Bounty Writes

jess | she/they | 21 currently writing for: the pitt !! dont copy my stuff !!

[bounty-jes]

Masterlist

The Pitt

Fics　　⁺ 　﹒⋆ 　 ﹒ 　⁺ 　﹒

i want you (to need me) || jack abbot x f!reader

breaking in ||jack abbot x f!reader

tasting you || frank langdon x f!reader

if you want me (i'll stay) || michael robinavitch x f!reader

drug of choice || michael robinavitch x f!reader

blame it on the cuervo [WIP] || michael robinavitch x f!reader

loverboy || dennis whitaker x f!reader

AUs　　⁺ 　﹒⋆ 　 ﹒ 　⁺ 　﹒

midwest gothic

jack abbot is andrew cody

[bounty-jes]

pick my wip [the pitt ii]

robby x reader vegas wedding

rabbot x doordasher!reader

robby x nurse!reader time loop

[results please]

Voting ended onMay 1

more info below the cut

Michael Robinavitch x reader Vegas Wedding 𖥔 [age difference, fem!reader, accidental marriage, provably angst and fluff, Jewish robby 🙂‍↕️] 𖥔 You wake up in a hotel room that isn’t yours, wearing a ring you didn’t own the night before, trying to read the sad excuse of a signature on your marriage certificate. Shit. Your marriage certificate.

╰┈➤ Pertinent info: started, but will be a long one (sigh), involves ocs (NOT the reader), probably take a while to actually get out, inspired by Last Name by Carrie Underwood iykyk

•*┈─★

Michael Robinavitch x doordasher!reader x Jack Abbot 𖥔 [age difference, fem!reader, polyamory (it’s robbyxjackxyou cmon), suicidal ideation, angst, one (1) misunderstanding] 𖥔 Four times you charged extra for the trek to the roof of the PTMC and the one time you did it for free

╰┈➤ Pertinent info: not started, but won’t take as long as first option, 4+1, probably shorter (~5k), the suicidal ideation tag isn’t a joke guys, this will have an attempt :(

•*┈─★

Nurse!reader x Michael Robinavitch 𖥔 [age difference (I’m a slut okay), canon-typical violence and gore, time loop au, fem!reader] 𖥔 After a shitty day at work, you just want to pass out in your bed and forget it ever happened. Too bad it’s gonna happen again. And again. And again. And—well, you get it.

╰┈➤ Pertinent info: less of story already written, will take about as long to write as Vegas wedding, similar length to Vegas wedding, angst with a fluffy ending

•*┈─★

[results please] a.k.a. Frank Langdon x reader F1 au that will not go away 𖥔 [F1 driver!frank, fem!reader, soft and sweet] 𖥔 I’ve been reading too many f1 x reader fics on here lately and the hyperfixations are merging (shivers down my fucking spine), might be a smau idk yet if even one person picks this ill probably write it ngl.

╰┈➤ Pertinent info: none of this is written, I literally got the idea earlier today and it won’t leave, I WILL have to do research on F1 racing :( so pls don’t enable me by picking this one, this one would probably have the most other pitt crew in it outside of the ship esp if I do a smau

symbols from @webgrave, @nekozume03, and @dientesdeporcelana

[bounty-jes]

drug of choice

fandom: The Pitt

pairing: Michael Robinavitch x f!Reader

18+ MDNI 18+ MDNI 18+ MDNI this story contains explicit sexual content. this work is considered mature and i ask that minors do not interact

content: dacryphilia, intoxication kink, dubious consent (due to intox, but blanket consent has been given prior to story), trust is so sexy guys, outdoor sex (they start on the patio), she/her reader, unprotected piv (wrap it before you tap it!), oral (giving/receiving), scent kink, pet names (baby, sweetheart, honey, sweet thing, love, my girl)

word count: 5.0k

summary: you love when robby fucks you while you're high (inspired by this lovely blurb by @loves-alibi ).

notes: this was a test to see if I can write porn without plot. I can. I cannot however write porn without (just so, so many) feelings. also I did in fact write most of this while high, so do with that what you will.

line dividers from @chrisssiren, mdni banner from @hopelesslygaysstuff

You don’t feel like you’re floating yet. That’s where you usually prefer to be on nights like these. Friday and Saturday nights when Robby doesn’t work the next day either. Nights where the air is warm enough that you can sit on the patio, in the cushy little couch that reeks of weed, and really enjoy your joint. Savor it, even. It’s definitely what you’re doing right now. An hour of taking a few hits, letting the joint go out, and relighting it when you need more. Not even halfway through the joint, you lift it to your lips and flick on the lighter. It’s probably a placebo, the way that next hit feels like it immediately makes you lighter. Not floating yet, but getting there. 

Everything is just soft right now. Your thoughts are slowed and the smoke seems to curl specifically against your fingers as you play with it in the air. You wouldn’t trust yourself to drive at this point, but you also know how Robby likes you. How you like it. You’ll get there.

“Hey, baby? You out here?” Robby’s voice sends a shiver down your spine. Like he’s got you conditioned. Because your body knows this routine. Weed in your system plus Robby equals sexy times. And you’re not done smoking yet. 

Robby likes watching you smoke. Doesn’t participate, just watches. He’ll occasionally smoke a cigarette after an especially hard shift, but he doesn’t share. He knows you don’t like them. But he loves seeing the smoke curl around your mouth. He loves the way your eyes, your entire body, softens. Something about watching the joint he knows you rolled slowly burning away. Destroying your own hard work just for him. So maybe you get more high when he’s there to watch. Maybe you try to show off a little. Maybe he encourages you to take one more hit. An encouragement you both know you’re welcome to reject. You’ve never turned him away before and you have no plans to start now. 

“Robby!” You’re maybe a bit too excited about his appearance on the patio, but you can’t help it. Especially not when his entire face softens. He squeezes in beside you on the couch, pressing a kiss to your forehead. His arm rests across the back of the couch behind you. The first time he did it, you thought he was trying to be smooth. Then you just realized he’s an old man. “I’m not done yet.”

“That’s alright. I’ll wait.” His lips slide down to your cheek, then your jaw. You take another drag, giggling softly as he nips at the soft skin behind your ear. The scruff of his beard scratches against your skin, making goosebumps rise. Your free hand winds into his hair. Robby hums, pulling back just enough so his lips aren’t touching you anymore. You can feel his hot breath and it’s driving you crazy.

“Robby, stop teasing.” You mutter, trying to tug him closer. His laughter blows across your lips and something shocks you in the base of your spine. Like the taste of his laugh is enough to take you to the edge. 

“You said you weren’t done yet.” Robby’s voice drips with mirth, his mouth curving into a smile. You can only huff, annoyed and turned on in equal measure. Which only annoys you more. Except-

The way Robby watches you makes your cheeks flame. All soft and warm. The wrinkles around his eyes bloom beautifully as he smiles and you’re so glad you get to see this. Up close. In person. You reach out, tracing the lines of Robby’s face. He doesn’t move, just continues to track your movement with his eyes. The way he just lets you explore his face, never once flinching away, makes the heat spread to your chest.

“Careful, baby. You’re only halfway through that. I know you like a little more.” He reaches across you to grab the joint from the ashtray. His breath curls warm around your ear. Hands still on his face and you pull back with a huff.

“Is that the doctor’s order?” You lean away, your smile sharpening just slightly. Robby’s jaw visibly ticks at the distance, but he doesn’t make any move to pull you back. “Or does my boyfriend just like it when I’m high?”

The smile on Robby’s face is nothing short of playful. Teasing, even. His beard scratches against your chin as he leans in, lips brushing your ear. “It does have its perks.” You scoff and Robby just chuckles quietly, nipping at your ear. “Come on, love. I like you all the time.”

You better, you think. Instead of saying it out loud, you take another long drag from the joint, watching as the paper burns away. Smoke spills from your mouth as you blow it out into the night sky. Peaceful, quiet, you and Robby’s little paradise just outside of the city proper. You can hear the cicadas calling out to each other. 

Night passes slowly between puffs of smoke and Robby’s hands sliding over your body. He starts innocently enough, arm slung over your shoulder, fingers brushing random patterns into your skin. But with every hit, he goes just a little further. Tracing down your arm. Your collarbone. Your nape. All with a feather-light touch that makes you shiver. And every time you react, you can feel the rumble of laughter against you. Directly channeling his amusement into your core. You want to feel it between your legs where you are slowly soaking through the pair of underwear you threw on without a thought after your shower. Robby always appreciates when you dress up for him, but he loves when you’re just yourself. 

“Robby, please…” You try to move onto his lap, to press down against the couch cushion and get some friction on your needy pussy. Robby just grabs your shoulders again, keeping you in place.

“Baby, you haven’t even finished this yet.” God, his breath is like fire against the shell of your ear. You want to turn toward it. See if he can light your joint with only his gaze. “Come on. You can finish it, honey.” 

You can’t help gasping as Robby reaches into the valley of your thighs. His skin barely brushes against your thighs as he grabs the lighter, lifting it to the joint between your lips. You lean in, letting him click on the lighter, use his hand to gently guard the flame from the wind. Robby releases the button, flame sputtering out. But neither of you move away. Your lips ache. Your cunt aches. You need him. The whine that crawls up your throat is completely involuntary. A noise only freed due to the weed in your system. Robby laughs. Again. You whine. Again. Because Robby is being so mean. 

The indignation must show on your face as Robby sighs and loosens his hold on your shoulders. “Fine. You can ride my leg, but you’re not allowed to come until you’ve finished that.”

“Okay.” You agree immediately. Who are you to argue? To risk losing the gracious gift you’ve been offered? You may be high, but you’re not stupid yet. 

It takes longer than it should to climb onto one of Robby’s legs. Unaided by Robby, of course, who simply laughs at you. A low, deep sound of amusement as you clumsily try to coordinate all four of your limbs. The joint hangs precariously as you try not to crush the filter between your lips. But when you finally do settle onto his thigh, it’s like lightning through your spine. Sharp and bright. You roll your hips to feel it again, moaning as your clit grinds over a seam. It’s a soothing pattern that you find yourself getting lost in. Robby’s hands move across your waist, your hips, your thighs. Rough skin against soft. You can feel that familiar sensation in your core, building slowly.

“Don’t forget, baby.” Robby taps the mostly burned roll between your lips. It ashes between the two of you. 

The hit you take is long. Probably too long for the end of a joint. But your thighs are trembling and you need to finish it now. The filter falls between you as well. You’ll find it tomorrow and throw it away then. Right now, you’re too busy watching the stars as they form behind your eyelids. You clench around nothing as an orgasm washes over you. Every movement makes your bones feel like jelly. Then you exhale. It scratches against your throat like it’s trying to escape faster than you can breathe it out. Coughs wrack your body and Robby runs a soothing hand across your back, whispering gentle praise. The only problem is that his voice shakes with laughter as he watches you. 

(Robby likes when you cough. He likes how your face burns hot and your eyes water. He likes how you cling to him. He likes how you always look for him when it happens. No water. No deep breaths. Just him. His cock twitches in his pants.)

“You’re okay, sweetheart. You did so good. Looked so good.” He murmurs, peppering your cheeks with kisses as the coughing calms. “Come on, let’s get you some water, baby.”

Robby lifts you off of his thigh, grinning at the noise that escapes you. He just sits there for a minute, staring as you wobble in front of him. Your knees feel a little bit like jelly. They barely hold you up as you stand under Robby’s dark gaze searing into your skin. You think you’d be able to track his gaze from the burns it trails behind. Finally, he stands. He makes a noise that suddenly reminds you of the greying patches in Robby’s hair. His beard. God, you’re just a kid to him. 

“You coming, sweetheart?” He grins like he knows. And he probably does. Robby can read you like a medical chart, with a single flicker of his eyes. You’re hopeless. Helpless. Something dangerously close to addicted. 

“Love you, Robby.” You murmur, wrapping your arms around one of his, squeezing tight. He’s so warm. His chuckle blows over the crown of your head and he leads you back through the sliding patio doors. You start to head toward the kitchen, but Robby tugs you to the left. The hallway. 

“Love you, too, baby. C’mon.” He takes you both to the bathroom, flicking on the light. You squint at the light. Robby grabs your hips and hoists you onto the countertop almost effortlessly. Almost. You can see the way his wrinkles shift. How he holds back a grunt. You think it’s cute how he tries to hide. So you lean forward and press a kiss to the corner of his lips.

Robby turns, catching your lips with his and deepening the kiss. His tongue parts your lips and slides inside. He pulls back, nose wrinkled. “You taste like pot.”

“Robby! I thought you said you liked me all the time.” He just laughs at your pout, leaning away to grab your toothbrush. You whine in return, reaching out for him with grabby hands. Robby easily obliges, settling a grounding hand on your hip.

“I do like you all the time. I just don’t like kissing you all the time.” Robby’s voice drips with mirth as he moves back to settle between your legs. “Come on. I’ll help.”

And he does. Your only job is to sit pretty on the counter, still and mostly quiet. It’s difficult not to tease the way Robby is so careful with everything. The way he squeezes the perfect amount of toothpaste out. The way he makes sure to scrub every single tooth. You can’t look away, mesmerized by the simple act. When he finally drops the toothbrush back into the sad plastic cup stolen from a random bar, something snaps. Because the world is so soft right now. Warm and slow and so, so soft. For Robby to be soft on top of that? You feel like you’re sinking into an old couch. 

“Baby? You okay?” Robby’s hand is on your shoulder and suddenly everything is fine again. Like his touch is a cure to any ailment. Suddenly the world feels right again. You lean into it.

“I need you, Robby. Please.” You surely sound pitiful. But you don’t care. The hand on your shoulder tightens and that is almost enough. Even that slight pressure makes everything better. You feel the hot tears at the corners of your eyes before you even realize you’re crying. Robby smiles softly, lifting his hand to cup your jaw and wipe at your eye. So careful. Then he leans in. 

The kiss is exactly what you need. Heavy. Lips pressed hard against yours, pushed back to the mirror. You probably couldn’t fight Robby off if you were sober. With the weed running through your veins, you have no hope. (Not that you would ever need to. One word and Robby would stop immediately. The trust, the deep, undeniable understanding between the two of you, the fact that you wouldn’t have to, that makes it hot.) His hands are like molten lava across your skin. They burn a path down your jaw and neck, sliding down your sides. It’s when he squeezes your hips that you finally let out a noise. A little half-moan that surprised even you. 

“There’s my girl.” And his lips slide toward your jaw, working at the skin there. Another noise escapes as a new realization slowly dawns on you. There will be marks there tomorrow. Gone by the time you have to go back to work on Monday, but you’ll know. Everyone at the grocery store tomorrow morning will know. Robby will know. Already knows. Knows that you like it. Likes it himself. “Let’s get you to bed, honey.”

His hands slide down again, settling on your hips and you just know he’s going to try to lift you. Carry you to the bedroom and drop you gently on the soft blankets. And as hot as it is when he does that, Robby will regret it in the morning when his back aches and he can barely climb out of bed. So you brush his hands off and slide toward the edge of the counter. Toward him. He doesn’t move, doesn’t let you down. Just presses you harder against him. Your legs spread wide around his hips and you can feel the way his pants tent, pushing just barely off where you need him.

“Robby. Baby, if you carry me you’ll throw out your back.” You murmur against his ear, pressing at his chest. Laughter rumbles through him and you can feel it beneath your fingertips. He doesn’t lean back, though, so you run your hands up to his shoulders, playing with the short hairs at his nape. “I’m not so high I can’t walk. Although, you might like that.”

“No, baby.” A kiss to your cheek. Another to your jaw. Slow and wet over already-marked skin. “I like when you know what’s going on. When you’re just far enough gone to lose yourself.” A nip at your ear.  You tug his hair in retaliation and he grins. “I like it when you push back. A little.” The low tone of his voice is nothing short of a warning. A don’t-push-it warning blaring across his face. You know not to push him unless you don’t want to sleep tonight.

Instead, you let him kiss down your jaw, to the collar of your shirt. You press against him just enough to hop off the counter. Robby noses at your hair. He pulls back and you bite down the whine that wants to escape.

“You smell like a joint.” Robby scrunches his nose. It’s adorable. You’re too annoyed to notice.

“Robert—”

“You know that’s not my name, sweetheart.”

“Robert Robinavitch,” You say slowly, lifting a hand so settle on your cocked hip. “If you try to make me shower right now, I’m locking you out of the bedroom.”

And maybe he knows not to push unless he wants to sleep on the couch tonight. So he lifts his hands in surrender and steps back, letting you lead the way out of the bathroom and into the hallway. You wobble slightly and Robby’s hand is hot against your hip, stabilizing you with a little more strength than necessary. You laugh softly, glancing back at him.

You fall back onto the plush comforter with another laugh, grinning up at Robby. He just stands there, taking you in. His dark eyes rake across your body. Your clothes. “Baby, come on!”

Robby laughs at your whine and finally leans over you. His hands rest near your shoulders, fisting the blankets in his fists as he cages you in. You intertwine your fingers behind his neck and try to tug him down for a kiss. He grins but doesn’t budge. You whine again. You can’t bring yourself to be embarrassed about it. Robby loves all of your little noises. He fucks you harder when you’re screaming because he knows exactly how good he’s making you feel. Wants the neighbors to know as well. 

“What do you want, sweet thing? You gotta tell me.” 

He always does this. Always makes you say it before you can completely lose yourself. While you still have that tenuous grasp on the world around you, outside of where your bodies touch. And he always follows through. No matter what you ask for. He just grins and thanks you. Like your pleas are his salvation. Like he can find heaven between your legs. Like he already has and needs another hit. 

“Wanna, um, want you to, uh…” Your brain feels like cotton. Thick and hot. It takes multiple seconds for you to form the next thought. Seconds of careful consideration as you think of how you want this night to go. Of course, you already know the answer. It’s always the same. “Want you to eat me out. Want you to fuck me until all I can feel is you, baby. Please.”

Robby hums something low and pleased. You can feel it in your chest as he leans down to press a kiss to your lips. More of a peck than anything else. “Thank you, love.”

His voice is reverent. Heavy enough that you can feel it against your skin. His eyes stay locked on yours and he slides down your chest to your stomach until his face is framed between your thighs. It makes you dizzy, the way you can’t look away. 

He starts by pressing kisses to your thighs. Lips over clothed skin so reverent that you want to cry. Want to beg for him to just get on with it. But before you can even open your mouth, he’s tearing down your shorts and nosing at your cunt. And that nose. He always presses it right over your clit, using it with precision. When his tongue laves up over your soaked panties, you can’t stay quiet any more. Not that you were trying to. 

“Mikey…” You breathe out, low and rough. Robby groans against you, loving the way his name sounds on your clumsy tongue. His teeth scrape over the wet fabric and you yelp, hips bucking up. Robby immediately holds a flat hand over your stomach. His fingers press into the soft flesh there as he holds you down on the bed. “Please, baby. Need you so bad.”

Your words are little more than babble, but Robby grins. Something warm and soft (and maybe a little sharp at the edges, a little satisfied). “Only because you asked so nicely.” And your underwear is gone. Cool air hits your wet pussy and you can hear Robby groan as he hooks a thumb on each side, pulling the fat lips apart. “So pretty for me, baby.”

His tongue is heaven against your wet folds. Rough against smooth skin, swiping up the entire length of your pussy. He moans against you like he gets just as much pleasure from simply eating you out and the vibrations travel straight up your spine. Your eyes flutter shut as you arch your back off the bed. Hands slide down to grip at Robby’s hair, tugging. That only makes Robby moan against you again.

“Mike—Mikey, I’m—” You usually don’t come this fast. Not when you’re sober, at least. Sober and not still coming down from the high of another orgasm. But your thighs tremble around Robby’s head as he pulls back just enough to nip at your thighs.

“I know, baby.” And he lifts his hand, shoving two fingers into your sopping hole. “So pretty for me, sweetheart.”

That’s what pushes you over the edge. His sweet words as he fucks his fingers into you without abandon. He doesn’t stop as the zings up your spine. Hot and sharp and just as addicting as the softer one you’d had earlier. You want to feel it again and again and—

Robby licks up your cunt one last time before leaning back. He stares at you, settled on his knees at the end of the bed. You can see the line of his cock pressing against his cargo pants. The sight alone makes your clit twitch, still swollen and puffy. You can’t help sitting up, carefully maneuvering your clumsy limbs. Robby doesn’t say anything. Just watches, gentle smile curving on his lips. It’s not until you’re pressing your face against his groin, huffing him like you’re starved for it. 

“Wanna suck my cock, baby?” It’s not a question. Not really. At least, not a question Robby needs to ask. He knows the answer. Knows that you’ll nod and claw at his waistband. Or just mouth at him over his pants if he denies you. But you want to feel the weight of it on your tongue. Filling your mouth. You want to feel it nudge the back of your throat, press back further than it should. “You wanna gag on it?” 

God, Robby knows you so well. 

“Please. Please, Mikey. Need it. Need to suck you off. Please.” Tears fall down your face again, needy and hot. It’s silly. Like it’s the end of the world and the only thing that can save you is Robby. His cock. Like you’re afraid he would ever deny you anything. But he just grins, wiping away one of your tears with his thumb. You can feel your thighs clench as he brings it to his lips, tasting your salty tears. 

“Take off your shirt.”

And that is definitely not a request. So you tug off your shirt (Robby’s shirt that you stole from his dresser after your shower because it smelled like him). You’re not wearing a bra underneath. You barely do at home. Especially on nights like this. When you know what’s coming. When you look at Robby again, shirt tossed somewhere across the room, you realize he has done the same. His thick chest is on full display and you run your fingers through the dark hair before you can even think about it. Mesmerized by the hard lines and soft curves of Robby’s body. Every time you see it is like the first and you’re absolutely positive that your eyes are more pupil than iris at this point. 

“Such a good girl for me, baby.” Robby practically coos, grabbing at the back of your head and scratching gently at your scalp. Your eyes flutter as he tugs you closer with one hand. The other deftly unbuckles his belt and quickly shucks off his pants. You can see the outline of his cock even better now against the material of his black boxer briefs. Like it wants desperately to escape. There’s a spot of slightly darker fabric. Wet. You groan, pressing forward to mouth at the spot, desperate to have any taste of him.

Robby just chuckles, pulling you back and tugging down the offending fabric. When his cock springs free, it knocks against your chin, leaving a line of pre across your cheek. You immediately wipe it off with your finger and bring it to your lips, savoring the taste. Then you focus on him. 

And, god, is there a lot to focus on. Red and thick, a prominent vein winding its way up the shaft. The head is blunt, shining in the low light of the bedroom. You don’t even stop to think, just wrap your lips around it and move down. Robby groans, short nails digging into your scalp as he tugs you even closer. It doesn’t take long for him to completely sheathe his cock in your throat. Your nose is buried in the thick curls at the base and you inhale his scent. Robby only lets you revel in it for a second before he’s grinding against your face. Tears well in your eyes as his cock completely blocks your throat. It’s not until you feel like you’re floating (finally) that he pulls back just enough for you to suck in a rough breath. But the moment you catch your breath, you’re leaning in again, working on his cock. 

“Shit, honey.” Robby moans, his cock twitching on your tongue. You want to taste him. Want to feel his hot spend in your mouth, pouring down your throat. It’s all you need right now. You think maybe you could die happy with Robby’s come dripping out of your mouth. But before you can get the taste you so desperately want, Robby pushes you back, hands on your shoulders. For the first time, you look at his face. Flushed and sweaty, eyes dark and sharp. You want to melt into that gaze. “Thought you wanted me to fuck you, sweet thing.”

He tries to sound teasing. And it works, but the way his mouth hangs open with something close to awe as you look up at him takes away some of the effect. His palm is cool against your cheek as he lifts your jaw to make you hold his gaze. You hum, practically nuzzling into his hand as you nod. Because, yes, you definitely want that. To feel him stretching you out as he presses into you. Robby tsks, thumb slipping down to your lips. You swallow. 

“Please, Mikey.” You beg. You would beg for Robby to look at you, much less for him to give you heaven. It’s an easy thing to look up at him through heavy lashes, your eyes still red from the tears and weed, and beg.

“So good for me. Lay back.”

Robby’s hands slide down your body as he helps you lay back on the bed. Calloused fingertips dragging across your skin. It feels like trails of fire moving down, down, down—until he reaches between your thighs and spreads them wide. His eyes follow the path, landing on the shining folds of your wet pussy. It doesn’t take long for him to groan and pull one hand from you to grab the base of his cock. Robby’s eyes meet yours again and you feel the tip press against your entrance. 

“Baby, please.” Your hands grab at his face, tugging him down above you. His lips press against yours, searing against your skin. Robby kisses you like he wants to consume you, inside and out. Like maybe he needs you just as much as you need him. His lips slowly trail down to your jaw, your neck. Down to your chest, your pebbled nipples.

You yelp as Robby nips at one of your nipples and he uses the distraction to shove his cock into your cunt in one powerful thrust. The gasp that leaves your throat is silent. An expulsion of every single bit of air in your lungs. You can feel him everywhere. Robby always fills you up so well. Perfect stretch of him inside of you. His mouth never leaves your tits, sucking at the skin, making sure to leave marks. You continue to tug at his hair with every thrust he makes into you, ramming past that soft, spongey spot inside of you. It’s not until his thumb presses against your clit that you see stars. Explosions of light behind your eyes as something hot and slow builds inside your core. 

“Gonna come again for me, honey? Gonna come on my cock?” Robby’s voice is hot against your chest. Rough in a way you know is your own doing. You nod, whimpers sounding in your throat as you try to pull him back up. Your lips burn. 

Robby finally kisses you, hard and sloppy. Wet. You meet him in the middle, unable to even return the fervor as he presses so hard against you. From where he presses your foreheads together to the tangle of your legs, skin sliding against skin. 

He tugs on your clit, sucking your tongue and that slow, hot feeling finally catches fire. Spreads through you like a wildfire. Your pussy flutters around him in time with your eyes. Even with your eyes open, you can only see white. Bright and hot. Then that warm sensation returns, but it’s real this time. Something tangible. You moan, head falling back as you realize Robby came. Filled you with his spend. 

“You okay, sweetheart?” Robby asks so softly, voice gruff. You finally lift your head to look at him again, knocking your foreheads together gently. 

“Mmm, so good.” You press lazy kisses to anywhere you can reach, peppering them across his eyes and forehead. Robby lets you cover his skin with your lips before tugging you down and kissing you again. You melt into it. You always do when it comes to Robby’s lips on yours. “Water?”

“Yeah, baby. I’ll get you water.” Robby murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. 

You both groan as he pulls out of you, come dribbling out slowly. But he gently massages your hips as he rolls you onto your side. And he keeps his promise, disappearing for only a moment before returning with the bathroom toothbrush cup, filled with water, and a warm towel. You roll onto your stomach to drink the water as he gently towels between your legs and across your neck and chest. His eyes rove over the trails of marks he left on your skin and you can see the deep satisfaction there. You smile sleepily as he moves behind you and pulls the covers over you both. 

“G’night, Mikey.” You hum, turning to press a kiss to his cheek. 

“Goodnight, love.”

happy 420 to those who celebrate! i just barely got this out on time woo! i hope you degenerates enjoyed this i haven't written smut since the citrus scale was the norm.

[rr-after-dark]

okay several of you sweet nervous babies have messaged me about this so i want to be clear:

i love you spam likers. i love you chronic reply-ers. i love you regular engagers. i love you “always reply first” readers. i love you “messaging just to be sure” people.

the people whose usernames i recognize are my favorite people in the whole world besides my spouse my mom my girlfriend and my dog. i see you and i go !!!! hey it’s Them they like me!!! they really like me!!!

engagement is NEVER a bother. is it NEVER annoying. not to me!! i can’t get back to everyone but i see you and i love you

i’m kissing you on the forehead

[bounty-jes]

breaking in

fandom: The Pitt

pairing: Jack Abbot x f!reader

content: reader is Robby's niece, cursing, age gap (reader is mid-late 20s, jack is late 40s/early 50s), she/her reader, pet names (sweetheart, sweetie, bug, kid), reader is down bad (and very horny), jack is also down bad, probably inaccurate medical talk, canon-typical talk of injuries, no use of y/n, probably an overuse of italics, six-year-old you is her own character and i love her ngl, Jack Abbot drives a Bronco agenda pt ii, jackie nickname supremecy

word count: 12.5 k (new. longest. fic. im exhausted)

summary: when you move in with your Uncle Mike in Pittsburgh, you don't expect to fall for his best friend.

notes: i am giving these men more and more reasons to live 🙏

line divider by @chrisssiren

You’ve met your uncle before. Your mother claims that the first time he met you was when you were born. The first time you remember meeting him was on your sixth birthday. He hung around in the hall while the rest of the adults conversed casually in the kitchen. Robby had always been awkward around his sister and her late husband’s family. You had watched him as he held a beer with loose fingers, looking almost small. Approachable. Maybe that was why you had grabbed his large hand and dragged him into the living room. Your presents were still scattered across the carpeted floor, torn wrapping paper piled up in the corner. 

