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@breadbrioche
welcome!
about the blog
➳ sfw blog; multifandom
➳ previous username: lmaoitsasimp
➳mainly to repost/keep track of works from others that I like but I write occasionally
➳requests: closed (read rules first)
➳rules/before you follow ; fandoms I write for; about the admin
➳my work under the “own works” tag (i don’t write enough for a masterlist)
a blog restart; maybe i’ll write more this time lol
triumph
yaku morisuke x f!reader
morisuke decides that standard boyfriend behavior is for cowards and launches a full-scale tactical assault of affection for your birthday. wc: 1.7k, happy birthday @sh0dor1 i love u sm !!
the digital numbers on the clock are ticking closer to midnight, and yaku is currently experiencing a level of stress usually reserved for bomb disposal units or people trying to untangle cheap headphones. he is staring at a batch of strawberry cupcakes with the kind of intense, unblinking focus that could probably melt steel beams. if he blinks, he loses. if he loses, your birthday is ruined, and if your birthday is ruined, he will simply walk into the nearest ocean and let the tides take him.
he is, to put it plainly, completely and utterly in love with you. you’ve dismantled his entire psychological infrastructure. he used to be a guy who worried about reception angles and keeping lev from breaking the gym ceiling; now his brain is just an endless loop of does ‘she need snacks? is she cold? i should buy her that tiny cat keychain i saw three weeks ago or i’ll perish.’
the clock hits 12:00.
yaku immediately grabs his phone with the speed of a striking cobra and fires off a text message so fast his thumbs nearly snap.
mori: happy birthday to the absolute light of my entire life. you’re the sun. you’re the air i breathe. i’m outside.
you read the text, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, and squint through your bedroom window. sure enough, there’s a small, aggressively determined figure standing beneath the streetlamp, wearing a jacket that makes him look slightly like a neon marshmallow, holding a box of baked goods like it contains the holy grail.
when you open the front door, he greets you and looks at you like you’re the first drop of water in a three-year desert drought.
“you’re awake,” he breathes out, his face flushing a violent pink that matches the frosting on the cupcakes. “good. excellent. happy birthday. i made these. if they taste like drywall, tell me immediately and i will execute the baker—which is me, but the principle stands.”
you take a bite of one right there on the porch, the sugar hitting your system. it’s perfect. it’s so good you actually make a small, pathetic whimpering noise. yaku’s chest puffs out so far he looks like a pigeon trying to intimidate a rival bird. the sheer triumph in his eyes is loud enough to wake the neighbors. he looks ready to fight a god in a parking lot just because you liked the frosting.
“get some sleep,” he orders softly, his voice dropping into that specific, gentle cadence that makes your stomach do a backflip into a swimming pool of jelly. he reaches up, his thumb catching a stray bit of icing near your lip with the precision of a man who tracks volleyballs for a living. “tomorrow’s a military operation. be ready by ten.”
at exactly 9:58 am, yaku is vibrating on your porch. when you open the door, he takes one look at you in your birthday outfit and his brain completely short-circuits. the windows startup sound plays in his head. he has to physically grip the porch railing to stabilize himself because your existence is currently hitting him like a physical blow to the solar plexus.
“you look…” he starts, his voice cracking slightly like a middle schooler going through puberty. he clears his throat, his ears turning the color of a fire engine. “yeah. okay. the universe really spent extra time on you, huh? ridiculous. let’s go before i start crying in public.”
the itinerary he has constructed is not a normal date plan. it’s a leather-bound binder with laminated tabs. yaku has calculated the exact trajectory of your happiness for the next twelve hours down to the millimeter.
first stop is a cat cafe, because he knows you lose your mind over anything small, fluffy, and angry—which is ironic, considering who you’re dating. the second you walk in, a massive, grumpy calico waddles over and plops itself directly onto your lap.
yaku stares at the cat. the cat stares back with absolute malice.
for a hot second, you’re convinced yaku is about to engage in a psychological warfare battle with a feline for your attention. he looks genuinely offended that another living creature had the audacity to make you smile before he did. but then you scratch the cat behind its ears, laughing that specific, crinkly-nosed laugh that makes yaku’s soul detach from his body, and he just collapses onto the table, hiding his face in his arms.
“mori? you okay?” you ask, poking his shoulder.
“no,” comes his muffled voice from the wood. “you’re too loud. your face is too loud. why are you doing this to me on your own birthday? i’m supposed to be the one giving you heart palpitations.”
“are you jealous of a cat named barnaby?”
“barnaby needs to know his place,” yaku mutters, though he reaches across the table to capture your free hand, his fingers intertwining with yours so tightly you can feel his pulse. his palm is warm, a little calloused from the court, and he starts tracing tiny, nonsensical circles on the back of your hand with his thumb. it’s a quiet habit of his, an unspoken reassurance that he’s entirely anchored to you.
lunch is a chaotic masterpiece. he takes you to a restaurant that serves those ridiculous, over-the-top milkshakes piled high with slices of cake, sparklers, and enough cotton candy to insulate a small house.
when a random guy named berto brings it out, singing a horribly off-key version of happy birthday with an ‘y/nxyaku’ headband, yaku looks like he wants to dissolve into a puddle of shame, but he’s clapping the loudest. he’s leaning forward, his eyes bright and completely fixed on you, ignoring the sparkler sparks flying dangerously close to his hair.
“blow it out, blow it out!” he urges, pulling out his phone to take approximately four hundred photos from every conceivable angle. “make a wish. if it’s about money, i’ll get a ton of jobs. if it’s about a giant robot, i’ll build it. just tell me.”
“i wished for you to stop being so dramatic,” you tease, pulling a strawberry off the shake and popping it into your mouth.
yaku stops, his phone hovering in mid-air. his expression softens into something so heavy, so incredibly tender, that the playful atmosphere around the table just evaporates. he leans his chin on his hand, looking up at you through his eyelashes.
“granted,” he murmurs, his voice low and entirely devoid of his usual defensive bark. “but you’re stuck with the dramatic version anyway. i don’t know how to love you quietly. it’s not physically possible.”
you almost chew on your strawberry. your face burns. you’re fully aware that you’re close to squealing like a victorian child seeing a train for the first time, but you can’t stop it. yaku feels the heat spread across your cheeks with a smug, deeply satisfied smirk, entirely proud of his ability to reduce you to a stuttering mess.
the final phase of the operation takes place at a park overlooking the city just as the sun starts to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in bruises of purple and gold. it’s chilly, the evening breeze biting at your bare arms.
before you can even think about shivering, yaku has stripped off his jacket with the speed of an olympic athlete and draped it over your shoulders. it smells like him—laundry detergent, faint traces of gym salonpas, and that distinct, comforting warmth that belongs entirely to him. it swallows you whole, the sleeves hanging way past your fingers.
yaku looks at you, enveloped in his clothes, and a strange, strangled noise escapes his throat.
“what?” you ask, pulling the collar up to your nose.
“nothing,” he says, but his hands are shaking slightly as he reaches out to cup your face. his palms are big enough to frame your cheeks perfectly, his thumbs smoothing over your cheekbones. “just… you look like that. in my stuff. it’s unfair. i feel like my chest is going to crack open.”
he leans down, pressing his forehead against yours. you can feel the heat radiating off him, see the tiny gold flecks in his brown eyes. he’s breathing softly, his gaze dropping to your lips and staying there like a man stranded at sea looking at a lighthouse.
“i spent the whole day trying to make this perfect,” he whispers, his breath warm against your skin. “because you deserve a version of the world that doesn’t have any flaws in it. i know i’m loud, and i’m short-tempered, and kuroo says i have the emotional range of a pipe wrench, but… i love you so much it makes me feel crazy. happy birthday, y/n.”
when he kisses you, it’s not a polite, gentle peck. it’s a deep, desperate, all-consuming thing that tells you exactly how much he’s been holding back all day. his hands slide from your face down to your waist, pulling you flush against him until there’s no space left between you. he kisses you like he’s trying to memorize the texture of your lips, like he’s trying to pour every single ounce of his devotion directly into your heart.
your fingers tangle in the short hairs at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, and yaku lets out a low, shaky groan into the kiss, his grip tightening around your waist until you’re practically lifted off your feet.
when he finally pulls back, just an inch, his lips are swollen and his eyes are dark, completely focused on you as if the rest of the city below had just ceased to exist.
“well,” he breathes, his forehead resting against yours again, a breathless, goofy gring breaking through his flushed face. “i think i nailed the birthday gift part. now let’s go home before i buy you a star or something stupid.”
n: i wish you the happiest birthday, sho :3 i’m so glad to have befriended you. i can’t express how grateful i am to have someone like you. you’ve helped me through a lot of times whenever i panicked about something minor, calming me down and making me think logically, or just letting me talk my heart out until i finally get tired. you’ll always have a special place in my heart for me to cherish, and in my mind for me to remember. happy birthday, sho !! i love u sm <3
© showhay — don’t copy, repost, or translate without my permission. do not use/feed my works to AI.
iloveu
heatwaves
synopsis: sweaty!bf!Jason teases reader
cw: very short, silly, Jason is a bit too happy…, established(?)relationship but reader is still a bit shy, a little ooc if you squint i suppose, lots of petnames, 400 words
a/n: writing might not make sense im posting thsi with a headache but i proofread so. i have a headache again may influence my writing ;( maybe this is ooc
Jason sat on the couch, legs spread and book open in his hand while the other fanned his face slowly. It was hard to focus. For him, it was because of the heat, but for you? It was because of him. Sitting there, with shorts riding up his thighs, a white wifebeater that was nearly soaking, a face with a soft reddish tint, lips which seemed more plump than ever that twitched every now and then.
“Baby?” He started, finding you staring straight at him like a piece of meat. His voice shakes you awake from your thoughts.
“Yeah?” You asked a little more breathy than usual. His eyebrow raises slightly before he spoke again.
“Nothin’. Nevermind.” His eyes track back to the paper. You hummed in response, trying to keep your focus on anything other than his muscles, bedazzled with beads of sweat.
The way his adam’s apple bobbed with each sip of the lemonade made you go even more feral.
“Why are you staring at me like that?” Jason yet again shook you awake with a sly smile on his face. Heat crept up from your stomach to your cheeks now, as you tried to regain yourself.
“You just…look good. Today. Not that you don’t look good every other day— Y’know what I mean.” He hummed at your answer, amused and as if he still wasn’t quite buying what you’re saying.
“Ah, that’s it? Really?” He pressed on. And then it clicked. The way he looked over at you after almost every action.
“You did that shit on purpose?!” You gasped and his smile widened. He shrugged his shoulders slightly.
“I have no idea what you mean, sweetheart.” Your sly fox of a boyfriend couldn’t hold back the pride in his voice.
You shoved his shoulder, your brows knitted together, trying to seem mad. To be quite honest, there was no way you could be mad when the 6’4”, black haired giant was smiling like a kid who just won a lifetime supply of candy. If he were a dog, his tail would be wagging right now.
“What-the-fuck-ever Jason.” You rolled your eyes. He leaned in quickly landing a peck on your cheek before returning to his position.
“Love youuu” He giggled once again before setting down his book.
“I’m gonna have to get back at you now.” You crossed your arms and puffed out your chest.
“Wouldn’t mind that.”
tags: @batwngs, @kumasakka, @sillygayfreak, @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger
𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 #FRY STEALER
fem!reader x Jason Todd
when a certain fry thief keeps trying to play in your face.
You and Jason were at a simple diner, a simple little snack since you and Jason were bored on a simple Saturday.
And what’s better than rotting in your shared apartment?
Eating.
You ordered a simple burger and fries, and this hunk of muscle ordered two burgers and his own side of fries.
So basically he had his own fries. So why in the hell every time you look away it looks at your phone, your fries get to a lower fry count each time?
You raised a brow while you put down your burger that had a big bite in it. Jason had inhaled his burger in just two bites.
“Jay.. did you take my fries?” You asked, raising a brow when Jason gave you a veryyyy ‘confused’ look.
“No? I have my own set of fries.” He responded, gesturing to his own fries that lay perfectly ….
Actually, they aren’t even in the damn basket. He’d basically vacuum the damn string fries down his throat.
Fucking food dumpster.
“Jason.” You said sternly as he chewed his other burger as if he wasn’t going to finish it in two big bites.
“I ain’t do nothin' babe.”
“Mhm.”
You then looked outside, watching as people walked past the window. But your eyes caught movement.
There you saw Jason reach his hand quickly to your basket of fries.
Swiftly, you turned your head around and pointed to him.
“AH HA! CAUGHT YA!” You exclaimed and moved to grab the fry basket towards you.
But Jason was quicker. Of course he was.
He literally shoved a whole bunch of fries in his mouth and smirked at your bewildered face.
“You're not getting them back,” Jason said with his mouth full and muffled. You stuck your tongue at him.
“Just big and greedy!” You mocked the green-eyed male who just chewed your fries in pure victory.
Thanks, But No Thanks
Dr Jack Abbot x Reader
Find My Pitt Masterlist here This is a little fic for @domaystic Based on day 22: Being Overheard A long shift. A nosy woman. A failed attempted set up. Leads to Jack feeling soothed by just how much you love him. He makes sure to show you just how much you mean to him.
Notes: wholesome fluff. just two people in love. established relationship
Word Count: ~1.4k
The minutes ticked on.
The hours merely dragged by.
And it was only 1 am…
Just another 6 hours to go.
Only 6 hours, if you were lucky.
…And only if you ever got out of this conversation.
You were simply doing some checks, just a little pop in to make sure nothing had escalated, that everything was under control.
When your patient.
A Ms Paula Williams.
A lovely – if not gossipy – woman.
Had instigated a full on mission to set you up with every eligible man in her family.
Hell.
Every eligible man in her contacts list.
From the moment you stepped into her bay she had locked onto you.
Finding your demeanour charming. Your smile flattering, and oh! Simply so clever to be a doctor.
You were an absolute catch in her eyes. And she made it very well clear that you simply had to meet her son, or nephew, or whoever else she insisted upon.
It was sweet.
Well it would’ve been more sweet. If you weren’t beginning to feel tired from the shift.
If you didn’t have another 10 patients still waiting to be seen.
And.
Well.
If you didn’t already have a loving partner.
That was the one hurdle you had yet to mention.
Not being able to get a word in inch wise while Paula rambled on and on, about the very perfect man you just had to meet.
You smiled at her amusedly if not tiredly.
Just waiting for a moment’s pause.
A moment for you to interject.
But it seems there’s nothing wrong with her lungs as she keeps on talking, barely evening needing to take a breath as she lists all the fabulous qualities. Simply so excited by the prospect.
Passing interns, med students and nurses alike all send you pitying glances as they hurry away, not wanting to be caught in between.
She continued to ramble, “Oh you’d simply love him! You’d just have to meet him. Oh I’ll give him a call and have him come over! Never too soon to meet the love of your life–”
Gently, ever so gently, you interjected, “While I am flattered, truly. I am in a very happy relationship.”
“But–”
“I’m not really looking to trade out my current partner. Who’s super considerate. Really, honestly I don’t think I’ve met a nicer person out there. And my god, the way he makes me laugh, oh. I just really love him. Thank you–but no thank you. I’m very happy at the moment.”
“Sounds like you really love him,” Paula sighs wistfully.
“Yeah, I really do,” you smile softly. “He’s one of the best things to happen to me”
Unbeknownst to you.
Your partner.
The very love of your life.
Had stopped short just outside the bay, hidden behind the curtain. Frozen in place as he heard your words.
Jack knew you loved him.
There wasn’t ever a moment where you didn’t make it known to him.
But hearing you now.
Dote on him to a complete stranger.
A tender warmth bloomed in his chest. A smile formed on his face. As he carried on his rounds. Tucking away your words in his heart.
A small pep in his step as he feels invigorated from your love.
Ellis stands to the side with Shen, raised brows and smug grins as they look at him.
"Someone's looking like a lovesick puppy"
Shen hums in agreement.
While Abbot merely shrugs them off, "And?"
"Nothing, just that love looks good on you," Ellis grins.
Abbot's lips curl, a small smile tugging at his lips.
He didn't mind if he seemed overly loving. Not when it came to you.
Throughout the evening you’re given little tokens of his love throughout.
From a steaming cup of coffee, that was definitely not from here as it was a lot better than what was currently being served in the staff room. Brewed exactly how you like it.
To the little packet of biscuits he slipped into your hand when he noticed you were getting a little sluggish.
Jack was by your side in seconds whenever you needed him. That was just the way he was.
His hands finding any reason possible to brush against you, to clasp your hand for just a moment. To swipe across your back, to let you know he was there for you.
Showing you his love in the smallest of behaviors.
None of this was out of the ordinary. No more doting than usual…
But there was a deepness to his sincerity. A little more care. Thought. Than usual.
And just perhaps.
At the end of your shift. As you leave side by side, Jack pulls you into his arms, far closer than usual. You find out just why he had been so affectionate this shift…
Holding you tightly. Tucking his head into the crook of your neck as he soaks in your embrace.
You feel his chest expand, rise and fall, simply letting his stress melt away as he holds you.
“You’re really touchy this morning? Anything you wanna talk about?” you asked softly, hands trailing up to curl through the hairs on the nape of his neck.
The smallest shake of his head, he begins to pepper light kisses upon the skin of your neck, mumbling between the soft, sweet kisses, “I just love you.”
You sigh as you feel his lips trail up along your jaw, to the corner of your lips, before shifting to nudge your nose with his.
Eyes meet yours.
Affection and love pooled within those blue eyes.
Bright and as endless as the sky.
Softly you whisper, just as sweetly, “I love you too”
You surge forward, catching his lips with yours. Having missed the feeling. Missed his touch.
Heart swelling with love for him.
What had once started as a friendship.
Quippy words and dry retorts, punctuated with laughter even when the jokes were dark or dry.
It had soon developed into something so sweet.
Rare.
Something you both now cherished deeply.
Pulling back slightly you lean your forehead against his, while he presses chaste kisses to your cheeks.
“Not that I don’t love this, but why are you so affectionate this morning?”
“I told you, I just love you”
You sigh, with a small roll of your eyes.
Jokingly you say, “What have you done?” Knowing full well he would never do anything to hurt you.
He chuckles softly.
“More like what have you done?”
You furrow your brows in thought.
Thinking over the night’s events.
It had gone on as usual. Nothing out of the ordinary…except–
Pulling back you lightly slap his shoulder, with a faint annoyed expression. “You totally overheard me last night”
The laughs that slip from his mouth, as smooth as honey, balanced with a timbre. One that rumbles in his chest.
Your cheeks feel a heat bloom, face feeling warm from his attention.
“You weren’t exactly quiet,” he remarked.
Groaning, “And you didn’t think to intervene and save me from her matchmaking?”
“Seemed you had it handled,” the grin on his face wide and amused from your reaction. Adding on, “Your boyfriend sounds nice”
“You’re a jackass”
“But I’m your Jack ass,” he retorted, arms slipping around your waist once more to pull you to his chest, pressing a kiss to your cheek, between each sentence.
