingering over your stomach that he realised.
He thought back to the wine you'd declined at dinner last week, to the morning sickness you'd tried to hide from him, to the way you said there were things to talk about when you had a chance alone. After four, Robby should have been good at spotting the signs.
Five children it would appear.
“Congratulations, brother,” Jack was first to say, smiling in amusement that you'd caught your husband so off guard. Again.
John and Noah were next in clapping him on the back before attending to you in the same celebrations.
Robby took it all red in the cheeks as Santos started to clap behind him, Whitaker following un-sure a beat behind her.
“Jesus, dad, can you keep it in your pants for once,” joked Carter, standing at his full height next to him.
Robby shrugged, arms folding over his chest. “Takes two.”
Noah frowned. “Ew.”
Casey, the poor girl with the broken wrist, wasn't sure what was going on. “Takes two to what?”
The room fell silent. You pursed your lips, looking to Robby for some explanation.
Carter patted his dad on the back, slipping out of the room.
John smirked. “Yeah, dad, takes two to what?”
Robby glared. “Son, lets talk about your grounding.”
You’re a nurse at St. Thomas and Chibs keeps ending up in your ER with increasingly ridiculous excuses for why he’s injured.
The first time you met Chibs Telford, he was bleeding on your trauma bay floor and swearing in three languages.
You were twelve hours into a fourteen-hour shift at St Thomas' Hospital ER, your scrubs smelled like antiseptic and stale coffee, and one of the interns had just cried in the medication room because a patient screamed at her over wait times.
So when the paramedics rolled in a tall Scottish man with a split eyebrow and blood soaking through a flannel shirt, you barely looked up from your chart.
“Thirty-something male,” the paramedic said. “Bar fight. Possible broken ribs. Vitals stable. Refused pain meds because apparently he’s ‘not a wee bitch.’”
The patient pointed weakly toward the paramedic. “That’s no’ what I said.”
“Close enough.”
You finally glanced over.
And paused.
He was… striking.
Not pretty. Not polished. Nothing soft about him. Scars carved across his face. Dark hair hanging damp around his temples. Leather kutte tossed over his lap with a reaper patch visible beneath the blood. Eyes soft even through obvious pain.
Dangerous, your brain supplied immediately.
Your exhausted brain supplied right after: unfortunately hot.
“Name?” you asked professionally.
“Filip Telford.”
“Age?”
“Depends who’s askin’.”
You deadpanned. “The woman deciding whether you’ve got internal bleeding.”
“…Forty-eight.”
“See? Wasn’t hard.”
His mouth twitched.
You pulled gloves on and moved toward him. “What happened?”
“Fell.”
The paramedic barked a laugh loud enough that another nurse looked over.
You lifted an unimpressed brow.
Chibs sighed dramatically. “Fine. Got punched.”
“Why?”
“Man was upset.”
“With?”
“A variety of things.”
“Did one of those things include your face?”
Another twitch of amusement.
“You always this friendly, nurse?”
“Only with patients actively wasting my time.”
You started cutting away the bloodied shirt before he could protest. Bruising bloomed across his ribs already, ugly purple spreading over tattooed skin.
And Christ.
The man was built like he’d been carved out of bad decisions and whiskey.
“You fractured anything before?” you asked.
“Aye.”
“How many times?”
“Yes.”
You snorted before you could stop yourself.
His eyes sharpened immediately at the sound, like he’d discovered something interesting.
You ignored it.
“You allergic to anything?”
“Hospitals.”
“Mhm.”
“Authority.”
“Noted.”
“Cheap beer.”
That finally got a laugh out of you.
Small. Brief. But real.
And something about it hit him square in the chest.
You saw it happen.
The way he looked at you afterward changed completely.
Not flirtatious exactly.
Focused.
Like he’d decided to remember you.
You didn’t expect to see him again.
Men like him came into emergency departments all the time. Fights. Crashes. Stabbings they refused to explain. Dangerous men with dangerous jobs and worse survival instincts.
Usually they disappeared back into the world after discharge papers.
But three weeks later, Filip Telford came back into your ER with a nail through his hand.
You stared at him.
He stared back.
“…Again?” you asked.
“Aye.”
“How.”
“Construction accident.”
You looked at the leather kutte.
Then at the tattoos.
Then at the very obvious motorcycle boots.
“Right.”
“I’m diversifyin’.”
“Into carpentry?”
“Tryin’ new things.”
The nail had gone clean through the fleshy part of his palm. Painful but survivable.
Still stupid.
Very stupid.
“Sit,” you ordered.
Obediently—shockingly—he sat.
Your coworker Nina wandered past, glanced at him, and immediately grinned.
“Oh, your boyfriend’s back.”
“He is not my boyfriend.”
Chibs looked deeply pleased by the accusation.
Nina pointed at the nail. “What’d you do this time, handsome?”
“Construction accident.”
She looked at you.
You looked at her.
Together, in perfect sync: “Bullshit.”
Chibs laughed.
Low and rough and genuinely entertained.
You cleaned the wound carefully while he watched you instead of the procedure.
“You always this accident-prone?” you muttered.
“Only recently.”
“Mhm.”
“You think I’m lyin’.”
“I think if I asked ten follow-up questions, your story would collapse instantly.”
“Aye, probably.”
You glanced up. “At least you’re honest about it.”
“Honest with you.”
The words landed strangely between you.
Not flirtation.
Not entirely.
Just… truth.
And for reasons you couldn’t explain, that was worse.
You finished wrapping his hand.
“Try not to impale yourself for at least a month.”
“No promises.”
“You’re exhausting.”
“And yet ye patched me up anyway.”
“That’s literally my job.”
“Aye.” His eyes stayed on yours. “Still.”
The third visit happened at two in the morning.
You walked into Trauma Two and stopped dead.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
Chibs looked up from the hospital bed, nose visibly broken and ice pack pressed to his face.
“There she is.”
“You cannot keep coming here.”
“Technically I can.”
“You look like someone hit you with a car.”
“Motorcycle, actually.”
You blinked slowly.
“…You drove your motorcycle into something.”
“No.”
“Something drove into you?”
“Aye.”
“That’s worse.”
He shrugged and immediately winced.
“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, grabbing gloves. “What happened?”
“Dog ran into the road.”
“You crashed avoiding a dog?”
“Wasn’t gonna hit the wee thing.”
You tried not to react to that.
Failed a little.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
“Did the dog live?” you asked quietly.
“Aye.”
“Okay. Good.”
He smiled through the swelling.
And there it was again—that sharp strange pull in your chest.
Because he looked terrifying.
Scarred and bruised and tattooed and built like violence.
But he’d wrecked his bike to save a stray dog.
You examined his nose carefully.
“Broken.”
“Figured.”
“You have a concussion?”
“Probably.”
“You say that like it’s normal.”
“Depends on the month.”
You sighed heavily.
“You are absolutely my worst patient.”
“And yet ye sound fond.”
“I’m not.”
“Liar.”
You pressed gently against his ribs and he hissed.
“Bruised,” you said. “Nothing cracked this time.”
“Improvin’.”
“Debatable.”
When you stepped back, he caught your wrist lightly.
Not enough to restrain.
Just enough to stop you moving away.
His hand was warm even through your gloves.
“Name,” he said softly.
You frowned. “You know my name. It’s on my badge.”
“Aye. Your last name.”
You hesitated.
It was stupid to hesitate.
But something about him felt… dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with physical harm.
Dangerous because he paid attention.
Dangerous because every time he looked at you, you felt seen in a way you weren’t used to.
“Nurse confidentiality,” you said finally.
He grinned despite the broken nose. “That bad, eh?”
“You’d survive without it.”
“Maybe.”
But he looked disappointed.
And annoyingly, that bothered you.
After the fourth visit, your coworkers started taking bets.
“I’m serious,” Nina said over coffee. “That man is in love with you.”
“He doesn’t even know me.”
“He keeps nearly dying in increasingly creative ways to come see you.”
“That is not what’s happening.”
From the other side of the break room, Dr. Harrison looked up from his sandwich.