“Mama says you’re a doctor. Show me how to use these.” You had lifted the play doctor doctor kit from one of your cousins. Then, you paused, your mother’s voice echoing in your head. “Please, Uncle Mikey.”

And Robby couldn’t say no. Not when you had apparently learned to weaponize your shining eyes since he last saw you. Eyes that looked like your mothers. Like his.

That was how your mother found the two of you. She teased her brother as he carefully explained how each little plastic tool worked. They were dwarfed in his hands and you listened with rapt attention. Your mother took a picture, printing it out the next day and hanging it on the fridge. It’s still there, held in place by a magnet in the shape of the Pittsburgh Penguins logo. A gift from Robby when he finished his residency, because he was the kind of person to give gifts when celebrating rather than receive them. 

Robby still visits, but his drives to Philadelphia were reserved for holidays and birthdays. A few select days of the year that he deigned take off of work. It’s a recent thing, you think. Robby has always been hesitant around your family. Your family, because all Robby had left was you and your mom. His sister and niece. Your grandparents died before you were born. Before your mom could remember. Your great-grandma died when you were three, taking on the responsibility of raising her two grandkids all alone. You can only remember her through stories and pictures that seem like dreams to you.

(You do remember one thing about her. The home your mom and Robby had sent her to, near the end, had birds in the lobby. Little things that chirped happily and flew around in blurs of vibrant color. There were pictures of her, old ones, with a bird perched on her thin finger. You had asked for a pet bird when you first saw the picture. When your mother said no, you cried all through the night.)

But that was twenty years ago. You’ve graduated college and found a job. A real adult, ready to take on the world. The only kink in this plan is that your amazing new job is in Pittsburgh. A breezy seven hour drive from your home where you still live with your mother in Philadelphia. You don’t love the idea of that commute and neither had your mom when you announced that you had been hired. Which is how you find yourself standing outside of Michael Robinavitch’s apartment, waiting for your uncle to open the fucking door already. 

“Hey, you must be the niece Robby told me so much about.” An unfamiliar voice calls from the end of the hall. You turn to find the source of the voice, only to see a man you don’t recognize. He’s not as tall as your uncle, but he’s built. Freckles across his nose and what you can see of his forearms. You have no idea who this man is, but you kind of want to. 

“Robby?” You tilt your head instead of climbing this man like a tree and hike your duffel up higher on your shoulder. The man’s smile shifts to something confused and you glance down at the post-it in your hand. Apt 3A, in your mother’s looped handwriting. You look at the door again. 3A. Huh. 

The man studies your face a moment longer before his eyes widen just slightly in realization. He scratches at the scruff on his chin, shining silver under the warm hallway light. “Right. Michael? Everyone calls him Robby at the hospital. It's a habit, I guess.”

“You work with Uncle Mikey?” The question slips out before you can stop it. You’ve called him that since you could first pronounce the words with clumsy lips. The man (whose name you really need to learn) looks amused at the name as he nods slowly. You make quick work of introducing yourself. It’s his turn to tilt his head as he hears your last name. 

“Not Robinavitch?”

“My mom took my dad’s name. He…he died before I was born.” Your voice softens toward the end and you have no idea why you’re telling this to a stranger. You half expect the usual litany of apologies and my condolences, but the man just nods again. Maybe you should change the subject. “I never got your name.”

“Abbot. Uh, Jack…Abbot.” His voice is nervous, a contrast to his solid exterior. It’s…cute? The thought is shaken from your mind as the man—Jack, your mind supplies helpfully—holds out his hand. You shake it quickly, trying not to focus on the way his calloused hand feels against yours. You cannot do this right now.

“Who are you? James Bond?” You tease, shoving down the flush threatening to rise on your chest. But you can’t bring yourself to look away from the pink heating the tips of Jack’s ears at your words. He laughs anyway and you think you want to hear that sound again. And again. And god, you can see his teeth and they’re just a little crooked. You wonder idly if he ever had braces. If he was one of those kids who refused to wear a retainer after. 

“Not quite, sweetheart.” And he’s still grinning. You like the way he says the nickname. Or maybe you just like the sound of his voice. You’re quickly realizing you like a lot of things about Jack Abbot.

You’ve always been like this. Falling faster than you can catch yourself. Your friends have always teased you but you can’t help it. You always loved the story of how your parents met. Like a fairy tale with a tragic ending. The way your mom tells it, she knew the first time their eyes met that she would marry your father. You’ve always wanted that. Not that it can happen with this man. Your uncle’s coworker? Friend? The duffel slips down your shoulder and you hike it back up again and glance at the door. 

“Oh! Right,” Jack pats at his pockets before pulling out a key. It’s bright pink. Your favorite color…when you were six. But you know Robby must have gotten it with you in mind and that alone makes you smile softly. “Robby got caught up at work. Asked me to drop this off for you.”

The key is warm against your palm and you shove it into the lock. The door clicks open and you turn to lift your suitcase. You have more boxes at home, but you’re only staying with your uncle until you can find an apartment of your own. Except, your suitcase isn’t on the ground. Jack is holding it in his hands. Big, strong hands connected to big, strong arms that you—no. You turn toward the entry and step inside. Jack follows and doesn’t put down the suitcase until you tell him where to put it. 

“Did Uncle Mike tell you how long he’d be?” You ask, studying the apartment around you in lieu of watching Jack move toward the fridge and pull out a beer. He looks so comfortable in the house and you wonder how often he’s stayed over. How often he’s slept in the guest bedroom. Your bedroom, now. 

“It was just one patient that came in as he was finishing up, so he probably won’t be too long.” Jack shrugs, taking a sip from the glass bottle. You watch his throat bob as he swallows and you turn back to the apartment. It’s warm and soft. The kind of place that makes it easy to call home. You’re snapped out of your thoughts as Jack speaks again. “I can stay, though. If you want.”

You don’t catch the hesitancy in his voice. The way he watches you move around the space. You’re very busy not looking at him, actually. 

“You don’t have to.” Jack just grins as you try to brush him off. The way things are going, you’re afraid you might jump him if he stays.

“I’m offering, sweetheart.” And there it is again. That name in that voice. Those arms. That grin. Freckles. Why does he have to be hot and funny and sweet? And completely off-limits. 

“I’ll be fine. Thanks, Jack.” You say quickly, pointedly glaring down at the floor as you force down a flush. 

“If you say so.” Jack shrugs, running a hand through his curls. That’s when you see the black band wrapped around his ring finger. Shit. No. Not only is he twenty years too old for you. Not only is he your uncle’s friend. He’s married. A shock of anxiety runs hot through your veins and you take a step back. As if the physical distance will obscure how much you want this man. “Here.”

Jack steps through the kitchen, taking his time to grab a notepad and pen. He scribbles something on the paper, pressing it into your hand with a smile. You can’t bring yourself to look at it until the front door of Robby’s apartment clicks shut. Scrawled across the small sheet is a phone number. A fucking phone number. And words written under it in tall, sharp handwriting that you can barely read.

Just in case.

That’s it. That’s all it says. You tuck the paper into your palm, holding yourself back from adding the number to your contacts. You can’t. Not when you know yourself well enough to know it won’t end well. It will end with you texting a married man.

“He’s married.” You mutter to yourself aloud, like it will stop you from imagining Jack’s face before you go to sleep tonight. The paper crinkles in your grip and you consider burning it for a single second. Just keeping it should be fine, right? 

Nah, you’re fucked.

Living with Robby is strange. Different from what you’re used to. They were raised together, but your mother and your uncle are very different people. You’re used to helping her cook and hanging up your jackets when you get home. You’re used to open blinds and music on the turntable. It’s not that Robby is a shut-in or a slob. He’s just tired. But, after a week of watching Robby only eat takeout, takeout leftovers, and granola bars, you decide that if you want him to live long enough to walk you down the aisle (a promise he made to you in a split second when you asked almost twenty years ago, a promise you still plan to hold him to) you’re gonna need to put the work in. And, really, it’s the least you can do with him letting you take over his home. 

So you cook dinner and make sure to keep some warm until Robby gets back from work. You hang up jackets that Robby leaves over the back of the couch. You force Robby to actually leave the house on his days off. Little things that will never be able to repay everything you owe your uncle. Even if he insists that you don’t have to. You don’t notice the change until Robby has guests over.

Jack and Dana insist on coming over. At least, that’s what Robby says when the three of them stumble through the door. However, considering the late hour and the smell of alcohol wafting off of the three, you think Robby just didn’t want to deal with getting his friends to their separate homes.

“Sorry, bug.” Robby murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to the crown of your head. He hasn’t called you that since you were twelve and you begged him to stop. You don’t mind it so much right now. “Should’a let you know they were comin’.”

You wave him off with a soft smile. Robby usually isn’t so sappy, even with you. “Don’t worry about it, Uncle Mikey.”

Just behind Robby, you can see Jack and Dana huddled close over a phone. You wonder if it’s Jack’s, leaning forward to glance down at the screen. They’re ordering food? Okay, now you know where your uncle got all his bad habits from. Definitely not bubbe. He’s surrounded by bad influences. You huff just slightly before gesturing toward the kitchen behind you.

“I made dinner. There’s leftovers staying warm in the oven. Should be enough for all of you.” You offer before Jack and Dana can start arguing about whose turn it is to pay. Robby pulls you into a quick side hug, used to coming home to a homemade dinner by now. He was hesitant about letting you cook for him at first. About depending on you like that. He came around pretty quick when you threatened to call his favorite Chinese place and have them block his number.

“You cook?” Jack’s voice is soft and full of something close to wonder. Your cheeks heat and you look anywhere but at Jack. His ring glints in the low light, making something curl angrily in your chest. “That’s…hot.”

Your cheeks must be on fire by now. Robby speaks behind you, the oven whining as he pulls the door open. “Jack.” Just his name. In a voice that sounds both sharp and amused. Not something you often hear from your uncle. Jack just grins.

“Just telling the truth, Rob. She’s a grown woman.” You ignore the way Jack’s words make your skin shiver. The way he looks at you when he says it. Robby grumbles something under his breath and rolls his eyes before turning back to the oven. Jack leans in close before you can make your brain work again. “Ain’t that right, sweetheart?”

“Jack, you’re scarin’ the poor girl.” Another voice says. Dana, now known as your savior. You haven’t met her before, but you’ve seen pictures. Pinned on the fridge next to a drawing you made when you were little, too young to remember. Three wobbly figures holding hands. The only family you’ve ever known.

“You must be Dana. Robby’s told me a lot about you.” Snatching the chance to focus on anything but Jack, you introduce yourself to Dana. She doesn’t take the hand you offer, instead pulling you into a tight hug instead. It reminds you of your mother. You think you might already love Dana. She smells like whiskey and citrus.

Dana just laughs, patting your shoulder as she leans away. “Only bad things, I’m sure.” Then, she turns to Jack, her eyes something between amused and stern. Eerily similar to the tone of Robby’s voice earlier. Like they know something you don’t. “Apologize, Abbot. Or me and Robby aren’t sharing dinner.”

And Jack looks personally offended by that. Dana just brushes past him with a grin. When he turns to face you again, he does look apologetic. But you’re not sure if that’s because of you or the threat of losing his dinner. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

The sentence feels clipped. Not in the uncomfortable, please-stop-talking-to-me way, but like he’s forcing himself to stop talking. To not say something. You wonder if he was going to call you sweetheart again. If you want him to.

“You didn’t.” It’s barely a murmur, closer to a whisper than anything else. You wish you could meet his eyes but your gaze is glued to the dark metal wrapped around Jack’s finger. He leans toward you slightly and you catch a glance of his irises. Bright and sharp. Green and grey with flecks of blue and honest-to-god shining gold.

“That’s good.” Jack’s voice loses its hesitance and he lifts his left hand to his hip, cocking it out. The movement makes you lock your knees. Especially with the gravel in his throat that you want to feel against your skin. But you can’t, goddamnit. You can’t because he’s taken. Some smart lady already snatched Jack Abbot up before you could.

A noise sounds from the kitchen and you turn to see Dana quickly turning away, trying to hide a grin. Her shoulders bounce with silent laughter and your cheeks burn. Suddenly, you feel like a kid. A child surrounded by adults. Like every move you make is wrong and you’re just a fucking kid. It fucking sucks.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Abbot—”

“Jack.” He interrupts, smirk spreading across his lips. You take a sharp breath and force yourself to stand up straight.

“Dr. Abbot,” The name is hard and sharp, a futile attempt to put distance between the two of you. “I can’t do this. Whatever this is. Not when you’re…” Your voice trails off and you gesture vaguely toward his ring as if that explains it. Because, really, it should. 

And Jack’s brows do this really cute thing where they furrow together. Something between frustration and confusion. You almost want to smooth the wrinkle it creates with your finger. You don’t. He opens his mouth to speak, but you spin around and step into the kitchen before he can. You wave at Robby and nod toward the hallway.

“I’m going to bed. Love you, Uncle Mike.” His cheeks heat and he smiles at you with a nod, shoving another bite of food into his mouth. You turn to Dana, desperately ignoring the knowing grin on her face. “It was nice to finally meet you, Dana.”

She doesn’t answer, just grins and lifts her half-eaten plate in a mock salute. You return the gesture and turn toward your room, brushing past Jack. He tries to speak again, but you’re shutting your door with a final click before you can hear it. 

Going out with your coworkers had been a terrible idea in hindsight. Not that hindsight will actually kick in until you’re terribly hungover tomorrow morning. For now, the alcohol running through your veins is the only thing keeping you from crying because your fucking leg is broken. Probably. Most likely. At least, your coworkers are panicking and called an ambulance. But maybe we should start from the beginning. 

You love your job. The work, the people. It’s what you’ve always wanted. And your coworkers are great. It’s just…you’re the youngest person there and they all treat you like it. Not in a disrespectful way, but like you’re some kid they need to watch out for. So maybe you agreed to go out with them. And maybe you had a few too many shots in a misguided attempt to show them that you’re a goddamn adult. So, yeah. Tomorrow, you’re definitely going to regret the decisions you’ve made tonight. But right now you feel like a warrior who just won the war. 

“Please stop trying to sit up.” The paramedic in the back of the ambulance sounds almost pitiful as he pushes you back down onto the gurney. You huff, glancing over at where one of your coworkers is sitting, swaying slightly as she looks at your leg. “We’re almost to the hospital, just a few minutes.”

“Which hospital?” You murmur. Under the oxygen mask (which you’re sure you don’t need since you can breathe perfectly fine) it sounds more like wih ospil but you can’t bring yourself to care. The paramedic seems to understand at least, checking your vitals one more time before looking back at you.

“Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.” The name is awkward on his tongue and you wonder if he’s used to saying the whole name. You remember your coworker saying something about how you’ve only been in the city for a while. He probably thinks you don’t know it. You giggle, the alcohol making everything seem silly and inconsequential. 

You would probably be worried if this had happened during the day. Showing up in the emergency room, drunk as hell, to your already stressed uncle? Not a good idea. But Robby is safely tucked away in bed at home. You checked before leaving. So you have nothing to worry about. Well, maybe whatever the fuck is wrong with your leg, but that’s probably nothing. You feel fine, after all. Dandy, even. Then the ambulance slows to a stop and you’re being jostled as people surround you. 

“Drunk versus tabletop. Possible broken tibia, sprained wrist,” You glance down at the wrist you used to catch yourself earlier. It’s swollen and gross-looking and you turn your head away. The rest of the paramedic’s words float over your head. Fuck, okay maybe you’re sobering up now because your leg decidedly does hurt. Like, a lot. Maybe it did break. Maybe trying to climb onto a bar top table hadn’t been your best idea. Maybe this whole night was a bad idea. Ugh, now your head hurts. 

“Hurts.” You mutter through the oxygen mask (that they still have yet to remove even though you’re sure you still don’t need it). You decide to tug it off yourself with your good hand. The doctor at the end of your bed furrows her brow at the action. That’s when you realize the paramedics are gone. Your coworker sits across the room, slumped in a plastic chair. You’re on a hospital cot, in a hospital room. When did that happen?

“I’m Dr. Ellis.” The woman steps toward you, pulling away the mask as she can see you breathing perfectly fine. “Heard you fell from a table? Did you hit your head?”

You groan but shake your head. You caught yourself and you’ve got the swollen wrist to show for it. Although, you remember a girl in college telling you that falling head-first and trying to catch yourself with your hands can cause a shoulder dislocation. You shrug your shoulders experimentally. At least they feel normal. “What’s the damage, doc?” You ask with a slow grin. 

“You’ve got a displaced oblique fracture on your right tibia and your right wrist is sprained. A few other bruises, but your leg is what I’m most worried about.” Dr. Ellis steps away from you, toward a computer. She rolls it toward the bed, scanning her badge and pulling up a picture. Or, more accurately, an x-ray. A dark, diagonal line cuts across the thick bone of your tibia. The top and bottom pieces don’t quite line up, one shifted slightly to the right. You wince. 

“Surgery?” You ask before she can speak. Ellis nods, pointing at the obvious break. She opens her mouth to say something when the door clicks open. 

Jack Abbot stands in the doorway, looking like he just ran a marathon. You can’t look away from the flushed skin of his cheeks. You definitely can’t help imagining those cheeks flushed for a different reason. His voice is hard when he speaks, a tone you haven’t heard from him yet. “Ellis, go take care of the lac in North 7. I’ll take care of this one.”

“But—”

“Go.” His voice leaves no room for argument. You’d never admit it out loud, but if your leg wasn’t currently screaming at you for your stupid decisions, you would probably make another one right about now. 

“Jack.” Oh no. Is that longing in your voice? This is terrible. Absolutely horrible. Not good at all. Not that any of those tiny details stop you from reaching out to run your fingers across his arm. You trace the freckles there, creating imaginary constellations on his skin. 

“I thought I was Dr. Abbot.” He pulls his hand away and you whine. You actually fucking whine. Okay, you need this man away from you right now. Five minutes ago would have been preferable, but you’ll take what you can get. It’s made worse by the teasing in Jack’s voice. The amusement dripping from his smile. You glance over at your coworker. She’s still sleeping. Thank god. You could not take an audience to this humiliation. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’ll get you fixed up. But you’re gonna need surgery to move the bone back in place. And you’ll need to keep weight off the leg for at least a month. Preferably two.”

You’re not sure you heard anything past sweetheart but you nod along anyway. They don’t have you on painkillers, right? This is just your natural reaction to this man. Maybe you should just crawl to the roof and throw yourself off. 

“You listening?” He leans over the cot, over your legs, so he can meet your gaze. It burns. He’s careful not to touch your leg. He’s careful in general, you’ve noticed. Careful with his things, careful with his work. Not in a way that speaks of hesitance. It reminds you of the fact that careful begins with care. Reminds you that even rough hands like Jack’s can be soft when they want to be. Hands with a wedding band—

“Where’s your ring?” His left hand is bare. There’s a ring around his fourth finger where the skin isn’t quite as tanned. You can’t help staring at it. Why would he take off his ring? What could have possibly happened to make a woman leave Jack? “Oh god, did you—? Did I—?”

“Hey, calm down. Listen to me, okay?” You can hear the rapid beeping of the heart monitor as panic fills your chest, hot and sharp. Jack’s voice is soft and smooth. Steady. You grab onto it, an anchor in the roaring ocean around you. “That’s it. Good. Just breathe, sweetheart.”

And his hand is on yours. Warm and rough but so gentle. His thumb traces over your knuckles and you want to lean into the sensation. You wonder how his fingertips would feel on the rest of your skin. Your shoulders, arms. Your legs. 

“You can’t tell Uncle Mike.” A new panic floods through you, desperate to change the subject Jack winces slightly as you flip your hand to grip his. 

“Kid, I think he’s gonna find out whether I tell him or not.” Jack’s voice has a certain teasing quality to it but he doesn’t move to tug his hand out of your hold. He just lets you squeeze his bones together. “Would you rather he wakes up to an empty apartment and panics? Look at me, please.”

You do. Because how could you possibly deny him when he asks like that? His eyes are just as beautiful as you remember them, warm and bright and just a little teasing. 

“My ring is right here.” Jack tugs on a chain around his neck. A familiar dark ring of metal slides down the chain and your cheeks go hot. When you try to look away, he moves to stay in your gaze. You can see the light glint off of the ring, an inscription on the inside, S&J. “I take it off at work when I can.”

“What’s her name?” You really do look away this time. To the other side of the thin cot, at your swollen wrist. It’s easier to look at than Jack. His hand moves to your chin, gently guiding you to face him. It suddenly feels about ten degrees warmer in the room. 

“Sarah. Her name was Sarah.”

The door slams open before you can respond to that and the both of you turn to see Robby standing in the doorway. He’s breathing heavy and still wearing his plaid flannel pants. His t-shirt is wrinkled to hell and his hair is sticking up in the back in that way that you always smooth down for him before he leaves the apartment. 

“Fuck, bug, what happened?” Robby rushes to your side, leaning over the cot to check you over. You can see the way his eyes scan across your body, cataloguing every injury. The panic in his eyes dims just slightly as he finally sets his eyes on you. You’re sure he was overworried about you, worst cases running through his head on the drive over. You just huff, glaring at Jack as he steps back from the bed. 

“I had Shen call him.” Jack says simply, grinning. His biceps bulge as he crosses his arms across his chest. You turn your gaze desperately back to your uncle.

“Fell off a table at a bar. I’m fine.”

Robby raises one brow and immediately pokes your wrist. You hiss, smacking his hand away. “Yeah. Fine. This’ll take at least six months to heal.”

“I guess this means I won’t be moving out any time soon.” You groan. It’s not that you’re rushing to move out. You just…feel bad. Invading Robby’s home longer than you’d promised. An awful feeling bubbles in your stomach and you disregard it as nausea from the alcohol. “‘M sorry, Uncle Mikey.”

“Don’t apologize, bug. You’re welcome to say as long as you want.” Warm lips press against your forehead and any nausea melts away. You suddenly feel like you’re home, wrapped in your mother’s arms. Warm and safe from everything. Maybe Robby is more similar to your mom than you thought. You glance toward the door when you hear it squeak, only to see Jack’s broad shoulders as he slips out. He waves. You smile.

Was. He said was. It’s been two weeks since you saw Jack, drunk as hell with a swollen wrist and an even more swollen leg, and all you can think about was how he said was. It makes something fester inside of you. An ugly knot of emotions that you refuse to spend time untangling. Jack Abbot may be single, but he’s still your uncle’s friend. He’s still twenty years too old. He’s still unattainable. You hate the spark of something horrifically close to hope that refuses to be snuffed out in your chest.

(He’s also a widower. Because you don’t say was unless that person has passed. You don’t know how long they were married or how long Sarah has been dead. You do wonder what she was like. If the two of you would have gotten along. If she was anything like you.)

Not that it matters. You have much more pressing issues. Like your broken leg, wrapped in a thick cast. There are four pins screwed into your bone. Pins that, apparently, are supposed to stay there, as Robby had informed you. He had also let you know that the pins were not big enough to set off most metal detectors. You had asked if it would set off the ones at the airport. The last time you got on a plane, you were twelve. 

Oh, and your wrist. Sprained, with an ugly brace that clashed terribly with your bright pink cast. When the doctor had asked what color you wanted for the cast, you immediately thought of the key to Robby’s apartment. Something about the color felt like healing. Or maybe you just think your six-year-old self would approve of the decision. Her judgement always seemed sound.

Robby mutters quietly as he gently rotates your wrist. You wince at the movement and he gently velcros the brace back onto your wrist. The pressure actually feels kind of nice. Especially cool fabric pressing against your hot skin. “Yeah, that’s gonna need at least another week.” 

Of course. You truly regret going out that night. For the past two weeks you’ve been mostly sequestered to Robby’s apartment. The first few days were the worst, in and out of sleep as you curl up in your bed. Moving hurt like hell and the pain medication made you sleepy. Robby had taken care of you a lot on those days. He still does, making you lunches the night before and calling you from work when he can to check up. It’s strange, the routine you had established with Robby flipped entirely on its head.

“When does the cast come off again?” You whine, leaning back into the plush cushion of the couch. You have decided to spend as little time in your room as possible after being stuck in there for most of a week. 

“Well, considering you just got it on yesterday I’d say about six weeks.” The lines around Robby’s eyes crinkle as he grins. It reminds you of your mother. The longer you spend with your uncle, the more similarities you see between the two. Like one of those pictures where new details pop out the longer you stare. It’s fun to watch the tapestry of Michael Robinavitch slowly unfurl in front of you. But all you do in the moment is groan.

The splint had been bad enough. But the fucking cast. It restricts the movement of your entire foot and most of your right leg. Movement was difficult even with the stupid crutches that Robby had given you. Much less trying to get around without some kind of aid. And it’s all more frustrating than anything else. Oh, and completely your fault. You can’t blame someone else for your stupid decisions. So you live with it. 

For the next week, Robby drives you to work. He drops you off at the door, making sure you have your lunch and your crutches. You feel like a kid all over again. You realize that Robby seems to bring that feeling out in you. But it’s not bad. You like the color of the cast. You like the way people compliment it. You like depending on someone else again. Your mom never told you how exhausting it can be. To be the one someone relies on. Rewarding but tiring in a way that sneaks up on you.

This part, though, is definitely embarrassing. In your attempt to show your coworkers that you’re not a kid, you got way too drunk and broke your leg. And you’re being dropped off at work by your uncle. The last time you got dropped off at work, you were fourteen. Needless to say, you’re counting the days until your cast comes off. 

“What’re you doing here?” Jack’s voice calls out as you lean against the nurse’s station. You whip around to face him, cheeks hot. You hope the heat doesn’t show on your cheeks. Jack’s lips tick up into a tiny grin and all hope leaves you. Your ears burn. “No new injuries, right?”

“Just getting my cast checked out before work.” You hate how soft your voice is. No sharp edges or harsh tones. You want to be angry. At yourself, for being an idiot. At Jack, for being so hot. But you honestly don’t have the energy to be angry at anything right now. Crutches, you have decided, are bullshit. That’s why you’re leaning against the hub, exhausted and too lazy to attempt to balance on one leg. The aforementioned crutches are leaned against the countertop next to you, laughing at your misery.

Jack laughs. The kind that makes his head fall back just enough to expose his throat. The kind that makes you fight to keep yourself from smiling. You think infectious is a great way to describe this man. And you’re the stupid host who decided the bacteria was cute enough to keep around. You really need to start charging this man rent. 

“What’s the verdict?” His voice has that teasing lilt that makes you want to feel how it vibrates against your skin. Your mind goes blank for a second, staring at Jack as if he will physically put your train of thought back on track. He just grins and taps his foot against your cast.

“Oh!” Right. The cast. The reason you’re in this godforsaken hospital in the first place. The infection has long since spread to your brain, slowly eating away at the muscle there. “Uh, at least another month? Then physical therapy to strengthen the leg again.” You parrot what the doctor told you. Robby had been the one to take the pamphlets and further care instructions, shoving them into his jacket pocket before you could argue. Once, years ago, your mother told you that sometimes you just have to let Robby take care of you. Even before he became a doctor. Like it had always been in his blood to help. You try to remember that now, as you wait in the ED for Robby to pull the car around into the ambulance bay. Because, apparently, you can’t even make the walk to your uncle’s reserved Chief Attending spot in the second row of the parking lot.

“Hey, kid.” Dana’s voice comes from the other side of the counter. You turn to face her, glad to have an excuse not to look at Jack anymore. She jerks a thumb over her shoulder toward the large sliding doors. “Robby’s pullin’ into the ambulance bay.”

You nod, sharing goodbye’s with the charge nurse before turning toward the cursed crutches. Displeasure must show on your face because Jack laughs behind you, just over your shoulder.

“Want me to carry you?”

And that makes you spin around so fast you’re almost dizzy. God, your cheeks burn and you can practically feel the way your pupils grow at the idea, subconscious taking in every detail of this man. Even the mental image makes your one good leg feel weak. Jack’s thick arms wrapped around you while his heart beats right against your ear. His lips twitch and you realize you haven’t answered. Your still-mush brain seems incapable of forming sentences. So you stick with one word. “What?”

“You’re glaring at those crutches like you want to burn them, sweetheart.” Jack leans in closer and you grip at the crutches in your hand. His grin is sharp, like he knows what he’s doing. “Just offering to help.”

His voice does not sound helpful in the slightest. It sounds like velvet wrapped in something simmering hot that you do not have the bandwidth to study right now. You wish the stupid crutches weren’t so smooth. You need something digging into the skin of your palm. Something to ground yourself, to keep you from combusting on the spot.