“You’re very sweet.”
Kiss.
“Considerate.”
Kiss.
“And funny boyfriend.”
You let out a small laugh, flushed by his affections, hands moving to hold his face, thumbs gently swiping across his cheeks.
“Did I mention handsome,” he added cheekily.
“I don’t think I mentioned that,” you said in thought.
“Can’t say you didn’t think it though”
Smiling coyly, “I suppose he is kind of handsome, in that ruggish sort of effortless way”
“I’ll take what I can get, sweetheart.”
“Who knew me talking about you to others would make you so loving”
“Your words just have that affect on me” he murmurs.
“I’ll keep that in mind”
And softer, with a gravel tone he say, “Please do”
Hands slipping around his neck, you rest your head upon his chest. Calming. Soothing.
Mind focusing on nothing else but the steady rhythm of his heart.
Beating just for you.
Just as your heart beats for him.
…
Even if he was nosy at times.
Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed this little fic for domaystic. Just love the idea of Jack absolutely doting on you when he hears how much you love him, what a confidence boost! Let me know what you think. Comments, Reblogs and Likes are welcomed and appreciated 💕
For more Jack Abbot Works check out my series below! Feel free to find my Dr Jack Abbot x Reader Who Would've Thought series here 💖 Based on Waitress the Musical, Dr Jack Abbot x Waitress!Reader Sugar, Butter, Flour series 🥧 Or for a lil bit of hurt with eventual comfort check out Jack and the reader create a bond through being widowers, I Know You're Hurting series Feel free to find my Dr Robby x Wayne!Reader Rinse & Repeat Series Masterlist here 🩺 Or check out my overall Masterlist here
Taglist: @the-sassy-one @ilocuras24 @may-machin @hazydespair
And, Lord! She found me just in time - A.C
Andrew 'Pope' Cody x Soulmate!Reader
summary some soulmates meet by chance, and others...in the middle of a heist. word count 10.1k c.w threats involving weapons (guns), trauma, mentions of substance abuse (Craig), fluff, comfort a/n thank you so much for your patience with this work! and again, shoutout to my wife and soulmate for proofreading it. (maybe I'll do Craig's story one day, I don't know, you tell me) (read it on AO3)
❤︎ Every like, comment and reblog is appreciated!
The plan is simple. Andrew knows it by heart: rise before the others (not that complex when sleep isn’t common behavior), check the exits in his head, count the seconds between the entrance and the vault. No deviation is permitted. Check in, check out.
And yet, none of it is what causes him to drip with sweat and quiver at six in the morning, no, both are due to a persistent heat beneath his collarbone where the words he knows better than his own name lie:
oh my god it’s you.
They have been there as long as he can recall, inked into him before he had vocabulary to understand them, to gather what they meant. He presses two fingers against it, like his denial could erase them from his existence. Rubbing them off, burning the skin, cutting it…he has been contemplating doing it for ages. But there is always that split inside him, this fracture.
On one hand, there is this ancient, willful and unburnable idea that somewhere out there exists a person who will look at him and not perceive what everybody else sees: not a weapon, nor a problem…not even the cursed name of Pope. Just recognition, maybe even affection. But on the other hand, much louder and shaped by Smurf’s thoughts, Andrew knows better. Cause whoever she is…she got him. And that’s not a reward, it’s a sentence.
That’s why he never looked for her, never entertained the idea of following the instinctive pull that others chase without thinking. Searching would mean wanting, and desiring anything in this family perpetually comes with a cost that someone else collects.
And Smurf always collects.
He learned that early as a kid through what she permitted and what she cut off before it could grow.
Deran didn’t get freedom, there is none in this family, but enough space to construct the illusion of it: a business, a life that could pass for conventional, a soulmate to have for the rest of his time on Earth.
Deran was born with his words on his hipbone, want to play with me. Simple and harmless, they were almost laughable in how ordinary they sounded. And when his five-year-old brother came back from his first day in kindergarten, quieter than usual, Andrew knew. Adrian was his name. Smurf noticed but didn’t crush it instantly, she let it breathe, just to see what it would become, to observe its usefulness and threat in equal measure…it lasted for a while before she tightened her grip once again to suffocate any rebellious seeds in the fertile soil of Deran’s mind.
And Craig…Craig never cared. On his ribs, visible whenever he feels like it, Craig wears his mark with no sort of shame or hesitation. He lets people see and laugh. sorry I was checking your ass. “Means she’s got good taste,” he’d joked, grinning, the entire concept amusing him, and that had been it. No wondering, no small moments consumed in tracing the letters. Maybe it truly does mean nothing to him, or perhaps he just refuses to let anything hold weight long enough to matter. Drugs blur his thoughts, so do jokes. And Andrew never questioned which one it was, maybe that’s what saved Craig: you can’t weaponize what someone refuses to take seriously.
Andrew discovered a different lesson from his brothers, learned that Smurf doesn’t regard their marks the same: ruling which ones can be tolerated and which ones must be ignored until they vanish into the void. Which means she will never permit him to hear those words.
oh my god it’s you.
There is conviction in them, an inevitability that sits under each syllable and that’s what unsettles him more than anything else.
It hints that whoever speaks will not question or doubt who stands in front of her. And if she says it with hope, then…does it mean she is waiting for him? That somewhere out there exists a woman who has lived with his words onto her skin since birth, outlining them and wondering what kind of man would be facing her when they were ultimately spoken? Has she envisioned him? Hoped that whoever he is, he will be worth the wait?
Andrew’s jaw tightens as he forces the thought back and attempts to fold it into nothing before it can take shape, the heat under his collarbone pulsing as a counteract reaction.
Because if she is waiting, building a person in her mind around those words, then fate has dealt her cruel cards.
But for a moment longer, the idea of her doesn’t end, slipping past the barriers he has spent years shaping. If she were to look at him with no fear and uttering those words like he is not a bad deed but a destination, then he knows with clarity that he would drop everything: weapon, defense, every piece of himself that has been turned into usefulness and cruelty…he would let it all fall to the ground without looking back.
Being seen like that, chosen, would demand a different version of him, one that doesn’t exist yet but that he would mold for the right hands.
The gravity of the thought makes him nip it in the bud.
Men like him are not remade simply because a person is willing to see beyond it.
“You don’t get to have that,” he chastises himself under his breath, voice low and trying to strip it of all emotions as he slaps the marks with his palm, sending a sharp sting across his skin to silence whatever softness had tried to take root. And that’s what’s good with pain: it’s simple, immediate. “No one wants you.” The words are quieter, practically absorbed by the air but reinforced by his thumbnail digging into the skin beneath the mark until a deep crescent forms. The sting lingers, dulling into a manageable pain before he releases the pressure.
Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, his feet meet the floor with determination as all other thoughts are buried back where they belong for the routine to take over.
He dresses without thought, fabric covering his words so no one peers at them, so that they remain his only, the secret he never intends to act on because kismet rarely favors people like him for pleasant endings, and by the time he steps into the kitchen, there is not a single thing left but the plan.
Entrance, teller, vault. Three cameras, no security.
The plan hasn’t altered, the variables are the same, so…why does it feel off?
The question remains during his coffee, bitterness granting him to focus on his surroundings: Craig is already moving, too rowdy and eager for the hour – probably due to a line of coke, which he was not supposed to take before the bank - rifling through the drawers to find a bar blade for his beer.
“Man, I’m sure that if we do this clean, we’re under five,” Craig smiles, opening the bottle.
“Not if you play reckless,” Deran corrects, gaze flicking outside to the still pool.
Craig takes a big swing before replying, “Fine, you’ve got a deal.”
J, hands holding onto the marbled kitchen island, taps his fingers once against it, thinking. “Depends how fast the teller moves and if Pope was right about her.”
Andrew takes a few seconds before responding, trying to maintain his voice calm and flat as his eyes drops, unbidden, to where the fabric of his shirt rests against his collarbone. “I told you,” he ends up declaring with certainty, “she won’t say anything. She’ll follow the instructions.”
He knows, but not in the manner they think of: not from the usual reading pre-job he has been trained to rely on, not from an assessment made by Pope, the guard dog of the family, no, he had observed you through the eyes of Andrew, the man he keeps concealed deep and who had no business noticing you beyond the scope of a job and yet did, again and again, until it became something he still refuses to label.
He had sat in the car across the street, engine off, tracking movement through the glass without dragging his eyes long enough to be noticed: the faces, the timing, who moved fast, who hesitated…that’s when he saw you.
Behind the counter, you had been nothing but patient with a couple of elderly customers who took too long for the rest of the queue and still, your posture never shifted into irritation, your voice – though unheard – was undoubtedly soft, paired by the gentleness of your hand motions.
At first, you had been just a part of the plan: closest to the vault, predictable in your time…or that’s what he told himself.
Except he came back the next day. And the one after.
He started noticing details that didn’t fit to the job: the way you stepped in the bank at the same time each morning but not without a coffee and a blueberry muffin from a small place two blocks down, the barista already preparing your drink before you spoke. The way you held it close when you strode, cautious not to spill and handing a ten plus the muffin to the man who slept along the path to work.
There was also the grocery store, once a week, same day, same hour, a small basket instead of a cart, contents minimal but consistent: ramen (which made him wonder and still does to this day, if you’re paid enough to live on that or if it’s for some rapid practical reasons) and cat food, an invariable brand, twenty cans for the whole week.
A cat. The detail had lodged within him longer than it should have but still, he had found himself pondering, beside all logic, what kind and whether it waited by the door when you came back, if it slept on your bed or kept its distance. If you talked to it. What was its name.
And twice a week, you went to the theatre: always at the 7pm screening and, Andrew’s favorite part, always alone. Never a second silhouette joining yours in line or a glance over your shoulder as if expecting someone late, no, alone. Which meant that whoever was supposed to say the words that adorned your skin, hadn’t yet met you.
Elated. That had been the best term to define Andrew that day, one that he had never used before. He even rewarded himself by going in the theatre once, just once. Ticket in hand, he had sat one row behind you. Far enough not to be noticed, close enough that he could perceive the smell of your sweet perfume through his nostrils. The screen had lit your profile, a kaleidoscope of colors painting your features. Your attention fixed forward, you had been too absorbed in the film – an old one with songs, full of yellow raincoats and umbrellas – while he had been caught in the fragile, suspended moment of witnessing you.
You and your small box of sour skittles, that he remembers with an irritating accuracy even now. The way you tilted it until two slid into your palm, a gesture you probably had done a thousand times prior to that instant. Oh, and your laugh. The sound had been lost in the room and to his ears, but it had been visible in your shoulders and in your hand, who quickly came up to your mouth.
Andrew had never felt so alive, a deep surge of energy coiling through his veins and screaming for him to speak, speak, speak.
But what was there to say? What could make him less of a creep? Nothing.
So, he had remained where he was. Silent, still. Just a stranger in the row behind you, a stranger who, when the lights came back on, left before you even rose, avoiding the probability for your paths to cross and for you to notice him.
He hadn’t gone back after that. One was more than it should have been.
Andrew exhales slowly, the memory dissolving as quickly as it surfaced, his jaw clenching for a fraction of a second before he forces it to release.
This is not relevant, none of it is, he repeats to himself, the plan is what matters. The job. And everything else should be treated as noise.
He shakes his head once, dislodging a thought that shouldn’t have been there in the first place, then reaches for his coffee, finishing it quickly before walking up to the door with his brothers where Smurf is waiting.
There’s something ceremonial about the way she rests there, the house and the four men holding their breath before proceeding.
Craig goes first, leaning in with no hesitation as she cups his face and kisses him on the mouth, brief, familiar. He grins like it’s nothing, like it’s forever been nothing. Deran follows, more restrained but no less automatic: a similar gesture, a similar contact with the flicker of some unreadable feeling passing through his expression before hastily vanishing. J hesitates, not enough for anyone else but Andrew to note, before he steps forward and accepts it like the rest.
Andrew enters into her space without thinking – he has learned in the past forty-one years of his life that thinking would end up in questioning, and questions had never, never, been a thing that ends well here.
Her hands come up, framing his face with a gentleness that doesn’t match the steel underneath them, eyes holding his for a moment longer before leaning in.
The kiss is short. There are days where he registers it as triviality, just a part of the structure, of what this family is. And then there are days like this one, where it feels like receiving the cold touch of death, an implicit ‘go do what you were made to do baby’.
Instead, she speaks evenly, “Be smart.”
Not ‘be safe’. Smart is all she demands from her favored chess pieces.
The drive goes well and, in the bank, everything continues going to plan: the doors open, a soft chime announcing their arrival like any other customer stepping in. For a few seconds, the illusion holds – even for himself, Andrew, the everyday man walking into a bank, ready to ask the beautiful woman behind the counter out on a date – before it shatters as J clears briefly his throat and drifts to the right of the room with Craig, hands loose, unremarkable, while Deran angles to the left, another presence among many.
Andrew moves forward to where are you are with no spare glance, and during a fleeting moment… everything narrows down to your figure.
You’re wearing an outfit he hasn’t seen before, or maybe he has, and never allowed himself to register it, but it stands out now with a clarity that feels cruel and, pinned near the collar of your outfit, an albatross. He identifies it with all the nights spent watching documentaries and absorbing details, filing away images of wings stretched impossibly wide, of birds that cross entire oceans without ever landing, belonging nowhere and everywhere at once.
It unsettles him more than it should. Not the object itself, but what it signifies. An albatross falls in love only once in its life, the pair only being broken by death itself. (Is it a message in a bottle for the one you’re anticipating for?)
The question is gone as quickly as it formed because nothing about this instant permits to dwell on soulmates, and yet it lingers just beneath the surface of his thoughts as he closes the distance, each step measured. You haven’t noticed Andrew – no, Pope – yet, too focused onto a receipt until your gaze lifts, landing on him with that same polite attentiveness he has observed before and a smile.
It’s a professional one, instinctive, but enough to throw everything off balance in his head. He knows that smile: he has caught sight of it from his car every single day for the past seven weeks, directed at strangers who never realized how fortunate they were for having you near, but right here, right now, this smile is for him and him only.
And he is about to break it.
The realization lands heavy in the pit of his stomach, intertwined with guilt. Guilt for what he is about to do, guilt for never speaking to you before. He could have, no, should have done so. And one word, any word would have been enough for him. Because with a weapon hidden beneath his jacket, he knows now that he is about to become the worst part of your day, maybe of your life.
His hand moves minimally, shifting the jacket just enough for you to see without alerting anyone else, keeping it contained between the two of you in a silent, irreversible exchange.
The gun rests there, cold.
Your breath catches, eyes dropping before snapping back to his, wider now, the recognition settling in fully, the understanding immediate and absolute. You don’t scream, don’t budge. And that…that confirms everything he told them: you will follow, you will endure, more importantly you will survive this moment.
Andrew leans in, lowering the space between you, voice contained and controlled, meant only for you and no one else.
But just before he speaks, his gaze flickers back to the albatross at your collar, wondering if you’re like them. That despite the distance and the motions, you’d return to the same point, the same partner, giving meaning to every mile flown.
He tears his gaze away to meet yours, whispering.
“It’s okay, just do as I say.”
──────────
All in all, it had felt like a regular morning.
You had been pulled from sleep by the persistent weight of Willow, stepping onto your chest with all the grace of an adorable being who believed himself entitled to your entire attention, his paws pressing into you as he sniffed your face before letting out a sharp, indignant cry that made it very clear that your sluggish state was a personal offense.
You had groaned, eyes still shut, one hand coming up blindly to rest on his dark fur as he shifted his weight once more, tail flicking against your belly and whiskers brushing your cheek.
“Okay, fine, fine,” you had grumbled, voice thick with tiredness but already surrendering, lips curving despite yourself as you cracked one eye open to meet his unblinking stare, “Hello to you too, little gremlin.” Another sound, louder this time, answered you, like your acknowledgment alone was not sufficient. “God, you’re so dramatic, you know that?” you had added under your breath, though you were pushing yourself up, Willow hopping down instantly, his task accomplished.
Trotting ahead of you toward the kitchen, he waited with barely contained impatience for you to fill his bowl, circling your legs as you did, weaving in and out while snagging your pajamas with his claws just to remind you of his presence.
“Hey, gentleman! There you go, no need to make new holes in my clothes,” you had laughed, setting the bowl down, before he dived in in a split second, unfocused on you now that his needs had been met. “Right…cause you’re undoubtedly a starving cat.”
You had remained a few more seconds, observing him in that small ritual established seven years ago when you had retrieved him from the trash, just a baby crying for help, all ribs and oversized ears. He had fit in your hands then, a trembling cat covered in dirt, choosing you at first sight, and that you had chosen back.
Now, he ate like he had never known hunger, certain that his whole world would continue to provide. “My little Willow,” you had murmured, petting his head before letting him continue, “we’ve come a long way you and I, haven’t we?” He didn’t answer, but his tail flicked once, content, and that was more than enough.
You rinsed your hands for the tuna liquid running along your palm, drying them absentmindedly against a towel before reaching for the newspaper that you had left on the table the previous night, only to pause when you noticed the pen no longer resting where it should have been, your gaze dropping to the floor where it lay just beneath the other chair. You glanced back at Willow.
“Well, well, well,” you said, bending to pick the pen up and turning it between your fingers, “seems like this family’s small criminal has reoffended.”
You shook your head at his refusal to even turn his head despite his ears pointing to you, a grin blooming on your face as you smoothed the newspaper open with one hand while the other tapped the pen against the margin, looking at the movie screenings on Thursday, the quiet promise of a few hours somewhere else.
Your eyes traced the column, pausing at the familiar title Now, Voyager.
A pleased hum left you, head tilting. “Well…” you had muttered, circling the time as a reminder, “at least I know I can always count on you, Bette.”
There was something comforting about it: knowing precisely what you would find waiting in that darkened room, selecting a film that, in the past, had proven itself capable of uplifting your mood for a while.
You set the paper aside, rising from your chair with an exhale, your movements unhurried as you crossed back into the bedroom, reaching for your clothes. The mirror caught you as you adjusted the fabric, reflecting all you hated and loved about each and every inch of you.
You pondered a few instants before reaching into your grandmother’s jewelry box, fingers closing around the brooch’s cool metal of the albatross mid-flight, wings outstretched.
It had been hers before it became yours, an inheritance you had accepted with devotion after her passing due to the story it had held, one that she told you in pieces when you were a little girl intrigued by the idea of soulmates. She had spoken of the words engraved on her ankle – it’s cold today right – and how, as a child, she had clung to them, convinced that somewhere out there existed a man who would say them and would recognize her as she would recognize him.
She had waited. Years. Decades. Long enough for hope to thin until one day, she no longer dared to, preferring another life instead.
She had married a man who, like her, had never found the person tied to his skin, “A good man,” she always smiled, and together they had built a life that worked, giving them your father.
It hadn’t been a heartbreak. But it hadn’t not been that either.