“The biker with the accent?”
“Yes,” Nina said.
“He asked if you were working before he agreed to stitches last week.”
You froze.
“…What?”
Dr. Patel shrugged. “Thought you knew.”
You absolutely did not know.
And suddenly several things clicked into place.
The suspicious timing.
The weirdly selective compliance.
The fact that he always somehow ended up in your section of the ER.
“Oh my God.”
Nina looked delighted. “OH MY GOD.”
“It’s not like that.”
“It is absolutely like that.”
You groaned and buried your face in your hands.
Unfortunately, your traitorous stomach fluttered.
The fifth visit involved a ferret.
To this day, you still weren’t entirely sure how.
“What do you mean it bit you,” you demanded.
Chibs sat on the bed looking genuinely offended. “The little bastard was aggressive.”
“Why were you near a ferret?”
“Friend owns one.”
“Why.”
“Ask him.”
“Did you try to pet it?”
“Aye.”
“You absolute idiot.”
“It looked friendly.”
You stared at the bite on his arm.
Then at him.
Then back at the bite.
“You’re in a motorcycle club.”
“Aye.”
“You’ve been stabbed.”
“A few times.”
“Shot?”
A pause.
“…Maybe.”
“And a ferret is what gets you?”
“Mock me all ye like, nurse, but the wee demon drew blood.”
You laughed so hard you had to sit down.
Actually laughed.
Not the tired polite version you gave patients.
Real laughter.
Tears-in-your-eyes laughter.
And Chibs looked at you like he’d gladly get mauled by a thousand ferrets if it meant hearing that sound again.
The realization hit him suddenly.
Hard.
Oh.
Oh, he was in trouble.
You learned things about him in pieces.
Never all at once.
He rode with the Sons of Anarchy Motorcycle Club Redwood Original.
He smoked too much.
He drank whiskey like water.
He had a daughter he spoke about with a softness that transformed him.
He was fiercely loyal.
Protective to a fault.
Smarter than people expected.
And lonely in a way that settled deep in his bones.
He learned things about you too.
You worked too many hours.
You forgot to eat when stressed.
You hummed unconsciously while charting.
You had a habit of touching people gently even when they were difficult because you believed fear deserved kindness.
You laughed hardest when exhausted.
And despite spending your life taking care of everyone else, almost nobody took care of you.
That one bothered him.
A lot.
The sixth visit was bad.
Actually bad.
No jokes.
No ridiculous excuse.
No teasing.
You walked into trauma and your stomach dropped.
Blood.
So much blood.
Chibs sat slumped on the gurney pale beneath his beard, one hand clamped over his abdomen while another biker hovered nearby.
You recognized him vaguely from previous drop-offs.
Tall. Blond. Panicked.
“Jesus Christ,” you breathed.
Chibs looked up slowly.
And even half-conscious, bleeding through gauze, he relaxed when he saw you.
“There’s my girl.”
Your heart stumbled.
Professional.
Stay professional.
“What happened?” you snapped.
“Knife wound,” the blond man said quickly. “He wouldn’t let us call sooner.”
“Because he’s an idiot,” you muttered.
“Yeah,” the blond agreed immediately.
You cut through layers of blood-soaked fabric with shaking hands you prayed nobody noticed.
The wound was deep.
Too deep.
Fear hit you hard and sudden.
Not patient fear.
Not the detached clinical concern you were trained for.
Personal fear.
Sharp enough to hurt.
“Filip,” you said firmly. “Stay with me.”
His eyes dragged to yours immediately.
“There y’are.”
“You are not allowed to flirt while bleeding out.”
A weak grin.
“Bossy.”
“Pressure’s dropping,” another nurse warned.
Your pulse spiked.
“OR now.”
The blond biker moved aside as they rushed the bed forward, but before Chibs disappeared through the doors, his hand caught yours weakly.
Just for a second.
Enough.
And quietly, almost too quiet to hear:
“Didn’t mean t’scare ye.”
Then he was gone.
You couldn’t stop shaking afterward.
Nina found you in the supply room twenty minutes later.
“You okay?”
“No.”
The honesty surprised both of you.
You leaned against the shelves and pressed a hand over your mouth.
“I shouldn’t care this much.”
Nina’s expression softened instantly.
“Oh.”
“He could’ve died.”
“But he didn’t.”
“No, but—” Your voice cracked unexpectedly. “God, Nina, I thought he was going to die.”
And there it was.
The thing you’d both been avoiding naming.
Because somewhere between broken ribs and ferret bites and late-night teasing conversations, Filip Telford had become important.
Terrifyingly important.
He was in recovery for three days.
You visited exactly zero times.
Because that would be inappropriate.
Unprofessional.
Dangerous.
You absolutely did not stand outside his room twice during shift changes.
You absolutely did not ask for updates from his surgeon.
You absolutely did not feel sick every time someone mentioned complications.
On day four, you walked into work to find a coffee sitting at the nurses’ station.
Your exact order.
You frowned.
Nina smirked from across the hall. “Guess who’s ambulatory.”
You turned.
And there he was.
Pale still. Slower moving. One hand pressed carefully against healing stitches beneath his flannel.
Alive.
Your chest physically hurt with relief.
Chibs watched the emotion cross your face and looked strangely overwhelmed by it.
“Hi, nurse.”
“You should not be walking around.”
“Doctor said light activity.”
“This does not qualify as light activity.”
“Brought ye coffee.”
You stared at him.
At the careful way he stood like the movement hurt.
At the exhaustion under his eyes.
At the fact he’d come here first.
“You got stabbed,” you said quietly.
“Aye.”
“You could’ve died.”
His expression changed.
Softened.
And for the first time since meeting him, the joking disappeared completely.
“I know.”
Silence stretched.
People moved around you both.
Phones rang.
Machines beeped.
But suddenly it felt strangely private.
“You scared me,” you admitted finally.
The words seemed to hit him harder than the knife had.
His throat moved.
“Sorry, lass.”
You looked down at the coffee because the tenderness in his voice was too much.
“You’re an idiot.”
“Aye.”
“You keep getting injured in increasingly ridiculous ways.”
“To be fair, gettin’ stabbed was less ridiculous than the ferret.”
A startled laugh escaped you.
And just like that, the heaviness cracked.
His eyes warmed instantly at the sound.
God.
You were in trouble too.
After that, things changed.
Subtly at first.
Then all at once.
He started stopping by when he wasn’t injured.
Which honestly should’ve been reassuring, except somehow it wasn’t.
Because injured Chibs at least gave you an excuse.
Healthy Chibs showing up with coffee just to see you was significantly more dangerous.
“You know,” Nina said one morning while watching him lean against the nurses’ desk talking to you, “most people buy flowers during courtship.”
“He’s not courting me.”
At the desk, Chibs caught your eye and smirked slowly like he knew exactly what was being discussed.
Traitor.
Nina snorted. “That man looks at you like you invented sunlight.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“And you’re doomed.”
One night near the end of your shift, you found him outside the hospital smoking.
Rain misted lightly over London streets.
He looked tired.
Older somehow.
You approached carefully. “You know those’ll kill you.”
“Aye.”
“You say that very casually.”
“Occupational hazard.”
You leaned beside him against the wall.
For a while neither of you spoke.
Then quietly, he said, “Ye ever think about quittin’?”
“The ER?”
“Aye.”
“All the time.”
“But ye won’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
You thought about it.
About the exhaustion.
The trauma.
The impossible hours.
The heartbreak.
Then about the little old lady who squeezed your hand last week because you sat with her while she was scared.
About saving lives.
About making unbearable things slightly less unbearable.
“Because it matters,” you said softly.
He looked at you for a long moment.
“Aye,” he murmured. “That sounds like you.”
The rain grew heavier.
You should’ve gone back inside.
Instead you stayed.
“You know,” you said eventually, “I still don’t believe half your injury stories.”
“Only half?”
“Maybe less.”
He grinned.
Then winced because apparently smiling still pulled at healing stitches.
“You really should consider safer hobbies.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Knitting.”
“Can ye imagine?”
Despite yourself, you did.
