honestly, just a place to get my feels out also, most of the stuff I write is unbelievable and so far fetched and detached from what could be realistically possible.
Summary: While her husband is deployed overseas, Yn Ln Abbot boards a flight that never reaches its destination. They called it an aviation crash. He called it the worst day of his life.
notes: I have been playing Tomb Raider the past few days and I couldn't hold myself back. Don't worry, It's a girl (3/3) is in the works. Some Ogilvie bashing cause I couldn't find another character. No hate to the actor, he's doing an amazing job.
warnings: mention of death. Alleged death of reader. Reader description to match what she went through, I did try to make it as vague as possible. Reader mentioned to have been rich. Reader mentioned to have scars and burned herself (cauterization). A funeral being held. Burying someone without a body. Angst with happy ending.
wc♡4.1k
masterlist
When YN died, it was loud.
The aircraft came undone in pieces as metal and people alike shrieked through the sky. The sound carried, thin and swallowed by wind. The smell of fuel burned sharp in the air, thick and choking, mingling with the stench of burning wires. Fire bloomed where metal met ground as smoke clawed upwards into an indifferent sky.
It was chaos. It was catastrophic. It was final.
Jack was suturing a soldier’s arm when the lieutenant approached him.
The medical tent was suffocating, thick with the metallic scent of blood and antiseptic that never quite masked it. Outside, boots pounded over packed sand, radios crackled, and somewhere someone laughed too loudly at something that probably was not that funny.
“Sir.”
Jack didn’t look up at first. His hands were steady, gloved fingers precise as he guided the needle through torn flesh. “Hold still,” he murmured to the soldier on the cot.
“Sir,” the lieutenant repeated, voice tighter now. “There’s a personal message from command center.”
Personal.
Around here, personal never meant good news.
Jack tied off the final suture and cut the thread. He stripped his gloves off slowly, as if delaying his knowledge of the news might change it.
“I’ll take it." he said.
The lieutenant walked him across the base, the desert sun glaring overhead and the air shimmered with heat as sand shifted underneath their boots.
Inside the communications tent, a walkie sat on the metal desk. The lieutenant gestured to it gently, like it might explode if came too close.
“I’ll give you space, sir,” he said quietly.
Jack stepped forward as the younger man stepped out. For a second, he just stared at the device, his pulse was loud in his ears. And then, he picked it up.
“This is Abbot.”
Static crackled before a voice came through- calm, official and detached. Like he had delivered too many personal calls for him to be affected by them anymore.
“Doctor Abbot, I am Commander Reeves. I am calling in regards of your wife, Mrs. Yn Ln Abbot.”
Jack held his breath without realizing it.
“Yes?”
“There was an aviation incident early this morning. Flight 756. She was on the flight. There were no further updates after the mayday call, it was lost.”
Lost was military language for devastation, for saying that there are no proper coordinates where we can search, for saying that the last known location is beyond survival.
Lost was military language for your wife is dead and we will not say it plainly.
The noise outside the tent didn’t change- soldiers were still talking, guns clinked softly as they were cleaned and the wind pushed sand in restless whispers against fabric made walls.
But something inside him went quiet. Utterly and devastatingly quite. A silence so deep it felt like the world had been vacuumed hollow.
“We are so sorry for your loss, doctor.”
And with those words, his world collapsed. There was no dramatic reaction, no shouting and no begging. He just stood there, still holding the walkie, staring at nothing.
When YN came back to life, it was quiet. Too quiet. The roar of the crash had faded into a distant memory of fire and groaning metal as the hush of tide kept pulling it back from shore. And then the pain arrived.
Her shoulder was wrong- visibly, horribly wrong- as it was pushed out of its socket at an unnatural angle, her clavicle throbbed with the deep, sick certainty of a fracture, every breath sent a sharp, splintering agony through her ribs, and a long laceration along her thigh burned where blood had dried against her skin.
Her head rang like someone had dropped cathedral bells inside her skull and set them swinging. She laid on her back on wet ground, staring up at a sky that was impossibly blue. It was too calm, too beautiful.
She dragged herself out of the tide with the one functioning arm, nails digging into mud, body trembling with every inch gained as the ocean tried to pull her back as if claiming what it had been promised.
She cried out when she moved, raw, broken sounds ripped from her throat as pain flared through her body.
“Help,” she gasped.
Her voice disappeared into wind, then she tried again. Louder.
“Please!”
And again, and again. But no one answered. There were no sirens, no search teams, no hands reaching for her. No Jack. It was just the vast stretch of muddy grass and the indifferent sea.
That first night, she dragged a broken wing panel across the clay and propped it against debris sticking to the side of the bottom of a cliff to form a crude shelter. Every movement felt like she was tearing herself open again.
She knelt beside a rock, breath ragged, as she stared at her dislocated shoulder. There was no one else. And so, she pressed her shoulder against the stone and forced the joint into place. The sound it made was sickening and the pain was blinding- it tore a scream from her that echoed against empty cliffs before collapsing into silence.
She blacked out from it and when she woke, the stars were out. And she was still alone.
Jack buried an empty coffin.
He had been told that the ocean had swept away what was left of the flight. There had been no body to identify, no hand to hold one last time and no forehead to kiss goodbye. Just a polished wooden box filled with nothing.
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
The phrase repeated so often that it lost meaning. People watched him carefully during the service, eyes tracking him like he was something fragile and volatile, like they expected him to shatter, to explode and to fall apart in front of the grave.
But he did not cry. Not when they lowered the coffin, not when the dirt hit wood with that final, unforgiving sound and not at the funeral reception where people whispered about how tragic it all was. He stood straight, he thanked people and he shook hands.
Three days later, he requested going back to base.
The house was the worst part, the silence there was different from the one in the desert, it wasn't just vast, it was intimate. Her shoes were still by the door, her mug still in the cabinet and her books marked halfway through chapters she would never get to finish.
And even years later, when he had exchanged the simmering, blinding desert for the cool white walls, he still hated the empty space on their bed and the way he still turned towards her side in his sleep. He saved lives in the ER like it was penance. Like every pulse he restarted, every wound he closed, every life he dragged back from the brink was a payment toward a debt he could never settle. Like he could restart her pulse and his own along with it.
Fourteen years was a long time for grief to stop being sharp and start being normal. It rooted itself into him, it influenced his decisions quietly and persistently; the shifts he took, the promotions he refused, the distances he kept from people who tried to get too close.
He built his life around her absence, he learned which memories he could afford to touch and which would unravel him completely. He never moved her books, he never packed away their photographs, he never erased her voicemail and he never took off his wedding band. It remained there, a thin circle of metal around his finger, a promise to a woman the world believed was gone.
Grief became his constant companion- silent, unyielding and unbearably alive.
Hunger teaches you humility. Yn had grown up in estates and private academies, she had worn silk and debated on real estate over wine. But the island didn't care; she learned how to split open a fish with a sharpened shard of turbine casing, learned how to trap small animals with vines, learned which berries blistered your tongue and which kept you alive.
She learned the sound of approaching storms by the way the birds vanished first and she learned how to stitch her own skin with fishing wire salvaged from the wreckage.
The first time fever took her, she hallucinated Jack’s voice. He was standing at the edge of the jungle, clean and pressed and furious.
“Yn,” he said in that controlled tone that always meant he was afraid.
She crawled toward him, but before she could get to him, he dissolved into light.
When she woke, her wound was infected and she had to burn it clean with heated metal. She did not scream, there was no one to hear her anyway, so instead she bit down on leather stripped from a seatbelt and let the smell of her own burning flesh sink into her bones.
She mapped the island in her head; freshwater spring to the north, jagged cliffs east, dense jungle that swallowed light and sound west.
She named nothing, because naming meant claiming, and claiming meant believing she had some control over this place. And that was hope- it was what made her wait for rescue that never came, it was what made her count days until she stopped feeling them at all.
Hope wasn't a lifeline, it was a wreckage- laying waste at the ocean's shore and scattered across unreachable cliffs.
At night she would sit on a cliff overlooking the ocean and press her palm against the hollow at her throat where her necklace used to rest. She pictured Jack the way he had looked the morning he left, half-dressed, hair still damp from the shower, leaning against the kitchen counter.
“I'll be fine,” he'd promised, he'd kissed her like every morning, like every time he was deployed and came back. He'd kissed her like he was so sure that he would come back and see her again. Only it wasn't him that didn’t make it back.
She wondered how long they waited before they told him. She wondered if he heard the words of her demise on repeat in his head. She wondered if he thought she was afraid at the end.
Years blurred. Her body changed fast, adapting; muscle layered over old softness, scars mapped her skin- thin white lines, jagged seams, a puckered mark along her thigh from where an infection nearly took her. Her hands grew calloused and her voice grew unused- sometimes she would speak aloud just to remember what it sounded like.
“My name is Yn Ln Abbot.”
Once, a tree collapsed onto her shelter in the middle of the night, it pinned her beneath splintered wood, cold metal and mud as she laid there in the dark, ribs screaming, lungs struggling. And for a moment- just a moment- she considered letting it end.
But then she saw Jack’s face in her mind- not as he was, but as he would be, she saw him standing at a grave with no body.
She shoved the tree off inch by inch. Survival was no longer instinct.
It was defiance.
Every day since, she climbed the highest ridge where an old radio tower leaned like a monument about to fall.
She stripped wires, rewired circuits, reinstated metal from the plane’s grave, only for static to answer her every time. Until something came through.
“Mayday, mayday, this is Yn Ln Abbot. Survivor of Flight 756. If anyone can hear me- please.”
Static filtered back like always, and then a voice- faint and distant but a human voice, a pilot rerouting around bad weather and he heard her.
For the first time since she clawed her way out of the wreckage, she let herself feel hope.
The ED was busy, not just busy- it was alive. The kind of alive that glared in fluorescent light and pulsed through tile floors. Monitors beeped in mismatched rhythms, stretchers rattled across, voices overlapped in controlled urgency.
Jack was hands deep in chaos, working alongside Robby, gloves on, jaw tight, eyes steady.
Ever since he’d come to The Pitt years ago, he had spent more time here than at his own house. His therapist had told him it wasn’t good. He had used words like avoidance and displacement and healthy grief response. He even dared to suggest that he should move houses.
Move. As if his grief was tied to wallpaper, broken bedroom locks and a wooden hairbrush. As if the memories of her wouldn’t follow him like a second shadow. As if leaving the home they built together would erase the way her laughter once echoed off those kitchen walls.
He couldn’t remember the exact year he moved into the guest room, he could only remembered why.
The first few years after her funeral, he’d still slept in their bed- on his side- careful not to drift too far into the cold space where she should have been. He used to lie awake and imagine he felt the mattress dip beside him. He would cry quietly at first when he'd look at her side, then he learned to do it without sound. He tried to trick himself into believing he was doing fine.
He wasn’t.
He still bought her favorite tea brand from the grocery store- even though he didn’t drink tea- the boxes stacked quietly in the pantry like a ritual offering. He would dust her vanity and line up the products exactly how she used to, lipstick angled slightly to the right, make up brushes in height order. He’d spray her perfume across the bedroom some nights, standing there as the scent settled into sheets and curtains and for a few minutes, if he closed his eyes, he could pretend she had just stepped into the shower.
The universe, however, had never been particularly kind to him.
The perfume went out of production. He found out in a brightly lit department store aisle, holding the empty tester bottle in his hand while a teenager apologized that it had been discontinued.
Discontinued. Like her. After that, he couldn’t step foot into the bedroom.
Not when even the closest thing he had left to her scent was gone.
Jack was hands deep inside a patient’s abdomen, correcting a mistake made by an ambitious new med student.
“Careful." Jack muttered, voice controlled but edged.
The heart monitor beeped steadily. His phone buzzed in his pocket, he ignored it. Then it buzzed again, he exhaled sharply through his nose. By the third time, the vibration felt invasive.
“Can someone,” he said tightly, not looking up from the open cavity in front of him, “get that thing out of my pocket and answer it for me before I throw it across the room?”
Unfortunately for everyone, Ogilvie was the only one not gloved up. The tall med student fumbled awkwardly, fishing the phone out like it might bite him.
“Hi,” he answered, a little too casually for someone holding his attending’s phone.
Jack tuned him out, refocusing on suturing the bleeding vessel. There was a long pause from the med student as he listened to whomever was on the other end of the call. It was long enough that even through the surgical haze, something felt off.
Ogilvie’s posture changed first. His shoulders straightened as his expression shifted between confusion, curiosity and disbelief. And after a few seconds, he looked up.
“It’s the Pittsburgh Police Station,” he said, voice suddenly small in the quite room. “They’re saying that your wife is there.”
God, Robby wished he could physically push the kid out of the room.
Jack’s hand froze mid-motion but his head snapped up, the heart monitor spiked wildly as if it was connected to Jack.
Joy went rigid from across the table. She was ready to strangle Ogilvie herself. Sure, she wasn’t planning on staying in the ED long-term, it had never been her end goal. But Jack Abbot was the kind of attending students stayed for.
The first time she’d spoken to him, she’d teased him about his age. He’d shot back with something dry and self-aware, he even made a joke out of it. He was good, insanely kind in ways that didn’t feel performative. And she knew that if she ever changed her mind about emergency medicine, it would be because of him.
Everyone knew about his wife. Even her, the new med student who came in one month ago, and she was sure that the tall bonehead standing there holding the phone knew as well.
It was whispered through hallways, uttered between shifts and coffee breaks. Jack Abbot is still in love with his wife who died fourteen years ago. It was said with reverence and quiet heartbreak.
Joy respected him more when she heard about it, even if it hurt to see. It was sweet in a way that made your chest ache. Love like that wasn’t common and now Ogilvie had just torn open something sacred in the middle of a trauma bay.
Jack stared at him- not blinking, not breathing- with fourteen years of layered wounds threatening to spill down the center.
His mind rejected it instantly. Cruel joke. Mistake. Wrong file. Wrong Abbot. The monitor kept screaming its erratic rhythm.
“Repeat that.” Jack said quietly.
Ogilvie swallowed. “They’re saying your wife is at the station.”
Silence fell heavy over the operating table, even the chaos seemed to dull around them. Jack’s world tilted violently, his wife was dead, he had a funeral, he had stood over an empty coffin, he had memorized the date of her death like a second birthday.
Hope was not something he allowed himself anymore, hope was dangerous, hope destroyed people, hope ruined him.
“Go, brother. I got it.”
Robby was already moving, sliding seamlessly into Jack’s position, gloved hands steady as he took over. His eyes flicked between reassurance for Jack and a glare at Ogilvie.
Jack didn’t move at first, his chest felt tight, constricted, like something enormous was trying to claw its way out. Fourteen years of grief stood against one impossible sentence.
Your wife is there.
Alive wasn’t even a word his brain would form in relation to her anymore. If this was a mistake, it would shatter him in a way he wasn’t sure he’d survive. And if it wasn’t- he didn’t let himself finish the thought.
Because hope, after fourteen years, felt more terrifying than loss ever had.
The police station was painfully ordinary, fluorescent lights hummed overhead, printer spat out paper somewhere on the other side of the front desk, an officer murmured into a phone like it was any other shift, any other day.
The world was continuing. Jack felt like it should have stopped.
Interview room three.
His hand rested on the handle longer than it should have. It trembled, just slightly. He told himself this was a mistake, an error, a woman with the same name, a cruel prank that would gut him in front of strangers.
And then he opened the door.
She was sitting at a metal table, wrapped in a grey emergency blanket that did nothing to hide how much the years had changed her. Her posture was straight, almost guarded, and her hands rested on top of the table- scarred and calloused.
Yn Ln Abbot, alive and in front of him.
Her hair fell around her shoulders, uneven and rough at the ends. Her skin stretched over sharp lines and a jagged scar traced along her collarbone. She looked leaner, stronger, like she survived something that she wasn't meant to.
But her eyes- when she lifted her head and their gazes collided, the air left his lungs so abruptly it felt painful- those were her eyes.
“Jack.”
His name fell from her lips softly, but it hit him like a gunshot. It wasn’t a memory, it wasn’t the echo of a voicemail he refused to delete- it was real, it carried breath and warmth and tremor. For a second, he thought he might be hallucinating, that grief had finally split his mind open and that this was his punishment.
“You’re- ” His voice broke, he swallowed hard, but it didn’t steady him. “You’re dead.”
The words were jagged, disbelieving. A flicker of pain crossed her face, but she didn’t look away.
“I know,” she whispered.
He took a step forward without remembering deciding to, then another. His entire body felt foreign, heavy and trembling all at once.
“They told me you were gone,” he said hoarsely. “They said there were no survivors. They said-” His voice fractured. “They said lost.”
Her fingers curled against the edge of the table.
“I was lost,” she said quietly. “But I wasn’t gone.”
He stopped a few feet away, staring at her like he was afraid she might evaporate if he got too close.
“You have any idea what that did to me?” The words slipped out before he could stop them. They weren’t anger, they were agony.
Her face crumpled slightly, and that nearly undid him.
“I tried getting back to you, Jack,” she said, her voice trembling now, raw in a way that sounded unused to softness. “Every day, I tried. I climbed that damn ridge,” she continued, breath hitching. “I fixed that shitty broken radio tower over and over. I waited for planes. I lit fires. I-” Her voice broke entirely.
“I tried getting back to you, Jackie, every day, I tried.” she whispered. “I was screaming for you on that island. I thought- ” Her voice broke. “I hoped that if I screamed loud enough you’d hear me.”
His vision blurred. He saw it then, her alone on some endless stretch of a coastline, broken and bleeding, calling his name into a sky that never answered while he had been standing at a grave, sleeping in the guest room because their bed felt like a betrayal and spraying perfume that no longer existed just to breathe her in for a few seconds.
He closed the distance between them, hand lifted hesitantly, hovering near her face like he was afraid she might recoil. He touched her cheek; warm, solid, alive. She closed her eyes at the contact, and the small, involuntary exhale that left her lips nearly brought him to his knees.
“You’re real,” he murmured, more to himself than to her.
“I’m real.” she said, and her voice cracked on the last word.
That was when control abandoned him. He pulled her into his arms, not gently, not cautiously, but desperately. His arms wrapped around her like he could fuse her back into the past fourteen years by sheer force. She made a sound against his chest- a broken, relieved sob- and her fingers twisted into the front of his shirt like she was afraid he might disappear.
His hands slid up to cradle her face, thumbs brushing over skin that had endured more than he could imagine.
She gripped his wrists, holding him there like the universe might throw her back into that dark, lonely place. Her fingers found his left hand and traced the wedding band that still rested there.
“You kept it,” she breathed.
“Why wouldn't I? You were my wife. You're still my wife.” he said, and the simplicity of it made it devastating.
“I’m not the same,” she said.
The words hit harder than anything else. He pulled back enough to fully look at her- really look at her.
“Neither am I,” he answered immediately. "But you're here."
“Yeah, I am.” she breathed against his chest, like she needed to convince herself as much as him. He wrapped his arms around her tighter, almost painfully so.
“I started sleeping in the guest room,” he confessed quietly. “I couldn’t stay in our bed. I kept reaching for you in the dark. I’d wake up angry at myself for expecting you to be there.”
She made a broken sound at that and leaned into him further, the years between them felt both infinite and nonexistent all at once.
“I was sleeping on grass,” she said faintly. “Under a piece of wing metal. I would close my eyes and pretend I was back in our bedroom. I would pretend you were next to me.”
The symmetry of it nearly crushed him- fourteen years of parallel loneliness, fourteen years of reaching for each other across impossible distance.
He realised that she fit differently in his arms- harder edges, new scars- but she fit, her body trembled against his as she clung to him with a desperation that matched his own.
And for the first time in fourteen years, the silence inside him wasn’t hollow.
(Dad! Jack Abbot x OC!son x OC!daughter x fem!wife!mum!reader)
Part 1 of a series of small drabbles where Jack is driving the entire PTMC nuts over how tf does he know GenZ slang.
No appearance of reader in this one.
I got inspired by this amazing post, hope you guys enjoy.
wc□700
masterlist
Jack Abbot had always been an encouraging attending. He would stand two feet back during a procedure that absolutely should have been done by a senior resident and calmly let the intern try anyway, hands folded, watching like a hawk but saying absolutely nothing.
If you were good, he trusted you.
If you were brave and good, he trusted you even more.
So when Joy Kwon, one of the two new interns in the ED, asked if she could perform the thoracostomy herself, no one was surprised when Jack simply stepped back and nodded.
What did surprise everyone was what happened during the procedure.
Garcia opened her mouth, clearly about to interrupt before his voice sounded first.
"Dr Garcia," Jack said calmly.
A pause.
"Let her cook."
For a second, the trauma bay went strangely quiet.
Joy didn’t laugh- only because she was currently hands deep in a patient’s chest cavity- but the corner of her mouth twitched upward into a quick, knowing smirk before she refocused on the procedure.
Across the room, Trinity Santos let out a short chuckle she tried- and failed- to hide as a cough.
Everyone else looked like their brains had just tripped over a loose wire.
Garcia blinked, trying to understand what just came out of the attending's mouth. Frank glanced between Jack and Garcia like he had missed an entire point in the conversation. Perlah's eyebrows climbed halfway up her forehead. And Donnie just stared at Jack like he was trying to recalculate everything he thought he knew about the man.
Jack, meanwhile, remained perfectly calm behind Joy, hands loosely clasped behind his back like he had just delivered a completely normal medical instruction.
"Hey," Trinity said a few minutes later, wandering over to where Mel, Javadi, and Whittaker were standing.
She leaned casually against the counter.
"Dr Abbot knows GenZ slang."
Whittaker blinked. "What?"
"Yeah," Trinity said. "He just told Garcia to let Joy cook with her thoracostomy."