“Kid, you comin’?” You hear Robby’s voice and turn away from Jack. Your uncle stands in to the side of the ambulance doors, dramatically tapping his watch when he sees you looking. Maybe there is a god, after all. You hurriedly shove the crutches beneath your arms and begin your pathetic limp toward where Robby is waiting. Jack easily keeps pace behind you.

As you scramble into the car, Jack hovers close behind. When your foot slips on the runners, he’s right there, hand solid and warm against your back. Not too low. A respectful touch that still makes you shiver. By the time you settle into the passenger seat, his hands are shoved so deep in his pocket you half-believe that the touch was a figment of your imagination. But you can still feel the outline of his broad palm pressed to your shirt. You really need to get out of here before you do something stupid in front of your uncle. 

“See you, sweetheart.” It’s a promise. You can tell from the curve of his lips and the shadowed glimmer in his eye. You can only blink. He gently pushes the door shut and leans through the open window. “Have a good day at work.”

And, oh god. He winks. He winks at you while saying those painfully domestic words. It makes something in your stomach revolt. You force a tight smile and turn pointedly through the front windshield, thighs pressed tight together. His smile doesn’t falter as he leans back, away from the car. Jack and Robby exchange a casual greeting before your uncle is pulling away. Jack stays in your rearview mirror for two blocks before Robby turns. 

“You and Jack seem close.” It’s an innocuous question. Innocent enough if you don’t know about the storm of emotions spinning inside of you right now. And Robby’s voice is the kind you’ve been dreading for weeks. The kind that does know. Knows too much. But you’re stuck. In a moving car. Even if Robby got stuck at a light, you can barely walk. So, yes, you’re trapped. A kid in a safety seat. 

“It’s nothing. Don’t worry.” Jeez, your voice practically drips with something between loss and resentment. Like a death you could have saved, if things had been different. If you weren’t Robby’s niece. Maybe—But you would give the world for your uncle. Anything for the man who made sacrifices for your mother. For you. You wouldn’t betray your uncle like that. Not for anything. Especially not for a man. Even a man like Jack.

It must show on your face, the conflict between someone and the one thing they absolutely cannot have. Robby doesn’t say anything else for the rest of the ride. The quiet is cut through by the sounds of the city. Cars honking and people yelling. All underpinned by the light songs of morning birds. You lean out the passenger window, wishing the breeze could blow away every issue you’ve ever had. But the world doesn’t work that way. The wind stops as Robby puts the car in park and you sigh, gathering your bag and crutches.

Robby speaks before you can push the door open. “I won’t stop you. Jack is a good guy.” His voice is awkward and you almost smile as he pats your shoulder exactly twice. It’s probably supposed to be soothing or reassuring. It just feels surreal. Fake. “He—you both deserve something good.”

Something cracks inside you and the world seems to shift beneath the car. Just a slight tilt to the left. For the past few months in Pittsburgh, you’ve been having a continuous, low-level panic attack. One that reared its ugly head every time Jack Abbot came within ten feet of you. Because you can’t have him. Because he’s married. Because that would be wrong. Because you can’t do that to your uncle. But, apparently, it was all for nothing. Weeks upon weeks of second-guessing and biting your tongue. All because Robby is trying to set you up with his best friend? It’s all a bit much at the moment. Your brain feels like it got dropped in the middle of the desert, unsure of what’s real and what’s just a mirage. 

“I have to go.” You spit out. You really do. You need to get out of this goddamn car and sit at your desk and pretend the last few weeks never happened. The scramble out of the passenger seat is just as pitiful as the one into the car, but you can’t bring yourself to care. You wave at Robby before disappearing into the building without another word. You’re not exactly sure what you would say right now if you had it in yourself to speak.

Sometimes, you just need to call your mom. General life advice, honestly. Good stuff. About ninety percent of the supposedly impossible problems you’ve had in your life have been solved after a conversation with your mother. This one seems especially impossible, but you know she’ll at least have something to say about it. 

“That’s…a lot, honey.” Her voice is hesitant and a little tinny through the phone. You can picture her now, standing at the landline in the kitchen, twirling the cord around her finger. You think she might be the last person in Philadelphia who actually uses a home phone. Let alone a landline. The sound is comforting, though. You’re used to the way it shifts her voice. 

“I know. Trust me. It’s just…I don’t know what to do, Mom.” The words shake on your tongue. It takes physical effort not to call her momma. The way you used to. It’s always been a warm blanket around your shoulders, a motherly hug. But you’re an adult, no matter how much of a child you’ve felt like these past few weeks.

“You know what I’ll say, hon. Just be honest.” She says softly. It’s a familiar phrase. Everything in life can be solved by being honest. At least, that’s what your mother told you as you grew up. Especially when it comes to people you love. She’s right. You knew it was coming. That doesn’t mean it’s not relieving to hear. Something steady in the ever-changing life you’ve started. “Be honest with yourself and what you want. Be honest with your uncle. Be honest with the hot doctor you have a crush on.”

“Mom!”

“What?” She sounds genuinely confused and you can’t help laughing just slightly. Your cheeks burn red hot and you grumble something into the phone. You’re not exactly sure what you say, but it must translate to something, because she acquiesces. You can hear laughter through the speaker and think that maybe she knows exactly how embarrassing her words are. For about three seconds, you consider hanging up without another word. “Okay, okay. How is work?”

The conversation moves on to more innocent topics after that. Asking after Robby and his health. How he’s eating. Telling her about your job and your coworkers. She shares the latest drama about the neighbors who always yelled loud enough to be heard through the walls. It’s not that you haven’t called her since the move, but it always feels like a relief when the two of you talk. You just wish you could have her warm arms wrapped around you, soothing the simmering panic. But it’s okay. Her voice will smooth over the wrinkle between your brow. Enough to get through this.

“Mom, I love you.” You’ve said it before. You say it every time you hang up and every time you say goodbye. Habit by this point. But you mean it every single time. 

“I love you, too, hon. Say hi to Mike for me.” 

The call ends with a click, the line going dead. You listen to the dial tone for a moment, lost in the relaxing drone. It drowns out the thoughts in your head and you feel like you can finally think. Just be honest. Okay, maybe you don’t need to think. What would six-year-old-you do? Probably ask your mom. Check. What next? Follow her advice. Damn. 

You’re not used to flirting back with men. Not really used to them flirting with you in the first place. At least, not noticing the flirting. Jack Abbot must be going out of his way if even you have caught on. Or, maybe it’s because you always notice Jack. The guys throwing shitty pickup lines at you in a dark bar aren’t exactly the kind of guys you want to notice. But Jack makes you glad to notice him. Rewards your eye contact with a grin and listens when you talk. He draws light toward him like a black hole. His broad shoulders and shiny curls. Those eyes that crinkle just perfect when he laughs. You want to feel his laughter against your skin. You want to bite into those shoulders, see how much give they might have. 

And it’s so annoying because he’s not just hot. He’s brilliant. Whip smart with great instincts. Jack Abbot is smooth confidence wrapped in muscle and tight t-shirts. You can still remember how he leaned over you, so gentle. So kind. You know what those hands can do. You’ve heard plenty of stories from Robby about resetting bones and tearing open chests. But you personally know that those hands will be gentle with you. Maybe the knowledge makes you feel special. Maybe it just reassures you, relieving some deep-buried fear. What you do know is that you’ve been resisting the gravitational pull of Jack Abbot and once you let go, there will be no going back.

It’s fucking terrifying. Because this isn’t just your life. It’s Jack’s and Robby’s and everyone they work with. Because if this goes wrong, it either changes Robby’s relationship with you or it changes his relationship with Jack. Because if this all implodes and falls apart, you have to move back to Philadelphia. Maybe change your name. Just to make sure.

You know Jack wouldn’t be weird about it. He’d probably take whatever blame and distance himself. Even if you fucked up. Because he’s so good. So kind and selfless and you’re afraid that losing Robby would kill him. (You don’t know how he’d react to losing you. If he’d be sad, even if you weren’t Robby’s niece.)

“What’s got you thinking so hard, kid?” Dana’s voice asks. You’re back in the ED again. It’s becoming somewhat of a habit, but you’re sure none of the other doctors or nurses mind so long as they don’t have to treat you for anything. And, this time, your leg is free. No longer trapped in its Barbie-pink cage. You can’t even be excited about it because your brain is so preoccupied by a certain five-foot-nine situation.

“Nothing. Just bored.” Not a lie. Not technically. You are bored. A coworker dropped you off earlier for your appointment to have the cast removed. So, now you’re stuck in the staff lounge, waiting (im)patiently for your uncle’s shift to end so he can drive you home. You would walk…if you could. Just because the cast is off doesn’t mean you’re suddenly healed. After almost two months without use, your leg is just about as useful now as it had been in the cast. Except now you’re supposed to start putting weight on it when you can, to strengthen the muscles again. That’s how you find yourself leaning back against the counter, occasionally shifting from one foot to another. 

Dana raises a single brow that says I-don’t-believe-you-at-all as she lifts a mug to her lips. The steam from the coffee fogs up her reading glasses and she pushes them up absentmindedly. “Uh-huh.” Her voice echoes in the ceramic, making your cheeks heat. The cup clacks against the counter when Dana sets it down. “Wanna be honest with me?”

Damn. Clocked. Genuinely, you feel like someone just punched you. Shock from the impact and lingering embarrassment at not being able to dodge the hit. You know you’re still young. A twenty-something with her entire life ahead of herself. Robby and Jack and Dana are older than your mom. Definitely old enough to be your parents. It makes sense that there will be times where you feel like a kid around them. That doesn’t change the way your entire body feels like it’s being pricked with exactly one million needles. Your eyes almost hurt from the effort it’s taking to not look away. Dana Evans would get along with your mother, you think. Maybe that’s why Robby seems to gravitate toward her.

“I like Dr. Abbot.” You force the words out, around the lump quickly forming in your throat. “And I think he likes me back. But I don’t want to make things weird between him and Uncle Mike if it doesn’t work out.” Oh god, you’re rambling now. 

“Kid, listen to me.” Dana’s hands are warm on your shoulders. You wonder if she’s always like that or if it’s from the hot coffee mug she was holding just a moment ago. “Jack and Robby’s relationship is not your problem. And if Jack fucks up with you, he deserves whatever Robby throws at him.”

And that feeling? The one where you’re small and scared? It starts to feel more like arms around your shoulders. Like your mother scolding you. Like you know she’s right but you’re too stubborn to admit it. It feels a little like coming home.

“Dana, how many times have your daughters been through this?” Your voice is way too vulnerable to joke, but Dana rolls her eyes and laughs anyway. “You’re way too good at this.”

“My kids don’t have any uncles to crush on their best friend.” You glare at her, but even you can tell it’s weak. She just grins and lifts a hand to pat your cheek. “I manage an emergency department populated by emotionally repressed old men. That’s pretty much the same thing as a teenage girl, sweetie.”

“I am not a teenager!”

Dana slings an arm around your shoulders, grinning something suspicious. “Everyone goes through this, kid. Well, maybe not the whole uncle’s-best-friend thing. But the not-knowing-how-to-deal-with-a-crush part is pretty universal. A right of passage, kiddo. You’re just…a little late.”

You take it all back. You can handle being treated like a kid. What you absolutely cannot accept is that this pain is a part of growing up. An inevitability. Did your mom feel like this? Like her heart was breaking before she could even act on the feeling there? Did your dad?

Not for the first time, you wish you could speak to him. It was an angry feeling at first. Teenage hormones making the entire world your enemy. Why did it have to be you? Why couldn’t your dad have pushed through? Survived, for you? Now, it’s grown into a dull thud that occasionally vibrates your brain. An ache for someone you never even got to meet. Maybe that’s why you like Jack. Deep-seated daddy issues that bubble to the surface every time his eyes meet yours. But it doesn’t matter because Jack is good and kind and hot and you have a debilitating crush on him. And maybe it’s time to be honest.

“Hey, so I like you.” Lame. Holy shit, so lame. The reflection of your face in the mirror is nothing short of panicked. You literally know for a fact that Jack Abbot likes you back. He’s been more than obvious enough with his flirting. It’s not an issue of reciprocation. It’s an issue of making it real. Existing in the nebulous space between nothing and something is easier than picking one over the other. You know which one you would pick, if it were your choice. Because it doesn’t matter that Jack likes you if he’s not ready for…whatever could happen between the two of you.

You want it to mean something. It feels selfish, to want this man the way you do. The thing suspiciously close to guilt in your gut doesn’t change that feeling, though. You want to know that he feels the same. That he thinks about you so often, you invade his dreams. You want Jack Abbot to practice how he’ll confess to you in his bathroom mirror. You want him to daydream about having your last name. Something which you’ve only done once. Still, one too many times for an adult woman with (most of) her shit together, despite what recent evidence may show.

“Hey, bug. You okay in there?” Robby’s voice calls through the door, muffled by the thick wood. The sound makes you jump and bodily pulls you from your thoughts. Before he can speak again, you yank the door open. You’re sure Robby can see the manic look you try to school from your face.

“Fine. Great.” Yes, totally believable.Not at all excuse-sounding. Totally legit. But Robby doesn’t question it. Just shrugs with a little shake of his head. Probably not worth the effort of asking. Or maybe he already knows why you’re currently panicking. He’s the one that started all of this with his…blessing?

You kind of hate how you need permission to ask out Jack. Permission from a man. It’s first grade again and the teacher is asking for a couple of strong boys to carry something for her. You never offered your hand. Because you weren’t the one she asked. Because you don’t have the arbitrary permission. It never stopped the other girls. And now, as a grown adult, you still need to be told you’re allowed. You hate that you can’t make yourself break the rules. Even the ones that only exist in your head. What you hate even more is that you’re too much of a coward to even ask for permission.

“Okay…” Robby steps out of the doorway, but his eyes are trained on your face. You step out, letting Robby into the bathroom. He watches your movement carefully, but doesn’t say anything more. 

“Hey, Uncle Mikey?” No. This is a terrible idea. You should not do this. Not with your uncle of all people. Emotionally stunted, allergic to talking, Michael Robinavitch. So, yeah. Bad idea. “Does…I mean, does Jack ever talk about me?”

Something flashes across Roby’s face and you can see the split second that he considers simply walking away from the conversation. Instead, he breathes in and lets it out in a long, measured breath. His hand scrubs over his beard. You can see the gears turning in his head. You wonder if he’s trying to remember a time or if he’s trying to pick one. 

“I—yeah.” He sighs. You can’t help grinning at the exasperation painted across his face. If he didn’t want this, he shouldn’t have encouraged you in the first place. When you open your mouth to ask more, Robby holds up a hand. “And that’s all I’m saying. I am not going to—this is not happening.”

A laugh bubbles up and out of your throat. You just can’t help it. Robby’s cheeks are stained red and he looks like he just swallowed a sour grape. But when he hears your laughter, Robby laughs too. This is not the end of the world. It’s a crush that you hope can become something more. If it doesn’t, you’ll be okay. Probably cry in your bed for a week straight, but you’ll get over it. Eventually. The realization alone takes an invisible weight off your chest and you can breathe deeper than you have since you arrived in Pittsburgh.

“Uncle Mike? Thank you.” Your arms loop around him in a tight hug. He responds in kind, more out of instinct than purposeful action. Robby pats your back awkwardly as you refuse to let go. Eventually, he shoves gently at your shoulders. You relent easily. It’s a familiar pattern to the both of you, practiced over decades.

“Not sure what I did, but I’m glad to help.” Robby’s smile is soft. The kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes. You know that most people have never seen it before. You’re glad you get to.

The phone screen seems overly bright in the dimming room. It’s barely 6:30 and the sun is already halfway past the horizon. Robby won’t be home for at least an hour and you’re too lazy to flick on the lightswitch across the room. So, you lay back on the couch and stare at the little blinking line above your keyboard. The top of the phone screen says Jack in tiny letters. No contact picture yet, but no texts either.

You had found the crinkled paper in the bottom of your bag after an hour of frantic searching. The idea of asking your uncle for Jack’s number wasn’t even something you entertained. You’d rather wait until the two of your paths meet again. But now you stare at your too-bright screen, trying to come up with some kind of opening line. 

You’ve been on the apps before, written plenty of these. This time is different. You care. All those people online were ideas. Not real human beings out in the world. Jack is, well, he’s way more than a person. He’s someone you can picture a life with. If it doesn’t work out, you’ll be fine. Survive. You desperately want it to work out. Which is why you’ve been staring at your goddamn screen for almost an hour. At this point, you almost want to wait until seven. Until Jack’s shift starts and he won’t look at his phone for a solid twelve hours. But the idea of waiting that long for a response makes your gut wrench painfully.

Ugh. Fine, whatever. Fuck it.

Hey Jack! Okay, no exclamation mark. Hey Jack. Much better. It’s me you type out your name and consider tacking on Robby’s niece. But you don’t want that to be how Jack sees you. Why is this so hard? Alright. Greeting? Check. Introduction? Check. Now the hard part. Asking Jack on an actual date. Nothing too serious, but nothing vague either. Casual and cool. Because that’s definitely how people describe you. I think you’re hot. Wanna get breakfast after your shift? Hmm. Not quite the casual-cool-girl you were going for. You make me panic. Want to kiss? Arguably worse. Third time’s the charm (as in, you are sending this text no matter what, before you can talk yourself out of it).

>> I like you. You live in my head and I’d like to know more about you. Breakfast at Carla’s near the hospital? I’ll be there at 7:30

Horrid, but your will is waning by the second and if you don’t send it now, you never will. So you press your thumb against the little send button and stare at the screen for exactly one second before jettisoning your phone across the room. The next few minutes pass by as an eternity. So slow, you check the wall clock four times in a single minute. But you can’t bring yourself to crawl across the couch and grab your phone until the clock hits seven. When the screen lights up, you can see the text notification. You click on it. 

<< See you then, sweetheart ;)

And, oh. Fucking god damnit. Is that little winky-face? You suddenly can’t breathe. Something to do with an image of Jack winking flooding your mind. Winking at you during breakfast. Winking at you somewhere…less public. Alright, down girl.

>> Can’t wait!

Is it too eager? Do you care? Does Jack care? Probably not. He seems like the kind of guy to denounce modern dating culture. People trying to seem too cool to care about anyone else. He’ll probably hold open a door for you or something. He’s probably a gentleman.

The phone buzzes in your hand, another text. A thumbs up. God, he’s so old. A fucking thumbs up? You hate how endearing it is. How the smile forms on your face without permission. You glance at the clock. 7:01.

>> Shouldn’t you be working?

<< A pretty girl just asked me on a date. I can’t just ignore her.

Your cheeks burn, hot enough to make your vision fuzz for a fraction of a second. Because you’re that pretty girl. Jack just called you pretty. Jack Abbot. Definition of pretty. Yeah, he’s a fucking gentleman.

The diner isn’t as bustling as you’ve seen it before. The streets are busy, overrun with commuters trying to get to work on time. You can hear the birds chirping in the park across the street and the sound of the bell on the door as you step inside. You’ve been here before, once. A few years ago when you came to visit your uncle. He brought you here after his shift. So the warm scent of breakfast is familiar as it hits you. It’s always breakfast time at Carla’s, even at nine o’clock at night when Robby brought you before. 

Today, however, sun fogs through the windows, still hidden behind the Pittsburgh skyline. Well, that and Jack Abbot sits in a corner booth, tugging at the sleeves of his scrub top. You know, logistically, that he must have just gotten off work. The badge still hangs from his cargo pants and his hair has suffered the strong winds blowing through the city streets. It is not fair to look that good. Not right after a twelve hour ED shift. Especially as the light shifts, setting Jack in his own personal sun beam. A spotlight on his angelic beauty. 

Jeez, you need to calm down. Because that’s when he sees you, staring like a loon while the hostess awkwardly waits for an answer to a question you never heard. Too busy staring at Jack Abbot. Honestly, you’re a little surprised he’s already here. Robby almost always stays an hour past his shift, pulled between handing off a million different tasks. You had expected to wait at least fifteen minutes. Needed it. To rehearse what the hell you’re going to say, because the mirror had not been enough. You consider turning around and leaving, but Jack is already standing. So you politely wave off the hostess and head toward the booth.

“Hi.” Oh, god. You just squeaked. Like, actually squeaked. Yeah, you’re gonna kill yourself. But Jack just smiles like you made a joke instead of being one.

“Hey,” He replies, standing as you approach the booth. You can see the way his face twitches as he puts weight on his right leg. The one you know is half metal and plastic. “You look good.”

You’re glad he thinks so. It took you over an hour to pick out this outfit. Trying to find clothes that are nice, but not too nice. Because you want to make a good impression on Jack, even if his first impression of you was in sweats and a too-old college tshirt. Comfy travel clothing that he must have found at least somewhat endearing if he agreed to this date.

“Thanks. You do too.” You both slide into opposite sides of the booth. The tall back of the bench seats creates an intimate bubble for just the two of you. The sound of the diner around you quiets just a bit.

“No need for flattery, sweetheart.” Jack laughs. Like he thinks you’re lying. Like he doesn’t know that every detail of his fucking face is a distraction. It’s a little rude, considering you’ve been thinking about him for almost two months straight. So you let out a huff. An actual huff, because you already squeaked so you may as well do whatever you want now. 

“It wasn’t flattery, Jack. Just the truth.” And maybe you sound a little too earnest. A little too demanding, as if you can make it true simply by saying it, putting the words out into the world. You’re not going to apologize because there’s really nothing to apologize for, but you are about to make up some excuse about how Jack Abbot being pretty is a universal law of some kind. That’s when you see the gentle flush spreading across his cheeks. It makes his freckles stand out even more and you want to trace them, looking for constellations both real and made up. You smile something warm and soft. “What? Can’t take a compliment?”

“Only when they come from pretty girls.” His grin is sharp, but you’re too distracted by the pink on the tips of his ears.

“You already used that line.”

“Doesn’t make it any less true.” 

Banter flows easily between the two of you, words falling out before you can process them. It feels natural to be around Jack like this. Relaxed and smiling. The sun steadily rises in the sky, illuminating Jack in a way that you want desperately to look away from, but you simply cannot bring yourself to lose a moment of this man. You want to inject yourself into his veins and pump directly through his heart. You think, maybe then you could have all you need from Jack. 

“Let me give you a ride home.” Jack says as you both climb out of the booth. He says it like it’s simple. Like you haven’t been afraid to call Robby’s apartment your home. Yes, you want to move out at some point, maybe find a place of your own. But to call Robby’s home yours as well, seems like too much. Going too far. Claiming something that isn’t quite yours. 

And then you remember how your uncle reacted when you apologized for overstaying your welcome. Part of him had been amused. He thought the very idea of overstaying was silly. You’re his niece. Part of the only family he has left. So, yeah, he thought you were joking at first. Then, slowly, you saw something between sorrow and determination cross Robby’s face. He had grabbed you, gently and awkwardly, and said you were welcome to stay as long as you need. And then as long as you want after that.

The thought, memory really, makes you smile. A soft thing that reaches your eyes. “I’d like that.”

Jack’s hand settles on your lower back, high enough to be respectable but low enough for you to note. As if you don’t have an entire rolodex in your head of every single time Jack Abbot has so much as brushed against you. When you both reach the door, Jack does a little shuffle to step ahead of you. Because he’s a gentleman who gets the door for you not only at the diner, but circles around his car to hold open the passenger door of his old Bronco. You have to draw the line as he reaches to buckle your seatbelt. Even the image of him leaned over you in your mind makes your cheeks warm. And your face is plenty warm already, thank you very much. So you swat his hand away, buckling your seatbelt yourself. Jack doesn’t close the passenger door until he hears the click of the buckle in place.

“I may be a bit younger than you, but I can, in fact, buckle myself in.” You chuckle as he slides into the driver’s seat. 

“A bit.” Is all he says in response, more of a hum than actual words. You try to study the side of his face you can see as he starts the car. The sun streams through the windows and you can suddenly see every freckle on his face. His curls are tinted auburn underneath the silver-grey. He looks hand-painted by a master, with care and attention paid to every beautiful detail. What you do notice is the way his face tightens just slightly, despite how he tries to hide it. You know what he’s thinking. It was the same thing you were thinking restlessly about for the past forever. That you’re still thinking about and trying desperately to ignore. 

“If you’re worried I haven’t thought this through, don’t.” You say firmly, crossing your arms over your chest. Jack doesn’t take his eyes off the road, but you can feel the weight of his attention on you. “I’ve been thinking about this since you introduced yourself in that hallway. I am an adult, Jack.”

You’re careful to keep your tone casual. No accusation. No sharpness. Because if he’s thinking like you were (still are), Jack knows that this will either be the best or worst decision of his life. You wonder which one he’s leaning more towards right now. 

“You’re sure?” He’s about to say more, you can tell. The way he sucks in a breath like he has to warn you about himself before it’s too late. You interrupt him before he can. 

“I’m sure.”

The rest of the ride is quiet, with only the hum of the engine on busy Pittsburgh streets and the steady feeling of Jack’s hand on yours. The warmth of his palm only leaves occasionally to change gears, because obviously Jack drives a manual. You have to stop yourself from rolling your eyes at how much sense that makes. 

Jack rolls to a gentle stop outside of Robby’s apartment building and you wonder if he’s the kind of guy to kiss a girl after the first date. Or if he’s so old-fashioned that he waits until the second or third. You laugh softly and Jack tilts his head at you. 

“Sorry, sorry, just…wondering if you’re going to kiss me.”

His cheeks turn pink again and you’re starting to realize how much you like being the cause of that. Jack doesn’t answer. He just slips out of the car and rounds the front to pull your door open for you. He even holds your hand as you step out. “I am not kissing you in the car, sweetheart. I still have to walk you to your door.”

“Do you walk Uncle Mike to his door every time you drop him off?” You ask, raising a brow. Jack simply guides you into the tall building, holding open every door like it’s his job instead of saving lives. 

“Only when he’s so drunk he can’t stand.” Jack laughs, hitting the third floor button in the elevator. He turns to you as the doors close and his smile is the sharpest you’ve seen it since that night. When he was drunk and lost his filter and called you hot in front of your uncle. His coworker. (And Dana, but you’re almost positive that she has seen more embarrassing). “He’s not quite as charming as you, though.”

You disagree. You’re just as awkward as your uncle when it comes to other people. As evidenced by you floundering in a silly crush while everyone around you rolled their eyes. Every time you’ve seen Jack in the past two months, you’ve embarrassed yourself. But he holds a hand in front of the elevator doors as you step out and walks you to apartment 3A. It’s strange. You’ve been here before. Standing outside of Robby’s apartment (your home) with Jack Abbot. Except, this time you know his name. You know that the ring on his finger is for a woman he is still mourning. You know that he likes you, at least enough to think about how and when and where he wants to kiss you. You know you like him more than that. You hope he does, too.

“Time for that kiss yet?” You ask. Or, you were about to ask. Before Jack’s lips are on yours and his hands are on your cheeks, holding you close. It feels like burning. Hot and hot and hot and oh so bright. Not fireworks, but a burning fire deep in your stomach. When he pulls back, satisfied grin on his face, you try to follow. Try to capture his kiss once more. 

Jack presses a finger to your lips. You feel like a kid again, except this time it’s the joy and color that comes with youth. The way everything seems to soften at the edges and colors seem to shine brighter around every corner. And Jack Abbot’s smile is so soft and so bright that you can’t bring yourself to be mad. Annoyed? Yes, very much so. “If you want another kiss, you have to promise me another date, sweetheart.”

You nod. It seems like a more than fair deal. More Jack. So you smile and press a kiss to his fingertip and pull back. “Whatever you say, Jackie.” You have the rest of your life with this man. You can wait a little longer.

[bounty-jes]

pick my wip [the pitt]

Robby’s niece!reader x jack abbot

Nurse!reader x Robby time loop

[results please]

Voting ended onMar 23

More info below the cut

Robby’s Niece!reader x Jack Abbot 𖥔 [age difference, probably implied sexual content, definitely some making out, fem!reader] 𖥔 When you get a new job in Pittsburgh, your uncle gladly agrees to let you stay while you find a place. He didn’t say anything about his hot coworker.

╰┈➤ Pertinent info: larger chunk of story already written, would probably come out sooner, shorter than time loop au, fluff and angst are doing a tango my friend (angst is leading?)

•*┈─★

Nurse!reader x Michael Robinavitch 𖥔 [age difference (I’m a slut okay), canon-typical violence and gore, time loop au, fem!reader] 𖥔 After a shitty day at work, you just want to pass out in your bed and forget it ever happened. Too bad it’s gonna happen again. And again. And again. And—well, you get it.