Chibs Telford sitting in a leather kutte knitting aggressively.
You burst out laughing.
And he looked absurdly pleased with himself.
The first time he touched you outside the hospital, it was accidental.
Mostly.
You’d fallen asleep in the break room during a brutal overnight shift.
Head on folded arms.
Completely dead to the world.
Until warmth brushed hair gently away from your face.
You startled awake instantly.
Chibs froze beside your chair.
“Sorry, lass.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Brought food.”
You blinked blearily at the takeaway bags.
“…You brought me food?”
“Nina said ye forgot dinner again.”
Your chest tightened painfully.
Nobody did things like that for you.
Not really.
And the terrifying part was how natural it seemed to him.
Like caring for you wasn’t a big deal.
Like you were worth the effort automatically.
“Filip…”
He looked suddenly uncertain.
“I can stop.”
“No.” Too fast. You softened immediately. “No, I just…”
Emotion clogged your throat unexpectedly.
Exhaustion made you vulnerable.
Dangerously vulnerable.
“You remembered,” you whispered.
Something shifted in his face then.
Something deep and aching.
Because he knew that tone.
Knew what it meant when people were surprised by kindness.
Slowly, carefully, he crouched beside your chair.
“You matter t’me, lass.”
The words shattered something in you.
You looked at him.
Really looked at him.
At the scars cutting across his face.
At tired blue eyes.
At rough hands capable of violence and tenderness in equal measure.
At the man who kept showing up.
Again and again and again.
And suddenly it became impossible to pretend this was casual.
“You matter to me too,” you admitted.
His breath caught.
Silence.
Then very gently:
“Dangerous thing, that.”
“Yeah,” you whispered.
It really was.
The seventh ER visit happened because he got shot in the ass.
You stared at the chart for a full ten seconds before entering the room because surely you’d read it wrong.
You had not.
“You got shot in the ass.”
“To be fair—”
“No. No, there is no ‘to be fair’ here.”
“It grazed.”
“You got grazed in the ass.”
“Aye.”
You pinched the bridge of your nose while he laughed helplessly.
“You are the stupidest man alive.”
“Probably.”
“How does this even happen?”
“Occupational hazard.”
“That is not an occupation!”
“Debatable.”
You pointed sternly. “Pants off.”
His eyebrows lifted immediately.
“Buy me dinner first.”
“Filip.”
“Worth a try.”
You were trying so hard not to smile.
And failing.
Terribly.
As he shifted carefully onto the bed, he hissed in pain.
Instantly your amusement faded.
“You okay?”
The softness in your voice seemed to catch him off guard.
“Aye.”
“You sure?”
His gaze held yours.
Then quietly:
“Better now.”
Oh.
Oh, you were absolutely doomed.
By then, everyone knew.
Not officially.
You still hadn’t kissed.
Hadn’t dated.
Hadn’t crossed the line hanging between you both.
But the entire ER knew.
The bikers definitely knew.
And judging by the amused looks you occasionally got from heavily tattooed men dropping Chibs off, they found the whole thing hysterical.
One afternoon a man with dark, curly hair and sunglasses leaned over the nurses’ station while Chibs was getting stitches.
“You the nurse?”
You looked up cautiously. “Yes?”
He grinned. “Thanks for keepin’ our boy alive.”
Before you could answer, Chibs shouted from the bed:
“Fuck off, Tig.”
“Make me.”
“You’re bleedin’ on my floor,” you called calmly. “Behave.”
Tig blinked.
Then burst out laughing.
“Oh, this is serious serious.”
Chibs looked genuinely murderous.
You had no idea why that made warmth bloom in your chest.
It happened three months after the stabbing.
Not during some dramatic moment.
Not after a near-death experience.
Not in pouring rain or under fireworks or whatever nonsense romance movies preferred.
It happened at four in the morning in a hospital vending machine alcove.
You were exhausted.
He was bruised again—minor this time, thank God.
And both of you were sharing terrible coffee while the hospital hummed quietly around you.
“You know,” you said, “normal people usually meet in bars.”
“Aye?”
“Or through friends.”
“Mm.”
“We met because you apparently view bodily injury as a hobby.”
“In my defense, ye looked pretty the first time.”
You choked on coffee.
He grinned.
“You cannot say things like that casually.”
“Why no’?”
“Because I’m holding near-boiling liquid.”
“Avoidin’ the compliment, I see.”
You looked away because he was watching you too closely.
Too warmly.
“You flirt more when sleep deprived,” you muttered.
“And ye blush when complimented.”
“I do not.”
“Lass, your ears are red.”
“Oh my God.”
His laugh was soft this time.
Fond.
Dangerously fond.
The vending machine buzzed quietly beside you.
Then he said, very carefully:
“Can I take ye to dinner?”
Your heart stuttered.
There it was.
The thing that had been coming for months.
Real.
Terrifying.
You looked at him.
At the hope hidden carefully behind humor.
At the vulnerability he tried so hard to mask.
And suddenly the answer felt obvious.
“Yes.”
He blinked.
Actually blinked.
Like he’d expected resistance.
“You sure?”
“You got shot in the ass for me.”
“That was unrelated.”
“Debatable.”
A grin spread slowly across his face.
Warm. Real. Beautiful in a rough uneven way.
And before fear could stop you, you leaned forward and kissed him.
Soft.
Brief.
Coffee and smoke and whiskey and surprise.
For one stunned second he didn’t move at all.
Then one hand cupped your jaw carefully—so carefully for a man built like violence—and he kissed you back.
Like you were something precious.
Something he’d been afraid to break.
When you pulled away, both of you looked a little wrecked.
“Well,” Chibs said hoarsely.
“Well,” you echoed.
“That seemed promising.”
You laughed quietly.
And God, the look on his face after hearing that sound while kissing you—
After a bad day, you wind up standing between Happy's legs, cradling his head to your chest, while he just breathes.
my heart hurts
also new banner, the old one will still be in use with some fics that have already got it attached, but i will slowly be transitioning over to the new banner xx
Happy's room is dark when you push the door open.
Not completely dark. Just dim enough that the late afternoon sun filtering through the blinds paints everything in long shadows, turning the familiar space into something quieter than usual, heavier somehow.
The run had gone bad.
Nobody had told you details.
Nobody needed to.
You'd seen the way the club came back. The tension. The exhaustion. The grim expressions that settled over everyone's faces whenever something went wrong enough to leave a mark.
Not catastrophic.
Nobody dead.
Nobody arrested.
Just one disaster after another until every last nerve had been scraped raw.
And Happy—
Happy had disappeared without a word.
So eventually, after trying and failing to convince yourself it wasn't your place to go looking for him, you found your feet carrying you toward his room anyway.
The door clicks softly behind you.
He doesn't look up.
Of course he doesn't.
Happy always knew it was you.
Maybe it was the sound of your footsteps. Maybe it was the way you breathed. Maybe it was something worse, something far more dangerous, something neither of you had ever been brave enough to name aloud.
For a moment, neither of you says anything.
You simply stand there looking at him.
At the exhaustion etched into every line of his body.
At the tension gathered across his shoulders.
At the way his hands hang loose between his knees, fingers flexing occasionally as if they couldn't quite decide whether they wanted to curl into fists.
Something painful squeezes around your heart.
"Happy."
Your voice comes out softer than you'd intended.
A rough exhale escapes him.
Not quite a sigh.
Not quite a grunt.
Just acknowledgment.
Just exhaustion.
The kind that settled deep into a man's bones.
For a moment you simply stand there, taking him in, your chest tightening painfully at the sight.
Most people gave Happy space when he was like this.
Most people knew better.
You find yourself moving toward him anyway.
You cross the room.
Slowly.
Giving him every opportunity to tell you to leave.
He never does.
Probably never would.
When you reach him, your thighs brush against his knees.
Still he doesn't move.
Your hand lifts.
Rests gently on his shoulder.
No hesitation.
No uncertainty.
You'd long since stopped being afraid of touching Happy Lowman.
Maybe because you'd learned years ago that the monster everyone else saw wasn't the whole man.