Javadi made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a skeptical scoff.
"Dr Abbot?" She said. "Volunteers for SWAT on his free time Dr Abbot?"
"Yeah," Trinity said. "Everyone was so confused."
Mel frowned, clearly trying to piece together several things that did not belong in the same sentence.
"What- " she started. "What does that mean?"
Trinity blinked.
"What?"
"How would Joy cook a thoracostomy?" Mel asked slowly. "And why would Dr Abbot support that?"
There was a long pause.
Trinity stared at her.
Whittaker slowly covered his face with both hands.
Javadi looked like she was about to collapse from silent laughter.
"Oh you sweet child."
Jack kept thinking about it all the way home. How could he not, he’d felt everyone’s eyes on him for the rest of the shift- Santos grinned every time Jack said anything, and Joy suppressed a smirk whenever she made eye contact with him.
He dropped his bag by the kitchen counter where two fifteen year olds were sitting, both nearly done with whatever snack they’d raided from the pantry.
"Hey, Dad." Lara, the younger of the twins, said, picking up her plate before kissing his cheek.
"Hey, princess."
"Sup, Dad?" Percy, the older of the two, greeted.
"Hello, you brute."
Percy scoffed. "She’s a princess and I’m a brute. I see how it is."
Jack smirked, pouring himself a glass of water.
"I used a slang you guys told me about today. I think I did it right," Jack said casually.
So casually, in fact, that both his kids looked at him like he’d grown a second head.
"You what?"
Jack took a sip of water. "An intern was doing a complex procedure. Someone tried to interrupt, and I told them to let her cook."
There was a two second pause before Percy dropped his head onto the counter with a loud groan. Lara just stared at her dad like he'd just admitted to committing a crime.
"No," she gasped.
"No?" Jack frowned.
"You did not say that in the middle of a trauma!"
"Yeah, well." Jack shrugged, drinking the rest of the glass.
Percy lifted his head just enough to look at his dad, eyes wide and face red with secondhand embarrassment.
"Dad," he said slowly, "did anyone hear you?"
"Everyone."
Percy made a pained noise and leaned back in his chair.
"You traumatized everyone."
"They did seem confused," Jack admitted.
"Cause you’re an attending, not a TikTok comment section."
Jack paused for a minute.
"Well," he said calmly, "she ate."
Percy immediately buried his face in the counter again while Lara dried her hands, shaking her head as she moved out of the kitchen and further into the house.
Summary: While her husband is deployed overseas, Yn Ln Abbot boards a flight that never reaches its destination. They called it an aviation crash. He called it the worst day of his life.
notes: I have been playing Tomb Raider the past few days and I couldn't hold myself back. Don't worry, It's a girl (3/3) is in the works. Some Ogilvie bashing cause I couldn't find another character. No hate to the actor, he's doing an amazing job.
warnings: mention of death. Alleged death of reader. Reader description to match what she went through, I did try to make it as vague as possible. Reader mentioned to have been rich. Reader mentioned to have scars and burned herself (cauterization). A funeral being held. Burying someone without a body. Angst with happy ending.
wc♡4.1k
When YN died, it was loud.
The aircraft came undone in pieces as metal and people alike shrieked through the sky. The sound carried, thin and swallowed by wind. The smell of fuel burned sharp in the air, thick and choking, mingling with the stench of burning wires. Fire bloomed where metal met ground as smoke clawed upwards into an indifferent sky.
It was chaos. It was catastrophic. It was final.
Jack was suturing a soldier’s arm when the lieutenant approached him.
The medical tent was suffocating, thick with the metallic scent of blood and antiseptic that never quite masked it. Outside, boots pounded over packed sand, radios crackled, and somewhere someone laughed too loudly at something that probably was not that funny.
“Sir.”
Jack didn’t look up at first. His hands were steady, gloved fingers precise as he guided the needle through torn flesh. “Hold still,” he murmured to the soldier on the cot.
“Sir,” the lieutenant repeated, voice tighter now. “There’s a personal message from command center.”
Personal.
Around here, personal never meant good news.
Jack tied off the final suture and cut the thread. He stripped his gloves off slowly, as if delaying his knowledge of the news might change it.
“I’ll take it." he said.
The lieutenant walked him across the base, the desert sun glaring overhead and the air shimmered with heat as sand shifted underneath their boots.
Inside the communications tent, a walkie sat on the metal desk. The lieutenant gestured to it gently, like it might explode if came too close.
“I’ll give you space, sir,” he said quietly.
Jack stepped forward as the younger man stepped out. For a second, he just stared at the device, his pulse was loud in his ears. And then, he picked it up.
“This is Abbot.”
Static crackled before a voice came through- calm, official and detached. Like he had delivered too many personal calls for him to be affected by them anymore.
“Doctor Abbot, I am Commander Reeves. I am calling in regards of your wife, Mrs. Yn Ln Abbot.”
Jack held his breath without realizing it.
“Yes?”
“There was an aviation incident early this morning. Flight 756. She was on the flight. There were no further updates after the mayday call, it was lost.”
Lost was military language for devastation, for saying that there are no proper coordinates where we can search, for saying that the last known location is beyond survival.
Lost was military language for your wife is dead and we will not say it plainly.
The noise outside the tent didn’t change- soldiers were still talking, guns clinked softly as they were cleaned and the wind pushed sand in restless whispers against fabric made walls.
But something inside him went quiet. Utterly and devastatingly quite. A silence so deep it felt like the world had been vacuumed hollow.
“We are so sorry for your loss, doctor.”
And with those words, his world collapsed. There was no dramatic reaction, no shouting and no begging. He just stood there, still holding the walkie, staring at nothing.
When YN came back to life, it was quiet. Too quiet. The roar of the crash had faded into a distant memory of fire and groaning metal as the hush of tide kept pulling it back from shore. And then the pain arrived.
Her shoulder was wrong- visibly, horribly wrong- as it was pushed out of its socket at an unnatural angle, her clavicle throbbed with the deep, sick certainty of a fracture, every breath sent a sharp, splintering agony through her ribs, and a long laceration along her thigh burned where blood had dried against her skin.
Her head rang like someone had dropped cathedral bells inside her skull and set them swinging. She laid on her back on wet ground, staring up at a sky that was impossibly blue. It was too calm, too beautiful.
She dragged herself out of the tide with the one functioning arm, nails digging into mud, body trembling with every inch gained as the ocean tried to pull her back as if claiming what it had been promised.
She cried out when she moved, raw, broken sounds ripped from her throat as pain flared through her body.
“Help,” she gasped.
Her voice disappeared into wind, then she tried again. Louder.
“Please!”
And again, and again. But no one answered. There were no sirens, no search teams, no hands reaching for her. No Jack. It was just the vast stretch of muddy grass and the indifferent sea.
That first night, she dragged a broken wing panel across the clay and propped it against debris sticking to the side of the bottom of a cliff to form a crude shelter. Every movement felt like she was tearing herself open again.
She knelt beside a rock, breath ragged, as she stared at her dislocated shoulder. There was no one else. And so, she pressed her shoulder against the stone and forced the joint into place. The sound it made was sickening and the pain was blinding- it tore a scream from her that echoed against empty cliffs before collapsing into silence.
Jack buried an empty coffin.
She blacked out from it and when she woke, the stars were out. And she was still alone.
He had been told that the ocean had swept away what was left of the flight. There had been no body to identify, no hand to hold one last time and no forehead to kiss goodbye. Just a polished wooden box filled with nothing.
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
The phrase repeated so often that it lost meaning. People watched him carefully during the service, eyes tracking him like he was something fragile and volatile, like they expected him to shatter, to explode and to fall apart in front of the grave.
But he did not cry. Not when they lowered the coffin, not when the dirt hit wood with that final, unforgiving sound and not at the funeral reception where people whispered about how tragic it all was. He stood straight, he thanked people and he shook hands.
Three days later, he requested going back to base.
The house was the worst part, the silence there was different from the one in the desert, it wasn't just vast, it was intimate. Her shoes were still by the door, her mug still in the cabinet and her books marked halfway through chapters she would never get to finish.
And even years later, when he had exchanged the simmering, blinding desert for the cool white walls, he still hated the empty space on their bed and the way he still turned towards her side in his sleep. He saved lives in the ER like it was penance. Like every pulse he restarted, every wound he closed, every life he dragged back from the brink was a payment toward a debt he could never settle. Like he could restart her pulse and his own along with it.
Fourteen years was a long time for grief to stop being sharp and start being normal. It rooted itself into him, it influenced his decisions quietly and persistently; the shifts he took, the promotions he refused, the distances he kept from people who tried to get too close.
He built his life around her absence, he learned which memories he could afford to touch and which would unravel him completely. He never moved her books, he never packed away their photographs, he never erased her voicemail and he never took off his wedding band. It remained there, a thin circle of metal around his finger, a promise to a woman the world believed was gone.
Hunger teaches you humility. Yn had grown up in estates and private academies, she had worn silk and debated on real estate over wine. But the island didn't care; she learned how to split open a fish with a sharpened shard of turbine casing, learned how to trap small animals with vines, learned which berries blistered your tongue and which kept you alive.
Grief became his constant companion- silent, unyielding and unbearably alive.
She learned the sound of approaching storms by the way the birds vanished first and she learned how to stitch her own skin with fishing wire salvaged from the wreckage.
The first time fever took her, she hallucinated Jack’s voice. He was standing at the edge of the jungle, clean and pressed and furious.
“Yn,” he said in that controlled tone that always meant he was afraid.
She crawled toward him, but before she could get to him, he dissolved into light.
When she woke, her wound was infected and she had to burn it clean with heated metal. She did not scream, there was no one to hear her anyway, so instead she bit down on leather stripped from a seatbelt and let the smell of her own burning flesh sink into her bones.
She mapped the island in her head; freshwater spring to the north, jagged cliffs east, dense jungle that swallowed light and sound west.
She named nothing, because naming meant claiming, and claiming meant believing she had some control over this place. And that was hope- it was what made her wait for rescue that never came, it was what made her count days until she stopped feeling them at all.
Hope wasn't a lifeline, it was a wreckage- laying waste at the ocean's shore and scattered across unreachable cliffs.
At night she would sit on a cliff overlooking the ocean and press her palm against the hollow at her throat where her necklace used to rest. She pictured Jack the way he had looked the morning he left, half-dressed, hair still damp from the shower, leaning against the kitchen counter.
“I'll be fine,” he'd promised, he'd kissed her like every morning, like every time he was deployed and came back. He'd kissed her like he was so sure that he would come back and see her again. Only it wasn't him that didn’t make it back.
She wondered how long they waited before they told him. She wondered if he heard the words of her demise on repeat in his head. She wondered if he thought she was afraid at the end.
Years blurred. Her body changed fast, adapting; muscle layered over old softness, scars mapped her skin- thin white lines, jagged seams, a puckered mark along her thigh from where an infection nearly took her. Her hands grew calloused and her voice grew unused- sometimes she would speak aloud just to remember what it sounded like.
“My name is Yn Ln Abbot.”
Once, a tree collapsed onto her shelter in the middle of the night, it pinned her beneath splintered wood, cold metal and mud as she laid there in the dark, ribs screaming, lungs struggling. And for a moment- just a moment- she considered letting it end.
But then she saw Jack’s face in her mind- not as he was, but as he would be, she saw him standing at a grave with no body.
She shoved the tree off inch by inch. Survival was no longer instinct.
It was defiance.
Every day since, she climbed the highest ridge where an old radio tower leaned like a monument about to fall.
She stripped wires, rewired circuits, reinstated metal from the plane’s grave, only for static to answer her every time. Until something came through.
“Mayday, mayday, this is Yn Ln Abbot. Survivor of Flight 756. If anyone can hear me- please.”
Static filtered back like always, and then a voice- faint and distant but a human voice, a pilot rerouting around bad weather and he heard her.
The ED was busy, not just busy- it was alive. The kind of alive that glared in fluorescent light and pulsed through tile floors. Monitors beeped in mismatched rhythms, stretchers rattled across, voices overlapped in controlled urgency.
For the first time since she clawed her way out of the wreckage, she let herself feel hope.
Jack was hands deep in chaos, working alongside Robby, gloves on, jaw tight, eyes steady.
Ever since he’d come to The Pitt years ago, he had spent more time here than at his own house. His therapist had told him it wasn’t good. He had used words like avoidance and displacement and healthy grief response. He even dared to suggest that he should move houses.
Move. As if his grief was tied to wallpaper, broken bedroom locks and a wooden hairbrush. As if the memories of her wouldn’t follow him like a second shadow. As if leaving the home they built together would erase the way her laughter once echoed off those kitchen walls.
He couldn’t remember the exact year he moved into the guest room, he could only remembered why.
The first few years after her funeral, he’d still slept in their bed- on his side- careful not to drift too far into the cold space where she should have been. He used to lie awake and imagine he felt the mattress dip beside him. He would cry quietly at first when he'd look at her side, then he learned to do it without sound. He tried to trick himself into believing he was doing fine.
He wasn’t.
He still bought her favorite tea brand from the grocery store- even though he didn’t drink tea- the boxes stacked quietly in the pantry like a ritual offering. He would dust her vanity and line up the products exactly how she used to, lipstick angled slightly to the right, make up brushes in height order. He’d spray her perfume across the bedroom some nights, standing there as the scent settled into sheets and curtains and for a few minutes, if he closed his eyes, he could pretend she had just stepped into the shower.
The universe, however, had never been particularly kind to him.
The perfume went out of production. He found out in a brightly lit department store aisle, holding the empty tester bottle in his hand while a teenager apologized that it had been discontinued.
Discontinued. Like her. After that, he couldn’t step foot into the bedroom.
Not when even the closest thing he had left to her scent was gone.
“Careful." Jack muttered, voice controlled but edged.
Jack was hands deep inside a patient’s abdomen, correcting a mistake made by an ambitious new med student.
The heart monitor beeped steadily. His phone buzzed in his pocket, he ignored it. Then it buzzed again, he exhaled sharply through his nose. By the third time, the vibration felt invasive.
“Can someone,” he said tightly, not looking up from the open cavity in front of him, “get that thing out of my pocket and answer it for me before I throw it across the room?”
Unfortunately for everyone, Ogilvie was the only one not gloved up. The tall med student fumbled awkwardly, fishing the phone out like it might bite him.
“Hi,” he answered, a little too casually for someone holding his attending’s phone.
Jack tuned him out, refocusing on suturing the bleeding vessel. There was a long pause from the med student as he listened to whomever was on the other end of the call. It was long enough that even through the surgical haze, something felt off.
Ogilvie’s posture changed first. His shoulders straightened as his expression shifted between confusion, curiosity and disbelief. And after a few seconds, he looked up.
“It’s the Pittsburgh Police Station,” he said, voice suddenly small in the quite room. “They’re saying that your wife is there.”
God, Robby wished he could physically push the kid out of the room.
Jack’s hand froze mid-motion but his head snapped up, the heart monitor spiked wildly as if it was connected to Jack.
Joy went rigid from across the table. She was ready to strangle Ogilvie herself. Sure, she wasn’t planning on staying in the ED long-term, it had never been her end goal. But Jack Abbot was the kind of attending students stayed for.
The first time she’d spoken to him, she’d teased him about his age. He’d shot back with something dry and self-aware, he even made a joke out of it. He was good, insanely kind in ways that didn’t feel performative. And she knew that if she ever changed her mind about emergency medicine, it would be because of him.
Everyone knew about his wife. Even her, the new med student who came in one month ago, and she was sure that the tall bonehead standing there holding the phone knew as well.
It was whispered through hallways, uttered between shifts and coffee breaks. Jack Abbot is still in love with his wife who died fourteen years ago. It was said with reverence and quiet heartbreak.
Joy respected him more when she heard about it, even if it hurt to see. It was sweet in a way that made your chest ache. Love like that wasn’t common and now Ogilvie had just torn open something sacred in the middle of a trauma bay.
Jack stared at him- not blinking, not breathing- with fourteen years of layered wounds threatening to spill down the center.
His mind rejected it instantly. Cruel joke. Mistake. Wrong file. Wrong Abbot. The monitor kept screaming its erratic rhythm.
“Repeat that.” Jack said quietly.
Ogilvie swallowed. “They’re saying your wife is at the station.”
Silence fell heavy over the operating table, even the chaos seemed to dull around them. Jack’s world tilted violently, his wife was dead, he had a funeral, he had stood over an empty coffin, he had memorized the date of her death like a second birthday.
Hope was not something he allowed himself anymore, hope was dangerous, hope destroyed people, hope ruined him.
“Go, brother. I got it.”
Robby was already moving, sliding seamlessly into Jack’s position, gloved hands steady as he took over. His eyes flicked between reassurance for Jack and a glare at Ogilvie.
Jack didn’t move at first, his chest felt tight, constricted, like something enormous was trying to claw its way out. Fourteen years of grief stood against one impossible sentence.
Your wife is there.
Alive wasn’t even a word his brain would form in relation to her anymore. If this was a mistake, it would shatter him in a way he wasn’t sure he’d survive. And if it wasn’t- he didn’t let himself finish the thought.
Because hope, after fourteen years, felt more terrifying than loss ever had.
The police station was painfully ordinary, fluorescent lights hummed overhead, printer spat out paper somewhere on the other side of the front desk, an officer murmured into a phone like it was any other shift, any other day.
The world was continuing. Jack felt like it should have stopped.
Interview room three.
His hand rested on the handle longer than it should have. It trembled, just slightly. He told himself this was a mistake, an error, a woman with the same name, a cruel prank that would gut him in front of strangers.
And then he opened the door.
She was sitting at a metal table, wrapped in a grey emergency blanket that did nothing to hide how much the years had changed her. Her posture was straight, almost guarded, and her hands rested on top of the table- scarred and calloused.
Yn Ln Abbot, alive and in front of him.
Her hair fell around her shoulders, uneven and rough at the ends. Her skin stretched over sharp lines and a jagged scar traced along her collarbone. She looked leaner, stronger, like she survived something that she wasn't meant to.
But her eyes- when she lifted her head and their gazes collided, the air left his lungs so abruptly it felt painful- those were her eyes.
“Jack.”
His name fell from her lips softly, but it hit him like a gunshot. It wasn’t a memory, it wasn’t the echo of a voicemail he refused to delete- it was real, it carried breath and warmth and tremor. For a second, he thought he might be hallucinating, that grief had finally split his mind open and that this was his punishment.
“You’re- ” His voice broke, he swallowed hard, but it didn’t steady him. “You’re dead.”
The words were jagged, disbelieving. A flicker of pain crossed her face, but she didn’t look away.
“I know,” she whispered.
He took a step forward without remembering deciding to, then another. His entire body felt foreign, heavy and trembling all at once.
“They told me you were gone,” he said hoarsely. “They said there were no survivors. They said-” His voice fractured. “They said lost.”
Her fingers curled against the edge of the table.
“I was lost,” she said quietly. “But I wasn’t gone.”
He stopped a few feet away, staring at her like he was afraid she might evaporate if he got too close.
“You have any idea what that did to me?” The words slipped out before he could stop them. They weren’t anger, they were agony.
Her face crumpled slightly, and that nearly undid him.
“I tried getting back to you, Jack,” she said, her voice trembling now, raw in a way that sounded unused to softness. “Every day, I tried. I climbed that damn ridge,” she continued, breath hitching. “I fixed that shitty broken radio tower over and over. I waited for planes. I lit fires. I-” Her voice broke entirely.
“I tried getting back to you, Jackie, every day, I tried.” she whispered. “I was screaming for you on that island. I thought- ” Her voice broke. “I hoped that if I screamed loud enough you’d hear me.”
His vision blurred. He saw it then, her alone on some endless stretch of a coastline, broken and bleeding, calling his name into a sky that never answered while he had been standing at a grave, sleeping in the guest room because their bed felt like a betrayal and spraying perfume that no longer existed just to breathe her in for a few seconds.
He closed the distance between them, hand lifted hesitantly, hovering near her face like he was afraid she might recoil. He touched her cheek; warm, solid, alive. She closed her eyes at the contact, and the small, involuntary exhale that left her lips nearly brought him to his knees.
“You’re real,” he murmured, more to himself than to her.
“I’m real.” she said, and her voice cracked on the last word.
That was when control abandoned him. He pulled her into his arms, not gently, not cautiously, but desperately. His arms wrapped around her like he could fuse her back into the past fourteen years by sheer force. She made a sound against his chest- a broken, relieved sob- and her fingers twisted into the front of his shirt like she was afraid he might disappear.
His hands slid up to cradle her face, thumbs brushing over skin that had endured more than he could imagine.
She gripped his wrists, holding him there like the universe might throw her back into that dark, lonely place. Her fingers found his left hand and traced the wedding band that still rested there.
“You kept it,” she breathed.
“Why wouldn't I? You were my wife. You're still my wife.” he said, and the simplicity of it made it devastating.
“I’m not the same,” she said.
The words hit harder than anything else. He pulled back enough to fully look at her- really look at her.
“Neither am I,” he answered immediately. "But you're here."
“Yeah, I am.” she breathed against his chest, like she needed to convince herself as much as him. He wrapped his arms around her tighter, almost painfully so.
“I started sleeping in the guest room,” he confessed quietly. “I couldn’t stay in our bed. I kept reaching for you in the dark. I’d wake up angry at myself for expecting you to be there.”
She made a broken sound at that and leaned into him further, the years between them felt both infinite and nonexistent all at once.
“I was sleeping on grass,” she said faintly. “Under a piece of wing metal. I would close my eyes and pretend I was back in our bedroom. I would pretend you were next to me.”
The symmetry of it nearly crushed him- fourteen years of parallel loneliness, fourteen years of reaching for each other across impossible distance.