It was much later, when her hair had turned silver and her hands had begun to show the traces of everything she had lived through, that it happened. This part had been told in a different kind of voice, softer, almost disbelieving. How one day, in her seventies, those words had finally been spoken to her by a woman whose laugh matched the rapid beating of her heart, loving her until the very end.
Oh, and how you had held onto that story. It meant that love, real love, the kind that recognized and chose and settled, didn’t always arrive on time or follow the path people expected. But it arrived.
Your thumb brushed over the edge of the albatross as you pinned it, praying for fate to be a little speedier with you.
Slipping your bag over your shoulder, you cast one last glance toward Willow, who had abandoned his bowl in favor of a sunlit patch on the floor, completely at peace and asleep.
“See you tonight,” you murmured before stepping out in the warm weather of Oceanside.
-
The café greeted you with its familiar scent of coffee and baked croissants, Sofia welcoming you with that half knowing smile and asking, “Coffee, no cream, one sugar?”
“You know me,” you smiled, reaching into your bag.
She paused just long enough for her eyebrow to lift, gaze traveling from you to the sunlit street. “Actually…” you amended with a laugh and stepping closer to the counter, “make it iced. I’ll pass out before nine otherwise.”
“That’s more like it,” Sofia replied with a wink, the drink quickly ending up in your hands, along with the blueberry muffin added without question.
“Thanks a lot Sofia.”
“You’re welcome, querida mia. And be careful, they’re saying we might hit 100° today.”
“Yeah, be careful too,” you replied, lifting the drink as a cheer, “wouldn’t want to tell Shani that her wife melted behind the counter.”
Sofia laughed, waving you off. “Don’t you dare. Now go!”
Outside, the temperature was getting more and more hellish, the kind that clung and made your pits sweaty. Cursing against the sun and summer, you took a sip while walking, the cold welcomed to cut through the heat.
Jerry was there, sat at his usual spot along the way between the café and the bank, blankets folded with care, his presence as constant as your own routine.
“Morning, Jerry,” you greeted, crouching and balancing your drink in one hand as the other extended, the muffin and what remained of your money there.
He looked up, his smile lines visible in the light. “Well, if it’s not my favorite lady,” he greeted you, taking the muffin.
“Hey, Jerry,” you added gently, nudging your head toward the end of the street, “it’s supposed to get really hot today, so if it’s too much, you can come by the bank for a bit, okay? It will be nice and cold inside, and there’s a water dispenser near the back.”
He paused for a second before nodding, softness passing through his expression.
“Yeah…yeah, I might do that,” he replied, voice quieter now, before looking back up at you. “Have a sweet day, sweetheart.”
Your smile lingered. “Have a sweet day too, Jerry.”
-
Stepping into the bank at the exact same time as every day, the cool air wrapped around you, a relief from outside as the doors closed behind with a sound that barely registered in your mind now, too used to it.
Everything was where it should be, to your great joy.
You slipped behind the counter, setting your bag down and tucking your things away with efficiency, movements quick and falling into their daily sequence.
Shani, leaning against her station, was already observing you with that look that indicated she had something to say – which was, quite honestly, a little frightening even when you were used to her schemes.
“So…” she started, dragging the word enough to make it extremely suspicious, “how was Sofia?”
You didn’t even look up at first, finishing what you were doing before glancing at her with a small, amused smile. “I’m sure you’re well aware that your wife is very much okay.”
“Good, good, good,” she nodded before straightening a little, her expression shifting into a more deliberate and calculated expression – which you enjoyed to describe as the ‘Shani-way’.
You narrowed your eyes. “What?”
She waved a hand, playing casual but you definitely knew better. “Nothing. Just- Well, Sofia and I were talking last night, and we thought maybe…” she trailed off long enough to make it worse, “we could…you know. Set you up. Double date. My cousin’s in town.”
You sighed, shaking your head before she could finish. “Shani-”
“Hey, who knows,” she cut in, grin widening, “he could be the one!”
The words landed in the space between her and you. The one. You stilled for a brief instant, a quiet sentiment moving beneath the surface of your soul, a sentiment older than this conversation, older than Shani, the bank and any version of you that had ever tried to make sense of it. Of this word. The one.
Your gaze dropped to your forearm, where the words had lived your entire life, etched into your skin before you grasped anything at all, including what they signified.
it’s okay just do as I say.
Those words…were not romantic, nor light. Not anything like what people expected when they spoke about soulmates with soft voices and hopeful smile. But hey, at least you were not one of those who had just a simple ‘hey’ or ‘sorry’.
You had spent years trying to get them. As a teenager, you had thought maybe it meant danger or urgency, that something would happen and they would be the one to steady you through it, to guide you and keep you safe, that idea rooting itself deeply enough that you had chased it for years: climbing too high without any protective harness, swimming too far from the coast, riding a motorcycle with no helmet…Taking risks that sat just on the edge of recklessness had been your motto, as if you could have forced the meeting into existence, stumbling into it hard enough that fate would have had no choice but to intervene.
You had fractured your wrist. Twice.
Both times alone, without any soulmate to help you up and dry your tears. Both times without those words to comfort you.
You had ceased after that, slowly considering that you had, perhaps, thought about those words from the wrong angle. So, if not danger, then circumstance: maybe your soulmate lived in a world that didn’t intersect with yours easily, a world shaped by less…legality.
You had followed that thread: night shifts in a 24/7 grocery store, late hours as a waitress in a diner where people were awfully silent, coming and going without questions, up until you ended up here, in a bank, working as a teller.
Banks get robbed. And tellers are, more often than not, the first ones involved when it happens.
And this bank – oh, this bank that you applied for without reading it twice – was not just any bank: it was the one with the highest robbery rate in Oceanside. Checkmate, soulmate. Wherever he is, you’ll find him. No, scratch that…he’ll find you. You know it.
You lifted your gaze back to Shani, the faintest smile returning. “I’m okay Ni,” you ended up saying, certain. “Really.”
She studied you for a second, like she might push a little more and try again, but she simply sighed, letting it go with a small shake of her head. “One day, huh?”
“One day,” you echoed.
Time, in places like this, was measured in the transactions and exchanges, passed with the sound of shuffling papers, the muted hum of people moving in and out, and just like that, an hour slipped by without you noticing, hands working on their own and your smile appearing and fading in the practiced manner you had perfected over the years, attempting to not let your mind drift too far.
You didn’t look up immediately after hearing the doors opening for what seemed like the hundredth time today. Probably just another client, another small interaction that would dissolve the moment it ended.
No.
Your thoughts cut abruptly, like a thread had been pulled tighter around your neck to force you to lift your head, attention shifting before you could place why and landing on a person who stood out from the others…him.
Your body reacted before your mind, heat coiling low in your belly, unfamiliar in its intensity and enough to steal your breath as he stepped further toward you, gorgeous auburn curls catching the light and freckles scattered across a face set in a stern, immovable expression, frame tense.
You watched him come directly to your counter. There was a brief moment where you knew you should have been afraid, the awareness that a man like this, carrying that kind of presence and approaching with such focus, should trigger your primal instinct or at least set something off inside you that told you to brace or pull back.
No.
Again, that voice inside. You had spent your entire existence leaning into danger, pushing your own limits in search of a moment that had never come, not until now and that stranger.
He halted in front of you, close enough to perceive the stubble on his face.
Your smile came automatically like the one you had given dozens of times that morning, voice ready to follow and ask, as if nothing had happened but his hand shifted a little, just enough for you to take a peek at the gun inside his jacket.
His voice was low, meant for you only. “It’s okay, just do as I say.”
Yes, all in all, it had felt like a regular morning. Up until now.
The words – those precious, bizarre words – are no longer just inked onto your skin, they are alive, burning under your skin, pulsing, rising, demanding, every nerve in your body tightening around them as if every second that came prior to this had only occurred to lead to this exact point and this exact man.
Your breath catches, likely making him think that it’s about the weapon, when in reality, it’s about him and his proximity, about the overwhelming clarity that crashed into you all at once, leaving no room for doubt or hesitation.
You don’t know how long you stay there, silent. A second? A century?
Time seems to dissolve and fold in on itself until it no longer matters, because there is him, only him and the undeniable, irreversible truth standing in front of you.
Your lips part before you can think or stop it, your voice slipping out softer than you expected.
“Oh my god…it’s you.”
──────────
“Oh my god…it’s you.”
The words don’t quite land or settle into meaning the way language is supposed to. They don’t register as sound shaped into sense or even feel like they belong to the scene unfolding in front of him, and for a brief moment that stretches too wide to measure, everything in Andrew goes violently motionless.
There is a merciless ringing in his ears that swallows the room entirely, drowning out people’s voices someplace in the distance, erasing his movements, the job, the plan: everything reduced now to a piercing frequency that leaves him unmoored inside his own body, like he has been pulled out of himself and left suspended in a space where nothing quite connects anymore.
He doesn’t even breathe. Or maybe he does, but it doesn’t reach him.
Fingers still curled against the edge of his jacket, the gun remains half-hidden, the action unfinished and abandoned halfway through for the reason that there is absolutely no part of him that recalls how to carry on.
This…This is not supposed to happen. Not like this. Not there. Not now.
Not in the middle of a job with his brothers spread across the room, J surveying the room and the exit mapped in his head, Smurf’s voice still echoing behind his thoughts, commands carved into his bones. No, not after all she has done to make sure it wouldn’t occur – worse, not after what he has done to make sure it couldn’t.
And yet, you are here. In front of him. Staring with none of the fear that should currently be spreading in your body after sighting the weapon he had just shown you, but with eyes full of recognition. One that is so clear, it strips him of whatever control he thought he still possessed.
And the worst thing about this whole situation, is that it’s you.
The woman he knows without ever having spoken to, the one he has watched through glass and distance until her habits became familiar and her presence lodged in a room of his mind he refused to acknowledge, up until avoiding her became a discipline he couldn’t master. The one person he should never have allowed himself to notice.
Yes, this woman is you, breathing and alive, saying the words that have resided under his skin his entire life, the oath he had refused to have faith in.
His mark burns, not in the dull, persistent heat he has learned to disregard and bury under discipline, but a pulsing fire that spreads beneath his collarbone, radiating outward in aching waves, relief and agony intertwined so tightly he can’t pinpoint which one is which.
It hums in a vibration that moves through him like a melody finding its proper tune, a song that has been anticipating for its first note and has just been unleashed without restraint. And it cries too in the solemn sentiment of home, every nerve in his body squeezing around it, responding and begging for contact. The mark wants to close the distance between you until there is none left, for him to fold himself into your ribcage so that the world stops spinning off its axis.
His hand twitches toward your arm, where he can tell – without even checking, just his soul recognizing yours – that his words have inhabited there and expected him. Expect for him to trace them and press his mouth against your pulse to sense its response.
He attempts to shut his thoughts, his jaw clenching so hard it aches, teeth grinding together as he forces his body back into control despite the animal instinct clawing forward, only to be shoved down, leaving him shaking. Entry, vault, exit, he must think about the job, entry, vault, exit, car, timing.
He clings to it like a lifeline, dragging the steps of his consciousness back one by one, compelling them into place over the chaos unraveling inward, because if he lets goforevena second, if he gives in to what his body is craving, then everything falls apart. And no, he can’t do that. Not when Craig is still in the room, and Deran, and J. This moment is not supposed to be his.
He swallows hard to set himself back into motion, pulling his jacket back into place and hiding the gun fully. He can’t stand the distance it creates between you nor the way it frames him as a threat when all inside him is tearing itself apart trying to be anything but.
“I…” His voice catches. He closes his eyes momentarily, recalibrating and pushing the word back out even as it scrapes against his throat. “I was supposed to ask you to lead me to the vault.”
The sentence feels almost foreign, detached. Like it belongs to someone else.
You blink. “Oh. Sure.”
The ease of your reply hits him, head tilting in confusion, breaking through the overwhelming tide of all other emotions, his gaze locking onto yours. Searching for hesitation, or question. But no, you don’t even seem surprised.
“I was expecting that, you know.”
He frowns, almost imperceptibly. “What?”
Your gaze drops to your forearm. “The mark. I was expecting you to do something like that.”
And that…that breaks Andrew for that it means you didn’t just wait for him in an abstract universe or pictured a voice, no, that indicates you had thought about the circumstances that would shape your meeting.
“I’m sorry.” What else could he express when the first thing he gives you is this version of himself, the one forged by everything he has done and the weight of choices that never really were, shaped by years spent becoming what was required of him. Yes, he is sorry. Sorry that he is this and just this: a man who does jobs to live, who has been to prison, who has taken more than he has ever given, standing in front of you – in front of his own soulmate – with violence tucked neatly beneath his jacket.
You tilt your head, studying him with intensity, as if you could reach past all he has built and read what lies beneath. He hopes you can’t, for your sake as much as his. “It’s okay, uhm-”
“Andrew.” It leaves him quietly, but it lands heavier than anything he has ever said, his own name foreign in his mouth.
Your lips part as you take it in, like you’re repeating it over in your mind or placing it somewhere that matters. “Well, it’s okay…Andrew.”
The way you say it… he knows, with an irreversible certainty, that he will carry the sound of every vowels and consonants in your voice for the rest of his existence.
His gaze flickers over his shoulder, scanning the room to find his brothers pretending to read brochures about insurances while J positioned himself near a water dispenser, and Andrew feels a sudden, irrational need for time and space, just a few more seconds that could be devoted only to this moment prior to reality catching up.
“So…” your voice cut short his pleading, “the vault, right?”
“Yeah,” he despises doing this, and hates himself even more, “Please.”
Nodding once before turning and walking, he follows barely a step behind - of course he does, there is no version of him that wouldn’t pursue you anywhere from heaven to hell now that he has found his soulmate.
You lead him through the bank with precision, one that doesn’t escape him: your path cautious, avoiding angles that would expose him and making turns just out of reach of the cameras. He has mapped and memorized where they are the past weeks, but he still feels relief that you are the one guiding this and holding control in a moment where he threatens to collide under the weight of everything pressing in on him.
He sees it now that he is closer, no longer separated by a glass or distance, the manner that your fingers have of flexing at your side three times before falling, or how your hair carries the faint scent of your shampoo, something clean and sweet like apples, threaded with another note he can’t place that makes your hair sparkly and drawing him further in.
The feeling that he can’t put his finger on is not quite like danger or adrenaline. It’s more insidious, making him want to lean closer just to confirm and commit to memory: what you use, where you buy it, whether you would laugh if he got it wrong, whether he would ever get the chance to share that with you.
It feels a little malicious from fate to do this: to let him locate you, let him recognize without reservation that you are the one person in the world predestined to meet him at this exact intersection of time and existence and still deny him the simplest thing…touch. Like being handed providence only to be told he cannot reach for it, shown a life he has no right to claim.
Yes, fate has dealt him strange cards. Cards he has known all too well.
He was raised in a house where everything was a game long before he grasped the rules, where nothing was ever left to chance no matter how much it pretended to be, hands distributed by design. He and his brothers had always been given the same kind: low numbers, useful only when played in sequence or sacrificed at the right moment to serve a strategy that was never theirs to understand. They were never meant to win.
Because to hold the deck, there was Smurf. King when she required authority, queen when she needed charm, switching between the two without effort and controlling each and every round and outcome.
Andrew had learned to play his part in that, to accept the hand he was given and never question the structure of the game. Nothing but a low reliable card.
But now…now he is in this hallway, close enough to feel your breath and realize that his soulmate is not the kind of card that can be discarded nor replaced. His soulmate is an ace: the card that can turn a losing hand into a winning one, the card that overturns a game.
And for the first time in his life, Andrew realizes that he has been holding it all along, hidden under his skin, forbade and hidden until this morning and finally, the game can change. Because Smurf doesn’t control this hand and never will.
It takes everything in him not to reach for you and close the distance completely until you are pressed against the nearest wall so you can both forget about this stupid plan and this stupid job. And the problem is that the more he walks, the less the urge attempts to flee, slowly transmuting into a pull that tightens with every step and shift of your body, begging for him to kiss you, to leave – oh yes, god, to leave – taking your hand and walking out of the bank as if his family wouldn’t drag him back into the role he has never been allowed to abandon.
He can picture it in flashes: the door opening, the heat outside, your hand in his with the distance growing between you and the only life he has ever known.
For a second…it feels doable.
The muscle of his jaw ticks as he forces the image away to go back to the path you are leading him through, aware that his family is still near, trailing with a plan that has not stopped simply because his whole universe has.
So, Andrew keeps moving, the noise of the main room dulling behind them, replaced and amplified by the ones of your steps, in addition to those of his brothers and J, that he can overhear closely behind.
Deran emerges first by his side, gaze sweeping on the area before settling on Andrew. “Everything good, Pope?”
Andrew doesn’t look at him for long, an automatic “Yeah,” pulled out of his lips, flat because inside, the name of Pope grates – the label that no longer fits him, the version of him that exists in conflict with the one near you and that has your words etched on his skin. He prays, absurdly, that you don’t register it. That Andrew can exist, even for a moment without being dragged back into the shape that the name Pope forces onto him.
Craig joins them with an energy barely contained for the tight space, his grin toned down but still present at the corners of his expression as he reaches under his jacket, fingers hooking into the hidden seam where the duffel is concealed.
“So,” he murmurs, eyes flicking up and down your body before returning to Andrew, “you were right about the girl.” Andrew’s hands curl at his sides as Craig doesn’t stop his lewd eyes. “And she’s quite pretty too.”
Violence rises in Andrew’s chest, a flash of heat shaped by Craig’s looks and words about you, reducing your person to a pretty jewel that he could rob along with the money when Andrew want nothing more than to scream what you are and what you mean to him. He wants to punch his brother, just enough to shut him up and make it clear that his soulmate is not just some-
“Hey, Point Break,” your voice cuts through, “you know I can hear you, right?”
Craig blinks, caught off guard for half a second before having the decency to at least look a bit sheepish. “Sorry, ma’am.”
Andrew exhales, reminding him that you are not fragile like he had feared his soulmate might be, that you are here, capable of holding your own even in this.
The five of you reach the vault door, the air altering as your hand lifts, thumb trembling over the keypad before pushing the first number. It takes this moment for Andrew to realize that the change is not in the air but in you – it’s like a direct transmission of everything stirring through you: the adrenaline, his family so close, the pressure of the moment, all of it carried in the current running between the two of you.
But this emotion isn’t yours alone, it echoes inside him like a mirror. And, for the first time in his life, Andrew is not alone inside himself, grasping that what he has always been when he had assumed he was whole, had only ever been a piece of something larger and waiting.
You. His missing piece. His ace.
Craig shifts beside them, impatience creeping in as you press another number. “Uhm, sorry to say miss,” he mutters, “but we don’t exactly have all the time in the world, ‘kay?”
Andrew’s head snaps toward him, the protective reaction immediate.
“Shut up,” he cuts in, voice and unblinking eyes carrying enough weight to land where it needs to. “She’s trying her best.”