Maybe because somewhere along the way he'd started looking at you like you were something precious.
Maybe because touching him had started feeling as natural as breathing.
Whatever the reason, your hand settled there easily.
Immediately, almost unconsciously, he leaned into it.
Just slightly.
The movement was so small most people would've missed it.
You didn't.
A slow breath left his chest.
Your heart cracks a little.
"Oh, sweetheart."
The words slip out before you can stop them.
For a second nothing happens.
Then one large hand lifts.
Settles against the back of your thigh.
Just above your knee.
Barely any pressure at all.
But it feels like a question.
A request.
A plea from a man who doesn't know how to ask for things.
Your chest tightens.
Without speaking, you step forward.
Moving into the space between his legs.
The reaction is immediate.
His other hand finds your waist.
Then the first follows.
Large palms spreading across your back.
Holding.
Not restraining.
Not possessing.
Just holding.
As though he'd finally found something solid enough to lean against.
You move closer.
And closer.
Until there isn't any space left between you.
Happy's forehead brushes your chest.
The contact seems to knock something loose inside him.
A long breath escapes him.
The kind that sounds dragged from somewhere deep.
Only then does he finally lift his head.
Dark eyes find yours.
God.
The exhaustion there nearly undoes you.
Not physical exhaustion.
Something deeper.
Something older.
The kind that settles into a person's bones.
"Hi."
His voice was rough.
Low.
Like it hurt to use.
Your lips soften.
"Hi, Happy."
For a second his eyes slip shut.
Just for a second.
Like hearing you answer had given him permission to rest.
Then they open again.
Lock onto yours.
And something vulnerable flickers there.
Gone so fast you almost thought you'd imagined it.
"Come here."
A laugh threatens to escape you.
"You've got me trapped between your knees already."
A faint twitch pulls at the corner of his mouth.
Then his hands tightens against your back.
Pulling.
Not hard.
Just enough.
And somehow you end up even closer.
Happy shifts forward on the mattress.
Closer to the edge.
Closer to you.
As though there was still too much distance between you despite the fact that your bodies were already touching.
His forehead drops back to your chest.
Resting there.
Right over your heart.
The tension beginning to leave him in slow increments.
You could actually feel it.
Feel his shoulders loosening.
Feel his breathing evening out.
Feel the way his grip changed from desperate to simply content.
Your fingers slide over his head.
One hand cradling the back of his neck.
The other tracing softly across the tattooed skin of his scalp.
The same way you'd soothe a wounded animal that finally trusted you enough to let itself be touched.
Immediately, another breath leaves him.
Long.
Shaky.
Almost broken.
The sound made your chest ache.
Because Happy never let anyone see him break.
Never.
Except here.
Except with you.
You don't know how much time passes.
Minutes.
Maybe an hour.
Long enough that your legs start aching.
Long enough that the sunlight shifts across the room.
Long enough that Happy's breathing settles into something calm and steady beneath your hands.
Nothing existed except the weight of him against you.
The warmth of him.
The quiet.
The way his thumbs keep moving against your back as though reassuring himself you were still there.
As though he can't quite believe you were real.
Eventually, he lifts his head.
The loss of his weight makes your chest feel strangely cold.
His eyes find yours immediately.
Like they always do.
Like they can't help it.
One hand leaves your back.
Rises slowly.
Carefully.
As though he isn't entirely certain he's allowed.
His palm settles against your jaw.
Large and rough and unbelievably gentle.
The gesture feels unbearably tender coming from him.
You lean into it instinctively.
You let your hand slide from his head.
Resting it against his cheek.
Your thumb brushed over his cheekbone.
The stubble there scratched lightly against your skin.
His eyes close.
Happy makes a sound.
A tiny sound.
A wounded sound.
Like that simple gesture had nearly finished him off.
"Baby."
Your breath caught.
Because he'd never called you that before.
Not once.
Yet somehow it sounded like he'd been calling you that in his head for years.
"Baby," he whispered again.
His thumb strokes your cheek.
His gaze searches your face.
Memorizing it.
Like a starving man looking at a feast.
"Don't go."
Your heart stops.
Because he wasn't talking about tonight.
Wasn't talking about this room.
Wasn't talking about the next five minutes.
It was everything.
Every year behind you.
Every year ahead.
Don't leave me.
Don't disappear.
Don't wake up one day and decide I'm too much.
Too old.
Too damaged.
Too difficult to love.
You could see it in his eyes.
See it in the fear hidden beneath the vulnerability.
The fear that if he finally reached for you—
You might disappear.
Your eyes burned.
"My love," you whisper.
The words escape before you can stop them.
Happy froze.
Completely.
You feel it happen.
See it happen.
The entire world seems to stop turning.
"I'm not going anywhere."
His eyes shut.
A shudder moves through him.
Not dramatic.
Not obvious.
Just enough for you to realize how terrified he'd been.
How long he'd been carrying that fear.
The hand on your neck slid into your hair.
Holding you.
Not forcing.
Not demanding.
Just holding.
Like something precious.
Something fragile.
Something he couldn't believe belonged to him.
When you lower your forehead to his, he lets out a breath that sounds suspiciously like relief.
"Baby..."
His voice cracks.
Actually cracks.
And suddenly you understand.
This wasn't a bad day.
It wasn't exhaustion.
It wasn't the run.
It was years.
Years of wanting.
Years of watching.
Years of convincing himself he shouldn't have you.
Shouldn't need you.
Shouldn't love you.
And losing that battle anyway.
You kiss him first.
Soft.
Gentle.
Barely there.
The second your lips touch, a strangled sound escapes him.
A sound so heartbreakingly vulnerable that your entire chest tightens.
His eyes close immediately.
Like he'd been waiting for this.
Like he'd dreamed about it.
Like he'd spent years imagining what it would feel like.
Then he kissed you back.
And somehow the tenderness of it felt more intimate than anything else ever could.
Because there was no urgency.
No greed.
Just relief.
Pure, overwhelming relief.
Like two people who had spent far too long pretending they could survive without each other finally giving up.
His hand tangles into your hair.
The other drops to your thigh.
Then suddenly he's pulling.
You barely have time to react before he guides you onto his lap.
A startled yelp disappears into the kiss.
He settles you against him like you've always belonged there.
Like there's never been another place for you.
When he finally pulls back, a thin thread of saliva still connecting you, his eyes search your face.
Looking.
Checking.
Making sure.
The second he finds no hesitation, no fear, no regret, he's kissing you again.
One hand slides up your spine.
The other remains steady against your back.
Your arms wind around his neck.
You press yourself closer.
Chest to chest.
Heart to heart.
A groan leaves him.
Low.
Wrecked.
"Baby."
His lips brush along your cheek.
The corner of your eye.
Your jaw.
"You're killing me."
A smile pulls at your lips.
You answer by pressing soft kisses across his forehead.
Across the lines that only appear when he's tired.
Across the man who never realized how deeply he needed to be loved.
"Feeling's mutual, baby."
The noise he makes is almost a growl.
Almost a laugh.
Almost both.
He pulls back just enough to look at you.
His hands settle over your shoulder blades.
Holding you carefully.
Like something precious.
Something irreplaceable.
His eyes lock onto yours.
His hands are trembling.
Actually trembling.
And when he looks at you, there's no wall left.
No armor.
No distance.
Just love.
Terrifyingly obvious love.
"Mine."
The word isn't possessive.
Not really.
It's simply a truth.
The sun is hot.
The sky is blue.
You're his.
He's yours.
The realization settles warm and steady inside your chest.
His hand slides down your spine.
"That okay?"
The question nearly undoes you.
This man.
This enormous, terrifying, tattooed killer.
Asking permission.
Asking if it's alright for him to belong to you as much as you belong to him.
You lean forward and kiss him.
Slowly.
Tenderly.
Lingering.
When you pull back, your forehead rests against his.
"My love, that's more than okay."
The smile that breaks across his face is devastating.
Rare.
Beautiful.
It transforms him completely.
Makes him look younger.
Softer.
Happy's eyes shine.
"Your love," he whispers.