He realised that she fit differently in his arms- harder edges, new scars- but she fit, her body trembled against his as she clung to him with a desperation that matched his own.
And for the first time in fourteen years, the silence inside him wasn’t hollow.
Summary: Jack tried to prepare his daughter for her first period. As a doctor and as a father. But alas, she still needs her dad with her. And maybe an adult girl on her side.
Note: I had this on my mind for a few days, I have been reading found family manhwas for a while and I couldn't help it, i am a sucker for soft family stories. Reader is 12 years old. Mohabbot crumbs. Hope you guys enjoy.
Apologies for the delay in replies and it's a girl (3/3)- I have a lot for it in mind but I'm stuck.
wc♡2.9k
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Jack Abbot had performed emergency on the road surgeries with steadier hands than the ones he had right now.
The kitchen table was covered in pamphlets- given out in a seminar or at the hospital, medical diagrams printed in color- pamphlets. A small whiteboard where he had apparently written notes like he was about to give a lecture at a conference instead of explaining to his 11 year old daughter how her body is going to start betraying her by making her feel that someone is stabbing her stomach every month.
Yn sat across from him, her chin propped on both hands, elbows on the table, staring at him with the widest, most confused eyes he had ever seen.
“Okay,” Jack said, clearing his throat for the fourth time. “So. Your body is going to start going through some changes.”
She blinked.
“It's called puberty.”
She blinked again.
Jack rubbed his face. He had explained this exact thing to dozens of anxious children and parents in the ER. He could talk about reproductive systems and hormones without blinking.
But this was his kid, his baby.
“So,” he continued, sliding one of the pamphlets closer to her, “every month your body prepares for the possibility of pregnancy.”
Her eyebrows scrunched together, "Why?"
"Why?” Jack blinked.
“Yes,” she repeated, frowning at the confusing diagram. “Why does my body do that?”
“Because,” he started carefully, tapping the diagram of the uterus like it was a map, “your body is designed so that someday, when you’re much, much older, you could grow a baby.”
Jack opened his mouth then closed it.
She looked down at the paper again, still not understanding anything from the drawings, then slowly back up at him.
“Why would I want to do that?”
Jack coughed into his fist.
“Well, some people want to, some people don’t. The point is that your body prepares for the possibility.”
She studied the table again, completely bewildered by the amount of diagrams that looked the same yet completely different.
“So every month my body prepares for a baby.”
“Yes.”
“And if there’s no baby?"
He pointed to the next diagram- 4 pictures with things that she was too weirded out by to look at.
“The lining that your body prepared in your uterus sheds.”
Her nose wrinkled.
“Sheds?”
"Falls out.”
“Through where?” Yn looked scared.
Jack closed his eyes briefly, “Through the vagina.”
“That’s the same place you told me babies come out of.” She tilts her head.
Jack felt a headache forming behind his eyes.
“Yes.”
“That sounds terrible.”
“It’s normal,” Jack said firmly.
She looked at the pamphlet again, then at him.
“How much blood?”
“Not that much.”
“Like a nosebleed?”
“Maybe more than a nosebleed.”
Her eyes widened.
“That’s scary.”
Jack quickly reached for the small plastic wrapped square on the table and slid it toward her.
“This is called a pad,” he said.
She picked it up. Turned it over. Studying it like she could figure out what this plastic wrapper does.
“It goes in your underwear and then you peel off this piece of plastic, those are wings, it helps in keeping the pad in place, you then turn the wings so they face the outer part of your underwear."
She stared at it, then at him. "Who made this?”
“I have no idea.”
“It looks like a diaper.”
“It’s not a diaper.”
“It’s looks like one.”
Jack inhaled slowly through his nose.
“It absorbs blood so it doesn’t get on your clothes.”
She turned it sideways.
“Does it fall out?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“No.”
She kept examining it like it was suspicious candy.
“Do I have to wear it all the time?”
“No. Only when you’re on your period.”
“How long does the period last?”
“Usually a few days.”
“How many days?”
“Four to seven.”
Her mouth fell open, "Seven?”
“That's the higher average of it.”
“That’s still a week!”
Jack huffed a quiet laugh despite himself.
Yn had the sudden urge to lie down on the floor and cry, "I don’t want that.”
“Unfortunately,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “your body doesn’t take requests.”
She thought about that for a moment.
“What if I just ignore it?”
“You can’t ignore bleeding. You don’t ignore bleeding."
“What if I sleep through it?”
“You cannot sleep through days of bleeding.”
She sighed heavily like someone burdened by terrible news. And she was indeed very burdened, thank you very much.
“This is the worst thing ever.”
Jack snorted.
After a few minutes of awkward silence, yn looked at her dad again, eyes narrowing slightly.
“Wait.”
Jack immediately felt scared of the tone of that word.
“What?”
“You said pregnancy happens when there’s a baby.”
“Yes.”
“How does the baby get there?”
Jack froze.
There it was, the moment he had been hoping to delay until at least high school (even if he knew that it was unrealistic, he missed the days without internet.)
He started collecting the pamphlets and the brochures like a desperate man gathering what he could of his belongings before jumping off a ship.
“That,” he said, standing abruptly, “is a conversation for another day.”
She blinked up at him.
“You don’t know?”
Jack stared at her, then laughed.
“Oh, I know,” he said. “I just don’t feel like explaining it right now.”
But before he could leave, she asked quietly,
She shrugged, "Okay.”
“Does it hurt?”
She nodded slowly then slid out of her chair and walked around the table, wrapping her arms around him in a quick hug.
Jack paused.
His voice softened, “Sometimes.”
He blinked in surprise.
“Why was that for?”
Her shoulders shrugged against his stomach.
“I don’t know.”
Jack laughed softly and squeezed her against him before kneeling down and resting his chin on the top of her head.
She was still small enough to hug him like this, and for a moment he allowed himself to pretend that she would stay that way forever.
A year later, she knew what a period was, she was prepared. Or so she thought.
When the warmth spread suddenly during class, she assumed it was just a stomach ache until she went to the bathroom.
Her heart dropped straight through her stomach.
The blood was too bright.
“It’s your first period,” The school nurse was kind and gentle. “It’s normal.”
The nurse handed her a pad and explained how to use it. Peel. Stick. Wings. Same thing her dad told her. The words blurred together in her ears.
She nodded like she understood. She didn’t. She tried, she really did. But it didn’t feel right. It felt crooked and bulky and wrong. But she was too embarrassed to say anything.
So when the nurse asked if she was okay, she nodded again.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Eventually a teacher drove her home and waited until she unlocked the gate with her key and stepped into the quiet building.
Yn entered the apartment, heading directly to her dad's room, expecting to see him sleeping on his bed.
Of course he had to be at the hospital now. Why does he even go during the day.
“Dad?”
Her stomach cramped again, twisting sharply.
She shuffled around the room, closing the curtains before climbing onto his bed and curling up into the blanket. The sheets smelled like laundry detergent and the faint trace of his cologne, it was comforting.
She closed her eyes. Maybe she could just sleep until he got home. Maybe that would make the pain stop.
An hour later she woke up to something cold and damp, and when she looked down, her stomach dropped- the pad had shifted, there was blood on her shorts and on the bed.
Her breath hitched, the sheets.
“Oh no.”
Panic rose, she scrambled off the bed, staring at the stain like it might explode.
“Oh no, oh no no no no-”
Her eyes burned instantly as she tried to wipe the stains with the blanket, only to realise that it's making everything worse. Now it was the sheets and the cover.
She grabbed the first thing she could reach from her dad's closet, one of his black sweaters, as she stiffled her cries. The sweater was huge on her, falling well past her knees and swallowing her hands in the sleeves, but it covered everything.
She wiped her face with the cuff and grabbed her backpack before heading out.
The late afternoon air outside the hospital smelled like dust and asphalt.
She walked through the familiar glass doors, small frame swallowed by Jack’s sweater.
As soon as she stood at the front desk Lupe looked up.
“Oh hi sweetheart,” she said warmly.
She had seen Jack’s daughter around enough times to recognize her instantly.
“You looking for your dad?”
The girl nodded shyly.
Lupe smiled and came around the desk, resting a gentle hand on the girl's shoulder.
“Come on. Let’s get you inside.”
She walked her through the ER doors and handed her off to Dana before heading back to her desk.
Dana looked down- the oversized sweater, the red eyes, the way the girl clutched her stomach- she connected the dots instantly.
“Hey kiddo,” she said gently. “Your dad knows you're here?”
Yn shook her head, “Is he busy?”
Dana crouched slightly.
“Never too busy for you sweets. We can sit you down in the family room while I go find him for you, yeah?”
The girl nodded.
They had barely taken three steps when shouting erupted down the hall- two patients had started fighting.
Dana sighed under her breath.
“Stay right here,” she told her gently. “Don’t move.”
The girl nodded again, hugging her stomach as Dana hurried off to break up the fight with Ahmed from security.
The girl stood exactly where Dana left her. She sniffled quietly, pressing the sleeves of the sweater to her face. Her stomach hurt and her underwear felt weird.
She just wanted her dad.
That’s when a young, pretty, black haired doctor noticed her.
Samira slowed as she walked past the small kid. The little girl was standing alone in the hallway, clutching her stomach, eyes watery as she tried her best to hold back her tears.
Samira crouched immediately.
“Hey,” she said softly. “What’s wrong?”
That was all it took.
“I got my first period at school and the nurse gave me this thing but I don’t think I did it right and I should know how to do it right cause my dad told me and then I bled on his bed and I didn’t want him to see but I just made everything worse and now it hurts and I can’t find him and I just want a hug from my dad.”
Samira's face softened completely.
“Oh honey.”
She stood up slowly and held out a hand.
“Come on. Let’s fix this.”
Inside the staff bathroom, Samira locked the door.
“Okay,” she said gently. “First things first. Do you have a new pad?”
The girl pulled it from her bag.
Samira took it carefully and grabbed paper towels from the dispenser. She folded them, shaping them into a rough pair of underwear on the counter.
“Okay,” Samira explained softly, demonstrating step by step. “The sticky part goes like this-"
The girl watched as the pretty female doctor explained everything, eyes wide and focused.
“Oh,” she whispered.
“Yeah.” Samira said with a smile.
The girl disappeared into the stall, a second later her small voice came through the door.
“I'm sorry," she mummbled, "My underwear is soaked.”
“That's okay.” Samira reassured her before pulling out her phone.
Ten minutes later she was quietly picking up a small opaque plastic bag from the ER entrance and as she turned back towards the hallway, she nearly collided with Jack Abbot.
“Doctor Mohan,” he said. “Can you check on-"
“I’m already with a kid,” she said quickly, rushing past him. “Give me five.”
Jack blinked, and before he could respond, she was gone.
Seconds later his phone rang. His daughter's school.
Jack Abbot did not panic easily.
In the emergency department, panic got people killed. Panic made hands shake and decisions sloppy. Panic had no place in trauma rooms or SWAT teams.
“Oh my God.”
But when the school nurse said the words your daughter and first period in the same sentence, his brain short-circuited. Jack had already stopped hearing her after that sentence.
“Dr. Abbot?”
“I need to go,” Jack said hoarsely, already turning around. “Thank you.”
He hung up and immediately found Dana and Robby near the nurses’ station, talking with Ahmed.
“I have to leave,” he said quickly. “My daughter-”
Dana cut him off.
“She’s here.”
Jack blinked.
“What?”
“She came in a few minutes ago,” Dana said. “Lupe brought her through.”
Jack’s brain stalled.
“She’s here?”
"She was looking for you." Dana nodded.
Relief hit so fast it nearly buckled his knees.
“Where is she?”
“I was taking her to the family room,” Dana said, already turning. “But there was a fight and I told her to stay put.”
The four of them walked quickly down the hallway, Jack’s heart hammered in his chest, worsening as they reached the spot. She wasn’t there.
“Where is she?"
Dana frowned, looking around. “She was right here.”
Robby checked the adjacent hall. Nothing.
Jack’s stomach dropped, “Dana.”
Dana grabbed a passing nurse.
Dana’s voice sharpened immediately.
“Ahmed, check the family room. I was taking her there.”
“Have you seen Abbot's daughter? Small kid, wearing a huge black sweater?”
“Okay,” Dana said firmly. “Everyone listen up.”
The nurse shook her head. Jack’s chest tightened.
Within minutes the entire department knew. Baby Abbot was missing.
Jack moved through the chaos, opening doors and scanning faces.
His heart pounded harder with every room her face wasn't in, something inside his chest began to unravel.
Meanwhile, inside the locked staff bathroom, the world was quiet.
Samira stood in front of the sink while a very tired twelve-year-old carefully stepped out of the stall.
The new underwear fit, the pad sat properly now and the enormous black sweater covered everything else.
Samira smiled warmly.
“Better?”
The girl nodded, though her eyes were still watery.
“My stomach still hurts.”
“That’s normal,” Samira said gently.
She wet a paper towel and wiped the girl’s cheeks.
“First periods can be rough.”
The girl sniffled again.
“I bled on my dad’s bed.”
Samira’s expression softened even more.
“Oh honey.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“I know.”
“I think he’s going to be mad.”
Samira shook her head immediately.
“I promise you, he won’t care about the bed.”
The girl studied her face carefully.
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
Another small pause.
“I just wanted my dad.”
Samira’s heart squeezed.
“I know.”
She shifted slightly and opened her arms, the girl stepped into them instantly.
Samira hugged her gently, one hand rubbing slow circles over her back while the other moved through her hair.
“You did everything right,” she murmured. “You asked for help. You came somewhere safe.”
The girl’s shoulders relaxed against her, Samira instantly feeling the tension melting from the small girl's frame.
“You’re very brave,” Samira added softly.
“I cried a lot.”
“That’s okay.”
“Okay.”
Minutes passed then the girl yawned, all the crying finally catching up to her.
“You tired?”
Samira felt a slow nod against her shoulder. She adjusted slightly while maintaining the slow, steady motions on the girl's back.
“Go ahead,” she murmured. “You can rest.”
Within minutes, the girl was asleep against her shoulder.
Samira smiled softly. She carefully shifted, lifting the girl up onto her hip with a slight wobble. The oversized sweater swallowed the little kid whole, sleeves dangling past her hands. She looked impossibly small, Samira wanted to place the kid in her pocket.
She opened the bathroom door only to find a louder chaos than usual.
Nurses rushing, security walking quickly- nearly running into everyone- and Jack Abbot was standing in the center of the floor looking like someone had punched the air out of his lungs.
Jack ran a hand through his hair. His daughter had come to the hospital looking for him and somehow he couldn't find her.
Then he heard the bathroom door open and there was Samira, carrying his sleeping twelve-year-old on her hip. Jack’s sweater engulfing her tiny frame. Her face was tucked into Samira’s shoulder, hair messy, breathing slow and even.
“Bug?”
Samira froze. She hadn’t expected the entire department to be staring at her. Or for the night shift attending to be marching towards her like a man on a mission.
“That’s my daughter.”
“Uh,” she said slowly. "That’s-”
Samira’s eyes widened, "Oh.”
“She came in earlier,” Samira explained quietly. “She told me she got her first period and couldn’t find her dad.”
Jack brushed his hand gently through his daughter's hair.
“I bled on your sheets,” the girl mumbled sleepily without opening her eyes, "I'm sorry."
Jack’s heart melted.
“That’s okay, bug,” he whispered immediately. “I don’t care about the sheets.”
She sighed against Samira’s shoulder.
“Told you,” Samira murmured softly.
Jack finally looked up at Samira, she was still holding his daughter carefully, one hand supporting her back.
“You took care of her." he said quietly, tone full of appreciation.
“She just needed someone to explain things slower.”
“Thank you.”
Samira smiled faintly.
“She’s a good kid.”
“She is." Jack said, voice thick.
His daughter stirred again, eyes fluttering open just enough to see him.
“Can we go home?” Her arms reached out immediately.
“Of course.”
Jack carefully took her from Samira, cradling her against his chest. She curled into him instinctively, still half-asleep.
“Your sweater is comfy,” she mumbled.
He laughed softly, kissing the top of her head.
“You stole it.”
Samira stood there for a moment, warmth blooming in her chest as she watched Jack hold his daughter like she was the most precious thing in the world.
The girl peeked over Jack’s shoulder at her.
“Thank you,” she whispered sleepily.
Samira’s smile softened.
“Anytime.”
Jack looked back at her.
Something quiet and grateful passed between them. And as he smiled at the younger doctor, Jack felt a spark in his chest, but he didn’t give it much thought. His kid is warm, sleepy and in his arms- exactly where she should be.
Summary: Dennis Whitaker did not emotionally prepare for the day that his girlfriend’s dad comes rolling into the ER with a gunshot wound. Too bad, he now has to deal with everyone knowing what yn and her dad are like.
Notes: I have a pattern, can you guys see it? Lol, anyway, trying a new, non angst writing style. I need re9 Leon Kennedy inserted in my veins. Let me chomp on those arms. This is just a fun little fic. Hope you guys like it. Fluff and yn being Leon Kennedy's daughter.
wc♧1.4k
"50 year old male, gunshot wound to the shoulder. Patient is alert and vitals are stable.”
The gurney rolled in like it was arriving at a new trendy brunch spot rather than an emergency room.
On it sat a very large, very fit man who had absolutely no business being fifty. Broad shoulders, thick arms, black button up shirt stretched tight over a chest that looked carved out of a greek statue with buttons hanging on for dear life. His blond hair streaked with silver at the temples and pushed back like he’d run a hand through it a hundred times with his phone to his ear.
The female paramedic was applying pressure to the wound with one hand and smiling nervously every time he glanced at her like he might apologize for bleeding on her shift.
Robby had seen it all- people crying, people screaming, that one guy trying to convince him that he could finish a Zoom meeting mid surgery.
But he had never seen someone roll into the ER with a gunshot wound to the shoulder looking fond.
“Sir, please leave your phone,” Robby said, snapping on gloves.
“Okay, honey,” the man said into the phone, voice rough but warm. “I gotta go, doctors wanna poke at me. Love you.”
He hung up, then looked at Robby. “Sorry. Wife was a little worried.”
“Yeah, can't imagine” Princess muttered. “Is she coming?” she added.
The man shook his head. “No. She’s traveling for work. Only reason she found out is because someone-" his eyes slid sideways to the male paramedic pushing the gurney “-called my daughter. Who then called her.”
The paramedic stared very hard at the wall, imagining what a giraffe painting would look like in the department.
Robby bit back a smile. “Can you move to the bed, sir?”
“Leon. My name’s Leon.”
“Okay, Mr. Leon,” Robby said, gesturing at the hospital bed. “You gonna be good to transfer? Or do we need a forklift?”
Leon glanced down at himself. “I can walk.”
“Go ahead.” Robby nodded, still eyeing the wound.
“I tried telling them that,” Leon continued as he stood. “But apparently ‘recently shot’ is a liability.”
“Hospital policy,” Princess said sweetly.
Leon settled onto the bed like this was a wrong sized shoe instead of a gunshot. “I’ve had worse Tuesdays.”
The room door opened abruptly.
“Mr. Kennedy?”
Dennis Whitaker stood there, pale and visibly panicking.
Leon’s face lit up. “Oh, hey, kid. They bring me to your hospital? Should’ve guessed, I’ve got terrible luck.”
“Whitaker,” Robby said slowly, “you know our patient?”
Dennis swallowed. “Yeah.”
Silence.
“He’s dating my daughter.” Leon clarified.
Robby blinked at Leon. Then at Dennis. Then back at Leon. Then his gaze shifted to Princess, and he knew that within 2 minutes everyone in the ER would come to take a look at the soap opera he's currently standing in.
Trinity had noticed the shift in Dennis weeks ago.
The new workout clothes, the protein bars, the suspiciously consistent chicken and rice tupperware stacks that appeared after he’d 'go grocery shopping' for a day and come back glowing and sore. She also noticed the way his shoulders were filling out his scrubs, the baby muscles trying very hard to become adult muscles- some of them succeeded.
It was girlfriend behavior. Obviously.
So when Princess burst through the door, whisper-yelling about a 'beef cake' being said girlfriend’s dad, Trinity didn’t even pretend to hesitate. She dropped her charts like a hot potato.
What was one more delayed chart? This was more important.
She speed walked into the room. Perlah was already inside, assisting Whitaker, who was standing very stiffly behind a wall of sculpted chest and broad shoulders. Princess had not exaggerated.
The man on the bed looked like he bench pressed pickup trucks for fun. His arms were thick, veins prominent, he had the kind of forearms that suggested either intense gym dedication or years of punching things professionally. Trinity would thank the universe that she got to see this sight, even if she swung the other way, she had eyes.
This man was a DILF. A certified DILF.
Perlah and Santos grinned at each other over the 2 men's heads, both very clearly wondering how Dennis Whitaker was expected to hold a suture while staring at his girlfriend’s genetically enhanced origin factory.
“Need help Huckleberry?”
Dennis stiffened.
He was fucked. Trinity being here meant Princess had told someone, which meant everyone knew. The coffee in the cafeteria probably knew.
“I'm good, thanks.”
He didn’t look at her. Coward, Trinity narrowed her eyes at him.
Leon glanced curiously at the new arrival, studying her expression with unsettling calm and Trinity would absolutely be lying if she said she wasn’t a little bit scared.
The man looked intense, the kind of man who could sit very still and make you reconsider your life choices. He had a very 'dad stare'.
His gaze shifted briefly to Dennis, as much as he could anyway with the young man behind him, then back to Trinity.
Then, casually, “You always bring in an audience at work, kid?”
Dennis swallowed. “No, sir.”
Leon’s mouth twitched faintly. “Shame. I charge for tickets.”
Perlah nearly dropped the scissors.