╰┈➤ Pertinent info: less of story already written, will take longer to finish than niece!reader, longer than niece!reader, angst with a fluffy ending

•*┈─★

[results please] a.k.a. the Robby intoxication kink story you’ve all been waiting for. Inspired by this lovely blurb by @loves-alibi. If you clicked the poll before reading this, know you should feel shame. This would be my first time writing smut since the citrus scale on wattpad dot com. You did this. 𖥔 [age gap, dubious consent (reader consents beforehand but is intoxicated for actual sex), drug use (weed, nicotine), fem!reader] 𖥔 basically you get high before robby comes home because you know he’s gonna want to fuck you :)

╰┈➤ Pertinent info: none of this is written, it will take the longest to write, it will be the shortest, it will be smut (probably soft smut bc I gotta ease back into this), you really shouldn’t pick this one

symbols from @webgrave, @nekozume03, and @dientesdeporcelana

[bounty-jes]

jack abbot is andrew cody au

divider by @chrisssiren || symbols from @webgrave and @dientesdeporcelana

*⁀➷ 1977 - Andrew Cody born, 8 lbs 7 oz, 22 inches

*⁀➷ 2007 - Andrew sentenced to 35 months in prison for armed robbery

*⁀➷ 2011 - released (four months after the original release date), joins the Army twelve days later

*⁀➷ 2021 - honorably discharged, lost almost half of his left leg on duty

*⁀➷ 2021 - hired as a senior resident at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, his boss is about to become his best friend

ᯓ★ Started taking gen ed college classes in prison, not knowing what he wanted to study yet. He just knew he didn’t want to go back to that house.

ᯓ★ Joined the army almost immediately after he got out of prison. The order. The anonymity of being just another soldier. Not mother’s favorite. Not the oldest. Just Private Abbot, reporting for duty. The we’ll pay for your med school part didn’t hurt either.

ᯓ★ (Doctors help people. Do no harm. That’s all he wants.)

ᯓ★ Robby was the one that hired Jack. He decided to ignore the armed robbery and focus on the outstanding military service. He didn’t even ask Gloria. Gloria doesn’t trust Jack.

ᯓ★ Abbot casually mentioning that he went to prison for three years and everyone at ptmc making bets on why. No one guesses armed robbery. Robby doesn’t participate because it wouldn’t be fair. Dana does participate because she doesn’t really give a shit about fair.

ᯓ★ Started seeing a therapist only because it was required after his discharge. He actually started opening up, talking about his childhood and his time in prison. When his therapist suggested medication, Jack missed the next few meetings. When he finally slumped back in, he told his therapist about Smurf drugging him. He slowly warms up to the idea of being medicated (after copious conversations focusing on the exact intended effect of the drug and how he holds the power here, this is his decision).

✦˳ ──

Jack hadn’t liked the idea of being medicated. Images of his mother flash through his mind. Five days before he was dragged away by the police, he saw her. Crushed pills sprinkled over the mayonnaise of his bologna sandwich. He had asked her once why his sandwiches never tasted the same. She had claimed it was because she made hers with love. Apparently love is the name of whatever stolen prescription she quickly shoved into her pocket.

✦˳ ──

“Don’t. I don’t want to fucking know.” Jack holds out a shaking hand as if he can physically block your presence. You grab his hand in yours, gentle. These hands have never hurt you before. You know they won’t now.

“Smurf is dead, Andrew. Shootout.” You hesitate, bringing his hand down. There aren’t any bruises or split skin there. You almost smile. “The autopsy showed that she had terminal cancer. It was suicide by cop.”

[bounty-jes]

Who wants to see the jack abbot and andrew cody are the same person au that is currently sitting in my notes app bc im never going to write the fic :)

[bounty-jes]

loverboy

fandom: The Pitt

pairing: Dennis Whitaker x f!reader

content: dennis and reader are married, she/her pronouns for reader, pet names (sweetheart, baby), dubious medical talk, cursing, reader took the Whitaker surname, no use of y/n, implied bisexual reader (bc im in love with dana)

word count: 5.3 k

summary: four times Dennis’ coworkers wanted to meet his wife and the one time they did

notes: as a midwestern girlie myself, i would 100% bake for these people. like, they deserve it and food is THE love language of the midwest. ALSO yes i know that it should be dennis’s but i fucking hate the way that looks so you can read dennis’ instead (i am allowed to do this as a person whose name ends with an s)

line dividers from @hyuneskkami

1. Robby

Dennis Whitaker isn’t what most would consider a private person. His coworkers know about his brothers and his hometown and his nieces and nephews, he just never mentioned a love life of any kind. They had assumed it was because his love life didn’t exist. It’s typical with med students, focused on school and their internship. Too busy to find time for another person in their hectic lives. No one judged him. Really, they understood. Then, a few weeks after his graduation, Dennis walks into work with a gold band shining on his left ring finger. 

Most of his coworkers didn’t even notice it at first. The ED is a place where people wear gloves more often than not. Bare hands are rarer than covered ones. Robby is the first one to spot it. He doesn’t make a big deal out of it, just shakes Dennis’ hand and shoots him a quiet congrats, kid. It’s not until Trinity spots the new jewelry that everyone finds out. Because Trinity Santos cannot keep her mouth shut to save her own life.

“You’re married!”

“Um, yeah?” Dennis rubs a hand across the back of his neck. He’s not sure if it’s always been a habit of his or if he picked it up from Robby. What he is sure of is that he hates the way every single doctor and nurse within earshot turns to study Dennis. Like he’s their newest toy. The grin on Princess’ face almost makes him wish he had stayed in bed with you this morning. (He wishes that every morning, though.)

“When did that happen?” It’s Mel’s voice this time. No judgement. No gleam in her eye. Just genuine curiosity that makes Dennis want to hug her. 

“After I graduated. We, uh, we’ve been dating since high school.” And Dennis hates how much his voice shakes. He should be able to boast about you to anyone who will listen because you’re the most amazing person he knows. But his cheeks are hot and his throat feels just a little tight. Dennis can see Trinity open her mouth, no doubt about to make fun of him for marrying his high school sweetheart. Then Dana is stepping in front of him, shooing away nosy residents with a wave of her hand and a single noise. Robby’s hand is on her shoulder again. 

“If you ever want to bring her with you after work, feel free.” Robby’s voice is soft and deep, a smile on his face that says nothing except pride. Dennis nods slowly and Robby squeezes his shoulder once before pulling back.

Dennis practically stumbles through the door. It’s late. A bit later than he wishes it was. The shift ran long because of a multi-vehicle crash on the highway. They didn’t lose anyone, but it was a hard-fought battle. Dennis can still smell blood in his nostrils. 

“Denny? That you?” Your voice is like a balm on the exhausted open wound that is Dennis Whitaker. He makes his way toward the living room of your tiny shared apartment to see you sitting on the couch. The television plays some nature documentary that he’s sure you’re not watching. You look over the back of the couch and smile so warmly that Dennis thinks he might melt. “Welcome home, baby. Dinner is staying warm in the oven for you.”

“I love you so much.” He can’t help muttering as he leans down to press a kiss to the crown of your head. You just laugh, reaching back to pat his hip before pushing off the couch. 

You follow Dennis into the kitchen, sitting at the rickety dining table with exactly two chairs at it. He pulls out the food you left in the oven, carrying it over to the table, just short of collapsing into the chair. You watch as he eats, crumbs falling back onto his plate, unable to hold back a smile. You’ve known the man for two decades and he still doesn’t know how to eat without making a mess. 

“So…how did it go?” You reach out to run a finger over Dennis’ wedding band. The gold is scuffed and scratched in a few places. You bought your rings together at a thrift store, old and used but no less loved. He flips his hand over, intertwining your fingers.

“Trin was loud. But Robby said you’re invited to our after-work hangout. If you ever want to.” Dennis pauses, running his thumb over your knuckles with such gentle reverence you would think he’d studied you in undergrad instead of theology. “They, uh, they want to meet you.”

“Do you want me to meet them?” You ask quietly, keeping your eyes on Dennis’ hand in yours. He squeezes slightly and you already know the answer. As much as Dennis loves his coworkers, there’s something about you being his and only his. Not having to combine his home and work lives. It gives him an escape. You just squeeze back, finally meeting his eyes. “Wanna wait a little longer?”

“I’m sorry.” He leans down, pressing his forehead against your joined hands. You just smile, running your free hand through his curls. He lets out a breath you’re sure he hadn’t known he was holding. “You are the most amazing wife ever, Mrs. Whitaker.”

“And you are the best husband I could ever want, Dr. Whitaker.” You pull back, standing from the chair with a creak of the old wood. “Now, come on. Shower, then bed.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

2. Dana

“What d’ya got there, kid?” Dana’s voice cuts through Dennis’ thoughts and he looks down at the large foil pan in his arms. Like, so big he needs both arms to carry it. He smiles that signature shaky smile and awkwardly readjusts the pan in his hold.

“Treats. From Mrs. Whitaker.” He can’t help the way he straightens up a bit when he says it. He loves that he gets to call you that now. Dennis told you at least five times the night before that you did not have to bake anything for his coworkers. You steadfastly ignored him as you carefully measured out the ingredients. He only stopped after five because you looked so cute with flour on your nose. Dennis peels back the lid to reveal chocolate and caramel and oats in some kind of layer bar, already cut and carefully arranged in the foil pan. Dennis doesn’t know what exactly went into them. He’s no chef. If it were up to him, Dennis would eat strictly fast food, takeout, and frozen dinners. “They’re carmelitas, I think?”

Dana reaches in and grabs one, taking a bite before Dennis can even say anything. She lets out a noise that Dennis really doesn’t want to hear from his coworker and shoves the rest of the square in her mouth.

“Whitaker, tell your wife that if she ever wants to divorce you, I am more than willing to take your place.” Dana mutters, grabbing another bar as she continues chewing. “Seriously, these things are gonna kill me and it’ll be worth it.”

“Aren’t you married?”

Dana just laughs, turning away without another word. Dennis can only shrug, continuing his journey to the staff break room to place the foil pan on the small counter by the fridge. He pulls the little paper sign you made out of his bag, placing it next to the tray before heading toward his locker. 

It takes about thirty seconds for every single nurse and doctor in the Pitt to realize they’ve been offered a sweet treat. Even the night shift stops by the break room on their way out. Dennis personally gets pats on the back from Dr. Abbot and Robby and about ten other people who he’s not sure he’s ever met before today. It feels…nice? A bit strange, to be thanked and congratulated for something he didn’t even do.

The day is dreadfully slow. As much as Dennis hates the idea of people in pain, it's starting to grate at him by the end of the day. Only two ambulances came in, one of which was from the nearby old folk’s home. And most of the people in the waiting room either ate something bad and are overreacting or are straight-up rude. It’s trying, but Dennis supposes it’s better than losing patients.

By the time he finally makes it around to the break room at the end of the day, hoping for a bite of the sweet treat you made, only crumbs are left in the bottom of the foil pan. He smiles. Not the shaky one he gives when people ask him questions (even when he knows the answer), but something soft and solid. Mostly because he knows how happy you’ll be when you find out that the staff of the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center Emergency Department are, on most days, hungrier than a pack of wild hyenas. 

“I think our grocery bills are about to go up.” Dennis murmurs against your head as he places his customary greeting kiss there. You look over the back of the couch to see him empty handed and you grin.

“Are you telling me I’m required to bake for your coworkers now?” You tease, turning to lean forward against the back of the couch. Dennis just raises a brow, grinning down at you. You two know each other better than you know yourselves some days. “I’m not complaining, baby. They can be my guinea pigs when I try new recipes. And you know me. I have no idea how to cook for less than twenty people.” Dennis laughs and you think it’s the most wonderful sound you’ll ever hear. “Plus, I’m not the one who pays for groceries.”

“About that—” Dennis tugs his phone out of his back pocket, clicking open the bank app. He grimaces at the Loans tab and focuses on his Checking. “I got my first paycheck. I thought I could help out with rent this month.”

You smile softly, reaching out to play with the longer curls at his nape. “Dennis, we agreed. I graduated and got a job so you could focus on your student loans. I pay rent and bills, you get groceries and my own resident fix-it man.” You press a kiss to his cheek.

“I want to help you out.”

“I know, baby. But I want to help you more.” Your eyes close as you tug Dennis’ forehead against yours. He hums out a long sigh and you laugh softly. He’ll bring it up again and it’ll go exactly the same. You think that’s okay if it means you get to hold him like this.

3. Trinity

Around an hour before his shift ends every day, Dennis starts counting down the minutes. It’s a bad habit. He knows. It disappoints him more often than not. When the shift handoff goes long or there’s some kind of last minute trauma. So, yeah, it’s a terrible habit to have. But he can’t help it. He’s not counting down until his shift ends. He’s counting down until he can see you again.

“Hey, Whitaker!” The voice that comes from behind Dennis is unmistakably Trinity’s. He’s honestly surprised she actually used his name. “The residents are going to the bar on Grant.” 

“Uh, good for you?” Dennis murmurs, glancing back at the clock. 6:52. He’s probably only got thirty minutes before he can leave if handoff goes well. Not likely, but he can hope. That means no more than forty-five minutes until he can see you again. Dennis loves his job. He just hates how often it keeps the two of you apart. 

“Huckleberry.” Dennis turns away from the clock, back to Trinity. She has the most unimpressed look on her face that Dennis has ever seen. “All the residents.” Dennis just tilts his head, nodding along slowly. Trinity sighs as he doesn’t answer and reaches out to grip his shoulders. “That includes you, Doc.” 

She says it like it’s obvious, but Dennis hadn’t actually considered the idea that he would be invited along. That he would go. He sees these people almost every day for over twelve hours. Does he really want to spend even more time with them?

(Yes. Dennis loves the people he works with. It took Dennis almost ten years to feel as comfortable around you as he does around his coworkers friends. Probably something to do with trauma bonding in a place where horrid sights outnumber the people who can help them.)

“Oh. Uh, sorry. Can’t. My wife is expecting me at home.” Dennis says, maybe a bit too quickly. It sounds like an excuse even to his own ears and Trinity has never been one to give up.

“C’mon, invite Mrs. Huckleberry along then. I, for one, would love to meet the woman who agreed to marry you.” She grins, jabbing at Dennis’ ribs with her shockingly sharp elbows. He can’t help smiling.

“I know. I’m lucky.” Dennis looks back over at Trinity to see her pretending to gag, fist in front of her mouth. He rolls his eyes and swats at her arm. “You’re just jealous you don’t have a wife. Don’t worry, it only took me twenty years.”

“Twenty—I thought you were high school sweethearts.” Trinity stares at Dennis with wide eyes, brow furrowed tight as she looks him up and down.

“Well, yeah. But we’ve known each other since forever. I mean, there was only one school. And our year had a really small kindergarten class. It just…took me a while to finally ask her out.” Dennis smiles fondly at the memory. He had been continuously tripping over his words when you grabbed his—admittedly very sweaty—hands and said you’d love to go on a date with you, Dennis Whitaker. It was like his entire world paused for that single moment, captured in your warm gaze. Not that Dennis could ever tell Trinity that. She teased him enough already. 

“Nevermind. I don’t want to meet her if this is what I have to put up with.” Trinity actually shoves at his face with her hands, groaning as he laughs. 

“Do you really want to meet my coworkers?” Dennis asks, lights off as you both lay in bed. His warm chest is pressed against your back as he holds you against him. You always have trouble sleeping when he gets home late.

You shift, turning to face him. Light from the city outside your apartment illuminates his face. The window has curtains, Dennis just hasn’t gotten around to hanging them up yet. Always busy with work or spending time with you. Things that are more important than a piece of fabric. You don’t mind if it means you can see his face like this. 

“I mean, you seem really close. And it’d be nice to put a face to a name.” You lift a hand, running your fingers through his curls. He showered when he got home and his hair is still wet. He’ll wake up later, complaining about the damp spot on his pillow and move even closer to share yours. You’ll pretend to be annoyed. “But if you’re not ready for that, I can wait.”

“God, I don’t deserve you.” Dennis’ voice vibrates against the back of your neck, humid breath warming the skin. He wraps his arms tighter around your waist, like you’ll disappear if he lets go. You let him, even though you would never leave. You think that even if Dennis tried to push you away, you would stay glued to his side. For better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health. Those were the vows you made when you married Dennis Whitaker. You had been practicing them in your head for almost a decade. 

“You’re stuck with me anyway, love.” You lift one of his hands to your lips, kissing the back softly. Sheets rustle as you tug them up over your shoulder. You press back against Dennis’ chest and hum softly. “Now go to sleep already.”

Dennis doesn’t say anything. Just pulls you impossibly closer and lets his eyes fall shut. Approximately three hours later, he shifts you both on the bed so his head rests on your pillow, murmuring something about how his pillow is wet. You pretend to be annoyed.

4. Mel

It’s a quiet day in the ED. Not that Dennis would ever say that out loud and risk incurring the wrath of whatever deity watches over the hospital. If any. So he keeps his mouth shut and focuses on the charts he’s been avoiding. Dennis prefers to chart by notepad, so he always ends up transcribing for hours on end. It’s a great way to practice his typing, he supposes. 

“Hey, Whitaker?” 

Dennis glances over to see Mel at the computer next to him, wringing her fingers nervously. He hums in reply, folding his notes away. Any excuse to avoid charting. His eyes feel like they’re about to slide out of their sockets.

“Why didn’t you tell any of us you were getting married?” Mel’s voice shakes slightly in that way Dennis has learned is low-level anxiety. The kind that builds the more you ignore it. In the half second before Dennis can speak, Mel is opening her mouth again, ears pink. “I just—I mean, we were all so surprised. And…well, I’ve never been to a wedding.” Dennis can’t help the tiny smile that grows on his lips, just barely quirking up. “Sorry, that was probably rude.”

“No, it’s just…” Dennis has to think for a moment. He loves you. He wants to show you off, let everyone know that you’ve already been snatched up. But, at the same time, he doesn’t want you to be connected to this part of his life. He doesn’t want the blood on his hands to stain his time with you. You’re his oasis from the world of antiseptic and death that he lives in every day. Compartmentalization, he’s heard it called before. It feels ugly to call it that. He doesn’t want to keep you hidden away in a box. But how the hell does he say that out loud? “Do you have someone that makes you just forget about all the bad things?”

The ED feels like it stops. Mel doesn’t answer for a moment, but her face is easy to read. She’s thinking about it. Like she wants to consider her answer before responding. Like it’s important. It makes something warm bloom in Dennis’ chest. 

“Becca. My sister. She, uh, yeah.”

“My wife, uh,” Your name rolls off his lips and he realizes that Mel is the first person he’s said it to. It’s always been my wife or Mrs. Whitaker. To define you as an individual, not simply an extension of Dennis, loosens something in the tense muscles of his shoulders. “She’s like, a break from it all? I just guess I don’t want to expose her to all this, if that makes any sense.”

“It does.” Mel’s voice is soft as she rolls closer. Her hand hovers near Dennis’ arm like she doesn’t know if she’s allowed to touch him. Dennis leans to the side just enough to make contact and Mel’s hand presses against his bicep. “I understand.”

And it’s that easy. 

The two don’t speak after that, silently typing away in a never-ending attempt to catch up with charting. Keys clack as doctors and nurses alike scurry by, busy with their own tasks and patients. It creates a pattern of background noise that lets Dennis fall into a rhythm in his charting. He glances over at Mel once. She smiles like she understands. 

“I think you should meet my coworkers.” 

He says it suddenly as you curl against him on the couch. The television buzzes quietly in the background, forgotten as you shift to look at your husband. (Oh god, he’s your husband. That fact still amazes you sometimes.)

“What?” Your voice wobbles a bit as you hold back a surprised laugh. Dennis moves underneath you, something nervous rumbling in his chest. You run a hand up his neck, carding your fingers through his curls. He leans into the touch “Hey, you mean that?”

“Yeah, I—” Dennis breaths in slowly and releases his breath with the same careful consideration. “Mel asked today. About why, y’know? I was explaining it to her and it felt…like an excuse? I don’t want to keep you in a box. Like I’m ashamed of you or something—”

“Den, Dennis. Look at me, baby.” You grab his face, forcing him to meet your gaze. His eyes shine wetly in the soft lamplight. The shadows on his face flicker as the TV continues to play, forgotten across the room. No matter how beautiful your husband may look in this moment, you hate to see him anything but happy. So you smile and press a soft kiss to one of his cheeks. “I know you’re not ashamed of me, Dennis.” You press a kiss to his other cheek. “And I get why you’re hesitating. It’s just been us since we moved here. It’s hard to change like that.” Another kiss, this one to his forehead. “But nothing will ever change that I am here and I’m not going anywhere.”

“You are the love and light of my life.” Dennis’ lips press to yours softly and you both laugh into it. This is exactly how you think it should always be. By Dennis Whitaker’s side, both of you smiling like idiots. 

+ 1

Your phone rings while you’re at work. It’s not uncommon. What is strange is that it’s Dennis that’s calling you. He doesn’t call while you’re both at work, one of the many unspoken rules the two of you have. So when you see his smiling face light up your screen, you immediately answer it, panic growing in your chest. 

“Denny? What’s up?” You try to keep your voice even, taking long, deep breaths. 

“Mrs. Whitaker, this is Dr. Robinavitch at the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. I’m calling about your husband.” The voice that comes through is deep and rough. A voice that wasn’t made for yelling but has adapted to it nonetheless. The panic writhes around in the pit of your stomach now, like a living thing. 

“Is Dennis okay? Did something happen to him?”

“Whitaker is fine. He was hit by a gurney and fell. He hit his head on the floor and has a mild concussion. We’ll probably keep him overnight just to make sure there are no complications.” The voice is stern and straight to business, but there’s a softness to the edges of his words. You hear him sigh on the other end of the line. “Dennis will be fine.”

You take a deep breath. Then another. The phone digs into your fingers as you grip it tightly. You take another breath and force your fingers to relax. Dennis is fine. He’s okay. Breathe. “Can I come see him?”

“Of course.”

Dr. Robinavitch quickly gives you directions to the hospital, even telling you which parking lot is closest and would have the most parking this time of day. You jot it all down as he speaks, messy handwriting you probably won’t be able to decipher later. Not that you need to. You call a cab to pick you up. Dennis had to get to work early, so you let him take the shared car and you took the bus. 

The line in the waiting room is long and the more you wait, the more panic grows up your throat. You scratch nervously at your neck as you glance around. It smells like metal. Red is everywhere. Drops on the floor from a kid with a bloody nose. Staining the towel of an older man as he holds it against his wrist. Blooming across a woman’s blouse as she cradles bruised knuckles. You look away. It’s not that you’re a stranger to blood, you just…prefer to be far away from it. 

“How can I help you, hon?” You hear. The woman behind the glass looks you up and down once. Then again. Makes sense. You’re not obviously injured. You feel your cheeks heat.

“Hi. Um, I’m visiting a patient. Dennis Whitaker? He works here.” 

“Mrs. Whitaker?” The woman brightens just slightly, the customer service mask slipping just enough for you to see a glint in her eye. It disappears just as quickly and she points toward the double doors. A young woman steps out, dark hair pulled back. “Santos! Mrs. Whitaker!”

Santos turns toward you immediately. Yeah, that’s definitely a glint. You suddenly know that this is Trinity. It’s the shirt under her scrubs that gives it away. Dennis has always liked that Trinity wears them. He always calls her in for pedes cases when Trinity’s shirt has a cartoon on it. Today you can see the tuft of Tweety Bird’s feathers atop his head.

“Mrs. Whitaker.” Trinity’s voice has a lilt to it that you recognize from Dennis’ brothers when they would tease the two of you. She seems to stalk closer and you meet her eyes slowly, anxiety still quietly simmering in your chest.

“You must be Trinity.” You hold your hand out for her to shake, offering up your first name. Trinity’s grip is solid, hard. Like she’s testing you. The thought makes you smile. Dennis’ oldest brother had done the same thing when the two of you announced your engagement. “Everyone keeps calling me Mrs. Whitaker. Must be confusing. You can use my first name.”

Trinity just shakes her head as she leads you toward the double doors. They buzz open as she scans her badge and it’s just as chaotic as it had been in the waiting room. More, even. Trinity swiftly guides you down a dizzying series of turns until you’re stopped in front of a room. You can feel eyes on you from the large desk in the middle of the open area. You try your best to ignore them, focusing on Trinity.

“That’s what Huckleberry calls you, so it stuck.” Trinity shrugs, pushing the door open. Another woman sits at his bedside, blonde hair braided back and glasses perched on the long ridge of his nose. Mel, maybe? Then, you turn back toward Trinity, one brow raised high. 

“Huckleberry?”

“Hey, baby.” Dennis’ voice comes from the cot on the other side of the room. You immediately turn toward him, surprised at the slow thickness of his voice. Your name rolls off his tongue and it sounds so sweet that you’re almost embarrassed. This is a mild concussion?

“Hey, Den. How’re you feeling?” The woman in the seat next to Dennis’ bed stands, letting you sit. You read the nametag, Dr. Melissa King. She smiles wide and bright. The chair is plastic and probably designed to be uncomfortable, but as you grab Dennis’ hand and he smiles up at you, you know this is where you want to be. 

“Been better. Why’re you here?” There’s a dinosaur bandage on his forehead, just above his brow bone. You reach up to soothe it softly, leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss to the shiny plastic. Dennis leans into it, giving you that familiar soft smile. You can’t help smoothing back his curls.

“Dr. Robinavitch called me. Said you fell.”

Dennis just hums. You glance around the room and realize it’s just the two of you. You’re not sure when Mel and Trinity left. You think you can remember seeing Mel drag the younger woman quietly out of the room. But as your gaze sweeps across the window, you can see a few people gathered around what seems to be the main desk. They occasionally glance over at the room. At you two. 

You can name some of them. The older blonde is obviously Dana. You look down at Dennis to see him following your line of sight. You grin. “Dana, right? I don’t know, Denny…I might just have to leave you if she asks.”

“Don’t even joke about that. She’d probably take you up on it.” You both laugh softly, Dennis squeezing your hand softly. The door clicks open quietly and an older man steps inside. He’s wearing glasses that you can only assume are readers with how far down his nose they are. “Dr. Robby.”

The man steps closer, tablet held under one arm as he looks Dennis over carefully. “Whitaker.” His voice is fond. Soft and warm like a parent. Or maybe just a teacher who cares too much. Robby turns toward you, holding out a hand. You stand and take it. “Mrs. Whitaker. Nice to finally meet you. Michael Robinavitch, we spoke on the phone.”

“You as well.” The chair is just as uncomfortable the second time you sit in it. “Thanks for watching out for Dennis. He’s told me all about you. Really admires you and the work you do.” Dennis groans on the bed, cheeks red. You grin, squeezing his hand tighter. Robby smiles as he watches the exchange. You don’t notice, too busy watching as Dennis tries to hide his face with a pillow. You pull it away before he can suffocate himself. “It’s the truth, Den. Did you want me to lie to your boss?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Robby smiles easily, typing something on the screen in his hands before turning back to Dennis. There it is again. That glint. “Ready for visitors, Whitaker?”

Dennis groans yet again. 

The night is spent with you never leaving Dennis’ side. He groans and grumbles as his coworkers share embarrassing work stories with you that he had purposefully not shared. You respond in kind, telling them about his sweaty hands when he asked you out and how he somehow managed to get a calf to imprint on him. Dana proposes to you twice, grin sharp. You only blush a little. 

You think you get it, why Dennis is already so close with these people. You loved Broken Bow. Still do. But the people there were always pretending to be perfect, putting up fronts so the neighbors wouldn’t know their dirty secrets. Here, in this hospital, everyone is just themselves. They laugh loudly, bully each other playfully, smile wide. You think you get it. Why Dennis has never brought up moving back to Nebraska. Why he wants to stay here. You do too. With him. With this new family the two of you have created. 

“Hey, Mrs. Huckleberry. You’re comin’ with us next Tuesday. That place on Grant. Whitaker knows where it is.” Trinity says as she files out of the room. Something about patients and how every single doctor in the ED cannot be visiting with Dennis. It’s not a question. Not even a request. You laugh.

“Sure thing, Trin.”

Extra

“My sister just texted me. Her wedding is next September.” You mention casually. Dennis nods, pulling out his phone calendar and jotting down the dates he’ll need off. You grin as another text pops up. “She wants to know when you’re gonna put a ring on my finger.”

Dennis doesn’t even look up from his phone as he responds. “After I graduate. You should marry a doctor, not a med student.”

Your eyes widen just a fraction and you smile so sweetly it feels like your teeth are already rotting. You can’t help grabbing his hand and pressing a kiss to the rough palm. 

“Yes.” You murmur against his palm. He tilts his head and you grin. “You can ask me again when you graduate, but I promise my answer will be the same. So, yes, Dennis Whitaker. I will marry you.”