Craig raises his hands in mock surrender, stepping back just enough to signal he’s dropping it, though the amusement still lingers in his expression – that Andrew wants to punch away.
You inhale, your fingers hovering again before pressing the next number. “I’m…I’m really sorry,” you murmur, free hand gesturing toward everything around you, especially the situation that doesn’t need naming. “It’s just the whole…”
Deran speaks before you can finish, his tone even in the manner his younger brother has acquired with the years to cut through the tension. “No worries. Ignore Craig,” he casts a brief glance toward his brother. “That’s what we all do usually.”
J lets out a chuckle at that, earning him a quick nudge to the ribs from Craig, who curses his whole family under his breath but doesn’t push further.
But Andrew…he doesn’t look at any at them, attention locked on you and your hands. On the way your fingers press each number. He feels it once more: the connection, the fragile space calling each of his instincts to fulfill one singular need – reach, touch, help, protect. He shouldn’t, but his voice slips out anyway, stripped down to something that belongs only to the two of you.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs within the narrow space where no one else exists. “I trust you.”
──────────
In the midst of your chaotic thoughts, you can acutely hear him. “It’s okay. I trust you.”
The words reach you in two distinct ways: one, shaped by his voice near your ear and the second, threading directly beneath the skin of your forearm where the mark rests, a tingling fire that spreads outward like a pulse answering another pulse. Alive and communicating like you had only ever heard in rare stories.
Your fingers keep hovering over the keypad, the numbers a little blurry and each digit feeling heavy to push on despite the countless times you have entered them. You know that it’s not really about the situation (how many times have you been robbed in that grocery store only to be disappointed that the person didn’t turn out to be your soulmate?) and it’s not about the presence of his family behind you either (even if their silence is quite stressful). It’s him and this bond that has turned from theory and hopes into the tangible.
You inhale slowly, stunned as you perceive his voice once more.
Only this time, it doesn’t process through your ears, but the I’m with you, is unmistakable, forming in your mind with clarity, your heartbeat syncing with a rhythm that seems shared rather than the usual solitary one.
Your thumb presses the next number, each movement guided by his unwavering presence at your side, each You’ve got it and You’re doing great keeping your hands from slipping into panic and swallowing you whole. So, you focus on that as you push on the final digit - the way the connection tingles and sings, finally discovering the other end of the transmission.
There is a momentary, noiseless pause before you identify the familiar click of the vault unlocking.
Your shoulders drop as the movement behind you resumes, relief mixing with the tension that hasn’t yet fully released, a loud exhale leaving you, incapable of containing it in.
The tall one – Point Break…what was his name again…ah, yes, Craig – steps forward. “Good job, princess.”
His hand lands against your back in a rough pat that jolts you forward a step, breaking the fragile bubble you had been standing in, the connection pulling taut in a surge of rage (that most definitely isn’t yours but Andrew’s) as the others move past you minus him, breaking into the vault.
You stand there for a good thirty seconds, up until your mind catches up and switches from looking to observing the way they are moving and more notably, their selection: bills taken in a pattern that avoids drawing instant attention, skipping sequences and leaving enough behind to maintain the illusion until the next full count – fuck, they were good at that.
The thought lingers only briefly, overridden by a louder sentiment that begins in your forearm, spreading in threads that travel through you like a map being drawn in real time, each line connecting to another until your entire body feels nothing else but him into the smallest places of your body, from the pace of your heartbeat to each capillary and follicle. It’s both overwhelming and steadying – to know his restraint and suppressed intentions.
You slowly breathe in.
One.
Your index finger shifts, drifting to where his hand rests beside yours, the space between you narrowing by increments so slight they would go unnoticed by anyone else.
Two.
He responds, finger moving in tandem and mirroring the motion with a reverent care, like this contact matters more than anything else happening around you, like the entire world has been reduced to this singular, fragile approach.
Three.
Finger hooking around yours, the first touch is barely there. Just a brush along the side of your finger that sends an electrostatic discharge, traveling up your hand and arm.
Four.
Your thumb moves in tentative glide over his pointer, tracing the line of contact and committing the warmth of his skin to memory until the starving pit in your stomach gets replenished.
Five.
A consuming wish for more comes uninvited. For his hand to turn, to open and to slip fully into yours, holding instead of hovering. Your fingers twitch, betraying the impulse while the bond of your marks vibrates in response.
Si-
“Hey, Pope,” the voice of Craig cuts through cleanly, one eyebrow lifting as his gaze flicks between the two of you, thoroughly amused and making Andrew break the contact abruptly, “gonna help us tomorrow or what?”
A sharp sound follows, the hand of the blond man connecting with the back of Craig’s head. “Shut up,” he mutters under his breath, controlled but with a warning laced through that certainly doesn’t need to be emphasized.
Craig huffs, rubbing the back of his head with a half-laugh before his attention swings back to the task at hand and the timing that keeps ticking against all of them.
Three minutes. That’s all it takes.
Just three minutes for them to empty what they came for without excess or error or greed, three minutes without drawing attention to anything that would betray the absence of the money before it’s too late to matter – a pure work of art that should deserve applauds.
They step out one by one: Craig first, duffel slung over his shoulder and expression light as if this had been nothing more than another job checked off, glancing toward you with a wink, then next comes the two other men, a lot quieter, eyes still tracking for a variable that could shift.
“You’re gonna have a cut of this,” the blond man speaks, direct and procedural. “For your help here. It will be at your place in two weeks.”
You blink.
“Oh…thanks,” you start, the response automatic, polite even in a situation that has stripped your emotions down in their rawest form, but the rest of the sentence doesn’t come as easily, your gaze falling on Andrew, searching for what to respond, only to be met by a shrug – a movement that gives nothing and everything all at once: a choice. No, your choice. “I’m good though,” you finish, “No need for that.”
Craig lets out a short, amused breath.
“Fuck yeah! Thank you, pretty girl.”
You tilt your head, a hint of dryness slipping into your expression despite the stress and the absurdity of the moment. “Oh, you’re very welcome…guy who just robbed my place of work.”
It earns you a grin before they depart toward the exit, bags slung into place and steps aligning with the blind spots of the cameras, each minute precisely timed. But you don’t care about that. No, because Andrew is still here for a reason that doesn’t require explanation. One seconds. Two. Then he turns to trail after them and step back into the version of his life that exists beyond this bank and beyond you.
“Wait!”
Your body reacts before your mind does, hand gripping tightly to his arm mid-step to make him stop and turn back toward you.
There is something in his expression – held together tight in a way that suggests too many things happening at once beneath his surface, and you can’t tell if it’s that every second here worsens the risk further, or if the cause is you and the fact that you spoke, asking him to stay. Or…perhaps it’s both.
Your heart picks up yet again. “There’s a camera,” you speak hurriedly, stepping closer as your voice drops. “Right outside. It’s not on any registered map.”
The information transfers between you in a second, a detail that could make the difference between jail and liberty. He recognizes the gravity of what you’ve just said, nodding before stepping toward you and closing the gap in one swift movement, his hand finding your waist as his mouth meets yours.
It crashes into you like a storm breaking, lips parting on instinct as he deepens it, the contact intense and consuming. There’s no grace to it, nor careful exploration. It’s too rapid for that, too charged, the kind of kiss outside of time and reason, where everything confines to the undeniable pull that has been building between you from the moment your words collided.
It lasts seconds. Minutes. Hours. You can’t tell.
He pulls back, his forehead resting against yours, breath uneven and the space between you electric with the unsaid.
“Thank you.”
The words are rough, low, carrying the force of his gratitude to what you provided him before he disappears, his absence jarring.
The door opens, closes, footsteps fading and the world suddenly snaps back into what it had been previously, like he had never happened. And for ten seconds – or what seems like ten – you are alone, the silent pressing in.
Your chest rises and falls, lips still tingling and mind struggling to catch up with what just transpired, what it means and more significantly…what comes next.
Turning your head toward the hallway leading back to the main room, you reflect on the life you had this morning, on the people surrounding you. Shani, Sofia…you think of them first. Of what they would say and how they would look at you, and somehow, you know that they would understand. Your grandmother would have understood too.
That love, when it attains its destination, doesn’t ask for permission or convenience, doesn’t arrange itself neatly into a life already built, no, it simply happens. And you either step toward it or-
The only things you need to go back for are Willow and a few cans of his food, that’s your main thought as you run past the threshold out into the heat where the sunlight hits you hard, bright and abrupt, the air even heavier than before, but you don’t slow until you reach a car being loaded hurriedly with bags.
He doesn’t expect you, murmuring in disbelief. “What are you do-”
You don’t let him finish. Closing the distance in a heartbeat, your hand catches his to pull him toward you as your mouth finds his again, the kiss colliding into him with the same inevitability, breath mixing and bodies aligning in a suspended moment.
You pull back just enough to look at him, your faces still close, close enough that your breaths overlap, that you can witness the change in his eyes as he tries to absorb what you’ve just done and what you’re offering. For a second, neither of you budges, a small smile blooming on his face.
“Hey,” Deran’s voice cuts in, amused but crept with a sense of insistence as he leans out his head from the driver’s side, eyes flicking between the two of you, reading the situation his brother is in, “it’s a five-seat car.” A beat. “You in?”
You don’t look at him. Don’t look at the car.
Your gaze remains on Andrew, certain.
“Yeah…I’m in.”
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answering machine — pope cody
you are the best thing in pope’s life by the three thousand miles separating him from the rest of his family. you have no idea your sweet quiet boyfriend has a past worth running from, and when you find out you’re not sure if you want to run with him. ( 3.1k words )
warnings : mentions of the cody family and their whole crime thing, drugs, murder, etc all that fun stuff, pope has a panic attack, reader only ever refers to him as andrew, vague references to pope’s weird dynamics with smurf and julia, mentions of overdose
note : after everything my boy went through he just needs to live a long happy life with someone who will marry and have kids with him i swear someone let him have a baby <///3 based on this request
The TV is on low when Pope gets home. All the lights are off, it’s the only reason he can see two feet in front of him, the flickering blue light coming from the living room in the back nook of your shared apartment. Pope puts the cup tray and the bag of takeout - heavy brown paper, on the kitchen counter and stops to take his boots off before he ventures any further.
It was a bit of a learning curve when you and Pope first got together. You’ve spent the last three decades of your life doing things the way you do them. You have a routine, a home, a life. Pope’s spent the better part of three years learning where he fits into it. Like a starfish regrowing a limb, he finds his way into your space and figures out exactly how much to take up.
You have rules - not in the same way his mom had rules. You don’t like it when he wears his shoes inside, so you cleared a space on your shoe rack for his boots. You love having little trinkets and tchotchkes so he tries to pick one up as often as he can.
You do meal-preps and spring cleans and you don’t worry about people breaking down the door and hurting you. You call him Andy and kiss him like you love him and talk about marriage and kids with him like it’s a certainty.
“Sweetheart?” That’s always come natural to him. The heat he feels in his chest when he thinks of you, even if he doesn’t know how to articulate or show it all of the time. He’s gotten better at it, but there are still nights he falls asleep beside you and worries he left too much back in Oceanside to give you all of him.
You’re curled up on the couch, half asleep when he finds you. You’re watching some infomercial for a kitchen utensil that only seemed worth it if you were too stupid to use a cheese grater. “Hi, baby,” your smile is squished by a throw pillow he’d given you for your birthday a year ago. “How was your day?” You’d loved it.
You curl further into the corner so he has the room to sit down, your head coming to rest on his thigh. It’s one of his favourite spots to have you in, even if it means he’s not able to kiss you hello. “It was okay,” he stretches his back. “Missed you.” His hand squeezes your side affectionately.
He doesn’t hate his new job, lugging stuff back and forth in a warehouse for people who buy all their stuff from their couch. It’s not as exciting as crime, sure, but it pays pretty good and he doesn’t have to worry about being shot (again) every time he clocks in. It’s good enough that his parole officer, the last time he’d seen her, had clapped him on the shoulder and told him good work.
He’s saving up to buy you a ring, but for now, he’s content just coming home to you every night.
“Got you dinner.” He tucks your hair out of your face.Your boyfriend has never been super talkative, it had taken three months of pretty smiles and batting your eyelashes at him from across the subway platform for you to even get his name. The two of you would take the same train, him to his new therapist’s office and you to your reception job at the law firm next door. The only reason you even got his name is because one time the train had been packed, you’d sat next to him and he’d accidentally walked off with your coat instead of his. He’d come all the way down the next day to return it and you’d been positively gleeful at the fact the hot stranger from the subway platform hadn’t taken your $200 coat that you’d called your boss right then and there complaining of stomach flu and taken him out to lunch. You know every look on his face. “It’s in the kitchen.”
You sit up, more suddenly than he expected you to, and kiss his jawline. “Love you. You’re perfect.”
“I love you,” he smiles as you get off him and pad towards the kitchen. “Oh someone called me today, looking for you?”
He hums, hauling himself off the couch to follow behind you. Tied at the waist with a rubber band, can only get so far from you before something snaps. “Yeah? Was it Ricky? He’s still trying to get me to go for drinks after work with the guys.”
You’re elbow deep in the paper bag by the time he reaches you. You’ve dug out two burger boxes and are rifling around for the container of fries he ordered with extra salt for you. “Not Ricky, someone named Smurf?”
Pope’s never been aware of his body in the way he currently is. Aware of his limbs, sure that’s normal. He can feel his blood flowing through his entire body, feel the pumping of his heart, the expansion of his lungs. The blood is hot. “Smurf called you?”
“Uh huh,” you finally pull the fries out and pop open the paper lid, taking a couple and snacking thoughtfully while you reached for plates. “Didn’t leave a message or anything, just wanted to talk. I don’t know why you don’t go out with Ricky he seems like a nice guy.”
“You’re sure it was Smurf?”
You look up at him at that, can’t ignore the shakiness of his voice. You’ve never really heard him scared before. Not like this, anyway.
“Yeah,” you put the fries down, coming around the counter to stand close to him. “Kinda an older lady, called me sweetheart a lot. I asked if she wanted to leave a message but she told me just to tell you she called.”
How had she gotten your number? Pope had done everything in his power to keep you safe when the two of you first started dating. Safe from creeps on the train, safe from guys like Ricky, and - most importantly, so important it keeps him up at night - safe from his mom. From Smurf.
“Andy…” your hands are on his shoulders. “Who’s Smurf?” If the tone were any lighter you’d make a joke about the two of them being involved. An affair seems minor compared to whatever is going through his head. “What does she want?”
Andrew takes a deep, steeling breath, looking over your head so he doesn’t have to see the worry in your eyes. He’d done everything he could to stop this. Moved across the country to the east coast, finished his parole, changed his name (he was Andrew Campbell now and had been since three months before he’d first caught sight of you), done everything he fucking could to keep you safe and free from Smurf. “She’s my mom.”
You know enough about his family; just the parts worth telling you. His dad was a veteran who was quick to anger, his mom was a sociopathic addict who was quicker to. He had a twin sister whom he’d loved more than anything but then she’d gotten unwell and died. There were three other brothers you’d heard less about, a niece, a nephew. You know enough to know that if Pope’s mom is calling then something has gone terribly wrong.
“I’ll block the number,” you squeeze the part of his shoulder that connects to his neck. “Not even sure how she got it. I didn’t even confirm if I knew an Andrew or not, just asked her if I could take a message.”
He’s getting a headache. You can see it on his face. They come on sometimes, he’s got a prescription for migraines he hates taking. Pope stumbles back over to the sofa, hand up to shield his eyes from the light. You turn the TV off while the c-list reality star on the screen is mid sentence about a new eye cream that saved her life.
“Baby?”
He can feel your thigh pressing to his and he reaches for you. You’re so soft; bare-faced and in your pyjamas and god, he fucking loves you.
“I haven’t told you everything about my family.” You’ve never seen Andrew like this. You’ve seen him worried, concerned, even mildly started. Not really, truly scared. “I don’t want you to think I was trying to lie to you, because I wasn’t.” You pull him closer until you’re practically sitting on top of each other.
“Andrew,” you’re nose to nose. The question doesn’t need to be asked. Do I need to be worried? You love Andrew more than you’ve ever loved another person. When you think of your future, it’s of a house in Westchester County, sunshine streaming through and landing on a full breakfast table, kids who call Andrew daddy. He hasn’t told you very much about his life before he met you - you know he’s been to jail before - but even with the limited information you do have you know that your ideas for your future don’t even remotely match the childhood your boyfriend had. You never realised it was something that would bleed into the present, though.
“If I thought for even a second that you were in danger I’d go,” his eyes are so warm, almost like an amber. The first time he’d kissed you he’d taken your face so gently in his hands before pressing his lips to yours, looking at you like you were the single most valuable thing in his life already. “I promise, sweetheart, that there is nothing I wouldn’t do to protect you. But my family… they’re bad people. They’re involved in shit that I’d never want for you. That’s part of the reason I went to prison.”
You’re curled up in his lap, he has one hand on your wrist and one on your back.
“My sister… Julia tried to escape, took J and ran,” he takes a deep breath. Andrew doesn’t talk about Julia very often, but he’s said more about her than the rest of his family members combined. Except maybe Lena. “Didn’t get very far, that’s all I’ll say. My mom fucked us all up but Julia was the worst. Smurf is the reason my sister is dead. I couldn’t save her, I let my mom get away with so much shit because I was scared of her, and Julia died because of it.” His voice cracks and you smooth your hands over his face. He kisses your palms as best he can while they’re still moving, hand still gripping your wrist. “I love you. I love you. I couldn’t save Julia but I can’t let her get you too.” Andrew presses his forehead to yours.
You’ve been very quiet. Quieter even when he tells you about the jobs, the heists, the drugs. Both the recreational ones and the ones his mother crushed up and put in his food.
You know Pope better than anyone else does, and he holds so much space in his heart for every single thing he can know about you. He knows the way you look down at your joined hands, the way you can’t quite look at him anymore.
You never wanted this for yourself, and he sure as hell never wanted this for you. Pope never wanted to lie to you, never wanted to give you any reason to be dishonest with him. He felt better when you thought him just abused and traumatised - though that was embarrassing enough - now you knew him as dangerous.
Pope isn’t deluded (much) (anymore), he knows you’re weighing up the pros and cons of being with him in your head.
Cons, mentally unstable, makes less money than you, is related to at least seven criminals.
Pros… loves you a lot?
God, he’s done for. He’s been aware of how lucky he’s been from the moment you took the seat beside his. He’s never, in the years of loving you, taken your relationship for granted. But Pope also doesn’t feel like he’s gotten as much out of it as he could have.
He’s not sure what’s going to happen now. He’ll move out, let you keep the apartment and pay the rent for as long as he’s on the lease - longer if you need it. He’ll find a shitty apartment like the one he’d been living in when the two of you had met, probably change therapists so he wouldn’t have to see the office you work in.
He’ll go back to being Andrew Campbell, and he’ll spend every single day looking through every crowd for someone who made him feel even half as alive as he felt catching sight of you for the first time.