Trinity folded her arms, grin widening. Godspeed, Huckleberry. If you disappear one day, it won’t be mysterious, it’ll be because you were stupid enough to break up with this man’s daughter.
And because the universe enjoys drama, the daughter walked in. And because Trinity does, in fact, swing that way she respected Dennis a bit.
Lucky ass white boy.
“Hey there sweetheart.” Leon said as he hugged his daughter with the uninjured arm. It was a one armed hug but it was solid.
“Hi dad.” She mumbled as she smiled at the two women in the room before looking at Dennis. “Hi there.” Tone turning teasing as he looked up, red on his cheeks and a smile on his face.
“Hey.” He grinned before looking back at the wound. “You uh- made it fast.”
“She probably ran a red light,” Leon offered helpfully.
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
“It was yellow.”
“Uh-huh. That’s what they all say.”
Dennis laughed under his breath, hands steady as he worked.
“So, what’s the verdict doc?” Leon asked as he glanced over his shoulder, feeling the wire being tied in place.
“You're gonna be fine, sir, it didn’t hit anything vital. You just need to rest and not move it much.”
Yn chuckled. “dad not moving much, yeah sure.”
Dennis snorted. “Yeah, sorry, that prescription’s not realistic.”
“I can rest." Leon argued.
“This is the third time you got shot this week,” Yn said.
“It's been a long week.”
“Today's Tuesday.” Yn deadpanned
Dennis lost it for a second, turning away to hide his grin.
Yn reached up and pinched her dad's skin at the back of his neck.
He jerked slightly. “Did your mum tell you to do that?”
“Yup.”
“Damn that woman.”
“You love that woman,” Yn shot back.
Leon exhaled through his nose. “Yeah. Unfortunately.”
Dennis finished tying off and stepped back, peeling off his gloves. “Well, you did say you were gonna retire.”
Leon reached for his dress shirt behind his back. “Hey, she also said that 4 years ago, but guess who I found on the job.”
Yn crossed her arms. “You followed her.”
“I observed from a distance.”
Dennis, the traitor that he was, nodded. “Sounds like you followed her, sir.”
Leon looked at him, slow and measuring. Then-
“Kid, don't make me hate you. I need you around.”
Dennis grinned. “Oh?"
Him and yn both knew that Leon was just pulling his leg.
Leon adjusted his cuff with one hand. “yeah,” he added casually, “I need someone around here who can stitch straight.”
“I can stitch straight.” Yn protested.
“You fainted during your tetanus shot.”
“I was eight!”
Dennis tried very hard not to laugh and failed.
“Wait, wouldn’t you get in trouble for treating a patient with personal connection?” Yn asked, glancing at him.
“No, no, it's okay. Dr Robby gave his okay, so it's fine.”
“And if he didn’t?” Yn asked.
Dennis met her, steady and soft. “I’d still make sure he was taken care of.”
Leon got up, turning around to face him, giving a small nod. “Good answer.”
Yn bumped her shoulder into Dennis’s arm, pleased.
From the doorway, Trinity watched the whole thing unfold like a live sitcom.
Warm, teasing and soft.
God, they were already acting like a little family.
Just a little something for Doctor Shen. no direct yn x shen moment. Parker Ellis POV. something short and fun. no mention of yn
wc◇1k
Parker Ellis had come to accept the fact that the iced Dunkin’ plastic cup was less of a beverage and more of a permanent attachment to Shen's hand. From the very first day she saw him in The Pitt, that clear plastic cup was always there- she’d seen him balance it on a crash cart, tuck it between medical equipment, and once, very impressively she would say, hold it steady through a full sprint down the hallway. The ED could be on fire, and John Shen would still pause long enough to take a sip through that ridiculously orange straw.
At this point, Parker wasn’t sure if she could even picture him without it. If he ever showed up empty-handed, the entire department would go on high alert. Because in The Pitt, chaos was normal, codes were inevitable, but John Shen and his iced Dunkin’? That was the only constant of the ED.
So imagine her surprise when, for the first time in however many years she’d known him, John Shen walked in at 7 p.m. for handoff without the iced Dunkin’. No plastic cup. No obnoxiously orange straw. No. None of that. Instead, he was holding a glass tumbler.
A glass tumbler.
Parker actually blinked. Once. Twice- as if maybe the lack of sleep and the too bright fluorescent lights were finally getting to her- but as she blinked for the third time the foreign object was still in Shen's hand.
It was clear. Reusable. Mature. It was the kind of cup that screamed 'It girl' with hydration goals and personal growth.
“What…” she started faintly, the word trailing off as she slowly turned her head towards the night shift’s charge nurse.
Lena didn’t even look up at first, logging into the computer to get this shift going already.
Parker tilted her head in Shen’s direction. “You seeing this?”
Now Lena glanced over, eyes narrowing slightly at the sight of him; glass tumbler in hand, humming a pop song, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“Oh yeah,” the older woman scoffed, fingers moving across the keyboard. “I see it.”
Shen took a casual sip. From the tumbler.
“Today,” Lena sighed, “is gonna be real bad.”
By 2 a.m., Parker had developed a new hobby: monitoring the glass tumbler.
It had not dipped below the halfway mark once. Not once.
She’d watched it like it was a patient with unstable vitals. Every time the level reached that critical midpoint, Shen would disappear for exactly ninety seconds and return with it filled to the brim again. No fuss. No explanation. Just a glass tumbler full of coffee.
Iced coffee.
There was ice in it. Like actual ice cubes. Square, frozen ice cubes.
There had not been an ice machine in proximity of the ED since three summers ago, the only one that would be classified as close by would be two floors up, belonging to Pediatrics who guarded it like a dragon hoarding gold.
So where was he getting ice? How was he getting ice? Was he stockpiling it somewhere? Did he have a system? A supplier?
She watched him take another sip. The ice clinked.
“Did something happen?”
Parker nearly jumped out of her skin at the voice beside her. Jack Abbot stood there with his usual exhausted expression, arms folded loosely, eyes tracking Shen across the department.
“What?” she asked, mind still not catching up from the damn ice.
“Shen,” Jack clarified, nodding once in his direction. “Did something happen with him?”
Shen was currently at the nurses’ station, humming under his breath as he took a long sip of the drink.
It had been happening all night. The humming, not absentminded humming either, it was full, committed, self karaoke humming. Earlier it had been some early 2000's pop, before that it was something aggressively upbeat- probably a Barbie movie soundtrack, at one point, Parker was fairly certain she heard a key change.
“You noticed too?” she asked.
Jack gave her a look.
“Who hasn’t.” he said flatly.
Across the room, Shen spun the tumbler lightly in his hand before taking another long sip, ice chiming like a warning bell.
“Yeah, well, I don’t know,” Parker admitted, “But if he hums one more pop song, I’m filing an incident report.”
Right on cue, Shen shifted seamlessly into another chorus, louder this time.
Jack exhaled slowly.
“It’s 2 a.m.,” he muttered. “If he starts whistling, I’m calling for a psych eval.”
By 6 a.m., Parker Ellis had reached her limit. She's had enough of the glass tumbler, the relentless humming and the never ending supply of ice.
“Okay, what the hell?” she demanded, cornering John by the ambulance bay.
“What?” John shot back mildly, as if he wasn't currently sipping from a glass tumbler with a glass straw like he was in a lifestyle youtube vlog.
She stared at the cup. It was still nearly full. It had been nearly full for 3 hours.
“What’s with the magical cup?” she pressed. “Also,” she narrowed her eyes at him, “since when do you drink from a glass cup?”
“Oh.”
The smile that spread across John’s face made Parker instinctively take half a step back. Sure, Shen was an easygoing guy, friendly (the opposite of their permanently unimpressed senior attending.) But this smile? This was radiant. Suspiciously radiant.
“My fiancée made me this huge flask of coffee before she went out tonight,” he said, completely casual, like he hadn’t just detonated a conversational bomb in the middle of the ambulance bay. “Might ask her if we could make this a daily occurrence. There’s caramel in it too.”
He swirled it around before taking another sip.
“It tastes so good,” he added dreamily. “Way better than Dunkin’.”
Parker’s brain short-circuited. She opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again, trying to decide which crisis to address first: the secret engagement? The down ranking of iced Dunkin’? The fact that he had apparently unlocked a new tier of happiness that manifested itself in humming?
Before she could pick one, an ambulance screeched into view, the back doors flew open and the paramedics were already rolling the stretcher out. And John, still smiling, turned on his heel and jogged alongside them, glass tumbler secure in his hand like it was an extension of his wrist.
Parker followed automatically, still trying to process everything as the sliding doors opened and swallowed them back into the chaos of the department. And then it hit her.
She quickened her pace slightly and called out after him over the noise of monitors and handoff chatter.
At this point, Parker wasn’t sure if she could even picture him without it. If he ever showed up empty-handed, the entire department would go on high alert. Because in The Pitt, chaos was normal, codes were inevitable, but John Shen and his iced Dunkin’? That was the only constant of the ED.
Good for him hahah
“Oh yeah,” the older woman scoffed, fingers moving across the keyboard. “I see it.” Shen took a casual sip. From the tumbler. “Today,” Lena sighed, “is gonna be real bad.”
It's like a bad omen 😂
So where was he getting ice? How was he getting ice? Was he stockpiling it somewhere? Did he have a system? A supplier?
Valid questions
“Shen,” Jack clarified, nodding once in his direction. “Did something happen with him?” “You noticed too?” she asked.Jack gave her a look. “Who hasn’t.” he said flatly.
I love how everyone is clocking it but no one says anything ahaha
“It’s 2 a.m.,” he muttered. “If he starts whistling, I’m calling for a psych eval.”
This cracked me up 😂
“What’s with the magical cup?” she pressed. “Also,” she narrowed her eyes at him, “since when do you drink from a glass cup?” “My fiancée made me this huge flask of coffee before she went out tonight,” he said, completely casual, like he hadn’t just detonated a conversational bomb in the middle of the ambulance bay. “Might ask her if we could make this a daily occurrence. There’s caramel in it too.” He swirled it around before taking another sip. “It tastes so good,” he added dreamily. “Way better than Dunkin’.”
Wow that is a man deeply in love and a fiancée that really knows him, good for them 🥰
“What about the ice?”
Valid, as a fellow iced coffee addict i wanna know all the tricks😂
oh my god!! This is like a love letter!! What the hell!! You have no idea how happy I am seeing this, thank you so much for this, so happy to know that my fics are enjoyed by someone else!!
as much as i loveeeee writing, i love reading, and i LOVE highlighting other writers on this website who deserve their flowers! enjoy! and don't forget to reblog your favorites!
im going to make one for Langdon soon and probably a steve harrington one too because im a sucker for that man.
(can also find all of these under my #jack abbot fic rec tag)
frequent flyer part 1 by @dolloebaby
stop making this hurt by @mercvry-glow
its never over by @mercvry-glow
i can't protect you from everything by @abbotjack
someone new by @quickestgold
strip her by @quickestgold
masterlist by @butyoudidthis4what
bruises series by @glamorizethechaos
all that is lost by @glamorizethechaos
postpartum by @glamorizethechaos
too much by @popcornpoppypop
honesty is the best policy by @moondustfairies
his little secret by @moondustfairies
night shift by @lilyswritings
steady hands part one and two by @springtyme
off day by @lovebugism
soldier boy by @sun-snatcher
conflict by @steamdeckaddict
you've ruined my life by @pencil-n-pen
unspoken conversations by @marvelous-slut
scar tissue by @inlovewithquestionablecharacters
emergency contact by @kalila
let me take care of you by @voidsagent
small is still forward by @optimisticplb
storm warning by @optimisticplb
doc, i think she's crashing out by @softundermoonlight
Rabbot x reader / Michael Robinavitch x reader x Jack Abbot
■IT'S A GIRL■ BAU!fem!reader. soulmate au.
part 1 / part 2 / part 3
summary: Jack and Robby had built their lives around the absence of their third soulmate, longing to share their love fully. And during the worst crisis the department has ever seen, they see her bleeding out on the floor, maybe they'll never get to love her.
John Shen x reader
■THE MAGICAL GLASS TUMBLER ■wc♤1k
summery: John Shen has never existed without his Dunkin' Cup. Until he got engaged.
Jack Abbot x reader
■STILL MY WIFE ■wc♡4.1k
summery: While her husband is deployed overseas, Yn Ln Abbot boards a flight that never reaches its destination. They called it an aviation crash. He called it the worst day of his life.
■OFFICIALLY GROWING UP ■wc♡2.9k ■daughter!reader
summary: Jack tried to prepare his daughter for her first period. As a doctor and as a father. But alas, she still needs her dad with her. And maybe an adult girl on her side.
Dennis Whitaker x reader
■DILF in the ER ■wc♧1.4k
summery: Dennis Whitaker did not emotionally prepare for the day that his girlfriend’s dad comes rolling into the ER with a gunshot wound. Too bad, he now has to deal with everyone knowing what yn and her dad are like.
Summary: Dennis Whitaker did not emotionally prepare for the day that his girlfriend’s dad comes rolling into the ER with a gunshot wound. Too bad, he now has to deal with everyone knowing what yn and her dad are like.
Notes: I have a pattern, can you guys see it? Lol, anyway, trying a new, non angst writing style. I need re9 Leon Kennedy inserted in my veins. Let me chomp on those arms. This is just a fun little fic. Hope you guys like it. Fluff and yn being Leon Kennedy's daughter.
wc♧1.4k
masterlist
"50 year old male, gunshot wound to the shoulder. Patient is alert and vitals are stable.”
The gurney rolled in like it was arriving at a new trendy brunch spot rather than an emergency room.
On it sat a very large, very fit man who had absolutely no business being fifty. Broad shoulders, thick arms, black button up shirt stretched tight over a chest that looked carved out of a greek statue with buttons hanging on for dear life. His blond hair streaked with silver at the temples and pushed back like he’d run a hand through it a hundred times with his phone to his ear.
The female paramedic was applying pressure to the wound with one hand and smiling nervously every time he glanced at her like he might apologize for bleeding on her shift.
Robby had seen it all- people crying, people screaming, that one guy trying to convince him that he could finish a Zoom meeting mid surgery.
But he had never seen someone roll into the ER with a gunshot wound to the shoulder looking fond.
“Sir, please leave your phone,” Robby said, snapping on gloves.
“Okay, honey,” the man said into the phone, voice rough but warm. “I gotta go, doctors wanna poke at me. Love you.”
He hung up, then looked at Robby. “Sorry. Wife was a little worried.”
“Yeah, can't imagine” Princess muttered. “Is she coming?” she added.
The man shook his head. “No. She’s traveling for work. Only reason she found out is because someone-" his eyes slid sideways to the male paramedic pushing the gurney “-called my daughter. Who then called her.”
The paramedic stared very hard at the wall, imagining what a giraffe painting would look like in the department.
Robby bit back a smile. “Can you move to the bed, sir?”
“Leon. My name’s Leon.”
“Okay, Mr. Leon,” Robby said, gesturing at the hospital bed. “You gonna be good to transfer? Or do we need a forklift?”
Leon glanced down at himself. “I can walk.”
“Go ahead.” Robby nodded, still eyeing the wound.
“I tried telling them that,” Leon continued as he stood. “But apparently ‘recently shot’ is a liability.”
“Hospital policy,” Princess said sweetly.
Leon settled onto the bed like this was a wrong sized shoe instead of a gunshot. “I’ve had worse Tuesdays.”
The room door opened abruptly.
“Mr. Kennedy?”
Dennis Whitaker stood there, pale and visibly panicking.
Leon’s face lit up. “Oh, hey, kid. They bring me to your hospital? Should’ve guessed, I’ve got terrible luck.”
“Whitaker,” Robby said slowly, “you know our patient?”
Dennis swallowed. “Yeah.”
Silence.
“He’s dating my daughter.” Leon clarified.
Robby blinked at Leon. Then at Dennis. Then back at Leon. Then his gaze shifted to Princess, and he knew that within 2 minutes everyone in the ER would come to take a look at the soap opera he's currently standing in.
Trinity had noticed the shift in Dennis weeks ago.
The new workout clothes, the protein bars, the suspiciously consistent chicken and rice tupperware stacks that appeared after he’d 'go grocery shopping' for a day and come back glowing and sore. She also noticed the way his shoulders were filling out his scrubs, the baby muscles trying very hard to become adult muscles- some of them succeeded.
It was girlfriend behavior. Obviously.
So when Princess burst through the door, whisper-yelling about a 'beef cake' being said girlfriend’s dad, Trinity didn’t even pretend to hesitate. She dropped her charts like a hot potato.
What was one more delayed chart? This was more important.
She speed walked into the room. Perlah was already inside, assisting Whitaker, who was standing very stiffly behind a wall of sculpted chest and broad shoulders. Princess had not exaggerated.
The man on the bed looked like he bench pressed pickup trucks for fun. His arms were thick, veins prominent, he had the kind of forearms that suggested either intense gym dedication or years of punching things professionally. Trinity would thank the universe that she got to see this sight, even if she swung the other way, she had eyes.
This man was a DILF. A certified DILF.
Perlah and Santos grinned at each other over the 2 men's heads, both very clearly wondering how Dennis Whitaker was expected to hold a suture while staring at his girlfriend’s genetically enhanced origin factory.
“Need help Huckleberry?”
Dennis stiffened.
He was fucked. Trinity being here meant Princess had told someone, which meant everyone knew. The coffee in the cafeteria probably knew.
“I'm good, thanks.”
He didn’t look at her. Coward, Trinity narrowed her eyes at him.
Leon glanced curiously at the new arrival, studying her expression with unsettling calm and Trinity would absolutely be lying if she said she wasn’t a little bit scared.
The man looked intense, the kind of man who could sit very still and make you reconsider your life choices. He had a very 'dad stare'.
His gaze shifted briefly to Dennis, as much as he could anyway with the young man behind him, then back to Trinity.
Then, casually, “You always bring in an audience at work, kid?”
Dennis swallowed. “No, sir.”
Leon’s mouth twitched faintly. “Shame. I charge for tickets.”
Perlah nearly dropped the scissors.
Trinity folded her arms, grin widening. Godspeed, Huckleberry. If you disappear one day, it won’t be mysterious, it’ll be because you were stupid enough to break up with this man’s daughter.
And because the universe enjoys drama, the daughter walked in. And because Trinity does, in fact, swing that way she respected Dennis a bit.
Lucky ass white boy.
“Hey there sweetheart.” Leon said as he hugged his daughter with the uninjured arm. It was a one armed hug but it was solid.
“Hi dad.” She mumbled as she smiled at the two women in the room before looking at Dennis. “Hi there.” Tone turning teasing as he looked up, red on his cheeks and a smile on his face.
“Hey.” He grinned before looking back at the wound. “You uh- made it fast.”
“She probably ran a red light,” Leon offered helpfully.
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
“It was yellow.”
“Uh-huh. That’s what they all say.”
Dennis laughed under his breath, hands steady as he worked.
“So, what’s the verdict doc?” Leon asked as he glanced over his shoulder, feeling the wire being tied in place.
“You're gonna be fine, sir, it didn’t hit anything vital. You just need to rest and not move it much.”
Yn chuckled. “dad not moving much, yeah sure.”
Dennis snorted. “Yeah, sorry, that prescription’s not realistic.”
“I can rest." Leon argued.
“This is the third time you got shot this week,” Yn said.
“It's been a long week.”
“Today's Tuesday.” Yn deadpanned
Dennis lost it for a second, turning away to hide his grin.
Yn reached up and pinched her dad's skin at the back of his neck.
He jerked slightly. “Did your mum tell you to do that?”
“Yup.”
“Damn that woman.”
“You love that woman,” Yn shot back.
Leon exhaled through his nose. “Yeah. Unfortunately.”
Dennis finished tying off and stepped back, peeling off his gloves. “Well, you did say you were gonna retire.”
Leon reached for his dress shirt behind his back. “Hey, she also said that 4 years ago, but guess who I found on the job.”
Yn crossed her arms. “You followed her.”
“I observed from a distance.”
Dennis, the traitor that he was, nodded. “Sounds like you followed her, sir.”
Leon looked at him, slow and measuring. Then-
“Kid, don't make me hate you. I need you around.”
Dennis grinned. “Oh?"
Him and yn both knew that Leon was just pulling his leg.
Leon adjusted his cuff with one hand. “yeah,” he added casually, “I need someone around here who can stitch straight.”
“I can stitch straight.” Yn protested.
“You fainted during your tetanus shot.”
“I was eight!”
Dennis tried very hard not to laugh and failed.
“Wait, wouldn’t you get in trouble for treating a patient with personal connection?” Yn asked, glancing at him.
“No, no, it's okay. Dr Robby gave his okay, so it's fine.”
“And if he didn’t?” Yn asked.
Dennis met her, steady and soft. “I’d still make sure he was taken care of.”
Leon got up, turning around to face him, giving a small nod. “Good answer.”
Yn bumped her shoulder into Dennis’s arm, pleased.
From the doorway, Trinity watched the whole thing unfold like a live sitcom.
Warm, teasing and soft.
God, they were already acting like a little family.
Summary: While her husband is deployed overseas, Yn Ln Abbot boards a flight that never reaches its destination. They called it an aviation crash. He called it the worst day of his life.
notes: I have been playing Tomb Raider the past few days and I couldn't hold myself back. Don't worry, It's a girl (3/3) is in the works. Some Ogilvie bashing cause I couldn't find another character. No hate to the actor, he's doing an amazing job.
warnings: mention of death. Alleged death of reader. Reader description to match what she went through, I did try to make it as vague as possible. Reader mentioned to have been rich. Reader mentioned to have scars and burned herself (cauterization). A funeral being held. Burying someone without a body. Angst with happy ending.