His eyes widen and you laugh as his cheeks burn red. God, you love this man.

[bounty-jes]

The Pitt: Midwestern Gothic

The small town mystery AU that absolutely no one asked for!

line dividers by @hyuneskkami

Michael “Robby” Robinavitch

Town doctor

Moved into town after his mentor’s death

Born and raised in Pittsburgh, PA by his grandmother

Worked at PTMC for almost two decades

Everyone misses him but supported his decision, understanding why he left

He chose a random direction and didn’t stop until he saw an ad in the papers for a clinical physician in some town called Colton

Sometimes people in this town get injuries that Robby knows how to heal, but cannot understand how they occurred…no one really explains things around here

Dana Evans

Nurse at town clinic

Born in town, moved to the city for college

Returned to town after running from her abusive ex

Settled down with her high school sweetheart who waited all this time for her

Sometimes Dana wonders if leaving was the right decision to make, if her shiny degree was worth it

She’s been volunteering at the clinic since she was a kid

Been there longer than anyone else, the last doc had started when she was twelve, already organizing files

Frank Langdon

Recovering addict

Born in town, moved to the city for school and stayed away for almost twenty years

He lost everything, his job, his home, his wife, and his kids. God, his kids.

Lives in his parents’ old house

Frank thinks he can hear laughter sometimes, the ghost of his long-dead childhood

Works at the gas station/grocery in town so he’s not wasting away at home

“You need a hobby” his therapist had said

Samira Mohan

Schoolteacher

Born and raised in Seattle, WA

Her mom left a few weeks after she was born, her dad stuck around for twenty-nine more years

She moved to town after she witnessed her father’s murder

The cops never found who did it

Samira never felt safe

She teaches English to every grade but prefers the younger kids with their still-bright eyes

Cassandra “Cassie” McKay

Mechanic

Born and raised in town

Inherited the mechanic shop from her father

She got full custody of Harrison in the divorce…after Chad disappeared under somewhat mysterious circumstances

(not that anyone liked him anyway)

Taught Harrison how to use her guns when he was seven

Better he knows how to defend himself than die trying to shoot at the eyes in the forest, Cassie thinks

Melissa “Mel” King

Librarian/writer

Born and raised in town

She has taken care of her sister ever since their mother died ten years ago

Something with a name Mel can pronounce but is so scared to give the shape of a spoken word

Their father had disappeared long before that

Writes a very well-known murder mystery novel series

Sometimes the plots seem to come to her in snippets of dreams, half-remembered

Trinity Santos

Busboy/barback at Emery’s

No one really knows where she’s from

She probably wouldn’t tell them if they asked

Ran away from home at fifteen after her friend took her own life

Trinity could not live in that house any longer, sharing a room with a ghost

Her car is her baby, her independence, her lifeline

Lives at the shitty motel on the edge of town, the NO on the neon vacancy sigh flickering every time she gets too close

Dennis Whitaker

True farm boy, works on his family farm

Born and raised in town

Taking college courses online that his family does not know about

His parents are kind, if not odd

Maybe Dennis is the strange one, constantly pulling away from the tether keeping him in Colton

Studies at Emery’s when he can get away from the farm

At night, he likes to lay in the fields and watch the stars, pretending they’re watching him back

Victoria Javadi

Mayor’s daughter

Born and raised in town

Dad used to be the town doc, but passed away, adding to the pressure her mother puts on her

Her however-many-greats-grandfather, Victor Colton, settled the town in 1783

Victoria was named after him, born exactly 200 years later on the day he died

Having a legacy defined by men is yet another burden that she must bear

She can take it, she has to

James “Jack” Abbot

Town sheriff

Born and raised in town

Joined the military at eighteen, honorably discharged five years later when he lost his leg in action

Never finished medical school

Colton is a peaceful town for the most part if you ignore the bodies that appear in the woods

They usually disappear again after a while

Jack doesn’t solve crimes that don’t want to be solved, he’s smarter than that

Emery Walsh

Owns the only bar in town (aptly named Emery’s)

Born in a town four states over, eerily similar to Colton

Emery tries to ignore the similarities

Ran away from home at fifteen

Everyone in town knows her as Walsh

Hired Trinity because they are the same in all the ways that matter

Bar closes at three a.m., she doesn’t fuck with the Witching Hour

Johnathan “John” Shen

Police deputy

Born and raised in town

Soooo nonchalant actually

No trauma, the only normal person in this town

Friends with Frank growing up in a town with very few kids their age

John stops at the gas station every morning for a too-large coffee

(and maybe to check on his friend who came back from the city different)

Parker Ellis

Bartender at Emery’s

Born in a nearby town

Parker came out to her parents at eighteen

Her parents kicked her out at eighteen

She found Emery’s at eighteen

It feels like she’s been eighteen for a decade, still lost, still searching

The nighttime has always felt safer, tricks played by darkness are expected, tricks played in the light are lies

Location

Colton, MO

Population <150

Used to be a big mining town until the mines ran dry and most people left, lots of abandoned buildings and rundown old structures

One main street through town, mostly surrounded by farmland

Most everyone in town has a secret

Heavily inspired by Wake Up Dead Man and Poker Face (specifically 1x2) but make it Midwest gothic

Strange sounds in the fields at night, no one acknowledges them

Sometimes people disappear, you know? it’s not their job to ask questions

[bounty-jes]

tasting you

fandom: The Pitt

pairing: Frank Langdon x f!reader

content: she/her reader, pet names (sweetheart, baby), pre-season 1, reader hates coffee (sorry guys, that’s all me), no use of y/n, reader has an unspecified ED job, SO much kissing, divorced!langdon, tanner appearance

word count: 4.7k

summary: five times Frank kisses you under the guise of a silly game (inspired by this post by @novatheory and this tiktok)

line dividers from @hyuneskkami

Frank Langdon and Abby Woodsworth (who had never taken Frank’s name in the first place) had been divorced for three years. It was never a big deal. They had gotten married in the first place because Abby was pregnant and it seemed like the right thing to do. It wasn’t. It took all of one year for their marriage to fall apart. Frank is just glad Tanner hadn’t been old enough to remember any of it. To him, his parents had always been two separate entities. Always mom or dad. 

So, Frank didn’t make a big deal of the divorce. His second year as a resident, he stopped wearing his ring. No one mentioned it. Frank doesn’t really know if anyone noticed. 

But no one ever really questions it and you two are much too focused on keeping your own relationship quiet. It’s not against hospital regulations or anything. It’s just…Frank likes the idea of having you to himself. Of creating a relationship from scratch and building a strong foundation before announcing it to the world. Frank would never say Abby was a mistake. Tanner is his world, his everything. Without her, Frank wouldn’t be a father. But he does regret how the two of them went about it all. He wants to do better with you. Wants this to last. 

He thought it would all come crumbling down almost a year ago. Frank had been planning to ask if you would move in with him. You asked to use the bathroom. You found the plastic baggie of pills. Frank nearly broke that night. Neighbors banged on the apartment walls as you both argued. 

No, he’s not addicted. Frank is a doctor. He knows all the signs of addiction. He’s not—he’s just weaning himself off. It’s not an addiction. He can fucking stop. 

Frank half expected you to ignore him. Radio silence. Maybe just leave. You’d be right to. The two of you had only been together for a few months. You deserve better. But you stay the night. Frank finds out in the morning that you flushed all his pills while he slept. Hot panic had rushed through his veins and you held him tight.

I’m calling Robby. I’m telling him you need some time off. Please, Frank. Let me help you. And so he did. Frank let you sign him up for an outpatient rehab program. He let you drive him to NA meetings, let you make sure he made it to the right room. He let you talk Robby into an extended leave. Without pay, but Frank would still have a job when all this was over. He thinks that letting you help him was the best decision he’s ever made.

So, he’s maybe a little bit infatuated with you. Reasonably so, he always tells himself when that familiar icy grip crawls into his chest. He can’t rush this. Especially when you haven’t even met Tanner yet. Although Frank can’t think of a single reason why his son would dislike you, he knows that he could never leave Tanner behind. Even for you. So, he tries to rein himself in. He doesn’t look a little too long at ads for engagement rings (he searched them once). He doesn’t trip over his words when you so much as smile at him. He’s cool. He’s suave. He’s a mature adult. 

Exaggerated kissing noises sound in the parking garage as Frank presses a wet kiss to your cheek. You laugh, shoving him away. He just captures your lips instead, hands cradling your jaw like he knows exactly what you want. His tongue traces over your lips and he hums, pulling away without deepening it. You huff, glaring up at him. He just grins, licking his lips.

“Wild Berries?” Frank hums. You smack his arm with a laugh. The noise echoes off concrete walls as you pull your mostly-empty can from the side pouch of your bag. The pink can shines in the low light of the parking garage. Frank grins as he sees the flavor printed across the side.

“How do you do that?” You laugh, holding out the can. It’s a tradition. If he can guess the flavor, he gets a sip. He’s gotten much better at it since he imposed that rule himself. Not that you’ve ever tried to stop him. 

“What can I say? It’s a curated skill.” Frank grins as he hands the can back to you. He can hear some liquid still sloshing in the bottom of the can and Frank leans in before you can decide to finish it. Your lips are soft against his as he tastes you once more, lips ticking upward. “One I find myself wanting to practice all the time.”

“Dr. Langdon, are you aware you’re a flirt?” You push him away playfully, and he just grins. You love when he’s a flirt. So he presses kisses down your jaw and neck. Soft, quick. 

Frank wraps his arms around your waist, tugging you against his chest. You seem to fit perfectly against him and Frank has to remind himself to take a breath. He wants to do this right. He can’t rush this. He especially can’t rush you. So he pulls back, leaving one kiss on the tip of your nose before releasing you.

“Shall we go? Our shift starts in…” Langdon looks down at his wrist. The only thing there is the beaded bracelet Tanner made for him. Suddenly, your left wrist is pushed in front of him and he can read the time on your watch. “Six minutes.”

“If I’m late, I’m telling Robby you stole his mug last February.” You say, voice mockingly serious. Frank rolls his eyes and you step back. He does not like the grin on your face (actually, he likes it a little too much). “Race ya.” 

“Hey!” Frank calls as you rush off toward the ED. At least three doctors and four nurses tell you both to stop running in the hospital. Neither of you seem very apologetic. 

You’re covering a night shift and Frank hates to be rude, but you look terrible. He hasn’t seen you in almost fifty hours. So when he finally catches sight of you, scrubs wrinkled and eyes tired, he can’t help thinking you look divine. Yeah, he’s maybe a little bit in love, because that stain on your pant leg was not originally part of the scrubs. Frank isn’t sure if it’s a bodily fluid or something else, but he does know you need a break. 

“Hey, baby. You look like shit.” Frank keeps his voice soft as he leads you down a quiet hall. You glare up at him and he’s almost scared. It only makes him want to wrap his arms around you. He holds back, just barely. “Don’t worry, you’re still the prettiest girl ever.”

You roll your eyes but Frank can feel the flush on your cheeks as he traces his thumbs over your cheekbones. He doesn’t try to stop the way he leans forward, pressing a kiss to your forehead. Frank moves his hands down to your shoulders as you practically melt into the kiss. Laughter rumbles low in his throat.

“Here, go to my place. Sleep. There’s leftovers in the fridge. Eat something.” Frank tugs his keys from the pocket of his scrubs and presses them into your hand. His car key. Apartment key. Hell, he’s got his safety deposit box key on there. And he’s just giving it to you. Frank tries not to overthink it. He can’t let you take the bus when he’s the one who dropped you off yesterday morning before your double. 

“Fine. I guess it's the doctor's orders.” You take the keys easily, leaning up to press your lips to his. Frank doesn’t waste a second swiping his tongue across your lips. He grimaces slightly at the taste. 

“Coffee? You hate coffee.” 

Frank doesn’t mind the taste, but he knows how much you dislike it. Bitter and too-hot. Worse when it’s cold. But you and Frank both agree energy drinks are more convenient. More fun, too. Frank hates the idea of a fruit flavored coffee. Some things just aren’t meant to be. 

“Long shift. Shifts, actually.” You grin and Frank almost doesn’t let you step away. But he does, hands feeling cold without you under them. You hold up his keys, shaking them so they jangle softly. “You sure you want me to drive your car?”

He can’t help laughing. Frank added you as an Authorized Driver on his insurance two months ago. You could wrap his car around a tree so long as you don’t hurt yourself in the process. Frank doesn’t say any of that. He just presses the keys into your palm and leans down to press a kiss to your forehead. It’s too sweet for someone who is supposedly trying to take things slow. Frank doesn’t have a metric for this, though. Doesn’t know how much is too much after over a year together. Maybe that’s why he can’t stop the next words out of his mouth.

“Do you want to meet Tanner?” He studies your reaction because holy shit that was not how he was supposed to ask you that question. Frank can see the way your face twitches and how your grip tightens just slightly on his keys. He takes a breath, running nervous hand through his hair, and he remembers the taste of coffee on your lips. You hate coffee. “Think about it. Go home, eat, sleep. Then think about it.”

You don’t say anything about the way his voice shakes. Frank wants to hope you haven’t noticed, but he knows you. From just the twitch of your fingers as they reach for his arm. Fuck. He might have really fucked this up. 

“I’d like that.” You say softly. Frank can’t help the way his hands move to grab yours, squeezing gently. His face splits in a wide grin as he wraps his arms around your waist and actually spins you in the air. By the time your feet touch the ground again, the world is just slightly off kilter. You focus on Frank’s face and he finds the action unfairly adorable. “I mean, I’ll think it over. But I’d really like that.”

“You are the best.” Frank presses multiple kisses to your lips, most missing completely. You laugh, shoving at his face. He doesn’t move back at all. “Seriously, I—you’re amazing.”

Frank has said I love you before. He’s said it to you before. In bed together, in the mornings when you’re lucky enough to wake up side by side. But not like this. When talking about Tanner. That feels real. That feels like a commitment that Frank isn’t prepared to make yet. Not until you get the Tanner Stamp of Approval. He really fucking hopes Tanner likes you.

Afternoon light streams through the crack between Frank’s curtain. He panics for a single second, already imagining the texts from Robby and Dana because he’s late for a shift. Then you move against him in the bed and his heart rate slows back to normal. Well, that special normal that he hits when you are practically wrapped around him. Frank finally turns his head, reading the little red numbers on his alarm clock. He sighs, running his fingertips down your shoulder.

“Baby, we gotta get up. Tanner’s school lets out in a few hours.” His voice is soft as he whispers against your forehead. Frank presses a gentle kiss to the skin before pulling away and climbing out of the bed. You groan, but do the same.

It’s a slow version of your usual mornings. The sun shines the wrong way through the windows and Frank isn’t sure how he feels about that as an omen before meeting Tanner. He climbs in the shower and tries to forget about it. It doesn’t work. Tension slowly builds in his movements as seconds and minutes and hours pass by. Because this is real. You’re meeting Tanner, Frank’s son. An extension of him in the best way possible. And, shit, Frank’s hands are shaking. 

“Are you that worried that he won’t like me?” Your laughter is like water rushing past Frank’s ears. He turns to look at you in the passenger seat of his shitty civic. Everything seems a little blurry around the edges. He can see your brows knit together as you study his pale face. Frank lets out the tiniest breath as your hand grabs his, squeezing gently. “Hey, you okay? C’mon, you can tell me, baby.”

Your lips press against the back of his hand as you raise it up to your lips. He can’t help leaning in closer. The look in your eyes is so soft that Frank can barely remember to breathe. Not because he’s panicking (although, he still is a little bit). Because he wants to stop time and capture your gaze in a bottle. Liquid love. Instead, he leans toward you and kisses you so gently. Like you’ll break if he’s too fast. Almost instinctively, his tongue swipes across your lips. 

“Dragon Fruit?” He pulls back, exaggerated pout playing on his lips. “You know that’s my favorite. You didn’t even share.” 

Frank remembers watching you drop the can into his recycling before he could catch the color. He’d been too out of it, filled with coarse anxiety tearing through his veins, to ask for a taste. You just laugh, pulling back and unbuckling your seat belt before climbing out of the car. He follows, his own laughter sounding as he follows you toward the school. 

“You were showering?” You shrug, grinning like it's an actual excuse.

A few other parents mill around by the front doors of the school, chatting quietly with each other. Most of them, however, stay in their shiny minivans, idling in the circle drive. The two of you stand a bit apart from the group. Frank is popular among the moms. He knows he’s attractive. He knows Tanner loves him. He knows how feral and horny moms can be. He really doesn’t want them sinking their teeth into you like you’re fresh meat. 

“Dr. Langdon, how are you?” Vanessa, the mom of one of Tanner’s friends, steps away from the group to join the two of you. Frank likes little Johnny. He’s sweet and polite. Frank has no idea how he came from this woman. Bitchy as they get, head of the PTA, thinks she’s always right. Or maybe she just reminds Frank of how he used to be. Before you. Either way, he doesn’t like her. He especially doesn’t like the way her eyes glide over you. She doesn’t address you as she speaks. “And who is this?”

“I’m Frankie’s girlfriend.” You answer anyway, leaning close. You’re laying it on thick. Frank can tell and he doesn’t mind at all. He barely even hears you as you introduce yourself to Vanessa, hand out for her to shake. The woman looks almost panicked. Maybe she thought you would throw a fit. Maybe she thought you’d shy away. But you’re cordial. Even friendly. The end-of-day bell finally rings and Vanessa shirks away quickly. Frank smiles at the way she looks like she’s running away from you. He doesn’t have long to revel in it before forty pounds of toddler is slamming into his leg. 

“Daddy!” Tanner’s voice is high and absolutely dripping with adoration. Frank reaches down, ruffling his hair softly. It’s dark and straight, just like his. Frank doesn’t see the way you smile at the interaction. He just lifts Tanner in his arms as the boy animatedly explains his day. Tanner stops in the middle of his sentence, suddenly noting your presence has yet to leave. He glances at you before turning to Frank. “Daddy, who is that?”

Frank opens his mouth to respond but nothing comes out. How does he explain the current stage of your relationship to his son? Does Tanner even know what dating is? At what age does a child learn that kind of thing? Will he think Frank is trying to replace Abby in Tanner’s life? That familiar panic is returning. A growing, angry thing in Frank’s gut that makes him feel a little sick. 

Then you step closer, holding out your hand seriously. It’s a comical sight, watching as you shake Tanner’s tiny hand in your own. “I’m your dad’s girlfriend. That means I love him lots.” You keep your voice serious and Tanner giggles at your little act. Then, his eyes go wide and he reaches out to grip your sleeve with his small fingers. 

“Does that mean I have another mommy?”

Your cheeks go hot and Frank sputters, trying to come up with some kind of explanation that doesn’t involve him telling Tanner about his three-year plan with you. He hasn’t picked out a ring yet. It’s too soon for that. But he did take a peek at your Pinterest account last week. He can’t think of a single thing to say and you’re talking again. Frank realizes suddenly that he has been panicking through this entire interaction. 

“Not yet, kiddo. Maybe in a few years.” You say softly, letting Tanner play with the strings of your sweatshirt. The words make Frank want to melt into the sidewalk. You pretty much just agreed to marry him. Holy shit, you just agreed to marry him. It takes about two seconds for Frank to decide he needs to go ring shopping next time he has a day off. He barely even hears the way Tanner whines because Janie Wilkins has two moms, why can’t I?

Frank draws a mental check mark next to Tanner Stamp of Approval in his mind as he straps Tanner into his carseat.

It’s a quiet day in the ED. The wait time is barely two hours and there had only been one trauma through the ambulance doors. All in all, a pretty good day. Frank is glad for it. He loves Tanner with all his heart, but the kid is exhausting. He has no idea how you managed to keep up with him. Maybe it was the drink you had stolen from beneath his nose. Frank huffs as he remembers, playfully annoyed. 

He catches sight of you on the steps, sipping at a can that he can’t quite see as you type something on your phone. The moment you hear his footsteps, you slide the can behind your legs on the steps, grinning wide. Frank takes the challenge for what it is. He moves until he’s kneeling on the step below your feet and leans forward between your knees. 

“Who’re you texting?” He asks, letting his lips hover just inches away from where he knows you want them. He glances down at your screen, seeing Cassie across the top. He raises a brow. Frank didn’t know the two of you were close.

“Um, I was just asking McKay for birthday gift ideas.” You say softly, voice almost nervous and cheeks hot. It’s strange. Frank isn’t used to hearing you be timid in any way. Conflicting feelings of this is wrong and this is cute fight in his mind. He pushes them back and ignores the quandary for now as he waits for you to continue. “Tanner’s birthday is next week and he invited me to his party, but I have no clue what four-year-olds like. So I thought I’d ask her.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Frank doesn’t stop himself from leaning in. He doesn’t think he could if he wanted to. His lips meet yours, soft and sweet. More reassuring than anything else. “You are the most amazing girlfriend ever. Did you know that?”

“I try.” You chuckle. Your arms are slung over Frank’s shoulders, fingers playing with the short hair at his nape. He leans into the sensation, forehead pressing against yours. You laugh softly and continue the movement for another second before pulling back slightly. “What’s your guess?”

Frank’s head tilts. He’s heard you call him adorable because of the habit before. It’s never made him want to stop. “For the gift?” He asks slowly, confusion painting his face. You just shake your head and lick your lips and suddenly Frank remembers. He grins, leaning into your space. Your foreheads brush together and your chests touch with every inhale and his hips brush against your knees. “Hmm, I might need another taste.”

The kiss isn’t soft, but it’s not mean either. It’s the kind of kiss you give when you love someone and want to be a part of them. Frank nearly forgets why he kissed you in the first place, melting into you as you kiss him with equal fervor. It’s habit, really, that makes him swipe his tongue across your lips. It’s not enough (usually isn’t) and he presses deeper. 

You had confessed to Frank when the two of you first started dating that you didn’t care for tongue while kissing. That was fine with him. He could adapt. Except, the next time he kissed you, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. His tongue had touched you everywhere else. Just one time. He just needed one. Suffice to say, you didn’t quite mind his tongue in your mouth anymore. Frank studied you harder than he did any textbook, learned what you liked and what made you pull back. He chuckles as he pulls back, using his grip on the back of your neck to keep you from chasing his lips. 

“Sugar free?” Frank hums, licking his lips. He glances down at the can on the step, grinning when he sees the little blue banner across the top. His head tilts, not in the cute curious way, but the way it does when Frank is about to tease you.

“I grabbed the wrong one at the gas station this morning, okay?” You huff, shoving Frank in the chest. He grabs your hands, holding them against his scrubs. It only takes one of his hands to hold both of yours and Frank almost loses himself in the revelation before your voice pulls him out of it. “That thing was three bucks. I’m not wasting it.”

Frank grins, grabbing the can. You don’t move to stop him. He doesn’t think you will, it’s tradition, after all. He just watches in amusement over the thin can as he chugs the remaining half of the drink. Aluminum clacks softly against marble as Frank drops the can back onto the step. He laughs as you pull your hands from his gentle hold and swat at him.

“Hey! One sip. That was the deal, Frank!” Your cheeks are hot from the kiss and from pure annoyance. Frank can’t help grinning at the sight. He loves when your skin warms up, no matter how he causes it. 

“Don’t worry, sweetheart.” Frank pushes past your flying hands to press a kiss against your forehead. He pulls back, leaving a sudden emptiness in the space he was occupying a half second ago. “You can have the rest of mine. Dana’s keeping an eye on it.”

You carefully eye Frank’s outstretched hand before sighing and grabbing it. God, your hands are so warm against his. Frank loves how warm you tend to run. Loves to press his perpetually cold hands against the softness of your waist, especially when it makes you laugh. He tugs you off the step.

“C’mon, baby. It’s Coconut Berry.”

Your face lights up and you immediately gather your things. You even lean up, pressing a kiss right on his lips. “I love you so much.”

“I know.” Frank tugs you toward the nurses’ station with a grin. 

You’re most likely fucked. Frank Langdon is much too easy to fall in love with. Even when he’s stubborn and impossible and oh so full of himself. Even when he’s not easy to love, you know it would be harder to leave him behind. He already had you snared in his crystalline eyes when you found the drugs. So you took a breath and put your foot down.

Me or the drugs, Frank. Let me help you.

You held Frank as he cried the next morning. It was so unfair. Unfair that Frank couldn’t heal himself. Couldn’t fix himself. Unfair that you fell in love with him even fucking deeper when you found out. 

(That was the first time you saw Frank cry.)

It’s not that you’re one of those people who thinks you can fix others. Frank didn’t need to be fixed. He needed to be helped. And maybe you have a terrible habit of helping people. Of seeing their best even when they’re at their worst. It sucks, to be honest. But your heart will shatter if you have to leave Frank to destroy himself. So when he took your hand, it struck like lightning to your core. Restarting your broken heart. Regular sinus rhythm. Actually, a bit irregular, but that had more to do with the way Frank was looking at you with his wide, wet eyes. So full of adoration and fear and trust. Like everything would be fine as long as you were there by his side. 

Today is his one year sober. There’s no big party, no celebration with all your shared friends. Just the two of you, leaving work way too late. You’ve got everything in the fridge for a homemade meal and a big bag of the epsom salts that Frank likes hidden in the closet. 

“What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?” Frank asks softly as you near his car in the lot. He wraps his arms around you from behind, pressing a kiss against the crown of your head.

“How proud I am of you.” Your smile practically splits your face in half as you spin around in Frank’s arms. You hope the tremor in your voice is evidence enough, since you can’t seem to come up with words. Instead, you press a soft kiss to the corner of his lips, barely pulling back. “I’m serious, Frank. You’re amazing.”

The corners of Frank’s lips soften as his grin turns into a smile. Something sweet and adoring and you wonder how anyone could not love this man. You’re done for. Surely.  “You, sweetheart, are my drug of choice.”

Ugh. You want to roll your eyes, but laughter bubbles up and you swat at his chest. Heat rises on your cheeks. “Frank!” Your attempt at chastisement doesn’t exactly work as you giggle. 

Frank seems to take that as an invitation, peppering kisses across your cheeks and nose. One on each forehead. One over each brow. A dusting over your forehead. Then, finally, your lips. It’s the same as always. Nothing extra, no sparks. Just warmth spreading through your veins and the familiar grounding feeling of cool hands on your warm cheeks. It’s like coming home after a double. You want to collapse into him. And then he pulls back.

“Original?” He hums, licking at his lips. You do roll your eyes this time, can’t help it. You push his chest, easily escaping his hold as you take a step backwards toward the car. Frank follows step for step.

“I finished that hours ago. You are such a freak!” You can’t help laughing. Frank laughs along with you, leaning in to press one more kiss against your lips. He steps back, moving toward the driver’s side door.

“I thought you said I was a flirt.”

“Can’t a man be both?” You raise a brow, spinning around toward the passenger’s side. The locks click as Frank turns his key in the handle. You tug your door open, pausing before you climb in. “But for some reason, I still love you.”

Frank stares at you for a moment, half bent to get into the car. You can see pink on his cheeks rising slowly. When it reaches his ears, you have to look away, hiding a chuckle. You’re not sure if Frank hears it or not. 

“Do you want to move in with me?” The words come out of nowhere. Much like when Frank asked if you wanted to meet Tanner. Tanner, who had been the sweetest boy ever. Tanner, who idolized his dad and was jealous of Janie Wilkins because she got two moms and he only had one. You had answered mostly on instinct back then and it hadn’t failed you yet.

“Yes.”

[bounty-jes]

i want you (to need me)

fandom: The Pitt

pairing: Jack Abbot x f!Reader

content: she/her pronouns for reader, pet names (kid, kiddo, sweetheart, sweetie, my girl), dubious medical talk, canon-typical violence, cursing (both Jack and reader), age difference (reader is mid-late 20s, Jack is late 40s/early 50s), domestic abuse, mentions of suicide (jack and reader sorry babe), implied stalking, no use of y/n

18+ MDNI 18+ MDNI 18+ MDNI while this story does not contain explicit sexual content, there are very heavy adult themes. this work is considered mature and i ask that minors do not interact

word count: 11k (this was supposed to be like 3k, man)

summary: You change to the night shift in an attempt to avoid your shitty boyfriend. It doesn't quite go the way you expect.

line dividers from @chrisssiren, mdni banner from @cafekitsune

You recently switched to the night shift. Dana had been hesitant to sign off on the transfer, but you managed to wear her down. You had to. He’d been getting worse lately. 

Your boyfriend loves you, he just gets worried or angry at times. At least, that was what he always told you after leaving bruises across your skin. Aches and sores that were always skillfully hidden beneath long-sleeved undershirts and scrub pants. He loves you. You try to believe the words. It gets harder by the day. 