His voice shakes.
"My love."
His forehead presses against yours again.
His arms tighten around you.
And for the first time all day, all week, maybe all year, he looks completely at peace.
Hours later, Chibs goes looking for Happy.
He pushes the bedroom door open just enough to peek inside.
Then immediately stops.
You and Happy are tangled together beneath the blankets.
Your head rests on his chest.
One of his arms is wrapped securely around your waist.
His cheek is pressed against your forehead.
Even asleep, he hasn't let you go.
Can't.
Won't.
For a moment, Chibs simply stands there.
Watching.
Taking in the sight of the most dangerous man he knows looking happier than he's ever seen him.
A soft smile tugs at Chibs' mouth.
Then he quietly backs out of the room.
Pulling the door closed behind him with all the care in the world.
summary: It's been a long shift for Jack—luckily, he has you waiting for him at home.
tags: fluff
word count: 800+
a/n: a little blurb written in the D:M? universe. it can be read as a separate piece but there are references (nightly singing :D) that won't make much sense if you haven't read the series. hope you like it! <33
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist
The Pitt | Masterlist
Main | Masterlist
Jack's tired.
It's been a long twelve hours in the Pitt, barely a second to sit down with one trauma rolling in after another. His leg started aching around hour five, and a dull headache started thrumming behind his eyes by hour eight.
The only thing that kept him moving was the thought of you waiting for him at home.
Through every exhausting hour of the night, he'd carried the image of you with him—your sleepy smile, the way his t-shirt would hang off one shoulder when you shifted beneath the blankets to make room for him.
He could almost feel it already: the warmth of the bed, the familiar weight of your head settling into the space between his shoulder and neck as if it had been made for you. Even half-asleep, your hand would find its way to his chest, your fingers tracing absent, comforting patterns against his skin.
It's all he's thinking about when he leaves the Pitt. It's all he's thinking about when he takes the fast way home, weaving through familiar streets with a tiredness settled deep in his bones. By the time he finally reaches his door and turns the key in the lock, he can almost feel it already.
It takes him a second to realise something's different.
The house isn't quiet like usual.
Jack hangs up his jacket to the sound of blaring music echoing down the hallway as a sweet smell drifts towards him. He slows when a softer voice joins in as he makes his way into the house.
It's yours.
Jack rounds the corner and leans against the doorway. From there, he can see you standing at the stove. You flip a pancake, then lift the spatula to your lips like a microphone, belting along completely unabashed.
His lips spread into a wide smile. For a moment, he doesn't say anything. He just stands there and watches.
You're swaying slightly to the music, completely unaware he's there. One of his old t-shirts hangs off one shoulder, and there's a faint dusting of flour across your cheek.
God, he loves you.
The song ends, and he finally starts clapping. "That was a nice performance," he grins. "Almost better than the nightly ones."
You let out a startled yelp, nearly launching the spatula across the kitchen. "Jesus. What the fuck, Jack?"
His laugh comes out tired but genuine as he pushes away from the doorway and crosses the room. "Sorry."
You glare at him over your shoulder. "No, you're not."
"No," he agrees.
Your glare lasts all of three seconds before he reaches you. His hands settle automatically on your waist, thumbs brushing back and forth over your shirt. The ache in his leg is still there. The headache, too. But being close to you makes both seem a little quieter.
He ducks his head, pressing a kiss to your temple.
You try to stay annoyed, but your mouth twitches. "You're home early," you mumble.
"Thank god, I was." He wraps both arms around your middle and rests his chin on your shoulder. "Would've missed the concert."
You groan.
"Encore?" he asks.
"I'm charging you for that."
"No husband discount?"
"No husband discount."
"Hm." His nose brushes your cheek, then your jaw, before he presses a lingering kiss beneath your ear. "I don't mind paying full price."
You finally turn in his arms, one hand settling against his chest. Now that you're standing face-to-face, there's no hiding how exhausted he is.
Your expression softens immediately. "Long day?"
"The longest." His forehead drops against yours. For a moment, neither of you says anything. The music continues quietly in the background while you smooth a hand through the hair at the back of his neck.
His arms tighten instinctively around your waist, and he lets more of his weight settle against you, holding you a little closer. Your hips sway gently together.
He closes his eyes. Home. This is home.
Then you gasp. "Oh, no." You twist around. "My pancake."
Smoke curls up from the pan. He watches as you rescue what is now essentially a hockey puck. You stare at it. He stares at it.
"It's a little crispy," he offers.
"It's charcoal."
"I like charcoal."
You snort. "You are such a liar." Jack grins as you point the spatula at him. "Go shower. I need to focus."
"Bossy."
"Jack."
He steals one last kiss anyway, quick and warm, then another because you smile halfway through the first one.
"Go."
"Going." His hand slides across your hip as he passes, giving you a gentle squeeze.
Behind him, he hears you start singing again before he's even reached the hallway. His smile follows him all the way to the bathroom. It isn't what he'd spent the last twelve hours imagining.
synopsis: Trinity and Dennis ask Jack about his wife
warnings/notes: Number eleven in the widow!jack ficlet series. As always, @tanely helped brainstorm. Listen, timelines are loose in this AU. things happen when they happen. so...yeah.
wc: 1.1k
Previous Series Masterlist
Trinity sat at the computer where she was supposed to be charting staring at Robby and Abbot across the room. “Hey, Crash,” she said as Victoria walked past with Dennis.
Victoria rolled her eyes but slowed to a stop. “What?”
“You did a rotation on night shift, right?”
Her and Dennis exchanged a look. “Yeah. Why?”
“What’s the deal with Abbot?” Trinity turned on her seat to face the other two.
“What do you mean?” Victoria’s gaze moved from Trinity to Abbot and back again.
“I mean,” Trinity drew the words out in annoyance, as if it should be obvious what she was getting at without her needing to explain. “He’s cool. SWAT, the leg, him and Robby are besties. Like, what’s his story?”
“Why do you care?” Victoria was so confused as to the point of this conversation.
Trinity shrugged one shoulder. “Thinking about going on nights for a while. It wouldn’t hurt to have an in with the attending.”
Victoria’s eyes went wide before she nodded once as if that made sense. “You should ask him about his wife. He loves talking about her. It’ll totally get you points.”
“He’s married?” Dennis asked.
She looked at him. “Yeah, didn’t you notice the ring?”
“Well, we haven’t really been around him much to be fair,” he said.
Trinity smiled. “Thanks for the solid, Crash.” She hopped to her feet and patted the younger woman on the shoulder as Abbot walked past them to head into the breakroom. “You’re coming with me, Huckleberry.”
“But—What? I was helping Vict—”
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Victoria rushed to assure him, waving a hand through the air. “I’ll ask someone else.”
As she turned to hurry away, she hoped they hadn’t noticed the gleeful expression on her face.
When they hurried into the breakroom, they found the attending sitting at one of the tables with a cup of coffee. “H-hey, Dr. Abbot,” Dennis greeted.
“What’s up? Why are you here anyway?” Trinity added as she grabbed an energy drink from the fridge.
Jack looked between the two of them with a frown not saying anything. Finally, he leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest. “Morning admin meeting. Now, what do you want?”
Dennis started to stutter out an excuse but Trinity talked over the top of him. “We were wondering about your wife, is all.”
“My wife.” Jack’s voice was rough, low. His gaze darted between the two of them. “Would you like to hear about my leg next? Why don’t we just rehash all of my trauma?”
Dennis’ eyes went wide and his mouth dropped open slightly. Oh no. Shit.
Trinity sat at the table. “Yes, actually. What happened?”
Jack turned his head slowly to look at the resident, an unimpressed expression on his face. “Robby crashed his fuckass motorcycle with me on the back. They had to amputate.”
Her mouth opened and closed before she said, “Oh.” She glanced at Dennis who stood behind Abbot shaking his head and mouthing the word No. “So, what about your wife then?”
“My wife was the most remarkable woman. I have never and will never love anyone like her. I will love her and only her for the rest of my life.”
Trinity swallowed hard. “What happened to her?”