Your hands are on his jaw. You’re sitting in his lap and you’re holding his jaw. You lift your head from your lap and give him enough room to kiss you. He doesn’t take the opportunity.
“Andy…” you’re talking low like you sometimes do right before you initiate something deeper. He’d associated the tone with lust. It might just be love. “Andrew, you’re okay.” His chest is rising and falling so quickly you can’t imagine how he’s fitting breaths between the movements.
He hasn’t had a panic attack in a long time. You’ve seen them, of course, he’d only been in New York less than a year when you met, not nearly long enough for him to have gotten them under control. But they’ve gotten better, more manageable, thanks in part to his therapist and in part to you.
You go to climb off him, well aware of how overstimulated he can get when you’re on top of him on a good day. He clamps down where he’s holding your arms. “Sweetheart.” His voice is shaking.
This had always been a possibility for Pope. He never approached you on the subway platform when maybe in another life he could have. He spent the first three months of your budding relationship so distant that he thought he’d become a self-fulfilling prophecy and his strangeness would be the reason you broke up with him.
He’d have dreams of nights spent in your apartment and waking up to a cop shining a flashlight in his face. Getting a phone call from a hospital and saying you’ve been dragged into something and hurt.
He’d always known that by being with you, he was putting you in a baseline level of danger you wouldn’t be in if you’d never met him. Pope had always thought he’d be able to protect you, and the longer the two of you were together, the more steps you took in your relationship, the further away he felt from Smurf.
Pope’s met everybody in your life, he’s on good terms with your friends. He’s well aware that you’re getting a little antsy about him proposing to you. Three years isn’t a long time, but it also isn’t a short time. You don’t necessarily want to get married now but the proposal - the promise that he wants you for as long as you want him - is something you’re getting a little eager for then he’s going to buy you the biggest fucking ring you’ve ever seen. He’s been saving up for one, finally letting himself admit that he could have a wife.
Could have you as his wife.
“I love you,” you kiss the slope of the side of his nose, right under his eye.
He kisses you then, soft and loving. “I love you,” he says after a moment. It shouldn’t be enough to ground him, to stop his spiral. He presses his forehead to yours again and this time you can feel his breathing, the slow, steady breaths he fans across your face. “I would do anything to keep you safe.” To keep your family safe. You know how badly Pope wants to be a parent, he’s hoping you still want it as much as he does.
“Well, okay then,” you pull back and smile at him.
Okay?
“I’m going to block her number,” you wriggle to pull your phone out of your back pocket. “And we,” you kiss him again, “are going to eat before it gets cold.”
Pope knows it won’t be that simple. Now that Smurf knows your number, you’re going to have to get it changed. You’ll both probably have to move, maybe change his name again. Maybe change yours.
But the way you hand him his burger, taste both milkshakes before deciding the first one is better, and come to sit down at the kitchen table, he’s able to ignore that for the moment.
This is going to have to be a longer, still scary conversation. He’s going to have to tell you more about his relationship with his mom, more about Julia - he hadn’t lied, she had been sick in the sense that addiction is a disease. How he didn’t learn boundaries until well into his thirties and how sometimes he still oversteps in his mind.
“We’ll handle it,” he says finally, coming to sit beside you at the square table when he’d usually sit opposite. He brings over the rest of the food, revelling in the way your ankle comes to curl around his leg. “I can call my parole officer.” He hasn’t been on parole in years, but he still has her number. She might be able to help without involving the cops.
“I’ll talk to one of the guys at work,” you say, swirling one of your fries in the weird pickle-tasting sauce you get every time you order from this place. “See if he can give us some free legal advice.” Pope takes the lid of the top of his shake so he can drink it without the straw and you don’t hesitate, dipping a new fry in his drink. He can’t bring it in himself to care. Normally he’d at least frown at you. “The boring way.”
Andrew nods at you, finally unwrapping his own food.
You sigh morosely. “You hate boring.”
He shakes his head around a mouthful. “I love boring,” he swallows. “Boring gets me home to you.”
His eye twitches as you reach for his drink again and you catch it this time. “You can keep going,” he says when you lean back, leaving it untouched. “I don’t mind.”
He doesn’t really. He’d never let anybody else do it, but that doesn’t mean anything. You shake your head, unbothered by having to stay within the confines of your own meal.
He pushes it towards you. “I’d literally kill someone to keep you safe I can handle your fries in my milkshake.” He thinks that might be a little too much too fast.
You smile, sweeter than honey. “I love you, too.”
Piece by Piece ....
[commissions]
Designated Drinker
Summary & CW: Fluff, secret relationship, cursing, drinks, bar scene, Jason POV, second person, no use of y/n
Pairing: Jason Todd x fem!reader
Word Count: 1.0k
A/N: Another piece out the Kiln! Thank you to @starrydustedwinter for participating in the event I had so much fun with this request :)
Jason was overwhelmed from the second he walked into Dick’s apartment.
He and Kori were holding the pregame before everyone took the night on the town. Almost all the titans were gathered around the kitchen island taking shots and mixing concoctions that were for sure going to have everyone throwing up by half past twelve.
Jason, like always, was designated driver- without the driving part. He was never the biggest drinker, especially in public. At most he’d indulge in a beer at the manor if there was some family get together. He wouldn’t even sip champagne at gala’s, he didn’t like drinking around people he didn’t know.
Then there was you, the light of his life, his beautiful girlfriend who loved to assign herself designated drinker. You could hold your alcohol pretty well, which meant you abused that biological blessing fairly often.
It took a lot to get you drunk.
He knew from more than one instance.
Even though Jason wasn’t the biggest fan when alcohol was involved, a smile always seemed to creep onto his face when he saw you slip into a tipsy state.
You let loose a little more, your grin got a little wider, and at one point when you were on the precipice of becoming fully drunk- you started throwing your arms around him. That last part was reserved just for him however. No one knew that when the night was over, he would end up at your apartment rubbing soothing circles on your back until you fell asleep with your ear on his chest.
So now, in the middle of the second bar that he'd been dragged to, Jason decides to tough out the rest of the night. The reward of brushing his fingers through your hair would be worth whatever nightmare the sticky floor and crammed bodies was going to become.
He was nursing a coke zero around the high top with Dick, Wally, and Roy. They were talking about some gossip about Tim’s little group of super heroes. He didn’t really care enough about it to be paying attention.
His eyes went past Dick’s face and landed on you. Donna had the bright idea of taking you and Kori to go flirt for free drinks. It took everything in him to swallow the bile in his throat when you started twirling the framing hair around your face, and the victim leaned into your ear.
Letting out a fake giggle, you grabbed your drink from the bar top and linked arms with the remaining two of your trio. The three of you were now on the way back, smiling successfully with three Dirty Shirley’s in hand.
Rejoining the rest of the group at the high top, you took your spot next to Jason. The hand he kept in his back pocket now found it’s home at the small of your back, and you leaned quietly into it.
Although no one could see under the table- and were probably too intoxicated to tell- it was better to be safer than sorry.
Here in the little corner of the bar, Jason felt like he could finally breathe again with you near. He did everything in his power to not be controlling, to not deny you of any experience. So, at the bar he’d make sure to take deep breaths if it meant you got a free drink. It was smart after all, especially in this economy.
If your happiness meant having to power through the way he got light-headed, then so be it. In reality he knew it was harmless. That bum wasn’t going to be the one going home with you anyway, Jason was.
He’s taken from his thoughts when your hip bumps into his. With everyone immersed in their own conversation, you were granted this small gift of a moment for both of you.
His eyes meet yours, and his breath is robbed straight from his lungs. Jason was the most pathetically down bad man in the world. It was amazing to him how even in this horribly lit dive bar, he was convinced you were Aphrodite reincarnated in human form.
“I love you.” You mouth at him- and that’s it. He can’t breathe. His face flushes red, and he’s suddenly grateful for how dim it is in here.
“I love you more.” He mouth’s back with a bashful smile.
You scrunch your nose at him in response, trying to hide the goofy smile threatening to take over your features.
“Did you guys know they had Karaoke here?” Rayner’s voice interrupts your declaration as him and Garth come back from the eternal line of the bathroom.
Jason lets out a sigh that can only come from the depths of his stomach. He knew what was going to happen before Donna could even spring into action.
No one was aware of your relationship with Jason. That meant Donna assigned you as her partner in crime for everything and anything. Which is why Jason was everything but surprised when Donna wrapped her fingers around your forearm, pulling you away from his side.
“Let’s go!” She yelled over the loud environment.
Jason watches helplessly as his older sister figure pulls the love of his life away from him. His gaze never wavers from yours as Donna navigates you through the bar. It stays on you when she pulls you on the small stage, when she places one of the microphones in your hand, and when she cues up the song.
He’s now leaning over the bar top, watching in amusement as you get incredibly animated in your Celine Dion duet. His palm comes to rest over his mouth in a pathetic attempt to cover his laugh.
His face turns as red as his hood when your eyes land on his and practically scream into the mic,
“There were nights of endless pleasure, it was more than any laws allow.”
Getting the reaction you wanted, you spare him a teasing wink making his cheeks flush deeper.
Neither of you were as good at keeping secrets as you thought though, because Dick notices how his little brother’s eyes never leave you. He sees the way Jason is completely encapsulated by your every movement. He never gives it away, but when he watches Jason smile a little brighter and relax a little more with you near, well wasn’t that all he could ever ask for?
•───────•°•♡•°•───────•
A/N: Sorry if this was all over the place, I got really excited while writing it.
taglist All: @gglouise23 @demigod-jack-hearth @batslilwhore @t1mbits @princessak @slut4hotppl @bat1nsignia @starr-jazz @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @mystiquevoid @patientofarkhamasylum @darkxwolfsstuff @starkkat @loserinadress Jason Todd: @celestialnightwing @inesvisible @angelicwing @igotcrabs4u @theonlysakura @clownstheyreeverywhere @starrydustedwinter @valinat @rae-akarui @currentblasphemy @kisses717 @fancy-possum
in retrospect
Pairing: Dr. John Shen x Reader
Rating: Mature
Length: 7.2K
Notes: Can I interest you in parentified eldest daughter falling in love with a man with some fucking whimsy
Warnings: Exes to lovers; Whump. Lots of whump; descriptions of Reader being sick multiple times (not super explicit); mentions of pregnancy (but no actual pregnancy); reader is a workaholic; cursing; flashbacks; complicated family dynamics; reader has named sisters - no physical descriptions; canon-typical medical situations; reader's age is unspecified, but she and her sisters are all adults
Summary: John’s hands hook onto the railing of the gurney, his eyes darting to your face every few seconds as your entourage of medical professionals steers you down the hall.
“So,” He offers, “Fancy seeing you here.”
And you so don’t want to let him make you smile, but you can’t help yourself.
“This is a bit much,” He adds as you’re wheeled onto the elevator, “I mean, I told you you could call and you show up at my job instead? I appreciate the effort, but you're coming off a little desperate.”
When you propel yourself out of bed, you’re blindly guided by two things: your instinctual knowledge of where your en suite bathroom is, and your stomach violently rejecting its contents.
You drop to the floor, knees roughly smacking the cold tile as you fumble with the lid of your toilet. Your body shudders as you heave, fingers gripping the cool porcelain desperately. When the sickness finally lets up, you lean back, blinking the tears from your eyes. You swallow thickly, drawing in a deep breath, then wincing as your stomach threatens to revolt again. You lean back, closing the lid and flushing the toilet as you fight to steady your breathing.
The knocking on your door makes you jump, and you raise a shaking hand to your chest, croaking,
“Yeah?”
“You okay in there?”
You nod, though your youngest sister can’t see you, then manage, “‘M fine.”
“Can I open the door?”
“...Yeah.”
It’s a moment before Lisa’s opening the door and peering inside, her brow furrowed at the sight of you where you’re still sitting on the floor.
“Are you okay?”
“You already asked me that.”
“Yeah, but that was before I saw you looking like…Well, this.”
“Who taught you to be so sweet?”
“You did.”
You offer a wobbly smile, huffing softly as you push yourself up. “Asshole.”
“Uh-huh.” Lisa folds her arms across her chest. “What the hell, by the way?”
“I don’t know,” You grumble, pumping soap into your hands and scrubbing up along your arms where you were leaning against the toilet. “Probably something I ate last night.”
“Could always call your doctor friend and make sure.”
The mention of him has your stomach churning again. “Ha-ha.”
“He should be getting off-shift soon,” Lisa adds as you rinse with mouth wash, “Could invite him over for a check-up.”
You swish, spit, and shoot Lisa a glare couched in a sickly sweet smile.
“Thanks for all of your help, Li.”
Lisa snorts, pushing off of the door frame as she drawls, “Fiiine. I’m gonna get ready for class.”
“You need a ride?”
“No, Joey’s gonna come pick me up—don’t.”
“Hm.”
“Don’t start.”
“I wouldn’t have to start if you weren’t making bad choices.”
“You never like my boyfriends.”
“That’s because all of your boyfriends—” You cut yourself off, raising a hand to staunch a nauseating belch, “Suck.”
When Lisa doesn’t answer right away, you figure that she’s left—but as you straighten back up, you find her watching you in the mirror with a narrowed gaze.
“Are you sure you’re gonna be okay?”
“Yeah,” You nod, turning to face her. “I’m working from home today, anyway. We’ve got rice, we’ve got broth, we’ve got saltines. Honestly, that was probably it, nothing left in the tank. I’m fine.”
Lisa hesitates before she closes the space between the two of you, raising her hand and pressing the back to your forehead. You force a poker face, doing your best not to lean into the coolness of her fingers. Her brow wrinkles, lips screwing to the side, then—
“I have no idea what your forehead is supposed to feel like.”
“Go to class and learn.”
Lisa scoffs, finally turning away and slouching back to her room. You wait until her footsteps have faded completely before reaching out, quietly pushing the bathroom door closed again. You swallow, wincing at the slight ache in your throat.
You don’t feel like you’re going to throw up again, but there’s an pain in your side, one that you hadn’t noticed when you were stumbling your way to bed. You raise your hand, rubbing slightly over a spot on your right and wincing again. Christ, that hurts. Did you bang it when you were getting down to get to the toilet? That must be it.
Of course, it couldn’t hurt to ask a professional. You didn’t block him, he said the door was still open if you ever wanted to talk, so maybe you could just send a quick little question—
No. No.
You have broth, you have rice, you have Google. You can figure this out. Besides, it probably really was just something you ate.
--
“This is John, the guy I’ve been telling you about!”
The words were half-lost on the music being pumped through your best friend’s place, and the chatter of the other people crammed into her shared 450 square foot two-bedroom apartment. You had been tempted to dip out of the party nearly an hour ago, but your friend had sworn that not only was the guy she was setting you up with going to eventually be there (even though he was running late), but he was well worth waiting for.
You turned to face the mystery man, and you were, admittedly, caught off-guard. It was a combination of things: the scrubs he was wearing, the Dunkin cup in hand, and the fact that the guy was really, really cute.
“Hi,” You said, offering your hand and your name in tandem. He took hold of your hand, dipping closer and requesting:
“One more time?”
You hesitated before leaning in and giving him your name again.
“Nice to meet you!” He smiled before glancing around. “It’s a little loud in here. You wanna get some air?”
It was cooler on your friend’s fire escape, and so much quieter. You curled your arms around yourself, toying with your little plastic cup of wine before glancing over at John.
“Can I ask,” You nodded toward the Dunkin.
“Oh—You want a sip?”
“No, no,” You shook your head. “I was wondering why you brought a…Frankly massive Dunkin iced coffee to a housewarming. Seems like an odd choice.”
“I could only stop by for a bit before I have to go to work.”
“Jeez, what time do you start work?”
“Shift starts at seven. Twelve hours.”
“Explains how big the coffee is.”
“Sure does.” He raised it again, giving it a little shake, the ice rattling against the plastic. “You sure you don’t want a sip?”
“Uh—No. Thanks.”
John just shrugged, raising the orange straw to his lips and taking a deep pull.
“You know, I was curious about you,” He offered once he’d swallowed.
“Oh?”
“Mhm. Heard a lot.”
“Good or bad?”
“Good, I think.”
“Like what?”
“Like…You’re the oldest of three sisters, really family oriented. Have your life together, have very high expectations for yourself…And that you’re a stickler for punctuality.” His teasing smile made your belly flutter. “Even more surprised that you’re still here, considering I’m late for our little set-up.”
And you could have told him that your friend had to talk you out of leaving twice, that you had nearly called it when her roommate’s sleazeball of a boyfriend tried to hit on you. All of that was true. But—
“Maybe I was curious about you, too.”
John’s bright smile made staying all the more worth it.
--
According to Google, you have food poisoning, stage 4 stomach cancer, and your period all at once.
And while you could waste your time speculating about something that’ll probably just pass, you choose instead to focus on your job. All you know for certain is that you have two reports due, three RFPs, and a presentation draft due by EoD, as well as a meeting with your manager for your annual review. All of that means only one thing:
You do not have time to spend fucking around, half-asleep in bed, or throwing up the little bit of room-temperature water that you’ve been able to get down.
But that doesn’t stop your body from revolting against you.
You manage to get bits and pieces of your work done in five to ten minute intervals, with your belly betraying any little bit of liquid, nutrients, or hope that you manage to take in. You go through your recipes, your fridge—you just manage to stop yourself from going through your trash to double check the dates on the ingredients that you used to make dinner last night. But it couldn’t really be that, could it? You’d checked all of the dates before you’d cooked, even thrown out a couple of ingredients because they were just a day past their best-by.
It’s your period, it has to be. This doesn’t feel anything like the last time you had food poisoning—at least, what you’re pretty sure was food poisoning.
--
“How ya doin’ over there, champ?”
You glared down at your phone, lips twisted into a pout. “I feel like death.”
“You’re answering me, so definitely not death.”
“I said I feel like death, not that I’m dying—ugh,” You groaned as your lower belly gurgled, shifting where you’d been sitting on your toilet for nearly ten minutes, “God.”
“What are your symptoms?”
“I really don’t want to disclose that to you.”
“Oh, c’mon,” John chuckled, “I’m a professional.”
“No!”
“Why not?”
“It’s embarrassing.”
“It can’t be anywhere near what I see in the ED on the nightly.”
“What’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever seen?”
“Honestly? Couple’a days ago, we had a guy came in with a Darth Vader figurine stuck up where it shouldn’t have been.”
Your jaw dropped with a stunned laugh. “Are you serious?”
“Oh yeah. He thought he’d be able to keep it from slipping in completely because the cape was triangular, but it went a little too far. He came in when he gave up reaching for the feet.”
“...Okay, this is one step below that.”
“Just one?”
The slight smile in John’s tone had a grudging one pulling at your lips. “Maybe a couple.”
“Uh-huh. Tell you what, I get off shift in twenty. I’ll swing by with a goodie bag.”
“I can’t handle goodies right now, John.”
“Not even if those goodies include animal crackers, broth, electrolytes, and pepto bismol?”