So, yes, the switch from day to night shifts could be seen as running away. Hiding from the issue at hand. But there isn’t much else you can do. That’s what you tell yourself as you meet Dr. Jack Abbot for the first time. As you try to ignore the way the wrinkles around his eyes make your knees just a little weak. 

(Your boyfriend had never really been your type. Too tall. Too blonde. And maybe a little too young, despite being three years older than you. But chasing after silver foxes had never worked out, so you decided to test your luck on a younger guy. And He loves you. Surely.)

“I’ve heard a lot about you from Robby. He thinks I stole you away.” Dr. Abbot’s voice is warm, almost teasing as he shakes your hand. His hands are rough against your palm and you can’t help laughing softly.

“And I promised him on my last shift that I hadn’t even met you before.” Your smile is real. Soft and bright. It makes your eyes shine under the fluorescent lights that, realistically, aren’t supposed to make anyone look good. The pale lighting sometimes makes injuries worse, shining bright white on blood and any of the multitude of bodily fluids that are so common in the ED.

“I’ll tell him that during handoff.” Dr. Abbot’s laughter tumbles like rocks down a cliff. A gentle rumble in his chest. You try not to think too much about Dr. Abbot’s chest. “So, why did you change to nights? Not many want to work when the sun isn’t even out.”

The question feels like a punch to the chest. Like too-fast compressions that split your sternum in half. You hope you don’t look as haunted as you feel.

(He loves you. He has to.)

“Just looking for a change, I guess.” Shit. Yeah, that was anything but convincing. You can see Dr. Abbot squint at you before quickly clearing his face. He claps his hands once and smiles down at you, not asking. Not pushing. You’re more grateful for that than he knows. 

Jack is absolutely fucked. No way he has a crush on the new nurse. A crush. Like a goddamn teenager. And on a woman half his age. This cannot be happening. 

Yeah, you’re pretty. And, sure, you’re one of the best nurses Jack has ever worked with. Competent. Quick on your feet. You somehow look good in scrubs. Jack thinks that if he’d met you before today, he really would have tried to steal you from Robby.

Shit. No. That is not where this train of thought is supposed to be going. Jack is used to shaking on and off the rails, just not this way. More like his tracks are running on a wide open field than on the edge of a cliff. Fuck, he’s getting poetic now. 

“You good, brother?” Robby’s hand lands on his shoulder, squeezing in a side hug. Suddenly Jack no longer feels like he’s about to explode into a million pieces. He knocks his fist against Robby’s chest.

“Of course.” And it’s not quite a lie. The hand on his shoulder is grounding. Jack thinks he’s pretty damn lucky to have a friend like Robby. Not that he’d ever say that aloud. “Got four big ones in last night. Two moved up to surgery. Two are still in here, just observation.”

Robby nods and they quickly move through the handoff. It’s late. Or—early, actually. Jack just wants to sleep and forget that you exist for a few hours. But there you are. 

Your dark jacket is too big for you, something other doctors have told you off about before. Jack knows that the sleeves could get in the way and that’s why he doesn’t let you wear it during your shift. Not because his eyes flick down to your fingers just barely poking out the end. Your nails are chipped, painted bright colors. He forces his eyes away from you as you walk a few nurses and med students around. 

“How is she doing on nights?” Robby’s question comes from seemingly nowhere and Jack has no idea what the hell he’s talking about. He thinks Robby must have finally cracked. His friend just rolls his eyes. “The nurse you were just staring at? The one you stole from me?”

“I did not steal her. And she told you that, too.” Jack laughs. Not his usual rumble. A thinner sound, higher in his throat. Barely different. Robby catches it. He doesn’t say anything about it. 

“Sure. Get some sleep, Jack. You look like shit.” Robby’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he pats his friend on the back.

Jack just elbows Robby in the ribs, laughing at the pained noise the taller man makes. Ducking out of his grip, Jack waves over his shoulder and calls out a goodbye to Dana. 

You always take the pain meds as per instructions. No more than four doses in a twenty-four hour period. Two tablets every six hours. Exactly what it says on the bottle. Never more and sure as hell not any less. You don’t think you’d be able to function on less. Not with how the bruises across your ribs seem to be yelling at you to stop and just take a fucking second. Except, you don’t have a second. Even in the dead of the night, people are stupid or unlucky. Most times, both. 

But you’re a nurse. You know your body. How far you can push it before you crash. How far you can go before there’s no way back. As great as taking a minute sounds like heaven, you’re a nurse. And these people need your help. 

“Incoming MVC! We’ve got three bodies, six minutes out!” Lena’s voice calls out from the nurse’s station. You sigh, pushing up from the chair you had gotten to sit in for exactly twenty-seven seconds. 

Multi-car pileups aren’t exactly uncommon in the dead of winter. Even in the middle of the night. They’re more annoying than anything else. Stupid people who don’t know how to drive in the snow. People who moved to Pittsburgh without considering the average annual snowfall is almost four fucking feet. But, no. You sigh again, grabbing a trauma gown and a pair of gloves. You look at the clock. Five minutes. Probably closer to four. (Pittsburgh ambulance drivers like to go fast. You’re surprised there hasn’t been a crash yet. Glad, too. Less patients to treat.)

“Ready, kid?” You recognize the hand on your shoulder before his voice. Dr. Abbot stands behind you, glancing up at the board to make sure none of their patients need anything before the ambulance arrives. His hand slides back, tying the trauma gown behind your neck. You’re glad he’s wearing gloves already. His calloused fingertips against your skin would have been difficult to ignore. More so than the nitrile gloves that cover his skin, at least. The warmth is still there. 

“Gotta be, right?” Your grin is sharp, if not a bit wobbly at the corners. You keep your eyes on the ambulance bay, not seeing the way Dr. Abbot’s brow scrunches at your words. He doesn’t have time to ask as paramedics rush through the door.

It’s a long few hours of calling out orders and taking them in equal measure. No time for hesitation or taking a break. Because these three people deserve the best you can give them. 

The cursor blinks in front of you on the screen, taunting you. You don’t even have enough energy to look away, just blinking slowly in time with the little black line on your screen. A headache grows slowly behind your eyes and you rub gently at your temples in an attempt to simply massage the deep ache out. You glance down at the corner of the screen. It’s only 3:49. 

“You okay, kid? You look like you just got hit by a car instead of those guys.” And there he is again, right over your shoulder. You have no idea how he manages to make his steps so quiet. 

The screen in front of you is still blank and you know how this must look. You’ve been staring at the chart for an undetermined amount of time, grumbling and rubbing at your head while not doing your job. Maybe you really do need that break. That’s the moment you realize you still haven’t responded. You glance at the time again. 3:51. Shit. 

“Oh—yeah! I’m good. Just, you know, tired.” You’re glad you sound steadier than you feel. 

Dr. Abbot either doesn’t catch the lie or decides not to question it. His smile is warm as he brings a hand up to pat your back. You can feel the warmth through the layers of your clothes. Dr. Abbot’s hands are different from His. Warm and gentle. Bigger. More careful.

(He loves you He loves you He loves you He—)

“Try to get some rest after shift. Even on the night shift, you gotta sleep sometime.”

You just nod, trying your best not to let a tear fall. You’re hoping He isn’t home when you get there. Your small shared apartment is anything except easy to sneak around in. You just need a nap. An eight-hour nap, but a nap nonetheless. He wasn’t happy when you switched to the night shift. That’s why your ribs hurt. (He was worried. Being out at night is dangerous. He was just worried.) 

Dr. Abbot nods once, squeezing the nape of your neck. It almost scares you, the way such a simple, gentle action can make you melt. Scares you because He has never touched you like that before. “You must really be tired, sweetheart. Go ahead and get yourself a coffee in the break room. The charts will still be here when you get back.” 

“Yeah, sure.” You grumble, pushing yourself off the stool and practically trudging toward the smell of coffee. Cold, stale coffee. Ugh. 

“I’ll make you a fresh pot.” Jack’s voice comes from behind you and you’re so tired that you didn’t even notice him following behind. You ignore how his rumbling laughter makes you want to collapse into the closest surface. You can see the freckles shift with his skin, muscles working as the doctor reaches for the coffee pot. You want to argue, but the couch in the corner looks so comfy and your feet are so sore. The only noise that leaves is a grumbled thank you. That fucking laugh again. 

But the coffee that Dr. Abbot presses into your hands is hot and probably more creamer than actual coffee. Shit, he knows how you like your coffee.

You feel it first in more of the he cares enough to notice way. It warms your cheeks and makes the corners of your mouth tick up. Then, like ice down your spine, it falls apart. How much did he notice? Bruises? Favoring your right side? Maybe the way you flinch when a metal tray that falls, even though trauma alarms barely make you blink? 

The door clicks shut and your eyes shoot up from the steaming drink. Dr. Abbot. He left. But you can still feel the warmth of his thigh against yours. 

Jack knows what chronic pain looks like. Feels like. He sees you take out your bottle of ibuprofen once. He’s been keeping an eye out, just in case. But you never take more than directed. And it’s not every day. Maybe it’s your knees. That was what went first for Jack. (God, he’s so old. He should not look at you the way he does when he isn’t worried about you.)

So Jack watches, but he isn’t overly concerned. You’re a responsible person. If you had a serious injury, you would tell your family doctor. Hey, even doctors have to go to the doctor. So he watches, but he doesn’t ask. He probably doesn’t have a right to, anyway. And then you come into work with a black eye. Jack watches as you wave off the interns’ questions, concern etched on their faces.

“I’m fine, I promise. No concussion or anything. Just a shiner.” Your voice is much too light for the way your right eye squints shut just a bit. Someone punched you. 

Jack has wanted to hurt people before, but he is a doctor. Even in the military, he always healed before he hurt. And right now, he wants to press an ice pack to your face and sit you down on the couch. He wants to tell you that you should have just stayed home. You deserve a break. And then…well, he really wants to punch whoever did that to you in the eye. As glad as he is that your knuckles aren’t bruised, he almost wishes you had already returned the favor. 

“Plannin’ on retiring so soon?” Jack feels Dana as she bumps her shoulder against his. Jack blinks. Dana grins. “I’m pretty sure assault and battery can get your med license revoked, Jackie-boy.” 

He tears his eyes away from you (in that jacket) and looks down at Dana. “Excuse me?”

Her hip brushes against Jack’s closed fist. His shoulders just barely tense as he can feel nails biting into his palm. His own nails. Damn it. Jack sighs, forcing his fingers to relax. He leans onto his leg, toward Dana, with a heavy sigh. He’s already sore. Dana just shoots him a look and speeds off. Jack gleans absolutely nothing from it.

“Dr. Abbot! Hey, I just had a question about the patient in Central 4?” Jack barely keeps himself from jumping at your sudden appearance, still watching Dana across the ED. He looks down at you, grinning.

“Jeez, kid. You snuck up on me.” Jack laughs, reaching out to pat your shoulder lightly. He wonders why he felt that urge to reach out. 

“That bad, huh?” You gesture toward the black eye. Jack tries to keep himself from flinching. It’s still red around the edges, new. Hell, he just saw you twelve hours ago. It’s gotta be pretty fresh. Jack holds himself back from reaching out and touching the skin. 

“What happened?”

“Some guy jumped me on my way home. I got him with pepper spray and called the police, but he got a lucky swing in.” Something grates at Jack when he hears you laugh about the situation. Like it’s a joke. You must see something on his face because you reach out, stopping just before your hand touches his arm. “I already got a CT scan done. I came in early for it. Nothing wrong. I’m cleared to work, I promise.”

Jack can’t help hesitating as he looks at your eye again, but he sighs, acquiescing. “If you say so. I trust you.” 

You smile at him and Jack thinks it might just be completely worth it to worry about you through the shift if he can see that face. 

You got home late that morning. He was just worried. You got in his way and he—it was an accident. Obviously. So you sold the same story to anyone who asked. And you really did get a CT scan done. You knew someone would ask. 

A tiny voice in your head, a new one that sounds suspiciously like Dana, says that they should ask. They have the right. As your coworkers. As your friends. But you couldn’t tell them the truth. They would worry, and you’re fine. He loves you. 

(That same voice tells you that none of the older men you’d chased after had been like this. They were distant and maybe a bit sleazy, but never like Him. You wonder if what you have now is better or worse.)

The entire shift, everyone steers you toward the easy patients. The kid with a sprained wrist or the old lady running a fever. It was sweet. And as much as you wish you could argue I was cleared to work so stop coddling me, the slower pace is much appreciated. A drunk teen who crashed on his skateboard even complimented your bruise (“Fuckin’ sick, dude. Like, so awesome”). You just chuckle and send him off after cleaning up his scrapes.

You let out a breath as you lean back in a chair by the computers. You have charting to do, but you need like five seconds to just sit. You count in your head and suck in air through your teeth. Okay, you can do this. Charting is easy, if not tedious and boring. But medical records save lives. 

“Hey, kiddo. How’re you holding up?” And Dr. Abbot is right there, rubbing hand sanitizer into his hands. You know how gentle those rough hands can be. Shit. Not now. 

“I’m good. Seriously. As much as I do not appreciate being coddled—“ You shoot Dr. Abbot a look that only makes him shrug in faux innocence. The grin he’s sporting doesn’t help, either. You roll your eyes. “I really do appreciate the break.”

“Of course—“

“But you better be treating me like normal tomorrow. I’m not made of glass. I’m not gonna shatter, Doc.” Probably. Most likely. The human body isn’t made to shatter, at least. But you’ve seen enough gruesome bodies roll through the doors to know that it is painstakingly possible. You force a smile as you meet Dr. Abbot’s gaze. His brow is furrowed tight, but he doesn’t say anything. Just nods and turns back toward one of the rooms to check on a patient. 

“I thought you would at least be useful during the day while I’m at work. But here you fucking are. Sleeping on the couch without a goddamn care. Do you know who pays rent here?” His voice seems to pierce your eardrums as you curl into yourself on the couch. The words are like acid on your skin.

Your boyfriend of almost a year (not that he would ever remember your anniversary), Brett Baird. Tall, broad, blonde. Overall, a pretty attractive guy. Your boyfriend, who is just stressed. 

“I’m sorry, baby. I—I was just tired after my shift. I must’ve fallen asleep by accident.” Your voice is quiet, a little shaky. Something that trembles at the edges like your fingers during your first cadaver lab.

“And you think I’m just fucking full of energy? I pay rent because of your student loans. I let you live here so you can save up your money, and this is what I get?” Brett scoffs and you blink away tears that threaten to fall. He always gets worse when you start crying. His next words make something inside of you crack. “I mean, you’re not even a fucking doctor. Just a stupid nurse who sits around looking pretty all day. You think they need you? Don’t get so self-absorbed.”

Your entire life has been defined by people looking down on you. When you moved in with Brett, you thought he would be different. He at least let you save all your money to pay off student loans and never asked for any payment in return. That was your one sliver of hope. The last thread. And now you’re falling. A million images pass through your head and you decide that if this is love, you don’t want it anymore. Bridget and Lena. Princess and Perlah and Jesse and Donnie and Mateo. And Dana. Fucking Dana, who is your friend before being your coworker. Dana, who is always talked down to for being not even a doctor. Something hot runs through your veins. You think it might be adrenaline. 

You barely even get a chance to glare up at Brett before he’s yelling again. “What? You’re gonna fight back? Where are you gonna go? I’m all you’ve got, babe.” For the first time in almost a year, his smile isn’t charming or good-looking. It’s sharp and slimy. Disgusting. 

“Don’t call me that.” You grind out between your teeth, fists clenching at your sides. You hear Brett laugh above you and you push off the couch cushion, finally (finally!) glaring up at him. “I said don’t fucking call me that.”

Lightning fast, Brett’s hand grips your throat. You don’t even have time to flinch before you’re gasping. He isn’t smiling anymore. His face is dark, dripping with something between fury and anticipation. He doesn’t even say anything as he holds you in place by the neck and brings the back of his hand across your face. The burn of humiliation hurts more than the actual slap. You scratch at his arms, drawing thin lines of blood. He curses.

“You fucking bitch! That’s it!” He throws you down. You can feel something tweak in your shoulder as you try to catch yourself. Pain blooms across the muscles there, deep. Probably a sprain or a fracture. Collarbone is most likely, but— “What? Tryin’ to space out or some shit? Nah, you’re gonna feel this.” He lifts you again, by your good shoulder this time. You know from experience that his grip will leave a bruise across your skin. Hell, you’ve probably still got one from the last time he grabbed you. “You’re mine.”

You swing a leg out and kick Brett squarely between the legs. He groans, falling to his knees and moving to grab his balls. You make a run for it, but you’re not quite fast enough. His arm swipes out, grabbing at your ankle. You fall onto the coffee table. The legs buckle and snap under your weight and bottles shatter between your body and the table. You can feel shards of glass across your front as you shake off his grip and run for the door. 

Brett is either slow to get up or doesn’t think you’re worth it, because you make it down the road without catching sight of him behind you. You bang on Ms. Chen’s door frantically. The only person in this entire neighborhood worth a damn. The door swings open and Ms. Chen takes one look at you before practically growling Brett’s name under her breath. She’s quick to grab her keys and usher you to her car.

Even with Ms. Chen blasting her radio, frozen air from the windows rolled down low, and Ms. Chen trying to keep you talking, your eyes slowly flutter shut.

Jack ignores Shen’s occasional glances at him for the past hour since their shift started. He had asked Jack what was wrong. Nothing. Nothing is wrong. Jack is completely fine without you here and not moping at all. He’s actually glad you’re taking a break for once. You’ve earned it. After avoiding yet another one of Shen’s attempts at psychic communication, Jack glances up at the board. Usually, the first hour or so is simply trying to catch up with the waiting room. Which is why his head immediately turns when the ambulance bay doors slide open. 

“My neighbor! She passed out on the way here and she’s bleeding!” Jack doesn’t waste any time following the older woman through the doors, already snapping on a pair of gloves. When he sees the person in the passenger seat, he gapes for half a second. 

Jack has never seen you outside of the hospital. You’re a private person, that’s fine. It just means he’s never seen you without your scrubs and a long-sleeve undershirt. So the bruising littered across your arms, both old and healing, is a shock. He snaps out of it immediately.

“Need a gurney out here! Now!” Jack yells back into the ED. He can hear people moving behind him, but he’s focused on you. Your pulse is good. Your breathing sounds a bit scratchy as he listens to your breaths through his stethoscope. Nothing serious. His eyes catch on the red marks around your neck. The ones that will bruise soon. Somebody grabbed your neck. Somebody tried to fucking choke you. “Shit.” Jack keeps two fingers on your pulse, turning back to the bay doors. He can see a gurney surrounded by nurses and other doctors rushing toward you. 

Jack is gentler than he thinks he has ever been with a patient as he lifts you and places you onto the gurney. “Heart and breathing steady. Multiple lacerations across anterior torso. Looks like shattered glass. Bleeding seems to have slowed, no arteries hit.”

They’ve rolled you into North 7 when your eyes start moving again. Jack’s hand is immediately on you, warm and comforting as you lean into him. Your eyes crack open and you slowly reach up to grab Jack’s hand. “Shoulder. Probably a fracture.” You murmur, voice rough and slow despite the professional manner. Like you’re talking about a patient and not your own body.

“Alright, okay. Thank you. You’re doing great, kid.” Jack’s voice isn’t soft as he speaks to you, but it is kind. You press even further against his hand on your cheek. “Order a CT and an x-ray! And get her on an IV for fluids!” He barks out to the others, never taking his hand off of you. If anyone notices, they don’t say anything. Just follow orders without another word. It’s the first time in years that Jack has felt like he’s back in the Army without feeling like he is simultaneously falling apart.

“Doc—Dr. Abbot—”

“Jack’s fine. I know it hurts. The pain meds are gonna kick in soon. Then we’ll get you all patched up. We’re gonna need to remove your clothes to see the full extent of the injuries. Do you want me to send Ellis in?” Jack can feel his brow pinching as he pulls back. The last thing he wants to do is leave you lying here like this. But you’re a patient right now and if you feel more comfortable with a female doctor then—

“Jack.” Your hand drops onto his and the sound of his voice snaps him out of whatever spiral he had begun to fall into. Your palm is rough against the back of his hand. He thinks that it shouldn’t be. Your hands should be soft to match how gentle he knows they can be. “While I do—” You cough and Jack reaches behind your head with his free hand to readjust the pillows. You swat his hand away. It’s not as strong as it should be. The meds are kicking in. “While I do wish you could’a seen my tits for the first time in a much different setting, I want you here. Will you…”

Humor. Humor is good, Jack tells himself.

You let out a breath as Jack brushes a thumb across your bruised cheekbone. Angry red with a freshly showing bruise. “Anything, sweetheart. Whatever you need.” And he means it. Anything, so long as you keep looking at him.

“My stitches. Would you—I just…I trust you, Jack.”

“Okay.” He practically whispers, running a thumb over your cheekbone one more time before pulling his hand away. One of the nurses already set up a suture kit in the corner, the tray gleaming in the bright hospital lights. He rolls it over, checking the contents of the tray before reaching for the trauma shears. Jack doesn’t even realize he’s whispering to you until you send him a look that he can’t quite read. Something between annoyance and affection? But he can’t help the action. With every gentle tug on your shirt, fabric and dried blood peel off of your skin. He can tell you’re trying to bite back pained noises. He runs a gentle hand down your arm, hopefully soothing. 

The stitches take less time than plucking out glass. Jack ignores the way you snort as he pulls out a pair of glasses to see the cuts better, searching for any leftover shards. Actually, he mostly ignores the pained hiss you let out afterward. Laughing must hurt with those bruised ribs. Bruised everything. Reds and purples and angry yellows bloom across most of the skin that would normally be hidden by your clothing. And on top of it all is the multitude of cuts, mostly across your stomach. Thankfully, the glass seems to have broken into big pieces and none went too deep. 

“We can call plastics if you want, but you might have a few scars for a while.” Jack tries to keep his voice even. He doesn’t want to scare you off. He doesn’t know how you’ll respond to him if he brings up the abuse. Because that is what this has to be. Unless you’re an underground fighter, though that seems unlikely. He’s heard you mention a boyfriend before. Matt, maybe? He didn’t care to know about who you spent your days with. Now it’s all he wants to know. Needs to know where the man who hurt you is. If he’s suffering right now.

“I kicked him in the balls.”

“What?” 

“Brett.” Right, that’s his name. Fucking Brett. He even sounds like a tool. “I kicked him in the balls. He…he’s never gone this far before. I—”

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” Jack hates the way his voice shakes. Because he desperately needs to know. To know what you went through so he knows how to help you heal. Because, yes, Jack Abbot has a fucking crush on you. He kind of gets why they’re called that. It feels like his heart is being squashed beneath an ambulance right now. Fucking crushed. So he can’t help adding on; “But I’ll listen. If you do…want to.”

He focuses on your stitches after that, carefully tying thread and making sure that each cut is properly cleaned and closed. You don’t say anything. Jack doesn’t push.

It’s a little embarrassing, honestly. As a nurse, you’ve seen hundreds of people come in showing clear signs of abuse. You’ve heard Kiara rant about the signs. And yet—you fell for it. Brett’s stupid smile and the attention he gave you. Even if that attention hurt, at least he wasn’t ignoring you. Dana’s voice plays in your head, repeating the words she has said to her nurses a million times. 

“If he hurts you, fuckin’ leave.”

It just—Brett was kind when you first met. Took you on dates and paid without you having to ask. He held your hand at the movies. But, it slowly fell apart. He went on less and less dates with you, barely even wanted to be seen with you in public. He claimed it was the stress of his job. You had nodded along like a goddamn puppet. When he hit you for the first time, it was an accident. That was what he told you and that was what you believed. You believed it for a long time. 

Everything just feels so obvious now. And a whole lot less painful. You’ve never been on a morphine drip before. It’s great. You tell Jack as much when he returns with Robby for shift change. Damn, you’ve already been here all night?

“I’m sure it is, sweetheart.” Jack laughs, but you can see tension in the way the lines around his eyes aren’t as deep as they usually would be. His smile doesn’t stretch quite as far across his face. His laughter doesn’t rumble. It just floats. Wrong, wrong, wrong. “Try to get some rest, though. Okay?”

“Dr. Robby, Jackie’s being mean.” You whine. You’re high on pain meds at the moment. You try not to feel too embarrassed about it. You’re already embarrassed enough. I mean, how fucking stupid—

“We can’t have that, can we Jackie?” Robby’s voice is teasing, but you don’t catch it. You look past Robby to see Dana talking with Lena. The blonde woman suddenly turns toward your room with wide eyes and stomps away from the central desk. You reach out for her instinctively, reaching past Jack as he mistakenly tries to take your hand. Robby laughs.

“Hey, sweetie. How’re you doin’?” Dana doesn’t even greet either of the doctors. Just pushes past them and grabs your hands, squeezing gently as she settles on the edge of the bed. Her eyes roam over the parts of your skin she can see. One arm in a sling and the bruises radiating down your other. The handprint around your neck. She squeezes your hand a little tighter. Dana’s gaze feels burning against you and she seems to notice, turning to the men still in the room. “Don’t you two have other patients? She’s gonna be fine. Go.”

Robby shoots you one last smile, grabbing onto Jack as he drags his friend out of the room. Dana turns back to you.

“Who did this? I’m gonna fuckin’ kill ‘em, okay? They’ll never hurt you again, I promise.”

And that’s what breaks you. Dana’s hands remind you of your own mother’s, soft and warm as they wrap around you. You fall into the embrace, ignoring the way it makes your entire body hurt. It’s worth it, and Dana’s gentle touch more than cancels it out. Tears fall as you try to keep your breaths steady. Your throat still hurts. Dana’s hand slides up and down your back, a practiced motion that only a mother can do.

“I’m so stupid, Dana. How could I not see it? He never—I thought maybe he loved me, but—” A sob racks across your entire body. The movement hurts, but the release feels even better than morphine. “I couldn’t see it. He—god, how could I not see it?

Dana doesn’t shush you. She doesn’t interrupt or whisper reassurances in your ear like Jack had. (Jack, not Dr. Abbot. Jack.) She simply holds you, her hand never stopping that same motion. Lena finally calls out for Dana from the nurses’ station. She pulls back, looking you over one more time. 

“It’s not your fault. It was never your fault. I promise. You did nothing wrong.” You nod once, more to satiate Dana than anything else. If she notices, she doesn’t say anything. Just rubs gently down your back one more time before pushing off the bed. “If you need me, call. You know where I’ll be.” Her voice is teasing, but there’s an edge that lets you know she’s serious. You nod again, meaning it this time. “Oh, and I’m sending in the interns. They’ve been worried sick since you came in with that eye.”

You groan, but don’t bother fighting it. They’ll find their way to your room if Dana tells them or not. 

“—You can stay with me and Huckleberry.” Is the first thing Jack hears as he heads toward North 7. He hasn’t even dropped his bag yet. Barely got any sleep after Robby dragged him out of the hospital and all but ordered Jack to go home. He trusts Robby with his own life, but leaving you there on that bed? One of the hardest things Jack has ever had to do. 

(Top of the list would be walking away from the literal ledge the moment he learned half his leg was gone. Second would be walking away from his wife’s grave. You should be proud. You made it into the top three. Jack thinks maybe he just has an issue with walking away from anything.)

“Is there a party happening? Why wasn’t I invited?” He says, stepping into the room. You smile at him, looking more grounded than before. They must have taken you off the morphine. That means you’re going to be discharged soon. Santos and Whitaker sit in plastic chairs next to your bed, seemingly not a worry in the world about the ED outside your room. They stiffen at the sight of Jack. “Such a slow day that two of our own doctors can be sitting around with a single patient?” They stand quickly, scrambling out around Jack. 

“The offer still stands!” Santos calls out before disappearing into the chaos with Whitaker. Jack sees you shake your head and wave with your good arm.

“Did you have to scare them off like that? They’re gonna be on night shift at some point during their rotation, you know?” You raise a single brow as you shift your gaze from the interns’ retreating backs to meet Jack’s eyes. Jack just laughs as he sits in the chair Santos had just vacated. The sound rumbles in his chest. He doesn’t miss the way your mouth ticks up at the corners. 

“What were you guys talking about?” He asks instead of responding to you. You huff, making a motion like you want to cross your arms. You don’t make it very far before relaxing against the bed again. The sling around your arm rustles with the movement. His bag falls gently to the ground as he glances at your vitals on the screen. Jack just can’t help it. He needs to know you’re still okay. 

“Oh! I, uh, live with—or, I did live with Brett. And I don’t exactly want to go back—”

“Hey, you’re okay now. I promise.” Jack doesn’t have to look back at the screen to know your breathing and heart rate have both picked up. He can hear it just fine. So he reaches out, gently rubbing a hand over your chest. He can hear your bpm slow and he smiles. “There’s my girl. You’re okay.”