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masterlist
When YN died, it was loud.
The aircraft came undone in pieces as metal and people alike shrieked through the sky. The sound carried, thin and swallowed by wind. The smell of fuel burned sharp in the air, thick and choking, mingling with the stench of burning wires. Fire bloomed where metal met ground as smoke clawed upwards into an indifferent sky.
It was chaos. It was catastrophic. It was final.
Jack was suturing a soldier’s arm when the lieutenant approached him.
The medical tent was suffocating, thick with the metallic scent of blood and antiseptic that never quite masked it. Outside, boots pounded over packed sand, radios crackled, and somewhere someone laughed too loudly at something that probably was not that funny.
“Sir.”
Jack didn’t look up at first. His hands were steady, gloved fingers precise as he guided the needle through torn flesh. “Hold still,” he murmured to the soldier on the cot.
“Sir,” the lieutenant repeated, voice tighter now. “There’s a personal message from command center.”
Personal.
Around here, personal never meant good news.
Jack tied off the final suture and cut the thread. He stripped his gloves off slowly, as if delaying his knowledge of the news might change it.
“I’ll take it." he said.
The lieutenant walked him across the base, the desert sun glaring overhead and the air shimmered with heat as sand shifted underneath their boots.
Inside the communications tent, a walkie sat on the metal desk. The lieutenant gestured to it gently, like it might explode if came too close.
“I’ll give you space, sir,” he said quietly.
Jack stepped forward as the younger man stepped out. For a second, he just stared at the device, his pulse was loud in his ears. And then, he picked it up.
“This is Abbot.”
Static crackled before a voice came through- calm, official and detached. Like he had delivered too many personal calls for him to be affected by them anymore.
“Doctor Abbot, I am Commander Reeves. I am calling in regards of your wife, Mrs. Yn Ln Abbot.”
Jack held his breath without realizing it.
“Yes?”
“There was an aviation incident early this morning. Flight 756. She was on the flight. There were no further updates after the mayday call, it was lost.”
Lost was military language for devastation, for saying that there are no proper coordinates where we can search, for saying that the last known location is beyond survival.
Lost was military language for your wife is dead and we will not say it plainly.
The noise outside the tent didn’t change- soldiers were still talking, guns clinked softly as they were cleaned and the wind pushed sand in restless whispers against fabric made walls.
But something inside him went quiet. Utterly and devastatingly quite. A silence so deep it felt like the world had been vacuumed hollow.
“We are so sorry for your loss, doctor.”
And with those words, his world collapsed. There was no dramatic reaction, no shouting and no begging. He just stood there, still holding the walkie, staring at nothing.
When YN came back to life, it was quiet. Too quiet. The roar of the crash had faded into a distant memory of fire and groaning metal as the hush of tide kept pulling it back from shore. And then the pain arrived.
Her shoulder was wrong- visibly, horribly wrong- as it was pushed out of its socket at an unnatural angle, her clavicle throbbed with the deep, sick certainty of a fracture, every breath sent a sharp, splintering agony through her ribs, and a long laceration along her thigh burned where blood had dried against her skin.
Her head rang like someone had dropped cathedral bells inside her skull and set them swinging. She laid on her back on wet ground, staring up at a sky that was impossibly blue. It was too calm, too beautiful.
She dragged herself out of the tide with the one functioning arm, nails digging into mud, body trembling with every inch gained as the ocean tried to pull her back as if claiming what it had been promised.
She cried out when she moved, raw, broken sounds ripped from her throat as pain flared through her body.
“Help,” she gasped.
Her voice disappeared into wind, then she tried again. Louder.
“Please!”
And again, and again. But no one answered. There were no sirens, no search teams, no hands reaching for her. No Jack. It was just the vast stretch of muddy grass and the indifferent sea.
That first night, she dragged a broken wing panel across the clay and propped it against debris sticking to the side of the bottom of a cliff to form a crude shelter. Every movement felt like she was tearing herself open again.
She knelt beside a rock, breath ragged, as she stared at her dislocated shoulder. There was no one else. And so, she pressed her shoulder against the stone and forced the joint into place. The sound it made was sickening and the pain was blinding- it tore a scream from her that echoed against empty cliffs before collapsing into silence.
She blacked out from it and when she woke, the stars were out. And she was still alone.
Jack buried an empty coffin.
He had been told that the ocean had swept away what was left of the flight. There had been no body to identify, no hand to hold one last time and no forehead to kiss goodbye. Just a polished wooden box filled with nothing.
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
The phrase repeated so often that it lost meaning. People watched him carefully during the service, eyes tracking him like he was something fragile and volatile, like they expected him to shatter, to explode and to fall apart in front of the grave.
But he did not cry. Not when they lowered the coffin, not when the dirt hit wood with that final, unforgiving sound and not at the funeral reception where people whispered about how tragic it all was. He stood straight, he thanked people and he shook hands.
Three days later, he requested going back to base.
The house was the worst part, the silence there was different from the one in the desert, it wasn't just vast, it was intimate. Her shoes were still by the door, her mug still in the cabinet and her books marked halfway through chapters she would never get to finish.
And even years later, when he had exchanged the simmering, blinding desert for the cool white walls, he still hated the empty space on their bed and the way he still turned towards her side in his sleep. He saved lives in the ER like it was penance. Like every pulse he restarted, every wound he closed, every life he dragged back from the brink was a payment toward a debt he could never settle. Like he could restart her pulse and his own along with it.
Fourteen years was a long time for grief to stop being sharp and start being normal. It rooted itself into him, it influenced his decisions quietly and persistently; the shifts he took, the promotions he refused, the distances he kept from people who tried to get too close.
He built his life around her absence, he learned which memories he could afford to touch and which would unravel him completely. He never moved her books, he never packed away their photographs, he never erased her voicemail and he never took off his wedding band. It remained there, a thin circle of metal around his finger, a promise to a woman the world believed was gone.
Grief became his constant companion- silent, unyielding and unbearably alive.
Hunger teaches you humility. Yn had grown up in estates and private academies, she had worn silk and debated on real estate over wine. But the island didn't care; she learned how to split open a fish with a sharpened shard of turbine casing, learned how to trap small animals with vines, learned which berries blistered your tongue and which kept you alive.
She learned the sound of approaching storms by the way the birds vanished first and she learned how to stitch her own skin with fishing wire salvaged from the wreckage.
The first time fever took her, she hallucinated Jack’s voice. He was standing at the edge of the jungle, clean and pressed and furious.
“Yn,” he said in that controlled tone that always meant he was afraid.
She crawled toward him, but before she could get to him, he dissolved into light.
When she woke, her wound was infected and she had to burn it clean with heated metal. She did not scream, there was no one to hear her anyway, so instead she bit down on leather stripped from a seatbelt and let the smell of her own burning flesh sink into her bones.
She mapped the island in her head; freshwater spring to the north, jagged cliffs east, dense jungle that swallowed light and sound west.
She named nothing, because naming meant claiming, and claiming meant believing she had some control over this place. And that was hope- it was what made her wait for rescue that never came, it was what made her count days until she stopped feeling them at all.
Hope wasn't a lifeline, it was a wreckage- laying waste at the ocean's shore and scattered across unreachable cliffs.
At night she would sit on a cliff overlooking the ocean and press her palm against the hollow at her throat where her necklace used to rest. She pictured Jack the way he had looked the morning he left, half-dressed, hair still damp from the shower, leaning against the kitchen counter.
“I'll be fine,” he'd promised, he'd kissed her like every morning, like every time he was deployed and came back. He'd kissed her like he was so sure that he would come back and see her again. Only it wasn't him that didn’t make it back.
She wondered how long they waited before they told him. She wondered if he heard the words of her demise on repeat in his head. She wondered if he thought she was afraid at the end.
Years blurred. Her body changed fast, adapting; muscle layered over old softness, scars mapped her skin- thin white lines, jagged seams, a puckered mark along her thigh from where an infection nearly took her. Her hands grew calloused and her voice grew unused- sometimes she would speak aloud just to remember what it sounded like.
“My name is Yn Ln Abbot.”
Once, a tree collapsed onto her shelter in the middle of the night, it pinned her beneath splintered wood, cold metal and mud as she laid there in the dark, ribs screaming, lungs struggling. And for a moment- just a moment- she considered letting it end.
But then she saw Jack’s face in her mind- not as he was, but as he would be, she saw him standing at a grave with no body.
She shoved the tree off inch by inch. Survival was no longer instinct.
It was defiance.
Every day since, she climbed the highest ridge where an old radio tower leaned like a monument about to fall.
She stripped wires, rewired circuits, reinstated metal from the plane’s grave, only for static to answer her every time. Until something came through.
“Mayday, mayday, this is Yn Ln Abbot. Survivor of Flight 756. If anyone can hear me- please.”
Static filtered back like always, and then a voice- faint and distant but a human voice, a pilot rerouting around bad weather and he heard her.
For the first time since she clawed her way out of the wreckage, she let herself feel hope.
The ED was busy, not just busy- it was alive. The kind of alive that glared in fluorescent light and pulsed through tile floors. Monitors beeped in mismatched rhythms, stretchers rattled across, voices overlapped in controlled urgency.
Jack was hands deep in chaos, working alongside Robby, gloves on, jaw tight, eyes steady.
Ever since he’d come to The Pitt years ago, he had spent more time here than at his own house. His therapist had told him it wasn’t good. He had used words like avoidance and displacement and healthy grief response. He even dared to suggest that he should move houses.
Move. As if his grief was tied to wallpaper, broken bedroom locks and a wooden hairbrush. As if the memories of her wouldn’t follow him like a second shadow. As if leaving the home they built together would erase the way her laughter once echoed off those kitchen walls.
He couldn’t remember the exact year he moved into the guest room, he could only remembered why.
The first few years after her funeral, he’d still slept in their bed- on his side- careful not to drift too far into the cold space where she should have been. He used to lie awake and imagine he felt the mattress dip beside him. He would cry quietly at first when he'd look at her side, then he learned to do it without sound. He tried to trick himself into believing he was doing fine.
He wasn’t.
He still bought her favorite tea brand from the grocery store- even though he didn’t drink tea- the boxes stacked quietly in the pantry like a ritual offering. He would dust her vanity and line up the products exactly how she used to, lipstick angled slightly to the right, make up brushes in height order. He’d spray her perfume across the bedroom some nights, standing there as the scent settled into sheets and curtains and for a few minutes, if he closed his eyes, he could pretend she had just stepped into the shower.
The universe, however, had never been particularly kind to him.
The perfume went out of production. He found out in a brightly lit department store aisle, holding the empty tester bottle in his hand while a teenager apologized that it had been discontinued.
Discontinued. Like her. After that, he couldn’t step foot into the bedroom.
Not when even the closest thing he had left to her scent was gone.
Jack was hands deep inside a patient’s abdomen, correcting a mistake made by an ambitious new med student.
“Careful." Jack muttered, voice controlled but edged.
The heart monitor beeped steadily. His phone buzzed in his pocket, he ignored it. Then it buzzed again, he exhaled sharply through his nose. By the third time, the vibration felt invasive.
“Can someone,” he said tightly, not looking up from the open cavity in front of him, “get that thing out of my pocket and answer it for me before I throw it across the room?”
Unfortunately for everyone, Ogilvie was the only one not gloved up. The tall med student fumbled awkwardly, fishing the phone out like it might bite him.
“Hi,” he answered, a little too casually for someone holding his attending’s phone.
Jack tuned him out, refocusing on suturing the bleeding vessel. There was a long pause from the med student as he listened to whomever was on the other end of the call. It was long enough that even through the surgical haze, something felt off.
Ogilvie’s posture changed first. His shoulders straightened as his expression shifted between confusion, curiosity and disbelief. And after a few seconds, he looked up.
“It’s the Pittsburgh Police Station,” he said, voice suddenly small in the quite room. “They’re saying that your wife is there.”
God, Robby wished he could physically push the kid out of the room.
Jack’s hand froze mid-motion but his head snapped up, the heart monitor spiked wildly as if it was connected to Jack.
Joy went rigid from across the table. She was ready to strangle Ogilvie herself. Sure, she wasn’t planning on staying in the ED long-term, it had never been her end goal. But Jack Abbot was the kind of attending students stayed for.
The first time she’d spoken to him, she’d teased him about his age. He’d shot back with something dry and self-aware, he even made a joke out of it. He was good, insanely kind in ways that didn’t feel performative. And she knew that if she ever changed her mind about emergency medicine, it would be because of him.
Everyone knew about his wife. Even her, the new med student who came in one month ago, and she was sure that the tall bonehead standing there holding the phone knew as well.
It was whispered through hallways, uttered between shifts and coffee breaks. Jack Abbot is still in love with his wife who died fourteen years ago. It was said with reverence and quiet heartbreak.
Joy respected him more when she heard about it, even if it hurt to see. It was sweet in a way that made your chest ache. Love like that wasn’t common and now Ogilvie had just torn open something sacred in the middle of a trauma bay.
Jack stared at him- not blinking, not breathing- with fourteen years of layered wounds threatening to spill down the center.
His mind rejected it instantly. Cruel joke. Mistake. Wrong file. Wrong Abbot. The monitor kept screaming its erratic rhythm.
“Repeat that.” Jack said quietly.
Ogilvie swallowed. “They’re saying your wife is at the station.”
Silence fell heavy over the operating table, even the chaos seemed to dull around them. Jack’s world tilted violently, his wife was dead, he had a funeral, he had stood over an empty coffin, he had memorized the date of her death like a second birthday.
Hope was not something he allowed himself anymore, hope was dangerous, hope destroyed people, hope ruined him.
“Go, brother. I got it.”
Robby was already moving, sliding seamlessly into Jack’s position, gloved hands steady as he took over. His eyes flicked between reassurance for Jack and a glare at Ogilvie.
Jack didn’t move at first, his chest felt tight, constricted, like something enormous was trying to claw its way out. Fourteen years of grief stood against one impossible sentence.
Your wife is there.
Alive wasn’t even a word his brain would form in relation to her anymore. If this was a mistake, it would shatter him in a way he wasn’t sure he’d survive. And if it wasn’t- he didn’t let himself finish the thought.
Because hope, after fourteen years, felt more terrifying than loss ever had.
The police station was painfully ordinary, fluorescent lights hummed overhead, printer spat out paper somewhere on the other side of the front desk, an officer murmured into a phone like it was any other shift, any other day.
The world was continuing. Jack felt like it should have stopped.
Interview room three.
His hand rested on the handle longer than it should have. It trembled, just slightly. He told himself this was a mistake, an error, a woman with the same name, a cruel prank that would gut him in front of strangers.
And then he opened the door.
She was sitting at a metal table, wrapped in a grey emergency blanket that did nothing to hide how much the years had changed her. Her posture was straight, almost guarded, and her hands rested on top of the table- scarred and calloused.
Yn Ln Abbot, alive and in front of him.
Her hair fell around her shoulders, uneven and rough at the ends. Her skin stretched over sharp lines and a jagged scar traced along her collarbone. She looked leaner, stronger, like she survived something that she wasn't meant to.
But her eyes- when she lifted her head and their gazes collided, the air left his lungs so abruptly it felt painful- those were her eyes.
“Jack.”
His name fell from her lips softly, but it hit him like a gunshot. It wasn’t a memory, it wasn’t the echo of a voicemail he refused to delete- it was real, it carried breath and warmth and tremor. For a second, he thought he might be hallucinating, that grief had finally split his mind open and that this was his punishment.
“You’re- ” His voice broke, he swallowed hard, but it didn’t steady him. “You’re dead.”
The words were jagged, disbelieving. A flicker of pain crossed her face, but she didn’t look away.
“I know,” she whispered.
He took a step forward without remembering deciding to, then another. His entire body felt foreign, heavy and trembling all at once.
“They told me you were gone,” he said hoarsely. “They said there were no survivors. They said-” His voice fractured. “They said lost.”
Her fingers curled against the edge of the table.
“I was lost,” she said quietly. “But I wasn’t gone.”
He stopped a few feet away, staring at her like he was afraid she might evaporate if he got too close.
“You have any idea what that did to me?” The words slipped out before he could stop them. They weren’t anger, they were agony.
Her face crumpled slightly, and that nearly undid him.
“I tried getting back to you, Jack,” she said, her voice trembling now, raw in a way that sounded unused to softness. “Every day, I tried. I climbed that damn ridge,” she continued, breath hitching. “I fixed that shitty broken radio tower over and over. I waited for planes. I lit fires. I-” Her voice broke entirely.
“I tried getting back to you, Jackie, every day, I tried.” she whispered. “I was screaming for you on that island. I thought- ” Her voice broke. “I hoped that if I screamed loud enough you’d hear me.”
His vision blurred. He saw it then, her alone on some endless stretch of a coastline, broken and bleeding, calling his name into a sky that never answered while he had been standing at a grave, sleeping in the guest room because their bed felt like a betrayal and spraying perfume that no longer existed just to breathe her in for a few seconds.
He closed the distance between them, hand lifted hesitantly, hovering near her face like he was afraid she might recoil. He touched her cheek; warm, solid, alive. She closed her eyes at the contact, and the small, involuntary exhale that left her lips nearly brought him to his knees.
“You’re real,” he murmured, more to himself than to her.
“I’m real.” she said, and her voice cracked on the last word.
That was when control abandoned him. He pulled her into his arms, not gently, not cautiously, but desperately. His arms wrapped around her like he could fuse her back into the past fourteen years by sheer force. She made a sound against his chest- a broken, relieved sob- and her fingers twisted into the front of his shirt like she was afraid he might disappear.
His hands slid up to cradle her face, thumbs brushing over skin that had endured more than he could imagine.
She gripped his wrists, holding him there like the universe might throw her back into that dark, lonely place. Her fingers found his left hand and traced the wedding band that still rested there.
“You kept it,” she breathed.
“Why wouldn't I? You were my wife. You're still my wife.” he said, and the simplicity of it made it devastating.
“I’m not the same,” she said.
The words hit harder than anything else. He pulled back enough to fully look at her- really look at her.
“Neither am I,” he answered immediately. "But you're here."
“Yeah, I am.” she breathed against his chest, like she needed to convince herself as much as him. He wrapped his arms around her tighter, almost painfully so.
“I started sleeping in the guest room,” he confessed quietly. “I couldn’t stay in our bed. I kept reaching for you in the dark. I’d wake up angry at myself for expecting you to be there.”
She made a broken sound at that and leaned into him further, the years between them felt both infinite and nonexistent all at once.
“I was sleeping on grass,” she said faintly. “Under a piece of wing metal. I would close my eyes and pretend I was back in our bedroom. I would pretend you were next to me.”
The symmetry of it nearly crushed him- fourteen years of parallel loneliness, fourteen years of reaching for each other across impossible distance.
He realised that she fit differently in his arms- harder edges, new scars- but she fit, her body trembled against his as she clung to him with a desperation that matched his own.
And for the first time in fourteen years, the silence inside him wasn’t hollow.
Just a little something for Doctor Shen. no direct yn x shen moment. Parker Ellis POV. something short and fun. no mention of yn
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Parker Ellis had come to accept the fact that the iced Dunkin’ plastic cup was less of a beverage and more of a permanent attachment to Shen's hand. From the very first day she saw him in The Pitt, that clear plastic cup was always there- she’d seen him balance it on a crash cart, tuck it between medical equipment, and once, very impressively she would say, hold it steady through a full sprint down the hallway. The ED could be on fire, and John Shen would still pause long enough to take a sip through that ridiculously orange straw.
At this point, Parker wasn’t sure if she could even picture him without it. If he ever showed up empty-handed, the entire department would go on high alert. Because in The Pitt, chaos was normal, codes were inevitable, but John Shen and his iced Dunkin’? That was the only constant of the ED.
So imagine her surprise when, for the first time in however many years she’d known him, John Shen walked in at 7 p.m. for handoff without the iced Dunkin’. No plastic cup. No obnoxiously orange straw. No. None of that. Instead, he was holding a glass tumbler.
A glass tumbler.
Parker actually blinked. Once. Twice- as if maybe the lack of sleep and the too bright fluorescent lights were finally getting to her- but as she blinked for the third time the foreign object was still in Shen's hand.
It was clear. Reusable. Mature. It was the kind of cup that screamed 'It girl' with hydration goals and personal growth.
“What…” she started faintly, the word trailing off as she slowly turned her head towards the night shift’s charge nurse.
Lena didn’t even look up at first, logging into the computer to get this shift going already.
Parker tilted her head in Shen’s direction. “You seeing this?”
Now Lena glanced over, eyes narrowing slightly at the sight of him; glass tumbler in hand, humming a pop song, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“Oh yeah,” the older woman scoffed, fingers moving across the keyboard. “I see it.”
Shen took a casual sip. From the tumbler.
“Today,” Lena sighed, “is gonna be real bad.”
By 2 a.m., Parker had developed a new hobby: monitoring the glass tumbler.
It had not dipped below the halfway mark once. Not once.
She’d watched it like it was a patient with unstable vitals. Every time the level reached that critical midpoint, Shen would disappear for exactly ninety seconds and return with it filled to the brim again. No fuss. No explanation. Just a glass tumbler full of coffee.
Iced coffee.
There was ice in it. Like actual ice cubes. Square, frozen ice cubes.
There had not been an ice machine in proximity of the ED since three summers ago, the only one that would be classified as close by would be two floors up, belonging to Pediatrics who guarded it like a dragon hoarding gold.
So where was he getting ice? How was he getting ice? Was he stockpiling it somewhere? Did he have a system? A supplier?
She watched him take another sip. The ice clinked.
“Did something happen?”
Parker nearly jumped out of her skin at the voice beside her. Jack Abbot stood there with his usual exhausted expression, arms folded loosely, eyes tracking Shen across the department.