“I’m not going to be much of a conversationalist.”
“It’ll be a drive by. You buzz me up, I hand you the bag, I steal a couple of kisses, you go back inside.”
“You have a suspicious amount of this interaction planned out.”
“Well, this girl I’m dating has told me that she likes a man with a plan.”
Your smile stretched into a full-blown, lovesick grin, and you raised your hand to scrub across your eyes.
“Fine. Just…give me a five minute warning before you get here?”
“Sure. Hey, you might even find a surprise Darth Vader figurine among your goodies—”
“John!”
--
By noon, you’ve managed to polish off your notes on the RFP, but the presentation and reports have barely been touched. You message your manager reluctantly, warning that you’re a little under the weather, but still in a good place to finish everything on your plate by EoD.
And you do have every intention of finishing things off. You decide to take a half-hour nap, just give your body a little bit of a rest before getting back on the horse.
It’s a good plan in theory—but your head hasn’t been down for two minutes before you’re clambering out of bed, hardly making it to the sink before the singular sip of gatorade you’d taken twenty minutes ago is making a bid for freedom.
You groan, resting your forehead against the sink—and then whine when you hear your cell phone ringing. You straighten slowly, bracing your hand back against the wall and stepping back into your room, taking up the phone from your bedside table. Oh—god. Do you have the patience for this call right now?
You lower yourself to your bed, swiping the call acceptance and sticking it on speaker.
“What’s up, Lilah?”
“Holy fuck, Lisa wasn’t kidding. You sound like shit.”
You muster a weak smile, drawing your legs into the bed and pulling your blankets around your lap.
“Mom and dad did a hell of a job curating your manners.”
“Mm, but you’re the one who really honed them, generalissimo.”
You roll your eyes, resting your pounding head back against the wall of decorative pillows that you’ve piled up, and have been using to keep yourself upright for the last few hours. Growing up as the middle child, Lilah had always been the one raging against your de facto parental machine, where Lisa tended to push back a touch, but ultimately fell in line.
You pull in a steadying breath, catching on the sounds of school kids in the background on the other end of the phone. Must be recess.
“Whaddaya want, bean?”
“I can’t just wanna talk to my big sister?”
“Willingly? It would be a first.”
“Are you pregnant?”
The thought nearly triggers another heave.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” You snap. “Did Lisa tell you that?”
“No, but—”
“I’m on birth control, I have always used protection—”
“Those things aren’t always 100%, accidents happen—”
“And it’s been a while.”
“...If you’re sure.”
“John and I broke up months ago,” You remind her, “And even before that, we hadn’t been…” You wince. “Intimate.”
“Blegh, okay, we get it.”
“I’m just saying—”
“God forbid the two of you pushed the beds together.”
“Lilah, for godssake—”
“I still don’t understand why you broke up with that man.”
The comment stops you in your tracks, eyes unfocused on your dimming laptop screen. You’ve done your best not to think about John—your ‘how’s and ‘why’s and ‘what might’ve been’s. The closest you’ve gotten in the last few weeks is the brief flirtation with his contact in your phone that morning.
“...Okay,” Lilah finally concedes, seeming to take your silence in the spirit with which it’s meant. “Not pregnant.”
“It’s probably actually my period, anyway. You know I get queasy when I’m PMSing—and my cramps suck right now. I’ll be spotting by, like, 3pm at the latest.”
“And if you’re not, your uterus will hear about it.”
“Exactly.”
A moment of slightly tense silence, punctuated only by the odd giggle and screech of children from her end.
“Alright,” Lilah sighs, “The principal is giving me the stink eye, I should probably pay attention to the kids.”
“Lilah—!”
“Kidding! Jesus. Feel better.”
“Thanks.”
Lilah’s grunt is her only sign off before the call cuts. You reach out, drawing your laptop close and squirting at the screen for a moment before squeezing your eyes shut at the throbbing of your headache. Christ.
It isn’t as if you haven’t explained your break up to Lilah, because you have—at least twice. But you’ll tolerate her needling, her willful ignorance, it doesn’t matter. It’s not her relationship, it’s yours—was yours.
--
“I don’t think I’m gonna get Christmas off.”
“Aw, really?” You frowned, setting your planner down on the kitchen table and watching John reach for one of the two remaining Munchkins in the carton he brought over. “I thought you asked.”
“I mean, I did, but it was a little slammed when it came up—more of an informal request.” He raised his fingers to suck the powder off of them, adding through a full mouth: “I put in for it, but it’s up in the air.”
“Hmm. Well if you can’t, that’s alright. It’s just gonna be me and the girls.”
“What about your parents?”
You waved John off, shaking your head. “They’re going to be on a cruise.”
“Oof,” John sighed, slouching back in his seat, “You think you felt bad when you had food poisoning—”
“Okay.”
“Those floating buffet-laden crap shows.”
“Okay!”
“Nice scenery, though.”
You rolled your eyes, propping your chin up on your hand as you considered him.
“What’s your mom gonna do if you can’t get Christmas off?”
John’s lips pressed into a thin line, and your eyes caught on the bob of his Adam’s apple, the fidget of his fingers toying with the strings on his hoodie.
“...John?”
Another moment before he shrugged. “What she does when I usually can’t get the holidays off, I guess.”
You opened your mouth to ask, but he was sitting up before you could, shuffling his chair closer. “So what’d you get me?”
Your confusion melted to fondness, mind flashing to the smart watch you’d spent weeks researching and comparison shopping for, and you scoffed, “As if I’d tell you.”
“C’mon, gimme a hint. Is it black? Red? Lacey?”
--
Your manager only gets two minutes into your performance review before she ultimately cuts it short.
“You know what, why don’t we reschedule?”
You try to tell her that you’re fine to go through with it, but she waves you off: “I’ll throw some time on for tomorrow. Take a break.”
You manage a weak smile, an, “Okay,” and a, “Ping me if you need anything,” before you close out of the meeting. You lower the laptop lid with a sense of defeat, tears crowding your dry, tired eyes. When the urge to puke pops up again, you can’t make it all the way to the bathroom, instead lowering yourself to the floor and hunching over the trash bin by your bed.
It’s nothing but bile that devolves into dry heaves, and by the time you’re through, your pounding head is spinning. You brace your hand on the floor, trying to ground yourself, but it doesn’t hold, and there’s nothing more you can do as your world tilts.
--
The hand on your cheek, then your forehead, is so cold, and a distant, “Holy shit,” sounds so familiar. It’s chased by, “How long has she been like this,” and a frantic, “She wasn’t this bad this morning!”
You groan as you’re turned onto your back, wincing at the onslaught of bright light. It takes a moment, but the face that swims into view is comforting.
“Li-Li,” You smile, raising a hand to cup Lisa’s cheek. “How was school?”
“How long have you been on the floor?”
“Did that boy drive you?”
You hear a scoff, a grumble of, “On death’s fucking doorstep and still the captain of the morality police.”
“Lilah, shut up—”
“Bean,” You struggle to crane your neck as you look for Lilah. “Lilah, what are you—” You try to sit up, flounder, flop back and whack your head roughly on the nightstand, “What’re—”
“Christ, Lilah, call a fucking ambulance!” Lisa snaps.
“Where’s—” You raise your hand, patting along as much of your sheets as you can reach, “Where’s my work laptop?”
“Okay,” Lisa soothes, easing you to lie down fully, “Just relax, okay? We’re gonna get you help.”
Even in your confusion and fog, you can hear her panic, and you tut softly. “I’m okay, Li. Tell bean.”
“Lilah—”
“I’m on with the fucking operator—No, I won’t watch my language, we need a fucking ambulance here, like ten minutes ago!” --
You do your best to answer the EMTs, but they’re only a few questions in before they’re loading you onto a stretcher, telling your sisters that you’re being taken to Pittsburgh General.
Lisa’s climbing into the back of the ambulance with you, and you only manage to request that someone grab your work laptop before the doors are being slammed shut and Lilah is out of sight.
The ride is hellish, bumpy and painful, and far longer than it should be when you wind up rerouted to PTMC.
--
“Can we talk about Thanksgiving?”
“Sure. Are we rankin’ sides?”
You shot a sidelong glance in John’s direction, eyes narrowed slightly.
“Trying to make plans, actually.”
“Ah,” He nodded. “Yeah, we can try.”
“My parents are probably going to be in town for it this year,” You shifted in your seat, trying to settle your nerves. This was normal, this was something that couples dealt with all the time. So why were you bracing yourself? “And…I mean, we’ve been together for a while, almost a year now, so I wondered if you wanted to…Meet them, finally.”
“You really think they’ll hold still long enough for me to make their acquaintance?”
And it was a fair question, but stacking that on top of your mounting nerves was nearly enough to send you over the edge.
“It’s a yes or no question, J. I mean, I know some of it will hinge on whether you can get work off or not, but—”
“If they’re the deep fried turkey type and I’m on shift, maybe you can bring them in. They can see me in action.”
You closed your eyes, taking a steadying breath in and shaking your head. “Forget it.”
“I’m kidding—”
“Not everything is a joke, John.”
--
There’s so much input at once. The ambulance was its own array of sound, but now you have doctors, nurses, EMTs chatting over you, underscored by the chatter and yelling of fellow patients—and somewhere, not far off, your sister’s panicked voice as you’re wheeled into a room.
“I'm gonna be okay, Lisa,” You mumble, but your promise is cut off by a surge of pain. You can’t help but cry out, trying to squirm away from the pressure that’s been applied to your right side.
“We’ve got rebound tenderness.”
“What’s that mean?” You hiss.
“That means,” A new voice in the room, but not a new voice to you, “That we’re looking at—”
You lift your tearing eyes to that all-too familiar face as he finally registers that it’s you in the bed, as it stops him in his tracks.
“Shen?” Someone urges, but he’s breathing out, “Shit,” eyes flitting to where Lisa is huddled nearby.
“You know each other?” That same voice presses, and John manages,
“I was—She’s my—”
“Okay,” Someone else steps up to the bed, leaning over you, “Ma’am, I’m Dr. Abbot—”
And you’re trying to listen, you are, but you’re also tracking where John is rounding over to Lisa, leaning in to ask questions, to talk, to reassure, you can’t tell—
“Do you understand?” Abbot tacks on, but no, you don’t. You didn’t catch a word, he said, so you shake your head. “Your appendix is on the verge of bursting, we need to get you up to surgery.”
“Surgery?” Lisa pipes up, “Like, now?”
“As soon as possible.”
“Where’s Lilah?” You whimper.
“Oh—Shit, she’s going to the wrong hospital!” Lisa’s out the door without a second glance, drawing her phone out of her pocket.
“Listen,” Abbot leans closer to hold your attention, “If we don’t get your appendix out, it could cause some serious problems. It’s still intact, but we need to remove it before it can rupture and cause you any more problems.”
“OR’s prepped,” Is mentioned somewhere behind you, and suddenly the bed is moving again.
“I’ll go up with her.” John’s at your side in a second, and he and Abbot are sharing a look that you don’t understand over your gurney before Abbot drops away completely. John’s hands hook onto the railing of the gurney, his eyes darting to your face every few seconds as your entourage of medical professionals steers you down the hall.
“So,” He offers, “Fancy seeing you here.”
And you so don’t want to let him make you smile, but you can’t help yourself.
“This is a bit much,” He adds as you’re wheeled onto the elevator, “I mean, I told you you could call and you show up at my job instead? I appreciate the effort, but you're coming off a little desperate.”
“John.”
“Appendix, too, you overachiever. Couldn’t you have broken your wrist, gotten a concussion, something easier?”
Your mental fog is melting to clarity, mingling with your panicked nerves, and the little laugh that leaves you makes the ache in your side twinge.
“I mean, come on,” He’s leaning against the railing now, seemingly unaware or uncaring of the looks that the nurses are giving him, “All of this, just to get my attention?”
“You’re so full of yourself.”
“And you know what you’re gonna be full of if we don’t get that appendix out? Pus.”
“Ugh,” You wrinkle your nose, closing your eyes, “Stop.”
“Better pus than Darth Vader, though.”
You laugh again, and the pain swells, worse.
“Please stop making me laugh, it hurts,” You whimper, and he mutters, “Alright, alright,” as the elevator chimes. You pull in as deep a breath as you can, the full weight of panic weighing down your chest. You swallow roughly, mumble, “John?”
“Yeah?”
“Make sure they give me the good stuff.” When you open your eyes, take in the sweep of lights haloing him as you’re guided down another hall, you find him smiling softly.
“For you? The best,” He promises. “I’ll tell them to check on your funny bone while they’re in there.”
Your laugh turns to a muted sob, the sound half-stuck in your thickening throat as tears spill over. But he’s reaching out before one can slip to the gurney below, swiping it away.
“I’m scared,” You whisper.
“I know. But it’s gonna be okay.”
--
“I like him.”
It was the last thing you expected to come out of Lilah’s mouth. You’d already known that she was miffed at you for taking so long to introduce you to John, doubly so when she found out that Lisa had met him nearly two weeks before she had (that had been an accident, though—Lisa had come home early from what was meant to be a romantic trip with her latest boyfriend, but had crashed and burned into a fight when she found out she was the other woman).
You didn’t answer, just watched Lilah from your end of the couch as she picked her nails. When she glanced toward you, she scoffed, “What?”
“I’m waiting.”
“For?”
“The punchline.”
Lilah rolled her eyes. “No punchline. I like him.”
Your brows rose at the insistence. “That’s a first.”
“Well,” She sighed, pushing herself up, “All of your other boyfriends sucked. I’m gonna raid your fridge now.”
You watched her go, processing for a moment before you followed. “What do you mean, all of my other boyfriends sucked?”
Lilah shrugged, eyes set on the inside of your fridge, scanning the shelves lazily.
“Just what I said.”
“They were all nice guys.”
“No, they were all assholes.”
You scoffed, “They were not all assholes.”
“Fine. They were mostly dickheads, with one or two of them crossing firmly into asshole territory.”
“They were all accomplished.”
“Yeah,” Lilah laughed derisively, “Especially that dude that got nailed for insider trading. How’s his prison sentence going by the way?”
You folded your arms tightly across your chest. “He was only fined and you know it.”
“Right, right.”
“Would you close the fridge door if you’re not gonna take anything? You’re letting all the cold out.”
Lilah raised her hands in surrender, allowing the door to slowly swing shut before she turned to your cabinet.
“As I was saying,” You added, “They were not all dickheads. I prefer to surround myself with ambitious people, and they can be…Difficult.”
“If by ambitious you mean rich, then yeah, you’re usually all over ‘em.”
“That is not what I mean—”
“Hedge fund managers, healthtech douchebros, morons who insist that they’re practically liquid when their entire net worth is in crypto.”
“That was one guy!”
“You know why I like John?” Lilah leaned back to face you, bag of chips in hand. “Cause it’s like you’re not dating with mom and dad in mind for once.”
It was like a slap. It rendered you completely speechless, sending heat creeping across your face, down your neck. And you couldn’t tell if Lilah knew the effect the comment had, but she pushed on:
“John’s ambitious, sure, he’s a doctor, but he’s also, like, genuinely a nice dude, you know. And you’re not trying to be perfect for him the way that you usually do for your dates, or for mom and dad. You’re not preening or constantly fixing your hair or checking your posture with him. You’re just, like…You. It’s good. Kinda freaky, but good.” She popped a couple of chips in her mouth, chewing slowly as you both mulled that over.
“Anyway,” She shrugged, pushing off of the counter, “Only a matter of time before you fuck it up, so. Enjoy it while it lasts.”
You rolled your eyes, following her back into the living room. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, bean.”
“Anytime, generalissimo.”
--
Coming to is slow, and uncomfortable. You’re propped up in bed, the room is bright, even with your eyes closed, and the beeping monitor beside you is starting to get annoying—but can you really begrudge something that reminds you that you’re alive?
You open your eyes, wincing into the light and allowing your vision to adjust. You can see a duffel bag on the chairs across from you, spot coats laying over the back of those same chairs. And when you let yourself glance around, you find someone at your bedside.
John is seated, folded over your bed with his head pillowed on his arms. His eyes are closed, and he’s breathing steadily. You can’t tell if it’s light outside with the shades closed, so you reach your IV-laden hand out, tapping on the face of the smart watch you got him a couple of Christmases ago. The screen flashes, but not in time for you to get a good look. You’re about to tap again, but—
“Are you snooping through my messages?”
Groggy, soft, warm—there’s that sleep-roughened voice you’ve missed so much. You smile a little.
“No. Trying to see what time it is.”
“Mm,” John pushes himself to sit up and proffers his wrist, scrubbing his free hand across his eyes as you get a better look. Nearly half past eight.
“Maybe a silly question, but is it AM or PM?”
“AM,” He chuckles, lowering his wrist.
“Shouldn’t you be home?” You ask. But before he can answer, the door to your hospital room opens, and Lisa and Lilah are trailing in with cups of coffee in hand.
“You’re up!” Lisa screeches, hurrying forward so quickly that some coffee sloshes over the side of the little paper cup. Lilah’s joining her a moment later, crowding in against you with leans, hugs, and carefully placed hands. You begin to reach for them with both arms, but wince when your IV pulls slightly. Lisa steps back, allowing Lilah to lean into you more closely.
“Did you grab my phone?” You ask, “And did you call…You know?”
“We didn’t,” Lisa winces, “We weren’t sure—”
“No, no. You did the right thing,” You soothe before glancing at Lilah. Her smile is watery, thin, and she seems to be opening her mouth to start to say something, but you have to ask:
“Did you bring my work laptop?”
That watery thin smile is gone in a second, mouth flat. Her eyes seem to glaze over, hands drawing back and curling into fists at her sides.
“I—No.”
“Lilah,” You groan, “That was, like, the one thing I asked you to bring—”
You barely get it out before she’s stomping out of your hospital room, Lisa hot on her heels, swearing, “I’ll get her.”
You close your eyes, sinking back in your bed. “Shit.”
“You shouldn’t be working right now, anyway,” John warns. You peek one eye open, frowning as he rounds the bed, pouring water from a pitcher on the bedside table. “Here.”
You take the cup carefully, though John keeps a loose grasp on it as you take a sip. He sets it aside once you’re finished, offering, “You want some more?”
“Nn-nn,” You shake your head. You perk up as the door opens again, but Lilah’s sweeping in and grabbing her coat without looking at you.
“Bean, I’m sorry—Hey!” You call out as she turns away again, “I’m not mad at you!” But your protests seem to fall on deaf ears as she rounds back into the hall. You close your eyes, tipping your head back against the pillows. “Great.”
“You want me to go get her?”
“No. Lisa’s gonna try to do that, anyway. And when she’s pissed at me, Lilah needs time to just…Decompress. Trust me,” You huff a laugh, “I’ve pissed her off a lot.” You tip your head to the side, wiggling your fingers toward his hand. And you expect him to just take it and hold on, but John is climbing into bed with you, carefully nestling against you. You sigh softly, turning your head and nuzzling against his neck. Neither of you speak for a few moments, the room falling into quiet, save for the beep of the monitor beside your bed.