Jack blinked once. Twice. “Robby crashed his fuckass motorcycle with her on the back. She didn’t make it.” His tone was flat, emotionless.
Trinty physically recoiled ever so slightly. “Listen, I’m sorry if—”
This time it was Dennis cutting her off, just as the breakroom door opened. “Dr. Abbot, we are so sorry. We didn’t mean to bring up any trauma or whatever. Seriously, we were just trying to get to know you.”
“What’s going on in here?” Robby asked.
“We were just asking Abbot about his wife,” Trinity said as she stood.
Robby narrowed his gaze. “And what did Jack have to say about the Mrs.?”
“Just about how much he loved her. It was very sweet really,” Dennis hurried to say before pushing Trinity out of the room.
“I think Crash set us up,” she said once they’d reached the hub.
“Ya think?” Dennis asked, sarcasm heavy in his voice.
“Good for her.”
Dennis just shook his head as he watched his roommate leave to check on a patient. He glanced back to the closed door of the breakroom before walking off himself. Whatever had happened to Dr. Abbot’s wife, he obviously still loved her deeply. Dennis could only hope he’d find a relationship like that someday.
Roughly an hour later, Dennis was heading back toward the hub when he saw you standing next to Robby. He briefly considered introducing himself knowing you were the other night shift attending. His gaze caught on Abbot making his way to you, bag over his shoulder. And his eyes glued to your ass.
Dennis frowned. Hadn’t the man just been extoling his wife’s virtues and now here he is staring at yours? Dennis was oddly offended on Mrs. Abbot’s behalf. He walked over to where the older man was making no effort to hide his obvious leering and stood beside him, crossing his arms over his chest.
“I thought you’d never love anyone like you loved your wife.”
Jack huffed a humorless laugh. “You got that right, kid.”
“Then what is this?”
“This is me appreciating what’s right in front of me.”
“Are you staring at my ass again?” you asked, not even glancing over your shoulder.
“I told you if you don’t want me staring at it, you shouldn’t put it in front of me,” Jack said.
Dennis curled his lip. Abbot was disgusting. He’d actually felt sorry for him and now—The thought cut off abruptly as Abbot wrapped an arm around your shoulders and kissed your temple.
Robby shook his head. “Whitaker, have you two met?”
“No.” Dennis stepped forward as Robby introduced you.
He finished with, “Also known as Mrs. Abbot.”
“Oh.” Dennis processed what he’d just been told. “Oh!”
Jack just grinned as you elbowed him in the side. “What did you do this time?”
“Why do you always think I did something?”
You stared at him without saying anything.
Finally, he said, “Okay. Fair.”
“I don’t…I’m so confused,” Dennis said with a helpless look at Robby.
Robby put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, kid. You’ll get used to it.
Dennis wasn't sure about that. What he did know was that he had no intention of letting Trinity in on the information anytime soon.
summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, mutual pining, fluff
word count: 4.4k
a/n: thank you all for still being here! we're nearly at the end :(( but it's been so much fun!! i appreciate you lots and LOVE reading your comments <33 i hope you enjoy! <33
i'm not keeping a tag list for this series!
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist
The Pitt | Masterlist
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You wake to the sensation of soft kisses brushed against your skin—your forehead, your cheek, and your chin. It's the best sleep you've had in months, muscles warm and at ease. The feeling grows with each kiss as you're reminded of the fact that last night was real.
Jack loves you.
It wasn't just a vivid dream; the tender kisses he places on your skin confirm that. You're tempted to pretend to stay asleep just to enjoy more of this, but you instinctively scrunch your nose as his lips land on it, his scruff tickling you gently.
"Morning," he murmurs warmly, his voice husky with sleep, as he breathes against your cheek. You can feel his smile before your eyes fully open as he presses another soft kiss to your face.
Jack rests on one elbow, his hair tousled, with the soft morning light catching the strands that are more white than grey. God, he's handsome.
Yesterday, you might have convinced yourself that this look of adoration he’s giving you is just a figment of your imagination, but today, you know it’s real. He’s actually gazing at you like this, as if nothing else matters—not your messy morning hair nor yesterday’s mascara remnants around your eyes. He simply looks like he’s glad you’re here with him.
"Morning," you grin back, stifling a yawn into your hand.
His smile broadens. "Hi."
You chuckle softly. "Hi."
He keeps staring at you with a smile on his face. His other hand finds your waist, and your cheeks flush in response as he drags you closer. Although his touch isn’t new, the familiarity feels different now—seeing as you now know the intent behind it means what you want it to.
"What?" you ask, a bit self-conscious, rubbing your eyes in hopes of wiping away the stubborn mascara stains.
"Nothing," he shrugs, yet the grin on his face suggests otherwise.
"Jack." You pout at him and watch as his gaze drops down to your lips.
"I just..." he laughs lightly and shakes his head. "I can’t believe this is real."
You know exactly how he feels, and you hope he's able to see it in your eyes. If he doesn't, then you hope he feels it as your hand brushes through his wild strands. His eyes flutter shut under your touch, and when he opens them again, you’re convinced he does.
You both lock eyes for a moment before he leans forward. At the last moment, you turn your head, and his kiss lands on your cheek instead. He makes a comically disgruntled noise.
"I haven't brushed my teeth yet," you lament, though unable to suppress your laughter at his pouty face.
"I don't care," Jack says, placing a kiss against your jaw.
"Jack," you giggle louder. "I’m serious. My breath stinks."
"I've wanted to do this for months," he says, pressing another kiss to your cheek. "A little morning breath won’t stop me. Honestly, you could have rotten teeth, and I’d still kiss you."
"Ew," you grimace, but he just laughs and plants another kiss at the corner of your mouth.
You debate it for a second, then your cringe morphs into a grin as you lean in, stealing a quick kiss from his lips.
When you pull back, Jack stares at you with wide eyes. You can see when realisation hits him; his eyes darken, and he leans in quickly, giving you no chance to dodge him again. His mouth meets yours, soft yet persistent, each kiss lingering a bit longer than the last. He swallows your giggles with his lips, but he can't help but laugh, too.
Eventually, he presses his forehead against yours, and you stay there for a little while, wrapped up in each other, letting the reality of last night fully settle. The room is quiet except for your breathing, and for the first time since yesterday, the silence feels comfortable.
"I missed waking up next to you," Jack confesses, his voice low in your ear.
You press a kiss to his cheek before resting your head against his shoulder. "Me too."
You breathe in, nose buried deep in the crook of his throat, and his arms tighten around you when he realises what you're doing—breathing in the scent that's purely him. You've never been able to do this freely, and it feels surreal to be able to be this close with no excuses needed.
The moment's broken when your alarm rings softly. Jack shifts to turn it off while still holding you close, and makes no move to let you go or get up.
"We need to get up," you say after a minute, trying to pull back.
"Says who?" he answers cheekily, pulling you in even closer.
"Check-out, for one," you reply, pushing gently against his chest. "And I’d like to shower before we have to sit in an enclosed space for two hours."
"What if I like the way you smell?" he says, and usually, your stomach would be fluttering at a sentence like that, but you know him too well—
"—Fritos are my favourite chips," he continues. His chest bounces a bit as you playfully swat him.
"Rude," you grin, and this time he allows you to slip out of his grasp. "And you’re a liar. I know your favourite isn’t Fritos."
"Says who?" he repeats with a grin as he watches you sit up. You move to the edge of the bed, and he sits up to be able to see you better.
"Says the several bags of Doritos in your cabinets," you counter with a raised eyebrow. You move to slide off the bed, but he catches your arm, pulling you back over to him.
"Ja-ack," you laugh as you land against his chest.
"Those are for Robby," Jack says, and before you can argue, his mouth captures yours again. He keeps you there for another five minutes before your alarm blares again.
"Fine," he concedes when you pull back again. "Just leave me all alone here."
You shuffle forward, but pause at the doorway to the bathroom, meeting his eyes with a mischievous smile. "You could always join me."
Jack freezes, and you can see him process the offer—the way his eyes darken and the slight swallow as his gaze trails over you.