“What?” she asked, mind still not catching up from the damn ice.
“Shen,” Jack clarified, nodding once in his direction. “Did something happen with him?”
Shen was currently at the nurses’ station, humming under his breath as he took a long sip of the drink.
It had been happening all night. The humming, not absentminded humming either, it was full, committed, self karaoke humming. Earlier it had been some early 2000's pop, before that it was something aggressively upbeat- probably a Barbie movie soundtrack, at one point, Parker was fairly certain she heard a key change.
“You noticed too?” she asked.
Jack gave her a look.
“Who hasn’t.” he said flatly.
Across the room, Shen spun the tumbler lightly in his hand before taking another long sip, ice chiming like a warning bell.
“Yeah, well, I don’t know,” Parker admitted, “But if he hums one more pop song, I’m filing an incident report.”
Right on cue, Shen shifted seamlessly into another chorus, louder this time.
Jack exhaled slowly.
“It’s 2 a.m.,” he muttered. “If he starts whistling, I’m calling for a psych eval.”
By 6 a.m., Parker Ellis had reached her limit. She's had enough of the glass tumbler, the relentless humming and the never ending supply of ice.
“Okay, what the hell?” she demanded, cornering John by the ambulance bay.
“What?” John shot back mildly, as if he wasn't currently sipping from a glass tumbler with a glass straw like he was in a lifestyle youtube vlog.
She stared at the cup. It was still nearly full. It had been nearly full for 3 hours.
“What’s with the magical cup?” she pressed. “Also,” she narrowed her eyes at him, “since when do you drink from a glass cup?”
“Oh.”
The smile that spread across John’s face made Parker instinctively take half a step back. Sure, Shen was an easygoing guy, friendly (the opposite of their permanently unimpressed senior attending.) But this smile? This was radiant. Suspiciously radiant.
“My fiancée made me this huge flask of coffee before she went out tonight,” he said, completely casual, like he hadn’t just detonated a conversational bomb in the middle of the ambulance bay. “Might ask her if we could make this a daily occurrence. There’s caramel in it too.”
He swirled it around before taking another sip.
“It tastes so good,” he added dreamily. “Way better than Dunkin’.”
Parker’s brain short-circuited. She opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again, trying to decide which crisis to address first: the secret engagement? The down ranking of iced Dunkin’? The fact that he had apparently unlocked a new tier of happiness that manifested itself in humming?
Before she could pick one, an ambulance screeched into view, the back doors flew open and the paramedics were already rolling the stretcher out. And John, still smiling, turned on his heel and jogged alongside them, glass tumbler secure in his hand like it was an extension of his wrist.
Parker followed automatically, still trying to process everything as the sliding doors opened and swallowed them back into the chaos of the department. And then it hit her.
She quickened her pace slightly and called out after him over the noise of monitors and handoff chatter.
(Jack Abbot x fem!FBI!reader x Michael Robinavitch)
Part 1
Soulmate au
Note: this is set in season 2, but as of right now we are still waiting on episode 8 to air, so i have no idea how season 2 ends yet- i am just letting my imagination run wild after episode 7. With a criminal minds crossover (borrowing the BAU for this, hope you guys don't mind.) You don't have to know anything about criminal minds to read this. Thank you.
Warnings: no medical accuracy whatsoever. no idea how the fbi works. poly soulmate au. reader doesn't have a name but it's hinted that her name is a boy's name / not common for girls - no name is mentioned. 5-7 years age gap.
Warnings: no medical accuracy whatsoever. no idea how the fbi works. poly soulmate au. reader doesn't have a name but it's hinted that her name is a boy's name / not common for girls - no name is mentioned. 5-7 years age gap. Injuries. Hostage situation. Gunshots. Angst.
wc◇5.1k
masterlist
"What the hell!"
Trent Norris’s voice cut through the department like a gunshot, loud enough to make conversations snap in half and hands freeze mid-motion. For a split second, even the monitors seemed quieter.
“You are not searching me!”
Silence followed, heavy and immediate. Heads turned in unison, Perlah halfway through adjusting an IV stopped with her fingers still curled around the tubing, Santos and Javadi leaned out from behind a curtain, eyes wide and hungry for distraction. Even Joy and Ogilvie who had been at each other's throats in front of doctor Mohan and doctor Langdon lifted their chins toward the sound.
At the center of it stood the CEO himself, face flushed an angry shade of red, jaw tight, chest puffed up like indignation alone could grant immunity.
Agent Jareau, blonde, composed, and visibly running on fumes, looked towards Morgan with the expression of someone who had exactly one ounce of patience left and was deciding whether this man deserved it or not.
“Mr. Norris-” Morgan began, hands open in a gesture that could have meant either calm down or don’t make me do this.
He didn’t get far.
“Listen here,” Norris barked, stepping forward as if volume would guarantee his authority. “I am the damn CEO. You think I will have a weapon here? That I am working with someone to terrorize my own hospital?”
By now, everyone was watching. Some nurses had fully stepped into the hallway, a respiratory therapist lingered openly in a doorway, no longer pretending to be subtle, even the paramedic at the far end of the room slowed down to a stop.
“Frankly, sir, we don’t care.” Yn's voice cut clean and precise through the air.
Morgan and Jareau shifted away gradually, creating space without looking like they were retreating. It was subtle, the way they did it, years of partnership compressed into a single silent agreement; when Hotchner wasn’t present, they all knew who commanded the room.
Yn stepped forward. Her posture was straight and controlled, her gaze steady and unwavering as she looked up at the larger man without a hint of intimidation.
“You will be searched,” she continued, each word deliberate. “Just like we searched the patients. Just like we searched your staff.”
The emphasis was subtle yet sharp.
“You think one of the people who work here- who give their lives to this place more than you ever did- would bring in a weapon? Hell no. But they were searched.”
Her voice hardened.
“And so will you.”
Norris opened his mouth again, but whatever he intended to say stalled under the weight of her stare.
“Stand still,” she finished, her tone now edged with steel, “and shut up.”
The department held its breath. Yn didn’t shout, she didn’t need to, there was something far more dangerous than anger in her voice- certainty.
Her eyes locked onto his, unflinching, unyielding and full of disrespect. The kind of gaze that had stared down serial killers, liars and men who believed their power and position exempted them from consequence. It didn't.
Trent Norris, CEO of the hospital, sputtered for half a second longer before the fight drained from his shoulders. Not because he’d been convinced, but because he’d been overruled and outranked by someone who didn’t care about his title, it was someone who only cared about protocol.
He lifted his arms stiffly, muttering under his breath as she stepped closer. The contrast was almost absurd, her well built yet smaller frame- precise movements, calm hands checking his waistband, jacket, ankles- while he stood rigid and offended.
No one laughed, but the tension shifted. Yn finished quickly, stepping back once she was satisfied.
“You’re clear,” she said simply.
No apology. No emotion. Just fact.
Norris lowered his arms, smoothing down his collar as though reclaiming his dignity through the fabric. He cast one last glare in her direction, but it faltered under the steadiness of her expression.
Across the station, Robby felt something low and warm curl in his chest that had nothing to do with soulmate bonds and everything to do with pride. Jack, beside him, looked dangerously close to smiling.
God, she was terrifying. And entirely theirs.
Yn turned away from Norris without another glance, already scanning the room again, recalibrating. Asomething lingered in the air; respect, not for the CEO, but for the FBI agent who shook him down with a stare.
“Okay, everyone,” Robby called out, his voice cutting through the restless hum of bodies and machinery. He glanced around at the nurses hovering near the nurses’ station, at the residents lingering with charts clutched to their chests, at the nosy patients pretending to look for nurses just to stay within earshot of the FBI agents. “Get moving.”
The spell broke, gowns and scrubs scattered back into motion, the hospital floor breathing again, even if the air still felt tight.
Yn stepped closer to the younger blonde agent at her side, lowering her voice just enough to keep it between them. “Any word from Garcia yet?”
Agent Jareau shook her head, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She looked composed, she always did, but there was a thin line pulling at her forehead. “No. Rossi and Spencer are saying everyone over there is clear.”
A broad shadow fell over them as Derek Morgan joined the duo, scanning the corridors like he expected their unit chief to materialize from sheer force of will. “Where the hell is Hotch?”
“He went back to Westbridge,” JJ replied.
Yn’s gaze snapped toward her. “What? Why is he there if everything is clear?” Her eyes swept the chaotic floor again, patients being wheeled through, orderlies weaving between IV poles, doctors murmuring urgent updates.
“Bomb threat.”
The words settled heavy in her chest. Now her eyes locked on JJ’s, dark and sharp.
“Fuck me.”
“Is that only in Westbridge or?”
“So far.”
“So far,” Yn echoed under her breath, the phrase tasting bitter. She straightened, the shift in her posture subtle but immediate, command sliding into place like it belonged there. “Okay. We’re spreading out. Keep your eyes open. If anything feels off, handle it slow. Don’t rush.” Her voice dropped lower with each word, controlled and deliberate. “This is an emergency department, they’ve got enough to worry about without us adding to it.”
Morgan gave a short nod while JJ’s shoulders squared.
“I’m calling Hotch,” Yn added, already pulling her phone out of her pocket. “We need Bomb Squad on standby. Just in case.”
They split without another word.
Yn moved through the corridor with purpose, phone pressed to her ear, her voice hushed but urgent as it connected. Doctors and nurses passed her in a blur of scrubs; she didn’t spare them a glance, didn’t let her focus drift- until she saw Dana weaving through the chaos with brisk determination.
“Hey, pretty,” Yn murmured, tilting the phone slightly toward her shoulder to muffle her end of the conversation, her tone softening just a fraction. “Can you let Dr. Robby know I need to speak with him? As soon as he’s free. I’ll need ten minutes of his time. Thanks.”
She didn’t wait for a reply. The phone was back at her ear, the professional mask settling firmly back into place as she continued speaking to her on-paper supervisor, her steps never slowing.
Dana was already moving. She navigated the sea of people with ease, scanning for the tall figure who usually stood out in any room. She didn’t find Robby, but she did find his counterpart.
“Hey,” she called, stepping toward Jack Abbot. “You seen Robby?”
Jack stood shoulder to shoulder with Javadi and Mel, gloves snapped snug around his wrists, posture alert and ready. “No. Why?”
“Agent Yn wants to talk to him.”
The reaction was almost subtle, but it was there. The flicker in his eyes, the tightening along his jaw. He turned to the two younger doctors, already stripping the gloves from his hands. “Doctor Javadi, you’ll handle the procedure. Doctor King, assist her if needed.” His voice was calm, but there was an edge beneath it.
“Did she say why?” he asked Dana as he stepped closer.
“No. Seemed urgent though.” Dana studied him, taking in the subtle signs, his jaw ticking, the faint crease between his brows- not his usual frown- this one meant something was wrong, something she wasn’t being told.
She stopped walking, forcing him to stop too. “What’s going on, cowboy?”
Her tone was light and teasing, but her eyes weren’t- they were sharp, searching.
Jack and Robby had never let anyone see the names inked into their skin. They’d talked about it once, early on when they first met, when everything was still new and raw and overwhelming. They’d agreed it was fine if people knew they were soulmates, it was fine if people knew there was a third- it would’ve been impossible to hide that anyway, not with the wrist to elbow cover sleeve sticking to Jack’s forearm everywhere. But the name? That was sacred, private. Just for them. Years had passed since that conversation. Years of learning who could be trusted and who would gossip. And Dana could be trusted, she would help.
Because right now, with FBI walking around their halls, they needed someone steady, someone rational, someone who could keep things contained if everything went sideways. Someone who would make sure the three of them made it past this godforsaken day.
Jack glanced around once, scanning for watching eyes, then jerked his head towards an empty patient room. Dana followed without hesitation. Inside, he pulled the curtains shut, barely muting the chaos beyond them, the fluorescent light hummed overhead and for a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Jack reached for his forearm and slowly he began rolling back the fabric of his cover sleeve, the ink emerging in careful strokes of dark lettering, stark against his skin. There was no mistaking it.
YN LN.
The name stared up at Dana like a confession and a threat at the same time. She exhaled sharply, somewhere between disbelief and frustration. “Goddammit, you two.”
The first time Yn looks at Robby, really looks at him, it isn’t cinematic. There’s no swell of music in the background, no fluorescent lights flickering at the exact right second, no cosmic ripple that makes the entire ED pause mid-step.
It’s painfully, almost insultingly, normal.
Yn straightens from where she’s been leaning against the counter, the movement subtle but deliberate. Her spine aligns, her shoulders square, and she lifts her chin just enough to meet his eyes. There’s nothing soft in her expression, nothing dreamy or awestruck. She studies him the way she studies a crime scene, the way she studies a suspect. Calm, clinical and focused.
Her gaze drags over the lines of his face like she’s cataloguing evidence. The faint crease between his eyebrows that looks permanent from years of stress and responsibility, the exhaustion in his eyes- the kind that only comes from running a department that never sleeps.
She could almost feel it.
Not pain- not sharp or burning or anything that would make her gasp. It’s pressure. A slow, tightening pull beneath her sternum, like someone’s hooked a string around her ribs and pulled it taut. It’s familiar in the way a word sits at the tip of your tongue- almost there, almost pronounced.
If she’d had one more hour of sleep, if she’d looked at him twenty minutes earlier- before possible bomb threats and ransom demands swallowed her focus whole- if she’d met his eyes with just a fraction more clarity instead of running on caffeine and adrenaline she would have connected the dots. She would have seen past the navy scrubs and the title of Chief Attending, she would have double-checked the badge clipped to his chest, the one displaying his full name in clear black lettering. The one right in front of her goddamn face.
But she doesn’t.
Because she’s sleep-deprived and tense, her weight resting more on her right leg as she talks about explosives in the corner of a hospital corridor.
“So,” Robby says, arms folding across his chest in a defensive reflex he doesn’t even realize he’s making, “you want to tell me that what- there might be a bomb in here?”
“No, Doctor Robby.”
God, he hates that she sounds so calm. But God, does he love the way she says his name.
“I’m saying that one of the other two hospitals attacked by the same group is currently being threatened for ransom, and they’re claiming there’s a bomb.” Her voice is even. “Is there actually one? No. Whoever’s behind this isn’t brave enough for that.”
Just because she’s standing there with that steady gaze and that pretty face, just because her name is inked into his skin in dark, permanent script, just because she is his soulmate does not mean he isn’t absolutely panicking.
“And what about when they do get brave, huh?” His voice lifts despite himself, frustration and fear tangling together. “What happens then? What about the people working here? The patients? The nurses?” His breath catches before he can stop it. “My soulmates.”
The words slips out, raw and incomplete.
You have one fucking job, Robby. Don’t mess it up.
He understands now why Agent Hotchner had insisted he and Jack keep quiet, why he’d warned them that knowing could complicate everything. Because right now, standing in front of her, every instinct Robby has as a doctor, as a leader, as a soulmate, is screaming at him to get her out, to get Jack out, to get them both far away from any potential blast radius.
His mind is already mapping exits, stairwells, underground parking. He’s calculating how long it would take to clear the beds, how fast he could move critical patients without causing chaos.
“I understand your panic,” she says, and the words snap him back to her. "And your fear. Believe me, Doctor, I do.” There’s no mockery in her tone, no dismissal, just firm acknowledgment. “But profiling, understanding how the unsub- the attacker- thinks, that’s my job. I know what I’m telling you.”
“Are you that sure that he won’t-”
“Yes.”
The interruption is sharp but not cruel.
The confidence in her voice hits him harder than her words.
He’s been a doctor for decades. He’s delivered diagnoses in rooms so heavy with grief it felt like breathing underwater, he’s reassured parents while knowing there were no guarantees, he’s trained interns to speak in probabilities, in data, in outcomes that always have margins of error.
He has never- never- been able to offer one hundred percent certainty out loud.
And yet she stands here, in the middle of his emergency department, with absolute conviction threaded through her tone like steel.
“I’ve been with the BAU for twenty-three years,” she continues, eyes locked on his. “I’ve seen my fair share of everything.” The weight behind that statement is unspoken but undeniable. “I’m not saying you’re staying here. I’m saying we need to be discreet about how we get everyone out.”
Robby exhales slowly, the air leaving him like a deflating balloon. The situation settles heavier on his shoulders, pressing down until he feels the full gravity of it. This isn’t just about him or his soulmates, it’s about hundreds of lives- fragile ones, ones attached to ventilators and IV lines and beating hearts monitored by machines.
“I’m not trying to risk anyone’s life,” she says, her voice softening just slightly- not weak, just human. “I need you to help me clear this place without causing panic. Let Agent Jareau, Agent Morgan, and I de-escalate this before anyone gets caught in any possible crossfire.”
Crossfire. The word doesn’t belong in a hospital hallway, it doesn't belong in his department. Not like this.
He studies her again. Really studies her this time; the exhaustion around her eyes, the faint tension in her jaw, the way she holds herself like someone used to carrying responsibility whether she wants to or not.
The scream tears through the corridor like glass shattering.
It’s high and shrill and wrong. And before Yn could even begin telling Robby anything about evacuation routes or controlled exits, she’s already moving. Gun is in her hand in one smooth motion, body racing toward the sound as her voice cracks through the ED like a whip.
“Everybody down! On the ground!”
People drop, instinct winning over pride. Monitors beep wildly, carts rattle and several people start crying.
By the time Yn and Robby reach the end of the corridor, Derek and JJ are already there, guns raised, shoulders squared, forming a sharp, thin line of protection between the threat and the huddled staff.
“Emma,” Robby breathes.
The name barely leaves his mouth.
The young nurse is trembling in the grip of a man who looks barely older than she is. Late twenties, pale, sweat slicking his hair to his forehead. His eyes are wide, too wide, flicking between the three agents before locking onto Robby like he’s personally offended by his existence.
“Get down!” he screams. The gun presses harder into Emma’s temple. “Get down!”
Yn glances over her shoulder at Robby. Just once. A small nod.
Trust me.
Robby lowers himself to the ground with the others, jaw tight, eyes already scanning- where’s Jack, where’s Jack-
“Come on,” Morgan says, voice steady, soothing, the kind you’d use on a cornered animal. “Let her go.”
“Please, please, just let-” Emma sobs as the barrel digs harder into her temple.
“Shut up!”
“Tyler,” JJ says gently, stepping forward inch by inch. “Holding her hostage isn’t going to help you.”
His head snaps toward her. “How do you know my name?” His grip tightens on Emma’s shoulder; she winces, tears spilling freely now. “Tell me how you know my name!”
He’s rattled. They can all see it.
“Those earphones,” he barks suddenly, eyes locking onto the white device hidden beneath JJ’s hair. “Take them off! Take them off!”
JJ’s gaze flickers to Yn, asking for confirmation, for leadership. Yn nods once and JJ slowly removes the earpiece, placing it carefully on the ground.
“Get out!” Tyler screams at her and Morgan, waving the gun wildly. The movement sends another ripple of panic through the department- people huddling tighter, prayers whispered under breaths.
“We can’t-”
“Get out!” His voice cracks, manic and sharp. “I just want Yn Ln here.”
The way he says her name is wrong.
“I’ll only talk to Yn Ln.”
The air changes.
It was tense before, thick with fear, but now it’s something else entirely- something personal, something targeted.
Robby feels it like a punch to the gut and Jack, somewhere across the room, feels it too. Because when a man with a gun asks for your soulmate by name, you're not just panicking anymore, something different, something feral wakes up inside you.
“JJ. Derek. Leave.” Yn commands, never taking her eyes off Tyler.
They hesitate, of course they do, but they obey.
“I want you out too,” Tyler snaps at hospital security. “And lock that door!”
One by one, the three security guards filter out. The silence grows heavier with every step, it presses down on everyone left behind, thick and suffocating and full of unspoken terror.
“Slide your gun to the left,” Tyler orders, breath coming faster now, almost panting. The more he stares at her, the more unhinged he looks. “Empty it first.”
Yn doesn’t argue.
She ejects the magazine, racks the slide- letting the bullets clatter loudly against the tile- then she lowers the weapon slowly and slides it across the floor toward a cluster of nurses who scramble backward like it’s still live.
“Your other gun too.”
Her head tilts slightly.
Someone has done their research.
She crouches, fingers disappearing beneath her jeans at the side of her ankle, retrieving the secondary weapon and repeating the process with the same unhurried precision.
Tyler laughs under his breath, manic delight creeping into his features. “Fucking Yn Ln,” he mutters. “All quiet now. How the fuck did you catch my brother with that dull head of yours?”
Jack recognizes the silence on her face, it’s not submission, it’s calculation- she’s mapping distances, counting faces, tracking exits, measuring how far she can lunge without the nurse taking a bullet. He just hopes she’s factoring herself into the equation.
“I don’t want to hear your voice anyway,” Tyler rambles. His words start tumbling over each other, logic slipping. “Throw me the knives you keep on you, and the keys to the cuffs.”
Yn pauses only to scan the room again; who’s closest to the exits, who’s too frozen to move, who’s young, who could help if needed. She memorizes it all.
“Now!” Tyler shrieks, spit flying. “Or I will shoot her!”
Emma looks seconds from fainting. She is too innocent for this. Everyone in this room is too innocent for this.
Yn complies. She sets the knives down carefully alongside the cuff keys. Never breaking eye contact, then sliding them with her hand towards him- her composure makes him twitchier- and as she straightens, her shirt rides up slightly. A flash of white beneath dark clothes caught Tyler's attention.
“What is that?” Tyler snaps, gun swinging toward her fully now.
If Emma wasn't still in his grip, Yn would’ve already thrown the small hidden pocket knife from her back pocket into his forehead.