“...Shouldn’t you be home?” You finally ask again.
“Mm…You want me to go?”
“No.”
“Then I’m right where I should be.”
And it’s so gentle, and firm, and certain. Your eyes well with tears again, and you try to squeeze tight against them, to hold them back, but they’re slipping before you can stop them. John doesn’t tut, tell you that it’s alright, that you’re okay. He just cuddles closer, intertwining your fingers.
“When I’m, um,” You sniffle, “When I’m less of a mess, can you explain what happened? Like, properly?”
“Using all of my big brain and science-y knowledge? Sure I can. Dr. Garcia will probably come to speak with you, too.”
“Did they do the surgery?”
“No, Dr. Walsh did. Case got handed over to the day shift, though.”
“Oh.”
“...So next time you want my attention, I’m thinking a kidney stone could be the way to go.” He keeps on over your quiet giggles—“Getting rid of those is way more fun than an appendix. Hey, when’s the last time you were on a roller coaster?”
--
It’s nearly ten by the time John is leaving your room with a kiss on the forehead and a promise to check in with you over the next couple of days. Lisa is back, but the two of you are speaking little. She won’t tell you where Lilah is, or what she said when she stormed out. You fall asleep around noon.
When you wake up around two, your work laptop is sitting on top of your duffel bag, and Lilah is nowhere to be seen.
--
You can’t remember the last time Lisa played nurse maid to you like this. You try to think of it, but you’re coming up with…Well, never. On the odd occasion you’ve gotten sick, you’ve always managed it yourself—but this isn’t just getting sick.
You can get around on your own, but it’s not the most comfortable. Lisa emails her professors, lets them know what happened, gets a pass to skip a couple of her classes so that she can stay at home and look after you for a couple of days. She helps you clean and change your wound dressing so that you don’t have to twist, or look at the little laparoscopic scars any more than you have to. She even offers to help you inject the prescribed blood thinner, but you insist on doing that yourself. It’s a way of taking back just a little bit of control after you’ve spent so much of the last 72 hours feeling helpless.
Besides, you’re usually the one doing the minding, so being minded makes you feel unbalanced.
Your manager gives you the week off to heal, tells you not to worry about the presentations and reports, commends you for the work that you were able to get done, and insists that if she sees your status active on your laptop, she’s going to have IT lock you out.
You try texting Lilah a few times, and she doesn’t answer, save to react or send lone emojis. You don’t try to call, or FaceTime. You’re not sure where you’d start if you did.
So when Lisa tells you the next day that Lilah’s at the apartment, and that she’s sitting on your unit’s balcony, it’s sort of a relief.
--
You know those things are bad for you.
It sits on your tongue, but you hold it there. The fact that Lilah is there at all is a boon, so you do your best to pointedly ignore the smoke curling from the end of her cigarette.
“I thought you were gonna die, you know?”
It cracks the air open, splits you down the middle, but Lilah doesn’t stop there:
“I’d never seen you like that. My superhero of a sister, on the floor, just…Laid out. When Lisa was getting into the ambulance with you and I stayed to grab some stuff like you asked, I was just like, on autopilot. Clothes, medication, phone, keys. The important shit, you know? And then I got to the wrong hospital and Lisa called, and I was like ‘well, shit. I’m not gonna get to say goodbye.’ And then you were in surgery, and then you were out, and then you woke up,” Her voice lilts with a hysterical little laugh, “And your first question was where your fucking work laptop was, and that was when I remembered that you asked for it. And I was like ‘well fuck. I fucked up again.’” Lilah quiets as she takes another drag from the cigarette, but for all the comments buzzing against your lips, you wait.
“You know what I think?” She exhales, “What this was? God or the universe, or fucking whatever—it’s telling you to slow down.” She turns her head to look at you finally, bloodshot gaze pinning you in place. “Because your first question coming out of major surgery should be what happened, how long was I out, what are the next steps, not where your fucking work laptop is—”
“I know.”
“Like that’s psychotic. And the worst part is you can’t even blame the meds, like, you’re just like that.”
“I know.” You pull in a deep breath, just managing not to wrinkle your nose at the scent of smoke. “I’m sorry, bean. I shouldn’t have said that—and you’re right, I can’t even blame the anesthesia.” You shift your seat a little closer, nudging her knee with yours. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“...Well, you didn’t. Your bitch-ass appendix did.”
You snort, looping your arm around Lilah’s shoulders and drawing her in.
“I love you, bean.”
Lilah sniffles as she huddles closer, tucking her head beneath your chin.
“I love you, too, generalissimo.”
--
“Saw Lilah on the way in.”
“Yeah?” You sit against the mountain of pillows still against your headboard, watch John unpack a few things from his bag onto your bed—gloves, gauze, tape, small scissors, alcohol wipes.
“Everything okay?”
“...Fine,” You concede, “She just has a shitty sister.”
You can feel John glancing toward you as you carefully wriggle out of your loose shirt, leaving you in a sports bra.
“Okay, let’s see what we have here.”
You hold carefully still as John peels back your wound dressing, leaning in to get a better look at the scars.
“How’s the pain been?”
“Fine, I guess. The gas pain in my shoulders sucks, though.”
“Yeah, that’s from the CO2 they use to inflate the abdominal cavity.”
“Hate the use of ‘cavity’ there.”
John’s lips quirk with a smile. “Wounds look good, no irritation or excessive redness.”
“Lisa’s been a very good nurse.”
“Mm.” John opens an alcohol wipe, carefully cleaning your wounds. “Has it been itchy at all?”
“Not really.”
“Good…A heating pad should help with those gas pains, by the way.”
“Okay.”
The two of you go quiet as he rebandages your wounds, then straightens. “No fever, chills?”
“Nn-nn.”
“Appetite’s back?”
“Mostly.”
“Good.” John sits on the edge of the bed, removing his gloves and dropping the old dressing and alcohol wipe into the (now cleaned) bin by your bed. “When we were in the hospital, Lisa said you were sick all day. Why’d you wait so long to come in?”
“Just…” You shrug. “I thought it was my period.”
“Your cramps are that bad?”
“They can be.”
“Yeesh,” He mutters, tucking a few supplies into his bag. “When are you due back for your check-up, remind me?”
“Friday.”
“Okay.”
The two of you fall into quiet, and when you reach out for John’s hand, he slips it warmly into yours.
“...What’d your parents say?”
You focus on the press of his palm, trace the length of a vein on the back of his hand.
“I haven’t told them yet.” Your eyes flicker to his incredulous frown, and you shake your head. “It’s kinda too late now. I mean—I’ll tell them eventually. At this point they’ll just be upset that they weren’t invited.”
“Invited?” He scoffs. “It wasn’t a birthday party.”
“You know what I mean. I should’ve told them when I was on my way to the hospital, but I didn’t, and neither did the girls, so…Now this gets to be that funny story I tell them on New Year’s Eve in two year’s time, when they’re good and buzzed and less likely to get mad at me for not telling them right when it happened.”
“Sounds like you already have it all planned out.”
“I like a plan, remember?”
John smiles, thumb sweeping across the soft of your wrist. “I remember.” It’s a moment before he hedges: “Remind me, is that why we broke up? Not enough plans?”
You sigh softly, eyes dropping to your hands. “That was some of it. Other times, I just…I felt like you were making jokes of everything, all the time, or not taking things seriously. But honestly, after the whole,” You wave toward your abdomen, “You know, how chaotic it was, how scary…I kinda get it now. Why you’re so level.”
“...Doesn’t mean I should be doing it all the time. I’m sorry if I made you feel like we couldn’t just have a serious conversation.”
You smile. “I’m sorry I was so rigid. I should’ve been more understanding.”
“Hindsight’s 20/20, huh?”
“Famously.”
John gives your hand a little squeeze. “I should let you rest.”
“Okay…Can I selfishly say that I don’t want you to leave yet?”
“Yes,” He chuckles. “Tell you what. I’ll stick around for a bit, keep close. Make sure you don’t roll over in your sleep.”
“Oh yeah? You do that for all your patients, Dr. Shen?”
“Oh, all of them.”
“You really know how to make a girl feel spesh.” John chuckles, nudging off the house shoes he’d worn inside and climbing into bed beside you, resting his hand on your hip. You tipped your head against him, relaxing into the warmth of his body as you had just a few days ago.
“Would it be selfish of me to say that I missed you a lot?” You mumbled.
“There’s that word again.”
“Hmm?”
“Selfish.” You feel John tip his head toward you. “Wanting things isn’t selfish. Neither is feeling things.”
You gnaw on your lower lip, letting your gaze drop back to his chest. He smoothes his hand over your hair, drawing you carefully closer.
“Tell you what,” He murmurs, “We’re gonna talk about this later—for now, you need your rest.”
“When are we gonna talk about it?”
“This weekend.”
“Oh?”
“Mhm. You’re gonna get clearance from Walsh to resume normal food and activity on Friday, we’re gonna get coffee and go for a nice, easy walk on Saturday—”
“I see—”
“And we’re gonna clear up all this selfish talk.”
“And then what?”
“Oh, just you wait.”
“Do I get a hint?”
John tips his head down toward you, lips brushing your forehead.
“You thought that first go-around was something? I’m gonna date the crap out of you.”
You smile. “I’d rather our dating not have anything to do with crap.”
“Or cavities?”
“Exactly—”
“Or Darth Vader—”
“Okay, now you’re pushing it.”
Tag list:
@missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @blueeyesatnight ; @amneris21 ;
@ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage ; @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity ;
@millllenniawrites ; @chattychell ; @dihra-vesa ; @videogamesandpoorlifechoices ; @missswriter ;
@thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ; @realwhoreforfictionalmen
; @mad-girl-without-a-box ; @winchestershiresauce ; @lorecraft ; @kmc1989
✶ — OFF-DAY !
summary: in the middle of the worst e.r. shift of your whole career, you catch your not-quite boyfriend, shirtless, in an empty room with another resident. (6.4k)
characters: jack abbot / fem!reader, mentor!michael robinavitch, samira mohan, melangdon crumbs
contents: established relationship/friends with benefits, jealousy (mohabbot take five real quick), angst, hurt/comfort, kinda canon divergent 'cause i wrote this when the spoilers dropped a few weeks ago cw for s2 spoilers, physical assault (a la dana in s1), panic attacks, mentions of blood and medical procedures, mentions of patient death, brief mentions of grief, brief mentions of not eating due to stress n sadness, allusions to smut 18+ (MDNI)
title inspo:
The lamplit room is filled with Jack’s exclusion from it.
You writhe beneath the mussed blankets, still buzzing from the remnants of your orgasm, and watch his shadow move beneath the crack of the bathroom door. You’re still filled by him, still leaking a mixture of him onto the stained sheets below, and yet you find yourself missing him, anyway.
He does not seem as grieved by the distance as you are. He sobered almost instantly from his own orgasm and promptly slid off your body, without another word or a kiss of reassurance shared between you. He’d slipped his prosthetic back on and made a beeline for the adjoining bathroom — where he has been for some minutes now, just pacing, and leaving you to stew in the worry of what you had obviously done so wrong.
“Do you wanna order food?” you call into the quiet, reaching for your phone on the nightstand beside you. You miss once, then twice, with hands still tingling from a soul-ascending pleasure. The screen fills the dim room with a blue-white light that makes you squint until your tired eyes adjust.
“What?!” Jack shouts back, muffled from behind the door. The hissing faucet shuts off to a slow drip.
“I said, do you—” You cut off your yelling when the bathroom door squeaks open. Jack appears in the doorway, now dressed in the t-shirt and jeans he’d arrived in. He’s shadowed momentarily by the light behind him until he switches it off again — then he’s painted a dim golden color as he walks back into the bedroom for his shoe.
You hold the thin sheet to your bare chest and shift further up the headboard, bending your knees to accommodate his body when he sits on the edge of the mattress to tie his laces. Your eyes soften, waiting for him to look back at you.
He never does.
More quietly, you tell him, “I asked if you wanted to order food. ‘Cause I don’t really feel like cooking right now and, depending on what you want, we should probably wait to order ‘cause Love Island doesn’t come on for another hour, and—”
Jack’s scruffy chin brushes the thin fabric of his shirt as he turns his head slowly to look at you. There’s a distance in his eyes that cuts you off, like you’re a quick fuck that doesn’t know when to stop talking, like he’s waiting for you to stop so he can get away.
“I think I’m gonna head out now, actually,” he tells you, then returns to knot his laces.
“Oh…” you hum, half-breathless, and pretend his foreign dismissiveness doesn’t tear your chest in two. “Are you… Are you okay—?”
“Yeah,” he shrugs and rises from the mattress. “I’m fine. I just— Need to get home.”
You follow him with wet eyes as he rounds the bed for the opposite side, where his phone and wallet sit on the nightstand and his branded rucksack rests on the floor. “Well, do you want me to wait to watch it with you? ‘Cause then I have to text Princes and tell her not to spoil it for me in the morning—”
“Go ahead,” Jack shrugs, with a faint smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, as he slides the camo strap over his broad shoulder. “I think I’ll survive a week without it.”
Your frown deepens at his joke.
“Did I do something?” you wonder in a meek voice that makes his chest ache.
“No,” he scoffs. “Of course not. Why would you ask that?”
“I don’t know…” you murmur shyly, shifting on the mattress and grimacing slightly when the sticky sheets cling to your thighs. “You never leave right after we have sex, so I— I didn’t know if, maybe… It wasn’t good for your something, or if I said something—”
“No, it was great—” Jack interjects, but cuts himself off quickly thereafter, like he was about to say something he shouldn’t.
The word ‘honey’ was about to roll off his tongue the way it always does when he’s talking to you, but it feels wrong to say it now, for a reason he still can’t name that threatens to strangle him all the same.
“I just gotta go now. Okay?”
At a loss for what else to do, or what else to say that might make him stay, you just nod with a sad smile. “Sure…”
Jack leaves with a polite nod — like the sex was some sort of mindless transaction he’s thanking you for and not something you’ve done quite regularly for the past several months. He doesn’t speak another word to you when he walks out, and doesn’t look back at you once when he shuts the door behind him.
You stew in his absence and forget to eat.
Your tired body functions the following day on nothing but heartache and half a granola bar.
You drown in the bustling emergency department, and in the void of the white screen ahead of you, where you try and fail to do your charting. You can’t quite garner the strength to use your hands, much less use your brain to put letters on the screen that’ll just look like alphabet soup to you anyway. You’re stuck idling in the emptiness inside of you, where your heart withers along with your stomach.
Robby watches from afar, studying you as he flits between patients and residents requiring his attention. He has, self-admittedly, quite the soft spot for you — because you’re the smartest person on this floor and the most sensitive, too, which makes for a great doctor but very often the saddest person you’ll ever meet. He waits for you to correct yourself before he has to step in, and potentially make your day worse than it’s obviously already going.
You don’t move for six minutes straight.
He timed it.
“What is going on over here?” Robby wonders slowly, leaning over the top of the desk and peering down at you with a pair of stern brown eyes.
You blink rapidly to clear the haze of rumination from your vision and shrink into your cushioned seat like a scolded child. “Charting…” you answer with an unconvincing waver in your voice.
“Looks like it,” Robby scoffs with a hint of a smile that gets lost in his greying beard. He taps the desk with his palm and stands to full height again, nodding his head and urging you to follow him. “C’mon. Walk with me.”
He saunters off in the opposite direction of the work station, taking a tablet that Dana hands to him as he goes. It takes a long moment for his words to compute, and you scramble to your feet when he throws you an expectant look over his shoulder. You fall into step with the older man as he drags his glasses from the shirt pocket of his black scrubs.
Robby sets the black frames on the bridge of his nose and wonders aloud with his gaze turned to the screen in his hand, “What’s going on with you today, kid?”
“It’s nothing,” you shrug dismissively, sticking close to the man’s side as you weave within the crowded hall.
He flashes you an unenthusiastic glare in return. His eyes dart between your furrowed brows, to your anxiety-bitten lips (where your teeth dig into the delicate skin even now), to where you wrench the hem of your long-sleeved undershirt into trembling fists. Whatever it is, it’s very clearly not nothing.
“I’m not asking to be polite, kid,” the older man tells you, firm but not entirely unkind. “I can tell something’s wrong, and it’s affecting your work, so— Just tell me.”
You swallow hard and struggle to find the courage to speak, or to meet the man’s gaze as your eyes dart everywhere but back at him.
“It’s about your friend…” you confess in a sheepish murmur that gets lost in the droning of the bustling E.R.
It takes Robby a moment or more to catch your meaning.
“Jack?” he presses, because he knew the two of you were seeing each other, but not that it was quite so serious to warrant the off-day you’re having now. He makes a mental note to ream Abbot out for it the next time he sees him — ‘cause he can’t have any of his residents upset, least of all you.
You nod with an averted gaze. “He’s just… been off—”
“He’s always off,” Robby scoffs.
“Well, not with me,” you tell him, foreignly firm in your quiet argument. “And now he’s not talking to me, and I have no idea what I did…”
“Well, knowing Jack, you probably didn’t do a damn thing,” Robby concedes with a heavy sigh and flashes you a sympathetic look as you turn the corner. “Just give him some time, alright? He’ll come around. He always does. For now, you’ve got a patient in 8 that’s asking for you—”
Before you can make a guess on who it is — though you think you already know the answer — a strong hand wrenches suddenly around your wrist.
The man’s fingers are warm, calloused, and unwavering against your delicate skin. Your heart lurches into your throat at the sudden panic as your chin snaps towards the man towering over you. He’s tall, bearded, rugged, and so angry he’s red in the face.
“I have been waiting out there…” the man starts, taut voice wavering with a withheld fire. “…For four hours. When the hell am I gonna see somebody?”
“How did you get back here?” is the first thing you think to squeak out, because you vaguely recall McKay sending him back to Chairs after taking his vitals some time ago.
Robby steps in then, cutting between you and the stranger to urge him backward and away from you. You rub at your tender wrist when the man’s brutal touch is gone.
“We’re seeing the sickest patients first, sir. So count yourself lucky you aren’t back here,” Robby explains in an even voice, sounding much calmer than he really feels. “But touch anybody in here like that again, and you won’t be seen at all. Got it?”
The man caves with a heavy breath and with his weathered palms splayed in surrender. “I was just asking a question, man…”
“I’ll handle it, boss,” Ahmad cuts in, rushing towards the three of you after catching sight of the altercation from down the hall. He steps between the two of you and the angry patient and ushers him back toward the waiting room.
“Don’t touch me,” you hear the man spit, but complying anyway.
“Trust me, man,” Ahmad quips. “I don’t want to.”
It takes you a long moment thereafter to catch your breath.
It was certainly not the first time you’ve been grabbed by an unhappy patient, and it would certainly not be the last, but you can never quite get used to the fear. The panic is slow to ebb from your veins, even as the man is escorted back to Chairs. You find him sneering silently at you when you catch his eyes, moments before the door shuts behind him.