"Or not," you shrug, stifling a grin as you turn away.
He's got his crutches in his hands before your sentence finishes.
The checkout line is ridiculously long, and under normal circumstances, you’d complain about it—after all, how hard can it be to hand over a keycard and walk out? But with Jack’s arm wrapped around your waist and soft kisses peppered onto your hairline, you just can’t find the energy to care.
Even as Jack offers to give you his car keys, so you can wait in the car, you shake your head. You want to stay close to him despite the line barely moving. The lobby is crowded, and it really makes no sense for both of you to be standing here. Still, after spending weeks keeping your distance, torturing yourself, the thought of being apart now feels absurd.
Jack doesn’t push the issue; he simply nods and pulls you closer again. You're plastered to his side for the ten minutes it takes before you finally reach the desk.
"Hey," a warm voice greets you just as Jack hands over the keycard. Jeremy stands off to the side, a bag slung over his shoulder, sunglasses pushed up into his hair.
"Hi," you respond with a smile, stepping out of the queue to approach him.
He returns your smile. "I’m glad I caught you—you left before I could tell you how nice it was to see you again yesterday."
"Oh, sorry about that," you start, embarrassment flaring at the reminder of your jealous outburst. "I had—"
"We had some stuff to do," Jack interjects, slipping an arm around your waist again. He gives Jeremy a tight smile.
"Oh, don't worry about it," Jeremy responds. "Warren was asking about you, but honestly, I’m not sure she even remembers anything now." He leans in a little closer, lowering his voice to a whisper. "I had to extend her hotel room for her—she got pretty wasted after you left. The ushers had to escort her to her room after she threw up in the plants in the hallway."
"What? Really?" Laughter bubbles out of you. "Well, that's very professional."
Jack squeezes your waist admonishingly but still huffs an amused breath.
Jeremy grins. "Anyway, it was great to see you again. You’ve really done well for yourself, Sleepy." He nods at you, then glances at Jack, offering him a nod as well.
"You too," you say, and you mean it. Jeremy was a great guy in med school, even if he wasn't the best at relationships back then, but you're sure he's grown up more. You certainly have.
You're more certain of what you want, more certain of what you deserve, and somehow, that has landed you with Jack.
"Maybe we'll see you around," you finish. Presby isn't that far from PTMC after all.
"Yeah, I hope so," Jeremy replies, pulling his sunglasses down. He smiles at you one last time before he walks off. "Get home safe."
Jack grumbles something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like 'yeah, I hope so' as he steers you towards the exit. He keeps a neutral face until you're outside, where it turns sullen. A laugh escapes you the moment you’re near the car, and away from prying eyes.
Jack narrows his eyes at you as he pops open the trunk. "What’s so funny?"
Another laugh leaves you. "You're just a silly, jealous man."
"I'm not silly," he replies immediately as he places your bags inside the trunk before shutting it again.
"That's the part you focus on?"
"I'm not jealous," he insists, crossing his arms.
You tilt your head, raising an eyebrow.
"I'm not."
"Hey," you say, stepping closer. His arms drop the moment you gently press down on them. You curl your fingers into the front of his t-shirt. "You have nothing to be jealous of."
Jack huffs, staring at your hands.
"Jack."
His eyes lift to yours.
"I love you." The words still feel new in your mouth, but no less right.
His eyes search yours, still checking after everything revealed yesterday that you mean it. The tight line of his mouth softens when he finds a satisfying answer.
You draw him in closer. "Okay?"
"Okay." His hand slides to your cheek and you meet him halfway, your lips pressing together in a tender kiss.
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth when he pulls back. "Let's go home."
Coming home feels strange.
Not in a bad way, but it feels different than it did when you left. The air has shifted inside, the furniture moved without being an inch out of place, and the smell is different, and yet everything is exactly the same.
Jack's sweater still hangs over the back of the dining room chair. Your blanket is still draped across the couch, unfolded in that way Jack always grumbles over, but never does anything about.
Everything feels new and somehow the exact same. The only different thing is you and Jack. There's finally nothing unspoken between you, with all cards on the table. No uncertainty, no wondering, no pretending.
There's still the question of what this means for you, but it doesn't feel pressing. It's just there in the background, waiting until the moment feels right. There's no rush to speak.
You're free to enjoy this moment for what it is. The pleasantness from the drive, where Jack spent the entire trip with his hand firmly planted on your thigh, carries into the house.
The bags get unpacked together, clothes thrown into the washer by four hands rather than two. You follow Jack to the bedroom when he puts the bags away; he follows you into the bathroom when you put your toiletries back. You make lunch together, hips nudging, shoulders brushing—a task that normally takes ten stretches into thirty because neither of you can stop talking and laughing.
He keeps looking at you like he still can't believe it's real. You can keep leaning in close to prove to him that it is.
The day settles eventually as you both curl up on the couch with books. The laundry tumbles quietly in the background as warm sunlight spills in through the living room windows.
You're leaning against his chest, reading, but more focused on the hand that's trailing slowly up and down your arm. Every so often, you glance at him out of the corner of your eye, catching the scruff on his jaw that's slightly longer than usual, the way he scrunches his nose at passages in his book, and how his face is relaxed in a way you haven't seen before.
As if sensing you, he glances over at you. His mouth immediately curves into a smile when he catches you swiftly looking away. He huffs a little cute sound, squeezing your shoulder.
You grin into your book, nudging his leg with your hand. You try to refocus on the pages, but it doesn't take long before you're blinking heavily. Without even really thinking about it, you slide down until your head is resting on his lap instead.
Jack's hand follows soundly, petting your head softly and lulling you to sleep.
By evening, neither of you has spent more than a few minutes apart.
Dinner comes and goes. The dishes get washed. The laundry gets folded. Around you, the house gradually darkens, shadows stretching across familiar rooms. You try to stay awake as long as possible, hoping to drag your sleeping schedule back toward something resembling normal before your next shift. By the seventh yawn in under a minute, Jack gives you a look.
"Okay," he says with an amused huff. "Time for bed."
You grumble half-heartedly but still let him steer you toward the bedroom. Blearily, you grab at clothes in the closet. Jack doesn't comment on the fact that you grab one of his shirts, just glances at it with a pleased smile before he heads into the bathroom.
When he's done, you brush past him in just his shirt and underwear that he can't see, biting back a smile at when he swallows harshly. You don't fight the grin once you're alone in the bathroom, letting the giddy feeling take over.
Your phone vibrates against the counter, just as you've put your toothbrush into your mouth.
>> Hello??? Are you alive?!
It's Olivia. Fuck. She's already texted you three times earlier today, and you'd ignored her, unsure of what to say that won't reveal everything immediately.
<< Yes
>> That's it??
<< Yes, I'm fine <3
You add the heart, toothbrush hanging loosely from your mouth as you try to act normal.
>> Uh huh. How did it go?
You can picture her narrowed eyes when you read it. Your thumbs hover over the screen for a minute, thinking of what to say.
<< It was fine. Nothing worth mentioning.
You can see her typing, deleting, then typing again several times.
>> And what about Jack?
<< He's fine, too.
You pause before adding:
<< We're fine. Things are okay again.
>> What does that mean??
You take too long to answer her, but her following text shows that it doesn't really matter anyway—she knows you too well.
>> oh😏
When you reemerge, you've decided to keep this to yourself until the morning. No need to reveal to Jack that the plan has failed immediately. This can still be just yours tonight.
He sits against the headboard, prosthetic off, and duvet covering his lap. He looks nervous. "Are you gonna—?" He gestures vaguely toward the empty side of the bed before clearing his throat. "I mean..."
The uncertainty in his voice surprises you. You'd just spent the entire day together, and he's unsure if you want to share the bed. It's kinda cute.
"Yeah," you say softly. "If that's okay?"
His answer comes fast. "Of course it's okay." He pauses. "I just didn't know if—" he shrugs, trailing off.
You climb into bed, into the arm that was waiting for you. You both sink down until your head settles against his chest, listening to the familiar rhythm of his heartbeat.
You guess this is as good a moment as any other to finally have the conversation.