“Just a bandage,” she says evenly. “An injury I got thanks to your brother.”
His breathing turns erratic.
“No. No, no, no.” His thoughts are spiraling, racing, eating themselves alive. “Take off your shirt.”
“It’s just-”
“Take it the fuck off!”
“For fuck’s sake,” she mutters.
She reaches back, gripping the back of the neckline, pulling the fabric over her head in one smooth motion. The silence that follows is different, still afraid, still tight, but now also stunned.
Robby’s breath leaves him entirely. He has never understood why soulmate names land where they do. Why fate chooses ribs for one, arm for another. Why his name rests on Jack’s thigh while Jack's name rests on his back. Yn’s name is inked into his ribs while his name is written neatly across the center of her back, just beneath the strap of her bra. Clean, deliberate letters. And on the back of her shoulder rests another name. Jack's.
Two names permanent and now visible for everyone in the ED to see.
Tyler’s eyes flick over her almost naked front, searching for weapons. Finding none, he continous his instructions.
“Put the cuffs on yourself,” he demands, voice growing steadier with every ounce of control he’s gaining. “Arms in front. Secure one wrist. I’ll come over with her and she can lock the other.”
It plays out exactly like that. Yn retrieves the cuffs from the back of her jeans where it sat in place in its utility pouch, snaps one around her left wrist as Tyler drags Emma forward, forcing her to finish the job. The nurse’s hands shake violently, whispered apologies echoed through the quiet as she clicks the second cuff into place. Yn gives her a steady, reassuring smile in response.
Tyler shoves Emma away. She stumbles, skidding across the floor before Dana is there instantly, dragging her back into safety.
“Let’s go, Agent,” Tyler sneers as he shoves Yn around.
“Let’s go," The cold barrel presses into the center of Yn’s spine. "Don’t worry, I’ll find your soulmates. Apologize to them before I kill them.”
The room goes still. Yn wants to break his teeth against the tile, instead, she tilts her head back slightly. Her eyes find Jack's. Black shirt, cargo military pants, colored eyes blazing. One look, that’s all it takes for him to understand what she needs. Distraction.
“Hey-”
Jack stands; brave, stupid and perfect.
Tyler whips the gun toward him, and that’s all Yn needed.
She pivots sharply on her left foot, twisting hard. Her right foot plants onto the floor as she grabs Tyler’s wrist, forcing the barrel downward toward her own thigh as she drops her weight to the ground.
The gunshot explodes through the department, the sound deafening. Pain detonates up her leg, white-hot and blinding, but she doesn’t stop- she can't. Before Tyler can process what just happened, her elbow slams into his jaw. His grip falters and the gun clatters away from his grip. She drives her uninjured leg upward using her knee, knocking him off balance, then flips them, her weight crashing onto his back.
Her right knee digs into his spine while her left boot pins his wrist.
The handcuffs, still attached to her wrists, loop up and over his throat. The chain presses hard against his airway. He chokes, gurgles and thrashes.
“Unlock the doors!” she roars to whoever would listen and move.
Her fists brace beside his ears as she adjusts pressure- just enough to cut air, not enough to kill. Tyler tries sliding his neck onto the floor- a poor attempt in clawing at the chain- eyes bulging now, all the manic confidence gone. Reduced to desperate, ugly gasps.
The sound of JJ and Derek crashing through the double doors barely registered over the roar of blood in Jack's ears.
“It’s okay, we got him,” JJ was saying, voice steady, as Tyler’s body sagged, consciousness slipping like sand through open fingers.
But Jack wasn’t looking at Tyler, he wasn’t seeing the agents taking control, or the cuffs being unlocked, or the way the ER began to reassemble itself into motion after those suspended, suffocating seconds. He was looking at her.
Yn staggered back on instinct, as if the moment the threat shifted away from her, her body allowed itself to fail. Blood pooled around her legs- too much, too fast- soaking into floor tiles that had seen everything and yet, somehow, never this. Not like this. Not hers.
For a split second, everything went quiet in Jack's head- not the room, the room was deafening, monitors screaming, shoes squeaking, Dana shouting for a gurney and someone calling for a trauma bay- but inside him there was nothing. Just a hollow, cavernous silence where his training should have been.
He had spent his entire life running towards blood, towards injured soldiers with gunfire flying over his head. But now, when he needed to do so the most, he couldn’t move. Robby was at his side before he realized he had crossed the distance. Neither of them touched her at first, they just stood there, two physicians rooted to the floor, staring at the crimson blooming across her leg like it wasn’t real. Like if they didn’t acknowledge it, it might reverse itself.
This can’t be happening.
Robby’s mind tried to compartmentalize, his mind screaming at him- entry wound, possible exit wound, femoral artery?- but every clinical thought fractured the second it collided with the truth; that was her blood. The woman whose name was etched into his skin, bleeding out on the floor and he couldn't even twitch his fingers. He couldn’t hear his own breathing over the thunder of his heartbeat.
He should be moving. He knew he should. Years of surgical precision and muscle memory were screaming at him to take control, to bark orders, to apply pressure and secure a line and stabilize her before she stops breathing.
The thought paralyzed him.
“Excuse me.”
Melissa King and Trinity Santos physically pushed past their attendings, their shoulders knocking into Robby’s chest and Jack's shoulder. Jack barely felt it and Robby barely registered the sharp edge of Santos’ voice as she cut through fabric, scissors slicing through denim soaked dark with red.
Dana arrived with the gurney, wheels rattling against tile as if even it understood the stakes.
“On three- one, two-”
Hands moved. JJ, Mel, Santos, and Jack lifted her.
Jack’s hands are steady when they touch her, he doesn’t know how, he can feel the warmth of her blood soaking through his fingers, and he wished that he never moved. Meanwhile, Robby realized too late that he hadn’t helped. That his arms had stayed at his sides while others carried her. The guilt hit him like a physical blow.
Yn’s head lolled as they transferred her. Her eyes- those steady, unflinching eyes that had held his in an argument about a possible bomb threat barely minutes ago- were unfocused now. Glassy and fighting.
“She’s starting to lose consciousness,” Jesse says. The sentence cracked something open inside them.
“Her breathing’s rapid and shallow,” Santos adds quickly, eyes flicking up between Jack and Robby as if they're supposed to anchor this. “She’s going into hemorrhagic shock.”
Hemorrhagic shock.
Robby had said those words to families before. Calmly and apologetically, but now they felt like a death sentence.
“Hey!” JJ snapped, fury crackling through her tone as she rounded on the older attendings. “What the hell are you standing there for? Do something!”
Robby opened his mouth but nothing came out, he couldn’t. Because the second he tried to step forward, the image of her going still- truly still- flashed behind his eyes and his body betrayed him. What if his hands shook? What if he missed something? What if he was the reason she-
You had one job. Protect her. And you failed.
Jack’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt. Every instinct told him to push everyone aside and take over, to anchor himself in procedure and numbers and sutures and clamps, but his mind wasn’t sharp- it was frayed. He wasn’t thinking like a surgeon or even an army medic, he was thinking like a man watching the person tethered to his soul bleed out in front of him.
If I touch her and I lose her, I won’t survive it.
The thought wasn’t rational, he knew that, but it was raw and ugly and honest.
Santos finally looked JJ dead in the eye.
“They can’t.”
JJ frowned. “What?”
Dana didn’t hesitate. “They're her soulmates.”
The words shifted the air in the room, understanding dawned slowly across JJ’s face, Derek’s expression tightened, anger dissolving into something heavier.
From the outside, it made terrible, awful sense- of course they couldn’t move, of course two brilliant doctors would freeze when the person tethered to their soul was bleeding out in front of them.
"Trauma two is ready." Doctor Al-Hashimi's voice echoed through the chaos.
They started moving- fast- wheels rattling violently as Jesse steered toward trauma. Santos and Mel kept pressure on the wound, calling out vitals in clipped bursts to doctor Walsh and doctor Garcia.
Robby walked beside the gurney but didn’t touch it, Jack did. Not to treat or to intervene, just to stay connected. Every step felt like walking a tightrope between rationality and collapse. They know that they should scrub in. They know that they should lead, but they also know that right now, if they saw her chest stop rising under surgical lights, something inside them would fracture beyond repair.
And as the trauma doors swung open and swallowed her from their view, the ER staff watched the two men left standing in the aftermath. Not useless, not weak- just undone.
Two physicians who could save anyone- except, maybe, the one person they longed for the most.
(Jack Abbot x fem!FBI!reader x Michael Robinavitch)
Soulmate au
Note: this is set in season 2, but as of right now we are still waiting on episode 8 to air, so i have no idea how season 2 ends yet or how anything is gonna go after episode 7- i am just letting my imagination run wild here. With a criminal minds crossover (borrowing the BAU for this, hope you guys don't mind.) You don't have to know anything about criminal minds to read this. Thank you.
Warnings: no medical accuracy whatsoever. no idea how the fbi works. poly soulmate au. reader doesn't have a name but it's hinted that her name is a boy's name / not common for girls - no name is mentioned. 5-7 years age gap. swearing. jealous robby. jealous jack.
wc◇3.3k
Robby doesn’t remember when the name carved itself onto his ribs. There was no lightning strike, no dramatic swell of music, no sharp inhale where the world shifted on its axis. It must have happened quietly, the way most irreversible things do. One day his skin was only skin, and then one day it wasn’t.
Unlike Jack’s name, he remembers a time where Yn’s wasn’t there. He has proof of it, actually; sun-faded pictures from beach trips, his chest bare and golden under the light, smooth and untouched, a blank stretch of skin that would one day become a promise, a canvas waiting for her to paint it. Back then it was just his body, sunburnt and shared with only one person.
He didn’t even know it was a her.
There was always a possibility, of course, a quiet, almost embarrassing thought tucked into the back of his mind. But as he got older and met people with the same first name- people with the same first name, loud and ordinary and undeniably male- he folded that possibility up and shoved it out the nearest window. It was easier that way, easier to believe the universe was predictable and easier to focus on whatever felt urgent at the time- school, friends, scraped knees, growing pains. (He can’t even remember what had seemed so important back then. God, maybe old age really is catching up.)
But hey. At least he met one of his soulmates.
Jack, on the other hand, remembers everything.
He was five, small hands, untied shoelaces, knees permanently dusted in dirt, but he remembers it like a scene paused on a screen. The sun was too bright and the pavement too rough. The training wheels had just come off his bike, and then it happened.
He swears he felt it before he saw it. A strange warmth blooming along the inside of his forearm, like ink sinking into paper. He looked down just in time to watch the letters etch themselves into his skin, slow and deliberate, as if the universe itself had careful handwriting.
He crashed immediately after.
He can still remember the sting of gravel and the way his mother screamed his name, but not because he’d fallen, because she’d seen it too.
There’s a video somewhere in a box at his house, burried deep in the closet, with shaky footage. His father’s voice going sharp with disbelief. His mother crying and laughing at the same time and his five-year-old self holding up his arm like he’s just discovered fire.
Having two soulmates wasn’t unheard of, it wasn’t even rare, but he was the first in his family. The first to carry more than one name and that made it monumental. It was something that split his life into before and after.
He can recall that moment second by second , the heat, the letters, the fall. Because in a way, that’s when everything began.
Robby stared at the CEO of the hospital like the man had just announced that the sky was green.
Disbelief sat heavy in his chest. He looked around at his staff- the people who had survived night shifts, code blues, and whatever brand of chaos the Pitt decided to serve that week- and found their faces mirroring his own shock. His eyes caught Jack’s for half a second.
God. They are so fucked.
“Now,” the CEO continued, smoothing down his white patterned shirt as if that might smooth down the situation, “with the possibility of whoever it is that’s responsible for the attack wanting a ransom, we have contacted the FBI. They will be sending a unit here.”
FBI?
Holy shit.
The word moved through the department like a match dropped into a dry forest. The crackle of panic spreading through the wildfire. An FBI unit coming here wasn’t common. Not even with the mayhem the Pitt regularly unleashed. Not even on their worst days.
“Wait, why the FBI? Does Westbridge have FBI with them as well?”
That quieted the department real quick, it was the kind of silence that feels forced and fragile.
“Yes,” the man answered. “There might be someone with the terrorist organisation in the hospital.”
And just like that, the silence shattered.
Interns began muttering to each other in tight, anxious clusters. Residents and nurses turned, almost instinctively, toward Robby. Looking for answers. For reassurance. For leadership. And Robby? Robby was glaring at the CEO and at the woman he had met not even seven hours ago. Even if Dr. Al-Hashimi looked genuinely surprised, his glare didn’t waver.
“I’m pretty sure we said not to disclose any information until we get here.”
The voice cut through everything. It wasn’t loud, it didn’t need to be.
Tailored suit, badge clipped neatly onto the breast pocket of his blazer, tie perfectly in place, like he had stepped into a press conference instead of a crisis. His expression was controlled to the point of frightening, sharp eyes, faint frown, authority radiating off him in quiet, suffocating waves. He gestured to the younger man and woman following him, and they set their bags on the floor without a word.
“Hello, everyone,” he said, voice gruff and steady. His gaze swept across the room, cataloguing faces, reactions and fear. “My name is Aaron Hotchner. I am the Unit Chief of the BAU, also known as the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI. Now that Mr. Norris has decided to let you all know why we’re here, you are safe. Special Agent Morgan and Special Agent Jareau are going to secure the department first and then search everyone-”
The murmurs began again. Louder this time. They were offended. And afraid.
“- Now, I need to speak to the head of this department.”
“Yes.”
“Of course.”
Robby glanced at his fellow attending, irritation slipping into his voice before he could stop it. “Haven’t you done enough?”
“This is your last shift, Dr. Robby. I will be-”
“So this is your first shift?” Agent Hotchner asked, cutting in smoothly as he turned his attention to the shorter female doctor.
“Yes, but I am-”
“Well, Doctor…” He let the word trail off, waiting.
“Dr. Al-Hashimi,” she replied, spine straightening. “Chief attending of this trauma center, who will be taking over when Dr. Robinavitch leaves.”
Aaron looked at the older man standing in front of him. For a split second something flickered across his face, a barely there expression- recognition. And then it was gone, smoothed over by years of FBI training.
“Well, no offense, Dr. Al-Hashimi. I’m sure you’re a great doctor and a great chief attending. But I need someone who has been here long enough to know the ins and outs of this department.”
His smile was professional. Polite and final.
Then he turned.
“Now, Dr. Robinavitch-”
“Robby, please.”
A pause. A shift almost too small to notice.
“Dr. Robby,” he corrected evenly, “would you mind telling Agents Morgan and Jareau every entrance and exit here? Along with any unused rooms or places that staff might take breaks in.”
The weight of it settled on Robby’s shoulders, responsibility layered over frustration, layered over the creeping realization that this day was not going to end quietly.
“Of course.”
As Robby walked the younger agents through corridors and back stairwells, pointing out exits and supply closets and the door no one used because it jammed in winter, Aaron stayed behind.
He answered questions, as many as he could anyway. Carefully measured and professionally vague where he had to be. He tried, and only half succeeded, in calming down the room.
“Agent Garcia, our Technical Analyst, is currently at Westbridge with two other agents,” he said, voice stead and controlled. “She’ll be working from there to get your system back as soon as possible.”
The words technical analyst and system back did little to soothe the tension.
James Ogilvie stepped forward, jaw tight. “If whoever did this is here, isn’t what you’re saying potentially helping them?”
“You worry about your job, I'll worry about mine.” Aaron replied evenly, not raising his voice, not blinking and not even looking at the med student's direction.
And that was that. The conversation ended not with resolution, but with silence- a thick, suffocating silence that seemed to soak into the shiny white floors and hum beneath the fluorescent lights. Everyone stood there, absorbing the reality of it all. FBI. Search. Possible insider. It was all too much. Too fast.
Robby turned, exhaling slowly, and made his way back toward Jack just as the two agents he’d been guiding finished strapping on their Kevlar vests, the sound tearing through the quiet. They checked their firearms with practiced ease before splitting off in opposite directions.
“Look who the cat dragged in.”
Agent Morgan’s voice boomed through the department, warm and amused and entirely too loud for the fragile atmosphere. Every head turned toward the entrance.
She walked in like she belonged there. Like she owned the space she stepped into. Duffel bag slung over her shoulder, face focused yet unbothered.
“Agent YN LN,” Morgan continued with a grin, “couldn’t even take a twelve hours off, huh?”
The world stopped. For Robby and for Jack, their world stopped. YN LN. Their soulmate. YN LN is a woman. Female. Despite the name, despite the years of doubt and despite every boy Robby had met and every assumption he had forced himself to accept.
And all they could do was stare.
She offered a tired smile, saying something to Morgan that neither of them could hear over the sudden thunder of their own heartbeats. She moved forward and pulled Agent Jareau into a brief hug, easy and familiar.
They took in every detail like they were afraid she might disappear if they blinked. Black half-sleeve shirt, tucked neatly into dark blue jeans along with black combat boots, worn but polished. Her badge clipped to the waistband, swaying slightly with each step. She looked steady. She looked real. She was real. Right in front of them.
“Morgan.” Agent Hotchner’s voice cut in, sharp enough to rein him back. He fixed his subordinate with a look before his gaze shifted to her, immediately softening. “Sorry to call you in. I know you’re tired, but we need you here.”
“It’s fine,” she said.
And God. Her voice. Steady with confidence, yet soft and kind. Controlled in a way that suggested she’d seen worse than this and survived it.
“Rossi filled me up to speed on the phone.”
She moved toward the two duffel bags already placed on the floor, adding hers to the small pile before crouching down, efficient and focused. She pulled out a Kevlar vest and secured it around herself without hesitation, hands practiced and precise.
“Everyone,” Aaron announced, drawing the room’s attention once more, “this is Agent YN LN. She will be searching everyone here, making sure that there are no weapons- that includes patients as well.”
And Robby could only stand there, pulse roaring in his ears, staring at the name he had carried on his ribs for years finally given a face.
The room started moving again.
Charts were picked up. Gurneys rolled past. Nurses resumed arguing over the location of manual charts in hushed, tense voices. If you squinted- if you deliberately ignored the two figures moving methodically from person to person- you could almost pretend this was a normal day at the Pitt. A normal day without a system.
Screw that. This was a mess.
The bold yellow FBI letters stamped across the back of Kevlar stood out too much, too sharp and too foreign. Not like Jack’s vest, the one they were used to seeing, the one that blended into the controlled chaos of trauma medicine. These were different. Federal and intrusive.
“Don’t worry.”
Yn’s voice cut cleanly through the small cluster of Dana, Robby, Jack, Santos, and Whitaker. Calm and gentle, entirely at odds with the tension curling through the department.
“It’s just procedure. I know none of the doctors or nurses have a weapon, but I have to follow protocol.”
Her tone softened further as she directed it toward Mel, who stood rigid with wide eyes and restless hands. Mel’s gaze darted instinctively toward her senior attendings and her charge nurse, silently asking if this was really happening.
“It’s okay, hon'.” Dana offered a reassuring smile.
Robby and Jack nodded in sync.
Yn offered Mel the faintest smile before moving on, efficient but careful, respectful in the way she patted down the younger girl's scrubs, understanding how violating it could feel.
“Doctor Robby.”
Aaron’s voice sliced through again, the sharpness of it made the young blonde tense where she stood.
“Can I have a word in private?”
It was shaped like a question but it wasn’t. He was already moving before Robby could answer, posture straight, steps purposeful, not bothering to look back. The expectation of compliance hung in the air.
“What’s this about?”
Jack stepped forward without thinking. He didn’t like the way Agent Hotchner expected Robby to simply follow. Didn’t like the implication of secrecy, and whatever this was, whatever could possibly require privacy, would reach his ears in ten minutes anyway.
Jack Abbot didn’t scare easy. Not before the military, not after, and certainly not when it concerned his soulmate.
“It’s something that concerns me and Doctor Robby,” Aaron replied evenly. “So, Doctor, if you would please cooperate with Agent YLN, it would be appreciated.”
Robby had caught it then. The flicker- the brief look that had crossed Aaron’s face earlier when he heard his government last name. The name that sat on her skin. The one that connected them on paper and on body alike.
“It’s fine.” Robby turned to Jack, offering a steady look. He was a big guy. He could handle himself. And an FBI agent wasn’t what had his pulse racing right now. At least not this FBI agent.
“He should join.” The finality in Robby’s voice was enough to make Aaron pause.
“You’d want him to join,” Robby added.
The break room door shut with a muted click. Robby moved automatically toward the coffee machine, muscle memory guiding him as Jack leaned back against the door, arms crossed, stance protective.
“I’m going to assume your name is Jack Abbot.” Aaron’s gaze settled on the war veteran.
“Yeah,” Jack replied flatly. “Now wanna tell me what the hell is going on?”
The reply was directed at Aaron but the question was directed at Robby, who still had his back turned, focused on pouring coffee into a paper cup.
“He wants to talk about Yn,” Robby said calmly, handing one cup to Jack before finally turning toward the third man. “Black?”
“No, thank you.”
Aaron exhaled slowly, composure still firmly in place.
“I do,” he confirmed. “And I’m sorry, but as long as this is an active case and Yn is here as part of the BAU, she cannot know that you two are her soulmates.”
Silence.
“The hell-”
“She wears her soul ring,” Aaron continued evenly. “She can’t focus on protecting everyone else if she’s too busy thinking about you two.”
Soul rings, an unspoken language. Not government-mandated, not institutionalized. Just something people had done for centuries, a quiet declaration to the world. A simple band, no designs and no stones- gold or black- worn on the left hand, any finger, it didn’t matter which. It meant one thing; I’m waiting, I'm not settling down without you. And when you meet your soulmate, wedding bands stack on top of it. A visible timeline of devotion, patience and hope.