Your hand grips onto Jack’s on your chest and he just smiles, letting you. It’s a single moment of quiet that Jack rarely finds within the usual chaos of the ED. He wants to sit in it forever. Just the two of you, hands intertwined. But you sigh, low and a little rough, snapping Jack out of whatever reverie he was trapped in. 

“I talked to the police today. Robbie stayed with me the whole time.” Jack’s hand grips yours tighter as he takes a breath. You squeeze back and send him a tight smile. More of an attempt at reassurance than anything real. “They…I told them everything. Brett is going to jail. The cops said he’ll probably get at least a few years? But, um, strangulation can get charged with up to ten years? I don’t know, I just…never want to see him again.”

“Courts will probably let you file for a restraining order.” He really hates how tight his voice sounds. Jack is supposed to be calm under pressure. He’s supposed to be the rock that you can hang on to. Refuge from the raging tide around you. But he feels more like a storm right now, barely containing the crashing waves inside. He takes another slow breath in. The smell of antiseptic fills his lungs. He breathes out. “If you need a place to stay, I’ve got a guest bedroom I’m not using.”

“Wow, I guess doctors do make a shit ton of money.” You laugh, and you don’t cough this time. Jack will take that as a win. He watches as you look him over once and he can’t help shifting in the uncomfortable plastic chair. “Your apartment really has an extra room? That you just…don’t use?”

“House.” Jack says before he can stop himself. His hands feel awkward in his lap and Jack thinks he might understand why Robby is always grabbing at the back of his neck or his jaw. He clears his throat. “It’s not an apartment. I’ve got a house. Paid off the mortgage and everything. I, uh, think my guest room might be more comfortable than Santos’ pullout.”

“Oh, I—“ You start to shake your head and Jack just squeezes your hand again. There’s a knock at the door. Jack looks up to see Robby, nodding toward the nurses’ station.

“Just think about it. What did Santos say? The offer still stands.” He can’t help smiling as you chuckle at his words. Jack pushes up from the chair and releases your hand, laying it gently at your side. “Looks like Robby’s ready to escape, so I gotta go. I’ll check in later, okay?”

You shake your head, but he ignores the motion, smiling and turning toward the door. It clicks shut behind him as he follows Robby toward the nurses’ station. 

“Hey, Jackie.” Dana laughs at Robby’s teasing from where she’s leaned against the counter next to him. She’s already wrapped in a thick coat, scarf around her neck. Jack hates how she still manages to look scary like that. Then he swipes a hand out to swat at Robby’s ribs. His friend just chuckles. “Brother, you’re so far gone. You know that, right?”

Jack sighs, glancing back at the room you’re in. Santos and Whitaker are back inside, this time wearing coats and bags slung over their shoulders. They’re clocked out, so Jack can’t exactly nag them about getting back to work now. He turns back to Robby and shakes his head. “I know. Not like I can do anything about it, though. She just escaped that…” He can’t even bring himself to say it. Doesn’t think he would be able to quell the crashing waves inside him if he said it aloud.

“Give her time, Jack. I’m sure it’ll all work out.” Dana’s voice is like sunlight parting the cloudy skies of Jack’s mind. It’s annoying how well her and Robby know him. “Now get your shit together, Doc. You’ve got rounds with Robby.”

Her hand lands on his shoulder, soft gloves warm through his scrubs. Jack nods, feeling a bit too much like a kid who just got lectured.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Abbot did what?”

“He offered to let me stay in his guest room. What am I supposed to do?”

“Take him up on it, obviously! Look, man. I love you, but my apartment is already crowded with me and Huckleberry—”

“Hey!”

“So just say yes and live in luxury with Doc Abbot for a bit.”

“...Fine.”

You swat Jack’s hand away as he tries to grab your bag, slinging the tattered backpack over one shoulder. “I’m fine, Jack. You have work tonight. Rest your leg, idiot.”

Jack sighs and you laugh at the dejected look on his face. He opens his mouth to say something and you hold up a hand to stop him. Yes, you still have stitches across your stomach and parts of your chest. Yes, you’re still healing. But your bag is pretty much empty and you’re not made of glass. You can do this much. Need to, actually, to feel like a human being again. Something about being the one in the hospital bed…you never want to do that again. You can hear Jack huff, but he doesn’t argue. Just pulls out his keys to unlock the front door of his house. 

It’s a nondescript brownstone, tall and thin. Only a ten minute drive from the hospital, even in the worst of traffic. You count five steps to the front door and wonder why Jack didn’t find a place without. You can see the way he favors his good leg as he grips the railing and you stay two steps behind him, just in case. 

“If you’re insisting on carrying that bag, you don’t get to baby me because of an injury I got over ten years ago, kid.” Jack says, not unkindly, as he slots the key into his front door. He doesn’t even glance back at you. You can feel your cheeks heat, warmth spreading from the end of your nose to the tips of your ears. But you don’t move from your place behind him. He’s right. He usually is. It’s very annoying. 

“When are you gonna stop calling me ‘kid’?” You follow closely as Jack pushes the door open and steps inside. The first level is nice. Bare and a bit cold, but nice. It looks more like a show house than somewhere with an actual resident calling it home. You don’t comment. Just watch as Jack drops his keys into a tray by the door and lets you push the door closed. 

“When you’re not two decades younger than me.” His smile is soft and easy. It feels almost like you’re seeing something you shouldn’t, something personal and private. But, you suppose, if the two of you are going to be living together for any amount of time, privacy isn’t quite an option anymore. 

You want to argue that you’re not that much younger than him. But…he’s right. Rounding a bit, but he’s correct in his estimate of your age. It makes your cheeks heat even further and you’re glad Jack isn’t looking at you. He knows how old you are. He knows how much younger than him you are. He still invited you into his home. Still laughed at your joke about him seeing your tits.

Oh god, you made a joke about him seeing your tits.

You can feel your face burning and you’re pretty sure it’s actually on fire. You made a fucking joke about Jack Abbot seeing your tits. You cough, hoping it sounds like you’re clearing your throat and not like you’re trying to get rid of the embarrassment threatening to choke you. “You know that’s physically impossible, right?”

“Well then I guess you’ll just have to live with it.”

“I guess it’s true what they say, then.” You sigh, using the action as an excuse to simply take a deep breath. Your cheeks are still hot, but you no longer feel like you’re about to combust. Jack tilts his head, brow furrowed, and you grin. “Can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”

“Oh, you did not just call me old, sweetheart.” Jack laughs, a little incredulously, as he shakes his head. You lift your hands to your hips, raising a single brow. 

“Well, you are two decades older than me.” You throw his own words right back at him. That familiar rumbling noise builds in his chest. You smile and think that living with Jack Abbot won’t be so bad.

You grab Trinity’s elbow as soon as she walks through the door, dragging her to the lockers. She nearly drops the yogurt cup in her hands and tries to argue, but doesn’t fight your tugs. You look up and down the hall quickly before leaning toward her. “I need to move in with you, Trin.”

Trinity raises her brows, face looking famously unimpressed as she shoves another spoonful of yogurt into her mouth. “What happened with Dr. Abbot? It’s been, what…” She glances down at her bare wrist as if checking the time before looking back at you. “Twenty hours? And why are you even here? You’re not healed yet.” 

A small smile grows on your cheeks. As much as Trinity pretends not to care, pretends not to feel, you know just how much she really does worry about her friends. You reach out, pretending to brush something off her shoulder. A reassuring touch disguised as something Trinity cannot mistake for pity. You’re not even sure if Trinity realizes she leans just the slightest bit toward the movement. 

“I’m picking up Jack. I wanted to get some groceries, so he let me borrow his car. Did you know he drives an old Bronco? It’s so cute.” 

“And you don’t want to stay because…?” Trinity plops down on the bench, putting up her feet and eating another spoonful of yogurt. She motions to the spot by her feet with her free hand. You take a deep breath in, sitting on the edge of the shitty plastic seat.

“I saw him shirtless yesterday.” You practically squeak. Trinity immediately pulls her feet off the bench, shaking her head as she moves to get up. You reach out, grabbing her sleeve. “Trinity.” You whine, drawing out the name. She sighs and shovels the rest of her yogurt into her mouth before gesturing begrudgingly for you to continue. “He had just showered before his shift last night and he was just wearing his cargo pants and his hair was still wet and the freckles, oh my gosh, they’re every—”

“No. That is where I draw the line. I do not need to know that, please.” Trinity holds out a hand, as if to create a physical barrier between the two of you. You grab her hand, pulling it down and looking at her almost pleadingly. Trinity sighs. “Okay, you think he’s hot, whatever. Is that all?”

“He saw me staring.” You say slowly. Trinity sits up just a little bit, her mouth opening in an o. You nod. “But he wasn’t offended or grossed out or anything. He just…apologized and asked if I was uncomfortable. He wrapped his towel around his chest, Trin. Because he wanted me to be comfortable.” Your voice has quickly changed from cautious to low and wet, tears at the base of your throat, threatening to rise. “I can’t…like somebody again. Not yet. Not after…everything that happened with—I just can’t.”

“Hey, that’s okay. If you really need to move in with us, that’s fine. But…are you sure you don’t wanna rebound off those…freckles?” Trinity shivers dramatically as she says it. She’s teasing, you know she is. But you can’t help the laugh that bubbles up. You smack at her shoulder and she smacks right back at yours, albeit gentler since she knows the bruises beneath your shirt. 

“Jack is worth more than a rebound, Trin.” You say, not unkindly. “I just can’t. Not right now. Maybe soon. I don’t know.”

Trinity reaches out her hand again, except she doesn’t playfully smack you, she pats your shoulder. The action is a bit awkward and she doesn’t meet your eye once before pulling away. You have no idea how these actions come to her so easily when she’s teasing someone. 

“You can take as long as you need, girl.” Trinity says quietly, shooting you an easy smile. You glance down at your phone, checking the time. 7:03. You show Trinity and she jumps off the bench, heading toward the central desk to clock in. “Good luck!”

You wave after her, laughing softly. Maybe you’ll be okay.

“I  can’t…like somebody again. Not yet. Not after…everything that happened with—I just can’t.”

Jack tries to take a deep breath as he steps away from the locker hall. He hadn’t meant to overhear. Jack knows that you need time. He understands. After his wife died, he—well, it took him six years to meet you. It just hurts to know that he may have had a chance. With you. But he can’t bring that up. Jack can’t bear to see the look on your face when you reject him. All because he’s impatient. It’s okay. He can wait. 

Almost eight days later, you slip out of the ED with a sigh. It had been a long shift. Your first one back. You could tell that everyone was being especially gentle with you. Like you’ll fall apart. Like you’re still in that goddamn hospital bed. But you put up with it because you know that your coworkers need to feel like they’re taking care of you. They’re medical professionals, it’s literally what they do. The shift is over now, though, and you’re glad for it.

Jack holds the door open for you, his hand hovering close enough to feel the warmth through your scrubs but not touching. You step through the doorway, looking away from Jack to hide your warm cheeks. You’ve almost gotten used to the gentlemanly side of Jack. He cooks, he holds open doors, he says good night. Every night. The hardest part is that you can see yourself falling for him. You can see yourself going on dates with him and letting him walk around the car to open your door for you. You can see it all and it burns something deep inside. But you’re not ready for that. Not yet. 

Except—

You can’t help the way memories flit through your mind. Even after a week, you can’t bring yourself to look for a new apartment. Every time you open the stupid app on your phone, you see Jack in the corner of your eye. Reading a medical journal on the couch, glasses perched on the end of his nose. Grumbling as he searches through the kitchen for something he doesn’t have to cook. Snoring in the plush recliner after a long shift. Tiny little moments that only you get to see. It feels special, somehow. Like Jack knew you would see him like this. Unguarded and soft. And he still let you into his home.

It’s like something is tugging at you from the inside out, pulling you in two different directions. No matter how much you may like Jack, you can’t. Not yet. You can feel something shifting ever-so-slightly inside of you, moving toward Jack’s soft smile. Maybe someday you’ll get there. You hope so. 

Jack’s brownstone is cool as you push open the door. You’ve given up on trailing behind Jack on the steps, keeping an eye on him. Especially since he gave you your own key. You toss your key into the bowl by the door, unable to stop the small smile off your face as you see him do the same. It makes your chest warm to see your keys next to each other. Like they belong there. 

“Alright, Doc. Show me.” You say without warning. Jack stops where he is, tilting his head as his brows push together. You roll your eyes. “Your leg. You’ve been favoring your right leg all day. Let me see.”

You’re not unkind as you ask, but you know Jack doesn’t want pity. He doesn’t want you to beat around the bush and try to needle the information out of him. If you know Jack, you know he appreciates a straightforward approach. You figure he’ll appreciate the gentle demand more than he would a nervous question. So you watch, unmoving, as Jack sighs. He drops his bag against the wall and shuffles past you toward the living room. 

He quietly sits on the edge of the couch, tugging up the leg of his pants. Black metal shines in the morning light as it streams through the windows. You click on a lamp, sitting down on the low coffee table in front of him. The prosthetic clicks as Jack presses a button on the side, releasing the leg. He sets it carefully aside and tugs at the thick socks over his leg, revealing the bare sleeve with a ridged pin at the end. You narrow your eyes at the pin locking system.

“Isn’t suction better for someone on their feet all day?” You ask, watching as the sleeve rolls down slowly to reveal the stitched-together skin. Jack halts for a single second before continuing. 

“Pin seemed more reliable. And faster.” He mutters, looking you over once. Most of your bruises have healed, but the one around your neck is still dark against your skin. You try to ignore the way his eyes pause on the mark. “How do you know that, anyway?”

You reach out, grabbing the sleeve that he threw aside and turning it right side out again, shooting Jack a look. “I did one of my rotations at an orthotics and prosthetics clinic in Philly. Wasn’t for me. Too boring.” You grin, looking down at the leg. It’s healed well, but you can see irritation at the end, soft red. “You should really take more breaks, Jack. I’m getting your crutches. Don’t move.”

Jack opens his mouth, probably to make some kind of joke about how he can’t really go anywhere. You laugh before he can even speak and push up, holding out your hand for the leg. Jack looks between you and your hand before smiling, a tiny thing, and handing you the prosthetic. It’s heavier than you thought it would be, strong and solid. You carry the leg upstairs, leaning it against Jack’s nightstand and grabbing the forearm crutches and awkwardly carrying them down the steps. He reaches for the crutches as you stand in front of him again, but you hold out a hand. 

“I’m serious, Jack. You have to take care of yourself.” Your voice is firm and you can see something shift in Jack’s gaze before he nods. Slowly. In a way that tells you he’s actually considering it. That might be enough. 

The flowers were innocuous enough. You used to love white lilies. Long petals and a sweet scent that you used to search for in perfumes. It was a beautiful flower. Still is. These aren’t white lilies. They’re not any kind of lily. You know lilies. You used to love them. Brett smashed a vase of them on the ground a week after you moved in together. Apparently he was allergic. Apparently it was an accident. You cut your hand trying to pick up the pieces of broken glass. A vase you got from the thrift store, shimmering with intricate patterns etched into the surface. Your blood had stained white petals in small drips. No more flowers in your tiny shared apartment after that.

Some poor delivery guy had gotten lost in the maze of halls that makes up the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. Lena had teased you as a cardiology nurse brought the flowers down. Your name was scrawled across the card, tucked into the petals. The handwriting was unfamiliar and looped wide in dark ink. Your hands shake as you read the note. Paper flutters to the ground and you take a single second to process the words.

Replacing me already?

You reach down, picking up the paper that fell. A picture of you. A picture of you on Jack’s front porch. A picture of you on Jack’s porch, Jack’s arm around your shoulder. You look so happy in the picture, grinning wide and bright. You remember the day, the shirt you wore under your scrubs. 

“Hon? Something wrong?” Lena’s voice is soft and neutral. She doesn’t want to scare you off. You realize you must look terrible. After months of hiding how shitty you feel, for Lena to note it so quickly… 

“Uh, need some air.” You say quickly. Paper crinkles in your fist as you grab the bouquet and turn in a random direction and start walking. The flowers seem to weigh too much, pulling you down. Maybe you’re just not strong enough. You wonder if you’ll ever be strong enough. You drop the bouquet in the first trashcan you see. It falls heavily to the bottom of the bag. You note the color idly. Biohazardous waste. Exactly where those flowers belong.

The words echo in your mind as you run up the steps. Paper rustles in your hand. You stop, just before the door labeled Roof Access, and look down. The photo is wrinkled, damp with sweat from your palms. Your mind buzzes, noise blurring around the edges.

What if he hurts Jack? Jack can take care of himself, even with one leg. What if he comes after you? Well, you’re only making yourself a target here alone on this roof. What if he comes to the hospital? No one here would let you get hurt. You have answers to every question you can consider, but none of it makes your breaths slow. None of it changes the fact that he knows where you sleep at night. 

(You wonder idly if the flowers are against the restraining order. You know the picture probably is. Maybe you shouldn’t have thrown away those flowers. Maybe you should have called the police. Maybe you would have if panic hadn’t spread through your body like poison. God, you really hope those flowers weren’t poisonous.)

The door creaks as you push it open. Cool winter air bites at your cheeks, your arms. Scrubs, you realize, were not made for Pittsburgh in the middle of winter. A breeze blows by and the railing bites cold into your hand. The city sprawls out beneath you. It’s so quiet. You half expect sirens to fill the air as you think the word. Shen would laugh if he were here. He’s downstairs. Where you should be. But it's so quiet. You bend down, moving between the railings until you’re standing on the other side. The distance to the ground is dizzying. 

The door creaks behind you and Jack’s familiar footsteps sound across the roof. You usually can’t hear his footsteps. God, it’s quiet up here. “Hey, kid. Heard you’re getting some air.” There’s something taut in Jack’s voice. Under the easy smile and slow movements. Something pulled so tight that you know it will snap sooner or later. So, you decide to tell him the truth. 

“I’m not gonna jump. I mean, I’ve thought about it.” You turn around, facing Jack. He’s right against the railing. Just a foot away. You smile and squeeze the paper still wrapped tight in your fist. “Did you know I’m afraid of heights? Deathly. Never even been on a rollercoaster before.”

“Really? I’ll make you go on one this weekend. They’re fun, trust me.” Jack laughs, but it’s wrong again. Tight, tight, tight—

“I watch people die all day long, Jack. But I can’t face it myself.” Your voice cracks as you slowly lower yourself to the ground, knees weak. You lean back against the railing, a good yard between you and the edge. It’s too close. Your hands are trembling. “Isn’t that ironic? Maybe I’m just a coward.”

“Well, if that makes you a coward, you can go ahead and join the club.” Jack groans as he sits down on the other side of the fence. His fingers brush against your tight fist. You flinch away instinctively, bringing the photo to your chest. He follows your movement, hand hovering over yours. “Can I?”

A car horn honks on the street and you slowly release your fingers. Jack takes the crumpled paper from your hand, flattening it out as he looks at the photo. You can’t bring yourself to look at him as he reads the note. A cold breeze blows across the roof and you shiver. The cool metal of the railing presses against your spine and you wrap your arms around yourself. Maybe you should have brought your jacket.

Jack’s profile glows in the dim light and you think that this is terrible. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Jack Abbot is beautiful and strong and so fucking kind. You can’t fall for him. Not when you’re still healing. Not when you’re supposed to be focusing on yourself. It’s terrifying. Scarier than the flowers. Scarier the note and the picture. Because that threat is something you can ignore. You can tell the police and forget it ever happened. But Jack is a constant in your life. He’s real, right next to you. The metal poles of the railing frame his face. You want to look away. Maybe you can get a job at another hospital. Maybe you can forget all about Brett and the lovely man on the roof with you. 

You realize, suddenly, that Jack is always next to you. At home, his home that you have started thinking of as your own. At work, where you could be on opposite ends of the ED and you think you’d still know exactly where he is. And everywhere in between. You carpool together. You eat takeout for breakfast together. Ellis made a joke last week to a patient about how you two come as a pair. Do not separate. But—

“I’ll move out.” Your voice shakes and you wish you could say more. I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to be hurt. If I leave before that happens, I’ll be okay. I’ll be fine. Please, let me leave. I might just love you.

“If you want to.” Jack’s voice is tight. You try to meet his gaze, but he stares down at the picture in his hands. You notice for the first time that Jack is smiling in the image. Smiling at you. There’s something familiar in his gaze that you catch even in the grainy photo. Something you’ve seen on your own face enough to recognize it now that you’re looking. More than affection. Maybe love. You want to say something, ask Jack what he’s thinking. Ask why he sounds so…wrong. “But you’re welcome to stay. As long as you want.”

Want. That burns a hole through your heart. You’ve been told before by people that you are allowed to take what you need. Take up space, take up air. Whatever you need. So maybe you’ve been avoiding what you want. You need more time. Need to think about this more before jumping into another relationship. Need to consider your future and your health. But you so desperately want Jack Abbot. You want to curl up next to him on the couch while he reads his boring medical journals. You want to make fun of him while he rummages through kitchen cabinets. You want to wake him up when he falls asleep on the recliner and make him go to bed. You want to wrap yourself around him in that same bed and listen to his annoying snores.

“I do. Want to. Stay.” Your voice is stilted, mostly because you’re not used to this. Voicing what you want. Saying out loud the things you usually would hide deep in your chest. You can see Jack’s shadowed face shift in the low light, his lips quirking up at the corners. He finally looks up at you, hazel eyes shining. Those eyes are not fair and you cannot bring yourself to care.

“Well,” Jack grins, wide and toothy. One of his canines is chipped. You’ve noticed it before. It’s adorable every time. He looks down at his watch and you silently mourn the loss of his smile. “It’s 5:58 and I think Ellis and Shen can cover for an hour. C’mon.”

“What?” You tilt your head as Jack pushes off the ground and holds out his hand. You grab it without hesitating and let him help you through the gap in between rails. He doesn’t drop your hand, even as you stand next to him. On the safe side of the fence.

“You should go home. Rest. And then report Brett to the police. I’ll help.” 

A grin spreads across your face and your cheeks warm at Jack’s words. You move until you’re in front of him, hand still wrapped softly in his. “You’re cute.” You say, not even really noticing the words as they leave your mouth. Your smile grows as the tips of Jack’s ears burn pink. You could tease, but you decide you’ll pity him for now. “I can make it through another hour, Jack. Really. I promise.”

Jack hesitates and you lean up, brushing a kiss against his cheek. Stubble scrapes across your lips and you feel Jack’s hand tighten around yours. “Okay.” He whispers, breath sweeping across your face. It’s warm. Smells like coffee and those gross energy bars that Jack eats religiously. You want to know how they taste from his mouth. “Then home?” 

The word is soft against your skin. Gentle in a way you haven’t felt in a long time. You hope everything works out. You hope Brett disappears and never comes back. You hope that loving Jack Abbot won’t destroy you. You know he won’t let it. So you smile. You nod.

“Yeah. Then home.”

[bounty-jes]

if you want me to (i'll stay)

fandom: The Pitt

pairing: Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x f!Reader

content: age gap (reader is early thirties, robby is fifty-ish), suggestive language (but no smut), fade to black, cursing, you’re both yearners, no use of Y/N, omegaverse, dana is trying her best to keep them from creating an HR nightmare but she ships it

18+ MDNI 18+ MDNI 18+ MDNI while this story does not contain explicit sexual content, there are very heavy suggestive themes. this work is considered mature and i ask that minors do not interact

word count: 7.4k

summary: No one has ever caught your scent and not gone running. You expect Robby to react the same. He doesn't.

line dividers from @chrisssiren, mdni banner from @cafekitsune

Omegas are indispensable to any Emergency Department. Their scents are a key factor in keeping patients calm and stopping brawls before they even start. Ever since the Study On Omegan Pheromones in High Stress Locales came out in 1986, most EDs employed at least one omega full time, if not more. Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center is no exception. On staff, they have at least five omegas working at any given time.

(Gloria is always talking about equity polls and patient relations. Robby is just glad she’s not like some of the older directors of medicine he’s worked with. Only thinking about having an omega around for eye candy. Glad that she lets his staff do their work with minimal micromanaging. Definitely some macromanaging, though.)

So, no, it’s not uncommon to see omega doctors and nurses in any part of the ED hierarchy. You don’t hide your scent because you’re hiding your designation. You don’t wear blockers every day because you hate being an omega. It’s because no one has ever liked your scent before. It puts people on edge, sharp and tactile. As if it will wrap around your neck and never let go. Too abrasive for any designation to have, let alone an omega. Even your roommate in college had complained about it. You roomed alone the next year, despite the extra cost.

You don’t care that your coworkers think you’re a beta. You don’t care that your friends can share their scents with you, but you will never be able to share with them. You don’t care because you stopped caring a long time ago. You had to. 

It’s not like you’re hiding the fact that you’re an omega, though. If anyone were to ask directly, you would tell them the truth. If they were to check your file, they would see the ‘Ω’ under your Secondary Gender tab. It just…doesn’t come up in everyday conversation. A bit taboo, really, to directly ask someone their designation. An implication that your nose isn’t good enough to tell the difference, even. 

COVID changed everything. Losing your sense of smell doesn’t completely preclude you from being affected by pheromones. But scenting is almost as important for your mental health. You read a paper that described the dissonance many alphas and omegas feel when they can sense pheromones nearby but can’t scent them. In developing or presenting youth, the issue is exacerbated. It’s a growing issue across the globe. One that no one can really solve. 

But this is an Emergency Department. You don’t have time to worry about that. You sigh, grabbing the next file and asking Mateo to bring them back. Omega female. Presenting for the first time at fifteen. A healthy enough age, if not a bit late. But she seems to have a higher stress response than most presenting omegas. You nod as Mateo tells you she’s ready and you push the door open. 

The scent of stressed omega hits you head on and you’re glad that your suppressants help to push back your instincts. There’s something in the back of your throat that wants to purr softly. To soothe the pup on the other side of the room. You shake your head and slip through the curtain, flicking on the scent-neutralizers as you go. The last thing the ED needs is omega pheromones stressing everyone else out. You smile at the girl and turn to the older man standing next to her. A beta. Probably her father. 

“Jennifer, hi. I’m going to be your doctor today.” You quietly introduce yourself, glancing down at the screen in your hands. “I see you’ve been in pain for most of the morning. Can you describe it for me?”

“Like cramps.” She says lowly, groaning as you press gently on her lower stomach. You apologize quietly, pulling back turning to the computer to type as she speaks. “But I don’t really get cramps. Not when I’m not on my period.”

“Doctor, is she going to be okay?” The man, you look at the file and see the name David Lowe, asks. Even with his weaker beta scent, you can smell the worry coming off of him. You smile softly, turning back to the pair.

“From the looks of things, this is a regular presentation. I’m going to order some blood tests to be sure there’s nothing else going on, though.” You glance back at her file, scrolling down. You see the COVID written in the notes as you skim and take a breath in, biting your lip. David shifts, noting your change and you try to send another reassuring smile to the pair. It feels wobbly at the edges. “Jennifer, I see on your chart you had a pretty bad case of COVID a few years ago. You were treated here. Were there any lasting effects?”

The unspoken question is clear. 

“My sense of smell, it…” She trails off and you nod, stepping toward the bed. You drop a hand on the edge of the bed before looking back at the father. 

“The stress response is most likely due to Jennifer being able to sense pheromones but not smell them. It creates a sort of gap in the mind’s senses, which can cause cortisol levels to rise and bring about stress responses. It is common in omegas and alphas who have lost their sense of smell.” You can see the way David grips his daughter’s hand just a little tighter. They know there’s no way to fix this completely. You turn back to Jennifer. “Do you have any omegas that you trust enough to scent you? Even if you can’t smell it, the calming pheromones are proven to help reduce stress.”

Jennifer shakes her head and you look toward the father, who mirrors her action. You hesitate for a moment. There are four other omegas on shift at the moment. You could ask any of them to come in and help. But this is an ED and two minutes of scenting could mean life or death for another patient. You let out a breath and swallow before speaking again. 

“If you are open to it, I could help you.” Jennifer’s eyes snap up and she scans you over once again, noting the scent patches that peek out of your scrub top as you tug the collar of your undershirt aside. You can see the hesitation in her gaze and you smile softly, if not a bit nervously, and grab her free hand. You can do this. Jennifer can’t smell. Your scent won’t affect her and the pheromones will help. “I won’t force you. We can give you some tylenol for the cramps and some suppressants to help stave off the worst of your symptoms. But scenting would be faster and have a longer lasting effect.”

Jennifer hesitates for a moment longer before nodding. You look toward David and he nods as well, letting go of his daughter’s hand. You lead him toward the door slowly.