"I...uh—" you start. "I have the divorce papers printed on my desk."
Jack goes very still.
"I also still have that apartment viewing on Thursday." You stare at a loose thread on his shirt. "I know we've done this in a weird order. Getting married, moving in together, and then confessing."
You force out a laugh. "If you want to do this properly, we can."
The room goes quiet. Jack's arm tightens around you. "Properly?"
"You know." You shrug. "Dating. Separate places. Normal people stuff."
For a moment, he doesn't say anything; then, he says: "Do you want that?"
The question catches you off guard. You hesitate but answer truthfully. "No."
Jack lets out a breath. Just a small exhale that sounds suspiciously like relief. "Oh."
You lift your head. "Oh?"
Jack's mouth twitches. "I don't either." He rubs the back of his neck. "But I don't want you staying because you think you have to."
Your chest squeezes. "Jack."
"You've spent months trying to make decisions based on what you thought I wanted." His fingers trace idle patterns against your arm. "I'd rather know what you want."
You stare at him for a second. "I want to stay. I want to stay here."
His eyes soften immediately. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay." A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "We don't have to rush to figure things out. I like having you here. We can't figure the rest out later."
"Yeah?"
"Mm," he hums, his grip tightening around you. "I slept like shit when you weren't here. I'd prefer not to do that again."
You huff a breath. "Me too."
Even though the apartment had been nicer than the others you'd looked at, you really didn't want to move. You're happy he feels the same as you do. Maybe it doesn't matter if you do this in an order that doesn't make the most sense—as long as it makes sense to you, that's all that matters.
The room quiets again until Jack speaks again. "Can I ask you something?"
Your chest tightens, but you still nod.
"Why Lily?"
You knew he was going to ask eventually, but it doesn't make it any less embarrassing. You sigh into his chest. "That day—" you don't have to specify which, he already knows. "The way you ran inside looking terrified—"
You swallow. "And how you yelled at me after..." The memory of it still stings now, even after his countless apologies. "It was the difference in how you treated me and her."
"I'm sorry," he says again.
"I know."
"No." His voice is quiet. "I need you to understand what happened."
You lift your head enough to look at him.
"I got there seconds after—" His jaw tightens. "I barely managed to pull you away. I was already petrified when I heard the code being called. I could only imagine you—" he stops, breathing heavily. "...I can't explain what that felt like."
He continues, "When I realised it wasn't you, I was relieved. And then I felt guilty for being relieved because someone had still gotten hurt, but all I could think about was how happy I was that it wasn't you."
The confession lands heavily between you.
"I was scared out of my mind. Angry at the patient. Relieved that you weren't hurt. Guilty that I was relieved. All at once. And I took it out on you. I'm sorry."
You squeeze his hand.
His eyes find yours. "It was never about Lily."
You believe him. Now, you do. But back then? Back then, you'd been drowning in uncertainty.
You shrug helplessly, revealing more of how you felt. "After that, I started noticing every little thing. The way you talked to her. The way she made you laugh."
"You make me laugh," he says firmly.
You roll your eyes at him, a slight smile tugging on your lips. "I think I was trying to make peace with losing you. If I wasn't the one for you, then she could be. She could be better for you. Kinder than me. Easier than me."
Jack's face falls. "Sweetheart..."
Your mouth twitches sadly, looking down at his shirt again.
"You genuinely thought that?"
You nod.
His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, lifting your gaze back to his. "Do you have any idea how much time I spent wishing you'd look at me the way I looked at you?" His thumb brushes across your skin. "It was always you."
You close your eyes, leaning into his touch. You sigh. "We wasted so much time."
"Yeah."
Moments stolen by fear and assumptions and bad timing. You think about every dinner that could have been a date. Every movie night spent pretending not to notice how close he sat. Every almost-confession. Every chance that slipped away.
But now, everything's finally out in the open. The conversation drifts after that. You talk about everything. The first dinner. The first kiss. The kiss cam. The bar. Every misunderstanding. Every moment one of you had walked away convinced the other didn't feel the same.
Sometimes you laugh until your stomach hurts. Sometimes you bury your face in a pillow because neither of you can believe how oblivious you've been. Sometimes there's silence while you mourn all the things that could have been.
By the time the conversation finally slows, pale morning light is spilling through the curtains. Your eyes burn with exhaustion, but your chest feels lighter than it has in months.
You don't know what happens next.
You don't know what being married and newly confessed and hopelessly in love is supposed to look like. But for the first time, that uncertainty doesn't scare you. You'll figure it out together.
Beside you, Jack shifts closer beneath the blankets until there's barely any space left between you.
His lips brush your hair. "I love you."
You smile immediately. The confession still feels unreal. "I love you too."
The smile you feel against your forehead is warm and content. And wrapped in his arms, with the future still unwritten and endless possibilities stretching ahead of you, sleep finally finds you both.
The next evening finds you faster than you'd like.
As you step in through the door to the hospital, side by side, it reminds you of the first time you walked in carrying a secret on your shoulders—only this time, your shoulders are light, and your stomach is fluttering with happy jitters.
Somehow, you manage to make your way to the lockers without meeting anyone. With your bags dropped, you sneak a brief kiss against the door before you reenter the Pitt. Jack's hand brushes yours, your pinky catching his for a second, before you take a step apart.
You try to bite back the smile that threatens to break through. If you want this work, you need to stop acting like a lovestruck teenager. It's incredibly hard, though.
Robby stands at the hub, tablet in hand and a frown on his face.
"Rough day?" Jack says, clapping his back. He leans against the counter as you trail closer.
"Yeah... Good luck." Robby rubs his face, dropping the tablet on the counter. When his eyes open, they narrow in on the space between you and Jack—or rather the lack of it.
You shift to the side, trying to act nonchalant, but Robby's a hound. His eyes follow the movement immediately, nose twitching as he tries to sniff out everything you're trying to keep quiet.
"How was the conference?"
"Fine," Jack replies, glancing up at the board. He taps his fingers rhythmically on the counter.
"It was?" Robby raises an eyebrow, staring at him. Jack nods at him, shifting his gaze away quickly. Robby watches him for a moment, then turns to you.
"Mm," you nod, offering a tight smile. "The usual."
Robby stays silent, shifting his gaze from Jack to you, and then he grins widely. He chuckles, "If you so."
"Yeah," Jack nods with an awkward smile.
"Well, that's good." Robby keeps grinning as he pats the counter twice. "I'll see you later." He salutes you, still smiling, then walks off without any further questions.
You stare at his disappearing figure with a sense of dread. With a hand around Jack's wrist, you pull him into a quiet corner, hissing: "He knows."
Jack frowns. "How could he? We were acting normal."
You stare at him. "Normal? If you call 'you not looking at him at all' normal, then yes. Very normal."
"I did look at him."
"For two seconds. Normally, you don't look away at all," you counter.
Jack crosses his arms. "Well...You gave it away to Olivia."
"I didn't—I told her nothing."
"Exactly!" Jack points out. "That's not normal for you."
You stare at him with pinched eyebrows and then sigh. "...Yeah, okay. Maybe I did."
Jack sighs, too. "I guess I did, too." He shrugs, a smile tugging at his lips as he leans closer. "But to be fair, I think we forgot that they've spent months dealing with our sorry asses. Of course, they know. They knew we were in love before we did."
"—Abbot, there you are! Stop hiding in corners with your missus—trauma incoming," Lena interrupts with a wink. She doesn't even look back as she disappears down the hallway.
Jack squeezes your hand briefly on the way out, sending you a soft smile. "See you on the other side."
You watch him disappear around the corner before you head after him. The familiar knot of anxiety never comes. For weeks, every shift had felt like walking a tightrope. Every glance from Jack had meant something, and every action had been dissected. Now, the uncertainty is gone.
The Pitt is still loud. Still chaotic. The same as it always was. It's you who is different.
Across the department, Jack glances back. Just for a second, but long enough to catch your eye. Long enough to smile, and then he's gone into a trauma room.
And for the first time in a very long time, you're looking forward to the shift ahead.