The image hits them both at once.
Yn- tactical, composed, FBI agent Yn Ln- wearing a plain band because she’s waiting. For them. Only them.
Heat crawls up Robby’s neck before he can stop it. His fingers instinctively curl around the black band hanging from the chain beneath his scrubs. And across from him, his soulmate wasn't doing much better. Jack’s ears turn an unmistakable shade of pink as he twists the black band already sitting on his finger. God. They feel like teenagers, hormonal and ridiculous. And yet, Aaron’s words don’t sit right with them.
“No.” Jack shakes his head firmly. “We want to let her know now.”
“I can’t allow that.” Aaron’s tone hardens, expression sharpening into something immovable. “You’d be putting everyone at risk. Yn is here as a favor. She took down a serial killer on her own less than ten hours ago and still showed up. If she ever knows that you’re within a ten-mile radius of this hospital, let alone inside it, whatever energy and focus she has left will fracture.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“That would put you at risk. It would put her at risk. And I can’t afford that.”
The firmness in his voice isn’t cold, it’s protective. And Robby and Jack both notice it, the familiarity in the way he says her name. Not possessive. Not intimate. But deeply accustomed, the kind that comes from years of partnership. The only thing that settles the storm inside is the black band wrapped around Aaron’s wedding finger, topped neatly with a silver wedding ring; he’s not waiting. He already found his, and right now he’s making sure Yn survives long enough to meet hers.
Back at the central station, Yn had the sudden, almost overwhelming urge to wrap Mel in blankets and sit her down with warm tea. She looked like deer in headlights, wide-eyed and frozen. Trying very hard to look calm while the world tilted just slightly off balance. Yn had already moved on to Santos, offering a quiet apology as she repeated the same procedure she’d done a dozen times in the last ten minutes.
“It’s okay,” Santos shrugged, straightening up yet acting like this was mildly inconvenient at worst. She looked bored, or maybe exhausted. Hard to tell in an ER. “Not my first time being patted down by a hot lady.”
The two new interns choked.
“Ohhh,” Yn chuckled, glancing up from where she was crouching down, checking Santos’s pant legs. “Careful, kid. I could be your mum.”
“Please,” Dana scoffed from beside them, handing a stack of files to a nurse who’d already been cleared. “You’re like, what - thirty? Thirty-five?”
Yn laughed. It wasn’t polite. It wasn’t restrained. It was full-bodied and warm and entirely too genuine for a department currently under FBI rules. The sound turned heads.
“Thank you,” she said, straightening up. “But I am way older than that.”
“Bullshit.”
“You’re good, Doctor,” Yn said lightly, stepping back and giving Santos a nod before turning toward Dana. “Try forty-five.”
“Shut up.” No one in the ER had ever seen Trinity Santos this stunned. “I wish I look like that when I’m old.”
Yn opened her mouth to reply, but before she could Robby’s voice carried across the floor, gruff and tired. Commanding in a way that didn’t need to shout to be heard.
“Okay, everyone, here’s how it’s going to work-”
Yn’s spine straightened automatically at the sound. She didn’t mean to tune him out. But she did. Because the moment his voice settled into explanation mode, calm, methodical, leading his people through crisis like he’d done a hundred times before, something in her chest shifted. She moved toward the left side of the station, focusing on unfamiliar faces. Doctors she didn’t recognize. A tech she hadn’t cleared yet.
“Excuse me,” she said softly, stepping in front of Jack.
God. That voice. Jack could fall asleep to it. Could let it pull him under into something warm and steady and entirely free of the nightmares that still woke him at three in the morning.
“I’m gonna-”
“He’s clear.”
The interruption came sharp and immediate. Aaron Hotchner. Jack had never hated a man more in his life, not even the one who’d blown his leg off.
“Him and Doctor Robby are clear,” Hotchner added, already scanning the room for the next body to move toward.
Yn paused. Her gaze flickered between them.
“Um, sure.” She offered Jack a small, almost an apologetic smile before stepping back.
The distance felt wrong, too much yet not enough. She moved away, Jack watched her go and Robby kept talking. The department adjusted and the case continued.
@yeontanssecretblog SO HAPPY TO HEAR THAT! OMG YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW GIGGLY I AM RN!! THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR WORDS, SO GLAD YOU LIKE IT!! THANK YOU FOR READING, HOPEFULLY NEXT 2 PARTS COMING SOON!! THANK YOU SO MUCH
(Jack Abbot x fem!FBI!reader x Michael Robinavitch)
Soulmate au
Note: this is set in season 2, but as of right now we are still waiting on episode 8 to air, so i have no idea how season 2 ends yet or how anything is gonna go after episode 7- i am just letting my imagination run wild here. With a criminal minds crossover (borrowing the BAU for this, hope you guys don't mind.) You don't have to know anything about criminal minds to read this. Thank you.
Warnings: no medical accuracy whatsoever. no idea how the fbi works. poly soulmate au. reader doesn't have a name but it's hinted that her name is a boy's name / not common for girls - no name is mentioned. 5-7 years age gap. swearing. jealous robby. jealous jack.
wc◇3.3k
masterlist
Robby doesn’t remember when the name carved itself onto his ribs. There was no lightning strike, no dramatic swell of music, no sharp inhale where the world shifted on its axis. It must have happened quietly, the way most irreversible things do. One day his skin was only skin, and then one day it wasn’t.
Unlike Jack’s name, he remembers a time where Yn’s wasn’t there. He has proof of it, actually; sun-faded pictures from beach trips, his chest bare and golden under the light, smooth and untouched, a blank stretch of skin that would one day become a promise, a canvas waiting for her to paint it. Back then it was just his body, sunburnt and shared with only one person.
He didn’t even know it was a her.
There was always a possibility, of course, a quiet, almost embarrassing thought tucked into the back of his mind. But as he got older and met people with the same first name- people with the same first name, loud and ordinary and undeniably male- he folded that possibility up and shoved it out the nearest window. It was easier that way, easier to believe the universe was predictable and easier to focus on whatever felt urgent at the time- school, friends, scraped knees, growing pains. (He can’t even remember what had seemed so important back then. God, maybe old age really is catching up.)
But hey. At least he met one of his soulmates.
Jack, on the other hand, remembers everything.
He was five, small hands, untied shoelaces, knees permanently dusted in dirt, but he remembers it like a scene paused on a screen. The sun was too bright and the pavement too rough. The training wheels had just come off his bike, and then it happened.
He swears he felt it before he saw it. A strange warmth blooming along the inside of his forearm, like ink sinking into paper. He looked down just in time to watch the letters etch themselves into his skin, slow and deliberate, as if the universe itself had careful handwriting.
He crashed immediately after.
He can still remember the sting of gravel and the way his mother screamed his name, but not because he’d fallen, because she’d seen it too.
There’s a video somewhere in a box at his house, burried deep in the closet, with shaky footage. His father’s voice going sharp with disbelief. His mother crying and laughing at the same time and his five-year-old self holding up his arm like he’s just discovered fire.
Having two soulmates wasn’t unheard of, it wasn’t even rare, but he was the first in his family. The first to carry more than one name and that made it monumental. It was something that split his life into before and after.
He can recall that moment second by second , the heat, the letters, the fall. Because in a way, that’s when everything began.
Robby stared at the CEO of the hospital like the man had just announced that the sky was green.
Disbelief sat heavy in his chest. He looked around at his staff- the people who had survived night shifts, code blues, and whatever brand of chaos the Pitt decided to serve that week- and found their faces mirroring his own shock. His eyes caught Jack’s for half a second.
God. They are so fucked.
“Now,” the CEO continued, smoothing down his white patterned shirt as if that might smooth down the situation, “with the possibility of whoever it is that’s responsible for the attack wanting a ransom, we have contacted the FBI. They will be sending a unit here.”
FBI?
Holy shit.
The word moved through the department like a match dropped into a dry forest. The crackle of panic spreading through the wildfire. An FBI unit coming here wasn’t common. Not even with the mayhem the Pitt regularly unleashed. Not even on their worst days.
“Wait, why the FBI? Does Westbridge have FBI with them as well?”
That quieted the department real quick, it was the kind of silence that feels forced and fragile.
“Yes,” the man answered. “There might be someone with the terrorist organisation in the hospital.”
And just like that, the silence shattered.
Interns began muttering to each other in tight, anxious clusters. Residents and nurses turned, almost instinctively, toward Robby. Looking for answers. For reassurance. For leadership. And Robby? Robby was glaring at the CEO and at the woman he had met not even seven hours ago. Even if Dr. Al-Hashimi looked genuinely surprised, his glare didn’t waver.
“I’m pretty sure we said not to disclose any information until we get here.”
The voice cut through everything. It wasn’t loud, it didn’t need to be.
Tailored suit, badge clipped neatly onto the breast pocket of his blazer, tie perfectly in place, like he had stepped into a press conference instead of a crisis. His expression was controlled to the point of frightening, sharp eyes, faint frown, authority radiating off him in quiet, suffocating waves. He gestured to the younger man and woman following him, and they set their bags on the floor without a word.
“Hello, everyone,” he said, voice gruff and steady. His gaze swept across the room, cataloguing faces, reactions and fear. “My name is Aaron Hotchner. I am the Unit Chief of the BAU, also known as the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI. Now that Mr. Norris has decided to let you all know why we’re here, you are safe. Special Agent Morgan and Special Agent Jareau are going to secure the department first and then search everyone-”
The murmurs began again. Louder this time. They were offended. And afraid.
“- Now, I need to speak to the head of this department.”
“Yes.”
“Of course.”
Robby glanced at his fellow attending, irritation slipping into his voice before he could stop it. “Haven’t you done enough?”
“This is your last shift, Dr. Robby. I will be-”
“So this is your first shift?” Agent Hotchner asked, cutting in smoothly as he turned his attention to the shorter female doctor.
“Yes, but I am-”
“Well, Doctor…” He let the word trail off, waiting.
“Dr. Al-Hashimi,” she replied, spine straightening. “Chief attending of this trauma center, who will be taking over when Dr. Robinavitch leaves.”
Aaron looked at the older man standing in front of him. For a split second something flickered across his face, a barely there expression- recognition. And then it was gone, smoothed over by years of FBI training.
“Well, no offense, Dr. Al-Hashimi. I’m sure you’re a great doctor and a great chief attending. But I need someone who has been here long enough to know the ins and outs of this department.”
His smile was professional. Polite and final.
Then he turned.
“Now, Dr. Robinavitch-”
“Robby, please.”
A pause. A shift almost too small to notice.
“Dr. Robby,” he corrected evenly, “would you mind telling Agents Morgan and Jareau every entrance and exit here? Along with any unused rooms or places that staff might take breaks in.”
The weight of it settled on Robby’s shoulders, responsibility layered over frustration, layered over the creeping realization that this day was not going to end quietly.
“Of course.”
As Robby walked the younger agents through corridors and back stairwells, pointing out exits and supply closets and the door no one used because it jammed in winter, Aaron stayed behind.
He answered questions, as many as he could anyway. Carefully measured and professionally vague where he had to be. He tried, and only half succeeded, in calming down the room.
“Agent Garcia, our Technical Analyst, is currently at Westbridge with two other agents,” he said, voice stead and controlled. “She’ll be working from there to get your system back as soon as possible.”
The words technical analyst and system back did little to soothe the tension.
James Ogilvie stepped forward, jaw tight. “If whoever did this is here, isn’t what you’re saying potentially helping them?”
“You worry about your job, I'll worry about mine.” Aaron replied evenly, not raising his voice, not blinking and not even looking at the med student's direction.
And that was that. The conversation ended not with resolution, but with silence- a thick, suffocating silence that seemed to soak into the shiny white floors and hum beneath the fluorescent lights. Everyone stood there, absorbing the reality of it all. FBI. Search. Possible insider. It was all too much. Too fast.
Robby turned, exhaling slowly, and made his way back toward Jack just as the two agents he’d been guiding finished strapping on their Kevlar vests, the sound tearing through the quiet. They checked their firearms with practiced ease before splitting off in opposite directions.
“Look who the cat dragged in.”
Agent Morgan’s voice boomed through the department, warm and amused and entirely too loud for the fragile atmosphere. Every head turned toward the entrance.
She walked in like she belonged there. Like she owned the space she stepped into. Duffel bag slung over her shoulder, face focused yet unbothered.
“Agent YN LN,” Morgan continued with a grin, “couldn’t even take a twelve hours off, huh?”
The world stopped. For Robby and for Jack, their world stopped. YN LN. Their soulmate. YN LN is a woman. Female. Despite the name, despite the years of doubt and despite every boy Robby had met and every assumption he had forced himself to accept.
And all they could do was stare.
She offered a tired smile, saying something to Morgan that neither of them could hear over the sudden thunder of their own heartbeats. She moved forward and pulled Agent Jareau into a brief hug, easy and familiar.
They took in every detail like they were afraid she might disappear if they blinked. Black half-sleeve shirt, tucked neatly into dark blue jeans along with black combat boots, worn but polished. Her badge clipped to the waistband, swaying slightly with each step. She looked steady. She looked real. She was real. Right in front of them.
“Morgan.” Agent Hotchner’s voice cut in, sharp enough to rein him back. He fixed his subordinate with a look before his gaze shifted to her, immediately softening. “Sorry to call you in. I know you’re tired, but we need you here.”
“It’s fine,” she said.
And God. Her voice. Steady with confidence, yet soft and kind. Controlled in a way that suggested she’d seen worse than this and survived it.
“Rossi filled me up to speed on the phone.”
She moved toward the two duffel bags already placed on the floor, adding hers to the small pile before crouching down, efficient and focused. She pulled out a Kevlar vest and secured it around herself without hesitation, hands practiced and precise.
“Everyone,” Aaron announced, drawing the room’s attention once more, “this is Agent YN LN. She will be searching everyone here, making sure that there are no weapons- that includes patients as well.”
And Robby could only stand there, pulse roaring in his ears, staring at the name he had carried on his ribs for years finally given a face.
The room started moving again.
Charts were picked up. Gurneys rolled past. Nurses resumed arguing over the location of manual charts in hushed, tense voices. If you squinted- if you deliberately ignored the two figures moving methodically from person to person- you could almost pretend this was a normal day at the Pitt. A normal day without a system.
Screw that. This was a mess.
The bold yellow FBI letters stamped across the back of Kevlar stood out too much, too sharp and too foreign. Not like Jack’s vest, the one they were used to seeing, the one that blended into the controlled chaos of trauma medicine. These were different. Federal and intrusive.
“Don’t worry.”
Yn’s voice cut cleanly through the small cluster of Dana, Robby, Jack, Santos, and Whitaker. Calm and gentle, entirely at odds with the tension curling through the department.
“It’s just procedure. I know none of the doctors or nurses have a weapon, but I have to follow protocol.”
Her tone softened further as she directed it toward Mel, who stood rigid with wide eyes and restless hands. Mel’s gaze darted instinctively toward her senior attendings and her charge nurse, silently asking if this was really happening.
“It’s okay, hon'.” Dana offered a reassuring smile.
Robby and Jack nodded in sync.
Yn offered Mel the faintest smile before moving on, efficient but careful, respectful in the way she patted down the younger girl's scrubs, understanding how violating it could feel.
“Doctor Robby.”
Aaron’s voice sliced through again, the sharpness of it made the young blonde tense where she stood.
“Can I have a word in private?”
It was shaped like a question but it wasn’t. He was already moving before Robby could answer, posture straight, steps purposeful, not bothering to look back. The expectation of compliance hung in the air.
“What’s this about?”
Jack stepped forward without thinking. He didn’t like the way Agent Hotchner expected Robby to simply follow. Didn’t like the implication of secrecy, and whatever this was, whatever could possibly require privacy, would reach his ears in ten minutes anyway.
Jack Abbot didn’t scare easy. Not before the military, not after, and certainly not when it concerned his soulmate.
“It’s something that concerns me and Doctor Robby,” Aaron replied evenly. “So, Doctor, if you would please cooperate with Agent YLN, it would be appreciated.”
Robby had caught it then. The flicker- the brief look that had crossed Aaron’s face earlier when he heard his government last name. The name that sat on her skin. The one that connected them on paper and on body alike.
“It’s fine.” Robby turned to Jack, offering a steady look. He was a big guy. He could handle himself. And an FBI agent wasn’t what had his pulse racing right now. At least not this FBI agent.
“He should join.” The finality in Robby’s voice was enough to make Aaron pause.
“You’d want him to join,” Robby added.
The break room door shut with a muted click. Robby moved automatically toward the coffee machine, muscle memory guiding him as Jack leaned back against the door, arms crossed, stance protective.
“I’m going to assume your name is Jack Abbot.” Aaron’s gaze settled on the war veteran.
“Yeah,” Jack replied flatly. “Now wanna tell me what the hell is going on?”
The reply was directed at Aaron but the question was directed at Robby, who still had his back turned, focused on pouring coffee into a paper cup.
“He wants to talk about Yn,” Robby said calmly, handing one cup to Jack before finally turning toward the third man. “Black?”
“No, thank you.”
Aaron exhaled slowly, composure still firmly in place.
“I do,” he confirmed. “And I’m sorry, but as long as this is an active case and Yn is here as part of the BAU, she cannot know that you two are her soulmates.”
Silence.
“The hell-”
“She wears her soul ring,” Aaron continued evenly. “She can’t focus on protecting everyone else if she’s too busy thinking about you two.”
Soul rings, an unspoken language. Not government-mandated, not institutionalized. Just something people had done for centuries, a quiet declaration to the world. A simple band, no designs and no stones- gold or black- worn on the left hand, any finger, it didn’t matter which. It meant one thing; I’m waiting, I'm not settling down without you. And when you meet your soulmate, wedding bands stack on top of it. A visible timeline of devotion, patience and hope.
The image hits them both at once.
Yn- tactical, composed, FBI agent Yn Ln- wearing a plain band because she’s waiting. For them. Only them.
Heat crawls up Robby’s neck before he can stop it. His fingers instinctively curl around the black band hanging from the chain beneath his scrubs. And across from him, his soulmate wasn't doing much better. Jack’s ears turn an unmistakable shade of pink as he twists the black band already sitting on his finger. God. They feel like teenagers, hormonal and ridiculous. And yet, Aaron’s words don’t sit right with them.
“No.” Jack shakes his head firmly. “We want to let her know now.”
“I can’t allow that.” Aaron’s tone hardens, expression sharpening into something immovable. “You’d be putting everyone at risk. Yn is here as a favor. She took down a serial killer on her own less than ten hours ago and still showed up. If she ever knows that you’re within a ten-mile radius of this hospital, let alone inside it, whatever energy and focus she has left will fracture.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“That would put you at risk. It would put her at risk. And I can’t afford that.”
The firmness in his voice isn’t cold, it’s protective. And Robby and Jack both notice it, the familiarity in the way he says her name. Not possessive. Not intimate. But deeply accustomed, the kind that comes from years of partnership. The only thing that settles the storm inside is the black band wrapped around Aaron’s wedding finger, topped neatly with a silver wedding ring; he’s not waiting. He already found his, and right now he’s making sure Yn survives long enough to meet hers.
Back at the central station, Yn had the sudden, almost overwhelming urge to wrap Mel in blankets and sit her down with warm tea. She looked like deer in headlights, wide-eyed and frozen. Trying very hard to look calm while the world tilted just slightly off balance. Yn had already moved on to Santos, offering a quiet apology as she repeated the same procedure she’d done a dozen times in the last ten minutes.
“It’s okay,” Santos shrugged, straightening up yet acting like this was mildly inconvenient at worst. She looked bored, or maybe exhausted. Hard to tell in an ER. “Not my first time being patted down by a hot lady.”
The two new interns choked.
“Ohhh,” Yn chuckled, glancing up from where she was crouching down, checking Santos’s pant legs. “Careful, kid. I could be your mum.”
“Please,” Dana scoffed from beside them, handing a stack of files to a nurse who’d already been cleared. “You’re like, what - thirty? Thirty-five?”
Yn laughed. It wasn’t polite. It wasn’t restrained. It was full-bodied and warm and entirely too genuine for a department currently under FBI rules. The sound turned heads.
“Thank you,” she said, straightening up. “But I am way older than that.”
“Bullshit.”
“You’re good, Doctor,” Yn said lightly, stepping back and giving Santos a nod before turning toward Dana. “Try forty-five.”
“Shut up.” No one in the ER had ever seen Trinity Santos this stunned. “I wish I look like that when I’m old.”
Yn opened her mouth to reply, but before she could Robby’s voice carried across the floor, gruff and tired. Commanding in a way that didn’t need to shout to be heard.
“Okay, everyone, here’s how it’s going to work-”
Yn’s spine straightened automatically at the sound. She didn’t mean to tune him out. But she did. Because the moment his voice settled into explanation mode, calm, methodical, leading his people through crisis like he’d done a hundred times before, something in her chest shifted. She moved toward the left side of the station, focusing on unfamiliar faces. Doctors she didn’t recognize. A tech she hadn’t cleared yet.
“Excuse me,” she said softly, stepping in front of Jack.
God. That voice. Jack could fall asleep to it. Could let it pull him under into something warm and steady and entirely free of the nightmares that still woke him in the middle of his sleep.
“I’m gonna-”
“He’s clear.”
The interruption came sharp and immediate. Aaron Hotchner. Jack had never hated a man more in his life, not even the one who’d blown his leg off.
“Him and Doctor Robby are clear,” Hotchner added, already scanning the room for the next body to move toward.
Yn paused. Her gaze flickered between them.
“Um, sure.” She offered Jack a small, almost an apologetic smile before stepping back.
The distance felt wrong, too much yet not enough. She moved away, Jack watched her go and Robby kept talking. The department adjusted and the case continued.