“Okay. Dad, if you want to wait outside, I’ll be as quick as I can. You can watch through the window the entire time.” He nods and the door clicks shut behind him. You turn back to Jennifer, settling down in the uncomfortable chair next to the bed. Fans whirr softly in the vents as they suck out Jennifer’s stressed scent, running it through a scent neutralizer before cycling it back into the room. You smile softly at Jennifer. “Okay, Jennifer. I know scenting can be personal. If you get uncomfortable or want to stop for any reason, you just tell me. Understand?”

Jennifer nods again, glancing out at her father. Her shoulders seem to relax a bit at your words and you tug up the long sleeves of your undershirt, revealing the patches pressed against your wrists. Slowly, almost hesitantly, you peel the patch away. Your scent pierces the air, hard and loud. Jennifer barely responds, just watching as you reach for her wrist. 

“May I?” You ask quietly, pausing just inches from her arm. She nods again. You smile softly. She must be shy. You gently lift her wrist, pressing your own against it. The result is almost instant. Jennifer melts into the hospital bed, letting out a purr instinctively. The noise makes her tense, but you run your free hand up and down her arm. “It’s okay. No one is judging you.”

The girl relaxes into the bed again and you reach for her other wrist. You ask again before scenting it as well. When you’re done, you pull a fresh patch from your scrub pants and paste it onto your wrist before tugging down your sleeve. 

“Thank you, miss.” The girl finally says, her voice soft as she smiles softly. The stress is almost completely gone from her scent, replaced with something close to antiseptic but even closer to bleach. You wince slightly at your own scent mixed with hers. 

“No problem, kid. I’ll call in a nurse to draw your blood and when we get the results back, you should be good to go.”

The door clicks open and you look up, expecting David. Instead, Robby stands in the doorway, brow furrowed as he looks Jennifer over with a critical eye. He steps into the exam room, glancing between the two of you. Sniffs the relaxed scent Jennifer is now giving off. You make a mental note to offer them some scent patches on the way out. 

“Dr. Robby, this is Jennifer. She came in complaining of cramps and was experiencing a stress response to presentation. Likely related to loss of smell after COVID a few years ago. I scented her to help reduce stress levels and I was just about to call Mateo in to draw blood for some labs.” You quickly give him the details, hoping you didn’t miss anything. You’re in your second year of residency and your past attendings have always been sure to remind you of your place in the hierarchy. Instead, he just nods, turning his concerned look toward you. 

“Good job.” He nods and you feel something warm bloom in your chest at the approval. When he leans in toward you, his scent manages to reach your nose. Deep and warm. Soft. The opposite of your own. You pull back just slightly, realizing Robby knows your scent now. Knows that there’s something inexplicably wrong with you. “Doctor, a word please?”

You can only nod. This has happened before, too. Supervisors who tell you that you can’t scent patients anymore. That you only stress them out further with your scent. You know it’s coming as you follow Robby into the break room. He closes the door softly and you fold your hands behind your back. 

“Are you on suppressants?” The question makes you turn toward Robby, eyes wide. This is not what you had been expecting. He looks…concerned? Like he’s not worried about patient satisfaction. Like he’s worried about you. You can only nod, mouth gaping. You feel a bit stupid. Left out of the loop. Robby sits down in one of the shitty plastic chairs, gesturing toward the one next to him. You sit. “How long since you took a break from them?”

“A break?” You look Robby over like he’s gone crazy. Suppressants are there to suppress base instincts and regulate heats. Your mother told you early in your life that suppressants are the only thing that separate civilized society from heathens. You’re not sure you agree with her completely, but they’ve been useful to you since you started on them in college. 

“Yes. You are supposed to go off suppressants in time with your heat cycle to help regulate the hormones in your body. If you don’t, it can cause a buildup of toxins in your glands.” Robby’s voice is gentle and soft, as if he’s giving a patient some kind of difficult diagnosis. You tilt your head, trying to force a smile as panic builds in your throat. Robby sighs. “The buildup and affect scents. It’s the body’s way of letting you know what’s happening. And your scent is—”

“Toxic.” You finish, staring down at the table. 

“I was going to say it’s showing all the signs of suppressant overuse.” He leans forward and you catch his scent again. It’s faint under the neutralizing lotion he has spread over the glands, but enough to make your eyes widen a fraction. Robby doesn’t seem to notice. “How long have you been on suppressants?”

“A little over ten years.” You say softly, biting at the inside of your cheek. You feel like a pup again, being scolded by your father for watching a PG-13 movie. You feel small. It fucking sucks. 

“Ten years? Fuck, you’re—” Robby takes a breath, running a hand through his hair. You notice, not for the first time, that his hands are huge. Bigger than yours, anyway. Much bigger. He meets your gaze and his face is as serious as you’ve seen it when a patient flatlines. You wonder how close your predicament is to death itself. “I’m going to call Dr. Yamazaki and you are going to see her as soon as possible. Then, you are going to do whatever she tells you.”

You want to argue. Mostly just to be contrary. But you can’t when Robby looks at you like that. When he uses that voice that you usually only get to hear during an emergency. So you nod. You feel like a fifteen year old girl again. A fucking pup.

The consultation doesn’t take long. Yamazaki takes one sniff of you and confirms everything Robby had said. She also takes some blood to have official tests done. They come back within the hour. Suppressant overdose. Not nearly as dangerous as most overdoses, but a silent killer to those who ignore it. With a folder of information packets that make your cheeks heat, you trudge back to the ED. 

“So?” Robby’s voice behind you makes your shoulders jump as you punch in the code to your locker. You look back and see him eying the folder as it lays on the bench. One of the brochures sticks out. Your First Heat! You flush and shove the folder into your bag. You’ve had a heat before. Multiple. But that had been ten years ago. Yamazaki basically told you that your use of suppressants had reset your system. Everything would feel like the first. You remember your first heat. It sucked. 

“Yamazaki said I have to go completely off suppressants until they clear out of my system. Could take months.” Robby nods, glancing out at the ED to make sure everything is running smoothly before leaning against the wall.

“Okay. Let me know when you need time off for your heat.” He says it so casually. And, you suppose, it’s no worse or more invasive than all the other shit you see on the daily. But it feels different when it’s your heat Robby’s talking about. You make another mental note to be a bit more gentle when talking about such topics with your patients. At this point, you think you’re gonna need a whiteboard in your brain for all these notes. 

“About that…uh,” You pause, nervously fidgeting with the tie of your scrubs. Robby’s eye flickers down to the movement and you force your hands to still. “Yamazaki said it will be a pretty fast onset once I officially stop suppressants. Like, within a week?”

Robby pats your shoulder once and you can smell him again. Better this time, with his wrist right next to your nose. Woodsy, maybe something like cedar? And something dark and rich. He pulls away before you can identify it. “Go home. Get some sleep. I’ll explain it to Dana and we’ll put you down as on-call. Until your heat, only come in if we call. You need rest.” He takes a short breath and steps back just slightly, looking down at you carefully. “Let me know when your heat starts. I’ll get you the week off.”

Your cheeks flush. As much as the suppressants keep you less instinctual than most alphas or omegas may feel without, the idea of telling an alpha when your heat is starting makes you dizzy. An unmated, admittedly quite attractive alpha with a scent you want to huff. Okay, down girl. Time to go. 

You can’t make words come out of your mouth as you nod, slamming your locker closed and practically running out of the ED. 

Robby had felt something in his chest twist when he caught your scent. Ugly and abrasive, chemical. He’d caught it before, but never this strong. He could barely hear as you presented your patient, focused on the tangy undertone he could smell beneath the severe scent. It was wrong. Like an OR after a failed surgery. Too clean. Like bleach and failure. That’s now what your scent should be. 

Not you, who always pushes forward. Who faces every case head-on, even when Robby can tell you’re terrified. Your scent should be bright and sharp. Only abrasive to those who are afraid of something real.

He’s imagined it before. Your scent. Always thought it was strange that you didn’t ever seem to have one. Empty space in the invisible map he creates in his head. Robby always knows where his people are. Can track them across the hospital with a sniff. Not quite as good as Dana, the bloodhound herself. Even she hadn’t caught your scent before, which had sent a shot of confusion up Robby’s spine when he first heard. He was almost proud to be the first one to catch it. Then worry flooded his entire body in a way that he has to physically suppress.

God, he hates this. Hates the way he can tell you’re scared. And instead of facing it with a bright hope in your eye, you’re shying away from him. Scared and resigned, like nobody has ever helped you before. Like you’re used to being shunted off. God, he fucking hates this.

You think about him during your heat. Not the whole time. Just when his face pops into your mind and you imagine it hovering over you while his hands—shit. And you feel bad about it. Robby may be unmated, but he has also never given an inkling of wanting to be mated. Especially not around you. So you pretend you didn’t. You pretend that nothing clicked inside of you during the two weeks you were gone and you pull into the parking garage at 6:48 like everything is normal. 

The patches on your neck and wrists are thin and scratchy, but Dr. Yamazaki had said anything stronger would only slow your recovery. So instead of the soft, thick, medical grade scent patches, you get to use the ones from the dollar store that are cheerfully labeled suppressant free! like it’s a feature. They don’t hide your scent the way the other ones had. Just dull it down enough that it won’t affect anyone while you work. No lotion, no extra-strength scent patches.

“Hey, kid.” Dana greets you first as you trudge through the parking lot. Your undershirt covers the patches but does nothing to further dampen the newly exposed scent. Dana sniffs the air. She’s got the best nose you’ve had the displeasure of meeting. “That you? Suppressant overdose?” Her voice is gentle and it grates at you a little. Pity is the last thing you want. 

“That obvious?” You try to joke. Dana grins, swinging an arm around your shoulders and messing with your hair. You don’t miss the way her wrists brush against your shirt. She’s scenting you. The acrid smell of suppressants (that you hadn’t thought was too bad when you left for work) disappears under her honey and cigarette smoke. You can’t help letting out the tiniest rumble of a purr. Dana doesn’t comment on it. 

“It’s no big, kid. We’ve all forgotten to take a suppressant break at some point.”

You smile, something relieved finally relaxing against your ribs. You must smell better now if even Dana’s nose can’t tell how much shit you had put your body through. 

Dana pushes open the employee door, holding it behind her as you step through. She doesn’t even seem to register the action and you wonder if this is some kind of alpha thing. If she’s scented you and now she feels responsible. Even if it’s just little stuff like holding the door. You decide very quickly that it doesn’t matter. You just want to get on with your shift. 

Handoff goes well. Quick and efficient. You don’t want to say that the night shift had been quiet, but the estimated waiting time is only three hours. At the moment. You know that number will only go up. So you pick the name at the top of the list and get started. You don’t see Robby until afternoon. Really, it’s a shock it took this long. He’s usually everywhere, but you try to stay on triage. Easy stuff. Hopefully nothing deadly. By the time you glance up at the clock again, its 2:03 and your stomach is going to plan a revolt if you don’t give it a suitable sacrifice soon. 

“I’m taking my lunch. Don’t call me unless someone’s dying and everyone else is elbows deep.” You call out to Dana as you drop off a tablet at the charging station. She just laughs and reaches out to run her wrist along the inside of your arm. You manage to hold back the noise that wants to escape this time. 

The break room is a quiet haven from the chaos of the ED. Noise is muffled and soft through the door and you can almost pretend you’re back in your shitty apartment as you take a bite of cold pasta. It would be better warm, but you’re afraid someone will actually start dying and you’ll get called away before you can take a single bite. The door opens and you hold back an annoyed groan as sound fills the room again before muffling once more. Robby stands in front of the door, staring at you with his hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets.

You can smell him. The first thing you realized after stopping on suppressants is that your own nose improved. Sharper. Maybe a little more biased toward certain scents. The second thing was that no one else wears the medical-grade patches that you had. They use light ones that dampen their scents enough to be decent, but release enough to tell people who they are. For the past few years, you’ve been negative space. Scentless and invisible. 

“Dr. Robby.” Your voice is carefully neutral as you bring your sleeve closer to your face, pretending to scratch at your cheek. Dana’s scent is stronger from this close and it drowns out Robby’s deep forest. He still hasn’t moved from the door. You tilt your head, unaware of how the action exposes the top of your scent patch. 

“You smell like Dana.” Is all he says, finally moving toward the coffee pot on the counter. He curses at the empty pot and pulls out a filter. You watch, brow furrowed at his statement. Because it sure as hell hadn’t been a question. You decide that an explanation is probably in order anyway.

“She caught me in the parking lot. There’s still some chemical-y stuff left in my scent from the suppressants, so she was helping cover it up.” Your eyes catch on the way Robby squeezes a mug in his hands. His knuckles aren’t quite white, but they’re pale enough for you to worry that he’s about to shatter the ceramic in his hands. “Is that against hospital policy? I can ask her to stop.”

“No, I just…” Robby’s voice trails off as the coffee machine gurgles. You wait for a few minutes in silence as he stares at the machine. Finally, the mug hits the counter with a clack and Robby turns toward you. “If you wanted, I could…uh, help.”

Your face must be on fire from how hot your cheeks are. The idea of being covered in Robby’s scent all day, claimed, makes you glad you’re sitting. Had you been on your feet, you’re sure your knees would have given out. You clear your throat, hoping the flush that’s quickly spreading down your neck isn’t too visible. You can’t. You’re sure that focusing on work would be impossible. And you cannot let yourself entertain the idea of Robby. In any way. Dana is safe. She’s married, mated, has two kids of her own. You enjoy her scent because it feels like a warm hug after a long day. Relaxing on the front porch with a smoke. You quickly shake your head.

“Thank you, but I think I’ll be okay.” You hope your voice sounds even. Robby doesn’t want you. He wants to help you. As your boss. As your friend? But not as a mate. This isn’t courting. You push out of your chair, stomach suddenly feeling like a revolt again. Robby watches as you practically run out of the break room, leaving behind your half-finished lunch.

Robby assumes it’s just an instinctual thing, the way his chest tightens when you reject his scent. It must be one of those things deep down that Robby is always trying so hard to ignore. He’s not sure why it’s so hard to do that this time. Maybe it’s because he had caught your scent on the way out, underneath Dana’s. Still sharp, but less chemical. Something sweet buried under it all. A scent he wanted to follow out the door. He thinks he might have—if you hadn’t smelled like another alpha.

(It’s Dana’s scent, Robby has to remind himself. Dana, who was just trying to help. Dana, who is mated, who treats you like a pup. Like she does with all the residents and interns. The reminder doesn’t help as much as Robby had hoped it would.)

He’s snapped out of his thoughts as the break room door swings open. Samira’s scent catches on his nose as she moves toward the coffee pot. Spice and sweet bread. Not quite as sharp as yours seems like it would be. Fuck. Robby leaves, pushes past her back out into the chaos of the ED.

Robby spends the rest of his long shift moving from one patient to another. Even if he’s not their physician, Robby doesn’t leave a bedside for more than a moment. Doesn’t stand in front of the screen deciding which patient he wants to check in on. He just moves from intern to resident to patient and back to a new intern. He pointedly skips over you on the imaginary roster in his mind. Maybe it’s on accident, the way you always seem to be with another patient or checking on chairs when he stops by your patients’ rooms. 

It’s not until he’s walking home that his brain finally quiets down enough for the thought to break through. It was a rejection. Maybe not a conscious one, but a rejection nonetheless. Robby had offered you his scent and you denied him. Even if Robby hadn’t meant it like that (did he?), even if you hadn’t taken it that way (did you?). Somewhere, deep down, you had decided you didn’t want his scent on you. The thought makes Robby’s chest burn hot and sharp. Why does he even care? You’re just his resident. Nothing more. Right?

He may not be the most expressive person around others, but Robby knows his own feelings. He spends a lot of time alone with them. The one clawing at his chest from the inside out isn’t one Robby thinks he’s felt before. He imagines this must be how patients feel during open heart surgery. He tries to ignore the sensation as he shoves open the door to his apartment. 

“Jesus, brother. What happened to you?” Robby spins around to see Jack sitting on his couch, nose scrunched. The other alpha’s prosthetic leans against the coffee table and he holds the remote in loose fingers. Robby rubs at his forehead, letting out a long sigh. 

“Jack, what are you doing here? You’re gonna give me a fucking heart attack.” Robby grits out, forcing himself to breath slowly. God, he’s getting old. Maybe that’s why you don’t want him. You’re a young woman, a young doctor. You have a whole life and career ahead of you. Why would you want some old man like Robby?

“Seriously, man. I know it’s your place, but you stink.” Jack’s voice is teasing, but Robby can catch a hint of concern under it all. Robby tries to rein in his scent, wet and smoky like a forest fire. He can tell from the look on Jack’s face that it’s not working. “Wanna talk about it?”

“Maybe after a beer. Or four.” Robby sighs as he moves toward the kitchen. He pulls two beers out of the fridge and tosses one to Jack. He catches it and Robby grins, applauding mockingly. Jack flips him off. “Remind me why you’re in my apartment again?”

“Dana called. Said you were acting weird.” The can hisses in Jack’s hand as he pops it open. “She tried to talk to you at the ED, but apparently you’re avoiding her. She could smell you from across the room, man. I didn’t believe her at first but that was before you came in and filled the place with your stank.”

“It is my place, you know. Pretty sure I’m allowed to stink it up all I want. Especially when my company is uninvited.” Robby cracks open his own beer, taking a long sip. Shit. He had known he was avoiding you, but Dana? He hadn’t meant to. It’s not her fault you don’t want Robby. Damn it, now he has to apologize. “You really came all the way here just ‘cause Dana called you?”

“You know she’s not one to worry unless it’s called for, Robby.” Jack levels him with an unimpressed glare. 

Robby downs the rest of his beer in three gulps and crushes the can in his fist. “I need a shower. I assume you’re not leaving until we…talk?” Robby shivers exaggeratedly as he says the word. It gets a chuckle and an easy nod from Jack as he raises his can in a mock salute. It’s Robby’s turn to flip off Jack now. 

It takes a few hours and three more beers for Robby to finally start talking. Jack stuck around because he knows Robby. Knows he needs some lubrication before talking about anything remotely important. 

“I was rejected.”

Jack pauses, his drink halfway to his mouth. He glances over at Robby, brow scrunched. “Okay…”

“No, not—I mean…” Robby sighs, putting his can down on the low coffee table and turning his body to face Jack. He wrings his hands nervously, cheeks heating. Maybe Robby is too old to get this worked up over a rejection. When he finally speaks again, his voice is quiet. Small. “I offered to scent an omega. She said no.”

“Oh.” Jack’s can slips in his hand, wet with condensation. He catches it before it can fall, but Robby barely even notices. 

“Yeah.”

“Do I know her, or…?” Jack sets his can down on a coaster on the table, turning his body to face Robby as well. Robby hesitates for a moment before whispering your name. Jack nods slowly, recognition in his gaze. His hand reaches out, warm against Robby’s shoulder. “You’re gonna be okay, brother. I promise.”

Robby lets Jack tug him close. Lets his friend wrap warm arms around him. Lets himself breathe shakily. Jack doesn’t tell him he’s overreacting. He doesn’t tell Robby that he’s weird for being so invested in a resident. Doesn’t really say anything. Just holds Robby close. It helps. 

Your next heat isn’t supposed to happen for at least a month. That was what Dr. Yamazaki had told you. But when you swing by her office to ask about the pre-heat symptoms you’ve been feeling, she just smiles gently and tells you that being on suppressants for so long can mess with your heat cycle. It will regulate itself again soon. You wish soon could happen sooner. Especially with how Robby has been avoiding you lately. You wonder if he can smell your pre-heat. If he hates the scent so much he can’t bear to be around you. 

The day before your second heat leave within a single month (how embarrassing), you shove your things into a bag at your locker. Robby stands stiffly a few feet away and you almost want to reach out. Want to ask what you did so wrong. But you can’t bring yourself to meet his eyes, much less speak to him. So you hide behind your locker door and pretend to busy yourself until he leaves. 

“Robby, I got a question about the guy in North 7.” You turn down the hall to see Abbot standing there in his scrubs, glaring down at the screen in his hands like it personally wronged him. Robby sighs, moving past you as he pulls on his glasses. The way his eyes look behind those lenses, the way the frames compliment his face, it really shouldn’t affect you this much. You tell yourself it’s just your pre-heat and shove your locker shut. 

You don’t know why you glance down at Robby’s bag. Don’t know why you lean over to look into his locker. The small space smells like him. Not super strong, but enough for you to take a deep breath in before you realize what you’re doing. Despite the heat rising in your cheeks, you can’t pull away. You glance both ways down the hall before your hand shoots out, grabbing at a piece of fabric in the locker. A jacket. You sniff at it. God, it smells like him. Your eyes catch on the logo fading on the fabric. The jacket Robby wears almost every day. The one he keeps in his locker in case he gets cold. The one he will most definitely notice if it goes missing. You shove it into your bag without another thought, wondering if you’ve finally gone crazy. That’s it. You need to get out of here.

Dana calls out a goodbye as you rush out the door and you can barely send a distracted wave over your shoulder. You can only hope that no one caught Robby’s scent around you. Maybe it’s not as strong as you think. Maybe you’re just locked into it. Or maybe you’re just panicking. 

But, god, he’s all you can smell. You practically slam your car door shut as you collapse into the seat. Breaths come fast and rough as you hug your bag tight. Robby’s scent seems to fill the car and you feel dizzy. You toss the bag into the footwell of the passenger seat and shove your keys into the ignition. A sigh escapes from your mouth as the window rolls down with a buzz. Fuck, you really should have taken today off. 

Robby’s day hasn’t been great. Nothing serious. No lost patients. Just you walking around in fucking pre-heat. You, with your scent that’s been clearing up so nicely. Still sharp, but just enough to catch your attention. And you’ve been catching Robby’s attention. The whole shift had consisted of Robby trying to stay as far away from you as possible. He can’t get his brain to form words, let alone diagnose patients, when you glide across the open doorway of an exam room. His distraction meant more annoyed patients, which did not help his speedily declining mood.

And now his jacket is missing. He stepped away from his locker for five seconds and now his jacket is missing. The ambulance doors slide open and a cool breeze blows past Robby and he can feel the goosebumps over his arms.

“What’s wrong with you?” Robby turns to see Dana leaning against the wall outside the ambulance bay. She has a thick jacket zipped up to her chin as she takes a drag from her cigarette. Robby steps toward her, letting his back hit the wall with a soft thud. When Dana holds out her cigarette, he barely hesitates. The drag he takes is probably too long.

“Been a long fucking day already and now my jacket’s gone and I’m walking home.” 

Dana snorts. When Robby looks up to shoot her a glare, she levels him with a look so unimpressed, Robby is almost embarrassed that he tried. “Wasn’t your girl by the lockers with you?”

“She’s not my—” Robby cuts himself off, warmth burning in the apples of his cheeks. Dana laughs, taking her cigarette back. He barely notices, leaning more heavily against the wall. The jacket had been there before Jack called him away. By the time Robby returned, both you and the jacket were gone. “She rejected me. Why would she take it?”

Robby doesn’t look to see the face Dana makes at his admission. He can see her drop the cigarette as he looks at his feet, watching as she smashes it under her shoe. “I’d tell you to ask her yourself, but she’s on heat leave.”

“I know.” He mutters. Robby lets out a long sigh, leaning his head back against the concrete. “She told me a few days ago.” The hand gripped his arm before Robby could even realize what was happening. Dana was looking at him with an expression that said are you a goddamn idiot?? 

“An unmated omega told you their heat was starting? And you think she’s rejected you?” There was something deeper than disbelief on Dana’s face. Maybe bewilderment. Definitely some disappointment. “Jesus. Your mind, Robinavitch.”

“Well, I asked her to—“

“Michael, that’s harassment! You can’t just ask your subordinate to tell you when their heat is.” Dana’s voice is a low hiss, but Robby can see a gleam of smug satisfaction in her gaze. “That’s more direct than asking to scent them, you idiot. Christ, I can’t believe you!”

He looks down at her with wide eyes. Her lips are pressed tightly together. Holding back laughter, he realizes after a moment. Robby tries for a glare, but he can feel his cheeks practically catching fire. His voice stutters just a bit as he speaks. “So you’re saying she might—”

“I’m saying that she didn’t report you to HR for asking which week she was going to be fucking herself silly. I’m saying you’re both idiots!” She pulls her hand away, smacking Robby’s arm as she does. He winces. Dana finally releases her laughter, grabbing Robby’s hand. She takes a pen out of her pocket and scribbles across his palm. Robby’s flush spreads to his cheeks as he reads the address written on his hand. Most likely your address. Dana doesn’t release his hand yet. “If you fuck this up, I’m throwing you into the incinerator in the basement.”

Robby nods, not hesitating for even a second. If he hurt you, he deserved that much at least. Dana looks him over once before releasing his hand. She shoves him gently, grinning. Robby can only make himself wave as he jogs in the direction of your street.

You’ve finally settled in front of your television, wrapped in that warm jacket, when you hear the knocks. Soft, almost tentative. Like whoever is here doesn’t know if they should be. You sigh, pushing off the couch and slowly making your way toward the door. You don’t even bother looking out the peephole. It’s probably just someone lost in the apartment complex. Wrong floor, most likely. Happens sometimes. 

You keep the chain locked on the door as you pull it open just enough to greet whoever is standing there. Words elude you as Robby’s familiar silhouette fills your field of vision. He’s in scrubs, just a tshirt under his scrub shirt. No jacket. Because you stole his jacket. You’re wearing his jacket. While the undiluted scent of your pre-heat rolls off of you in thick waves. Just the sight of him is enough to make you lean against the doorframe, knees weak.

“Dr. Robby, I—I can explain.” You murmur, gripping at the jacket. His eyes flick down and something shifts on his face as he sees the fabric hanging off of you. A noise escapes your throat as you watch him sniff the air. Your scents combined. Dark woods and sharp citrus. Morning dew and crushed berries. 

“Can I come in?” 

The words make you freeze. Robby is an alpha. He knows you’re slowly falling into your heat. Robby is an unmated alpha. He just asked to come inside. You’re still wearing his jacket. A thought flutters through your mind and the air immediately sours. Rotten fruits scent the hall. Robby immediately shifts, looking around for what could have possibly upset you. (Was it him? Is he moving too fast?)

“Is this just because of my scent?” You force out, voice steadier than you thought it would be. Robby opens his mouth to say something. “I’ve liked you for a while. I didn’t say anything because you’re…you. Chief Attending. One of the best ER doctors in the East. I’ve respected you since we first met, so if this is just because I smell like an actual omega now, I can’t…”

“No! I mean, yes, your scent probably made me realize it, but you are one of the best residents I’ve ever had.” He reaches his hand out, pausing inches away from the door. The physical barrier between you two. “You’re a quick study and I’ve always liked the way you smile when you do a difficult procedure. I think—I have probably liked you since that first day. I promise you.”

You stare at him for a few seconds. Your heart is beating at about a million miles an hour and you push the door shut. The chain rattles as you pull it away and reopen the door. Wide enough for Robby to step inside as you hold the door handle with sweaty palms. He slides past you, brushing his shoulder against yours. Fuck, he’s scenting you. Another noise escapes you, something like a chirp. Robby doesn’t turn to look at you, but the corners of his lips twitch up. You can see the warmth on his cheeks as he does that adorable shrug. You want to climb him like a tree. You take a deep breath in, exhaling sharply as his scent fills your lungs. 

“Do you want tea?” You turn toward the kitchen, nervously playing with the long sleeves of Robby’s jacket.

“You’re making it real hard to want anything but you, sweetheart.” You feel his hands on your hips, not grabbing, just resting. He’s not hold you against him, you could easily step out of his grip if you wanted. You think that might be the last thing you would ever want. “Fuck. You look so good. Smell so fucking good.”

His nose presses against your neck carefully, just barely brushing the skin. A shiver slips down your spine and you shift to face Robby. His face is warm between your hands and you can see the red tips of his ears. How can he be so adorable? You force your eyes to stay on him as you cradle his jaw in your hands. He practically melts into the contact.

“Robby—”

“The name’s Michael, sweetheart.” Robby murmurs, pressing his lips against your palm. His beard scratches against your palm and you’re glad you finally get to feel this. You never could have imagined this sensation. Even if you tried, it wouldn’t do this justice. You grin.

“Dr. Robinavitch,” You say instead, leaning up toward him. He meets you in the middle, your foreheads pressing together. His laughter puffs against your lips and you can’t help grinning. The scent glands on his neck are so close. You finally give into that instinct, pressing your face against his neck to breathe in deep and fast. Laughter vibrates through his vocal chords and you force yourself to pull back (very difficult) and study Robby’s face (very easy). “What’s so funny?”

“I just think I really, really like you.” His voice is low and soft as his lips brush against yours. Finally. You can’t respond as he presses harder against you. But you do tell him, hours later, as you both lay next to each other, exhausted. 

“I think I really, really like you, too.”

who wants a smutty pt 2?