Robby steps into your tunnel vision, ducking down to meet your gaze with dark eyes glimmering with worry. “You alright, kid? Did he get you?”
“I’m fine,” you answer on muscle memory and muster a smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes. “I’ve seen my fair share of assholes, Robby. Today, even.”
“Well, yeah,” the man scoffs playfully. “You’re with Abbot— I’m sure you’re an expert at dealing with assholes by now…”
By all accounts, you were not supposed to have favorites at the PTMC. And you didn’t really; everyone who stepped foot into the E.R. got the same level of medical care from you — even the assholes. But Louie Cloverfield was different, special. He was the first patient you ever saw as an R1, and when he kept coming in, and you kept picking up his cases, he became your patient.
If Louie was in, and you were on shift, you were the one tending to him. Always.
So, you stay by his side when he loses his pulse, even when the rest of the E.R. reduces to the inevitable chaos of the afternoon rush — even when you know the rest of your co-workers could probably use your help out there now — even when you know there’s nothing more you can do for Louie to keep him alive.
Sweat beads on your forehead as you kneel at his bedside, pounding firmly at the man’s chest in a feeble attempt to keep his heart beating. You’ve lost feeling in your arms now — they’ve gone from aching, to burning, to utterly numb — but your attempt at resuscitation never stops, not even as dark crimson blood spits from his breathing tube; the clearest sign of blood in his lungs.
Robby watches from the back of the room, keeping a close eye on you and the bodies donned in camo outside the window — as the TEMS unit treats a trauma patient across the way, with Jack Abbot among them. He catches the man glancing around the crowded E.R. for a moment, peering over passing heads for a glimpse of you, before the work inevitably drags him away.
Robby knows you have not yet noticed Jack’s presence.
You’ve got the sort of tunnel vision you always get in a crisis, when you refuse to move on until you’ve helped the person in front of you first — which has undoubtedly made you the very backbone of the PTMC patient satisfaction score, though at a detriment to yourself perhaps. Because you never know when to stop; and then, when you inevitably have to, you’ll always find a way to blame yourself for it.
“Three minutes since the epi,” you hear Perlah say, over the sound of your pounding heartbeat in your ears.
“Hold compressions,” Robby commands.
You stop on instinct, and feel the ache done into your bones. You exhale heavy breaths as you wipe sweat from your brow with the back of your gloved hand, careful to avoid the drops of blood spotted there. You feel like your chest is tearing in two when that same, menacing beeping sound fills the air.
“Aystotle,” Robby sighs. “Resume compressions.”
“Give me another amp of epi— and more suction,” you say through panted breaths, situating your palms back over the older man’s sternum. You look past the rogue flyaways falling over your eyes and the nurses crowded around you, peering at Robby with a determined but no less pleading gaze. “What do we do? Should we— Should we give PCC?”
Robby shakes his head with his arms crossed over his chest. “No, it’s too late for that…” he hums sympathetically. “And he’s not an ECMO candidate, so—”
“Well, can you tell me something that we can do?” you snap, harsher than you mean to.
Robby only softens further, dark eyes going tender around the edges as he tells you, “There’s nothing else we can do for him, kid…”
“Robby,” you whimper, flinching like he’s hurt you, but never once stopping your compressions. “C’mon. Please, we can— We can think of something— We still have two more rounds of epi, maybe it’ll—”
“He’s gone, kid…” Robby tells you, voice taut. “It’s okay.”
You exhale a punched-out breath, like not being able to save Louie hits you like a fist to the stomach. Your aching arms tingle with numbness when you part from the unconscious man. That wretched beeping fills the air once more, ringing through your ears and pounding skull.
“12:07,” you hear Robby announce the time of death, as Perlah’s soft hands grasp gently at your shoulders.
“C’mon. I’ll clean up,” the woman tells you, sniffling. “You take a second.”
“I’m fine,” you shrug, half-strangled, as you slip the bloodied gloves from your half-numb hands. You blink back burning tears as you walk them to the trash.
“You’re not,” Robby murmurs, head bowed to meet your averted gaze. “And that’s okay. Just take a second.”
You remind yourself to breathe — in for seven beats and out for eight — as the muffled exam room breaks away into the chaotic E.R. The rest of it becomes a blur in your tunnel vision, and the calls for concern turn to inaudible slurs in your ears.
“Whoa… you okay?” you only vaguely hear Trinity ask as you storm past the work station.
“Fine,” you squeak on instinct, despite the obvious.
“Oh, yeah, he totally croaked in there,” Ogilvie murmurs, as though to gossip with her, but forgetting to be subtle about it.
“Do you ever think before you speak?” Santos quips. “Or is the stupidity genetic?”
Your heavy eyes search for an empty room to duck into, to at least muffle your screams before you cry in front of everyone. There is no patient in the bed in Central 15, so you burst into that one, still struggling to catch your breath.
Your much-needed inhale gets caught in your chest at the sight you find in the corner of the room — Jack Abbot, stripped off his shirt and wiping blood from his stomach, with Samira standing just behind him, tending carefully to the scrape on his back.
Your sneaker scuffs the tile as you still suddenly in place.
The sound of your sudden presence makes them freeze, too. Their heads dart in your direction, gaping with wide eyes and parted mouths as if you’d just caught them doing something terrible. In a way, it feels like you have.
It feels like you’ve stumbled upon some achingly tender moment between them, of which you had been deprived for some time now — because even when Jack was with you, he was a thousand miles away. You wonder if, maybe, a part of him wanted to be here — with Samira, perhaps — and if that’s why he had left you so abruptly last night, as if it had only occurred to him then that you were no longer what he wanted.
You wouldn’t have blamed him for it, if that were the case. You just wish he would’ve told you before now, so it would feel like less of a white-hot knife lodged into the center of your sternum to find him this way.
“Sorry,” you just barely manage to choke out, though it gets lost in a whimper as you fight back the urge to cry.
Jack’s scruffy chest pinches with worry at the crack in your fragile voice and the visibly frazzled sight of you, all wild-haired and glassy-eyed. It hurts him far worse than the wounds burning red-hot on his pale skin now.
“What happened?” he asks, greying brows lowered in concern.
Samira stills with her soft fingers on Jack’s broad, freckled shoulder, touching him with a tenderness he hasn’t let you give him in some time.
“Are you okay?” she wonders, soft with a worry that is always sincere coming from here, but finds you more like a slap in the face just now.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” you answer on muscle memory, then sniffle as you shake your head at yourself. “I’m not, actually— I don’t know why I said that— Louie just died. Pulmonary hemorrhage. And I was just looking for an empty room to cry in, I didn’t mean to… to interrupt…”
“You didn’t,” Jack assures you, parting from Samira to take a step closer to you.
It takes quite a lot of strength from you to turn away from him, instead of leering at his shirtless form or cowering at the gentle look in his light eyes. “I-I’ll see myself out,” you stammer hopelessly. “Sorry…”
You just barely hear Jack calling your name before the heavy glass door shuts behind you.
With nowhere else to go, and not willing to face the embarrassment of walking back the way you came, you make a beeline for the ambulance bay. The automatic doors part for you, and the cool air outside takes your breath away a second later.
Your chest hitches as you inhale a sniveling breath, trying and failing to regulate your breathing. You stand at the edge of the curb with one hand balled into a fist and one hand clutching your aching chest. Your heart’s telling you that you’re having an embolism and you’re about to keel over at this very moment; your brain’s telling you that you’re just having a panic attack and you need to suck it the hell up.
“Hey,” a man calls from further down the sidewalk.
Your head snaps in the direction of the familiar voice. You tense at the sight of the man who had grabbed you earlier, and your aching heart forgets to beat when you see him storming over to you. You find he’s wearing a smile on his bearded face when he’s close enough, but it looks more cynical than kind.
“You’re the nurse who got me kicked out earlier, aren’t you?” he asks.
You don’t have the breath or the bravery to correct him now.
“I’m sorry, sir…” you sniffle, wet-eyed, and turn away. “It’s just… It’s been a long day, okay? I didn’t mean for you to get escorted out. You just scared me, that’s all. I’m—”
You turn to face him again when he’s standing ahead of you. But before the words of an apology can spill from your mouth, his weathered fist collides with your nose.
You hear a sharp crack, a wet whoosh, and then the dull slap of your body hitting the pavement. You grimace when the back of your skull meets the concrete, and struggle to blink away the black spots from your vision.
The very first face you see is Langdon’s, though you’re not quite sure how long it’s been since your eyes have closed — a few seconds, maybe, or several minutes. You’re still lying on the rough pavement when you come to, with Frank’s gentle fingers brushing the hair out of your eyes with one hand and shining his penlight into your eyes with the other.
“There you are…” the man coos. “What happened to you out here?”
You hardly hear him, like he’s speaking to you from underwater. You answer him with a question of your own, lifting your trembling fingers to the dull throbbing sensation in your nose.
“Is… Is it bad?” you wonder aloud, half-slurring. You grimace first at the wet feeling on your cupid’s bow, then at the bright scarlet blood staining your fingertips. You whisper, voice breaking. “Ow…”
“Whoa, careful there…” Mel wavers, rushing from behind Langdon to help you when you try to sit up on your own. She crouches down beside him and takes you by the elbows in a pair of gentle hands. She squints behind her glasses when your inhale rattles in your chest. “Did you fall on your back?”
“Did somebody hit you?” Langdon presses from her other side, bushy brows lowered in worry.
“Wow…” you mumble, blinking hard, and wincing when you taste blood in your mouth. “So many questions…”
Mel and Langdon share a panicked look you don’t see.
“Yeah, c’mon. Let’s go,” the older man sighs, urging you up by the elbows and steadying you when you sway softly in place. “Come with me…”
“I can walk,” you protest through your ragged breaths, and through the blood dripping from your cupid’s bow and into your mouth. You pull your arm out of his grasp when the strength to do so returns to you, and stagger the rest of the way to the entrance until you regain your footing. “Just… Be normal, alright?”
“Right…” Langdon scoffs and fights back the urge to laugh — because you obviously have no idea how you look right now, with the lower half of your face all covered in blood, as if you’ve just been rescued from a bar fight. There’s hardly anything normal about that.
You try to be, anyway, as you stroll through the crowded E.R., hoping to be blanketed by the chaos inside. Everyone’s too busy charting or rushing to patients to notice your being there. You’re five or more steps away from making it to the bathroom when Robby’s eagle-eyed stare locks in on you from behind his computer.
“Jesus fucking Christ…” the older man blurts, sliding off his glasses and rising from his chair. He abandons his work without a second thought and rounds the workstation to rush to your side.
“I’m okay,” you tell him with a dismissive wave of your hand, pressing onward even when you hear his footsteps nearing you. He stops you with a gentle hand on your shoulder and steps in front of you to block your path.
“What the hell happened to you?” he wonders aloud, looking past you to Langdon and Mel as he drags a pair of gloves from his scrub pockets.
“We found her like this,” Frank shrugs.
“I told you to take a break, not get into a bar fight.”
“Ha-ha,” you monotone, then flinch when it hurts to smile. “Ow…”
“Who did this, huh?” Robby asks, cupping your bloodied face in his gloved hands. He runs his fingers over the back of your head first, to make sure you have no wounds there, before pressing his thumbs gently to the apples of your cheeks. “It wasn’t that asshole from before, was it?”
“I didn’t see him,” you lie through your teeth.
“Any trouble seeing? Any double vision?”
You shake your head against his hands, then inhale another rattling breath.
“Did you fall on your back?” he asks you then.
You nod once.
“What about a headache?”
“I always have a headache,” you answer. “I’m fine, Robby. I just need to get cleaned up—”
“Look at you— You’re not fine,” the man snaps. “Now, c’mon. You’re coming with me.”
You have no choice but to follow him when he wraps a firm, gentle hand around your arm, ushering you to walk ahead of him. You ignore the looks and calls of concern from the coworkers around you, except for Mel’s voice, which comes from behind you.
“Should I find Dr. Abbot?” she wonders aloud.
Your head snaps over your shoulder to look at her, and it makes your vision swim.
“Absolutely do not do that,” you answer, a little harsher than you mean to.
“O-kay…” she stammers and trails off.
“In here,” Robby urges, swinging open the door to the nearest empty room. He keeps a steady hand on your back to keep you stable and turns back to Mel before he follows you inside. “Find Abbot,” he tells her.
You lie on your back on the hospital bed while Robby does an impromptu exam. He presses the cold chestpiece of his stethoscope to your skin and listens to your breathing until it evens out again, from where the air had rushed out of your lungs after the fall. He finds your pupils both equal and reactive, and your nose free from swelling or cracking — “Nothing that mother nature can’t fix,” he says, and takes to cleaning you up instead.
“These beds are so hard,” you murmur, shifting uncomfortably with an icepack pressed to your nose, which Princess had brought by some minutes ago. “We should really get new ones in here. How are patients supposed to be comfortable in these?”
“Yeah, I’ll go tell Gloria,” Robby scoffs, dabbing at your nose with a wet wipe. “I’m sure she’ll get right on that…”
He parts from you to chuck the red-tinted napkin into the bin at his side and waits for you to laugh at his stupid joke. You stay silent. You don’t even give him a pity giggle, and you always, at the very least, give him a goddamn pity giggle. His brows furrow in a mixture of confusion and concern.
“Can I ask you a stupid question?”
“Better than anyone I know, Dr. Robby…”
“Ha-ha,” he deadpans, reaching for another wipe with a gloved hand. It’s freezing against the burning skin of your neck as it dabs it gently there. “Why didn’t you want me telling Abbot about this, huh?”
“Because he doesn’t care…” you mumble cynically, almost inaudibly so.
“Oh, c’mon,” Robby scoffs. “Even you don’t believe that.”
You don’t. Not really. You know Jack cares, if only because it’s in his blood to do so. His basic human empathy is what made him such a good doctor. You just aren’t sure that he cares about you in the way you thought he did — in the way you wanted him to — and you’re not quite sure how to voice that to Robby now.
“He’s busy right now,” you answer instead, still half-hidden behind the icepack. “Too busy for me, and I don’t wanna bother him, so… Just drop it.”
Robby flashes you a sympathetic smile that you don’t see as he swipes at the last bit of blood from your skin. “I know he may not act like it, kid, but he does care about you.”
“You’re right,” you mumble. “He doesn’t act like it—”
Jack Abbot bursts into the room like a red-hot flame through a burning house. His broad chest heaves with panted breaths beneath the thin navy shirt he wears in place of his tactical gear, though his camo pants still sit heavy on his waist.
His wild eyes scan your form. “What the hell’s going on in here?” he blurts.
You glare at Robby from behind the icepack. “I hate you.”
“Yeah, I know…” the man sighs, dropping the crumpled wipe into the trash beside him.
“What happened?” Jack presses, more firmly this time.
“Nothing,” you murmur shyly, unable to meet his gaze when he towers at your bedside with his hands on his hips. “It’s not the first time someone’s swung at me—”
“Yeah, but it’s the first time it’s been this bad. Bad enough that someone had to come get me,” Jack argues, made a bit harsher with the concern pinching at his chest. His head whips over his shoulder. “Who the hell did this?”
“Some guy from Chairs, I think,” Robby shrugs. “Name’s Driscoll. Ahmad’s already handling it. He’ll deal with the police.”
“Good,” Jack nods, firm in a way you’ve always adored about him. He was inherently resolute where you were perpetually indecisive. It mostly came in handy when you struggled to figure out what to eat for dinner, not usually in situations like this. “‘Cause we’re pressing charges on this asshole, alright?”
“Honestly, Jack, I don’t care what you do…” you sigh. “But my head is really starting to hurt, and I really don’t feel like handling this right now.”
“On it,” Robby nods, taking the hint and stalking out of the room. He shuts the curtains after him and dims the light as he goes. The noise of the Pitt muffles again when the door closes behind him, leaving you and Jack alone in the not-quite-silence and the not-quite-dark.
“Here. C’mon,” the man urges suddenly, motioning with his chin. “Make room for me.”
“What?” you ask, eyes squinted in confusion as the man turns to sit on the edge of the twin-sized bed, adjusting his prosthetic to swing it over the side.
He gives you an expectant look over his shoulder. “Scooch,” is all he says, in a strangely strong voice despite the very silly command.
You shift on the thin mattress despite your better judgment to make room for him. Jack urges his right leg up first, then his left one second. He settles in beside you and urges the railings up to keep him from falling off the side. You try to do the same, though you possess a lot less strength with only one hand than the man beside you.
Your breath catches when he reaches over you with a strong hand, helping you lift the barrier the rest of the way.
“Thanks…” you mumble, half-shy.
“Don’t mention it,” he huffs politely, with one arm on his stomach and the other curled around your shoulders, keeping you close to accommodate both your bodies on the twin-sized bed. He smells of sweat and musky cologne and antiseptic. It takes everything in you not to melt into his warmth. You remain tense beside him, feeling slightly strange in his hold in a way you never have before.
“I’m sorry about, Louie—”
“You don’t have to do this—” you blurt simultaneously.
His head snaps over to you. He has to jerk his scruffy chin back to look at you properly from the dwindling proximity between you. His eyes dart between your averted gaze and the slowly melting icepack you fidget with like a stress ball.
“Do what?” he asks.
“I didn’t mean to walk in on you and Samira, okay?” you confess quietly, ‘cause any octave higher, and your voice will start to shake. “I wasn’t… I didn’t mean to make it a whole thing, you know? So you don’t have to come in and pretend to be all nice just because you think I’m upset, ‘cause I’m not.”
(Your rambling is hardly convincing in the matter, but he makes no mention of it.)
“Okay. I hear you,” Jack murmurs gently, always so patient with your rambling, even though he can only halfway comprehend it a lot of the time. “But I’m still not sure what Mohan has to do with this—”
Honey, he wants to say, but doesn’t allow himself.
“If you want to be with her, that’s okay— Or if it’s just because you don’t wanna be with me, that’s okay, too,” you explain in a strangely even voice. “But I wish you would’ve just told me, instead of bailing on me last night—”
“I didn’t bail on you—”
“—So then I wouldn’t have to catch you and Samira doing…” you trail off, face screwed. “Whatever the hell you were doing back there.”
“Catching us?” Jack echoes with a laugh you can feel rumbling against your shoulder. “That would imply we were doing something worth getting caught. She just walked in on me while looking for her patient, that’s all.”
“Yeah, well…” you hum, gaze averted to the icepack in your lap. “It seemed pretty intimate…”
“It wasn’t.”
“More intimate than you’ve been with me,” you argue sheepishly.
“Well, not to be crude here, but…” Jack trails off with an audible smile in his voice. “We literally had sex last night.”
“Yeah, and you left,” you spit, turning to look at him for the first time since he stormed in. You wear a wet look in your glassy eyes and a bruise blooming on the bridge of your nose. “And I cried myself to sleep about it. Which means I didn’t get to watch Love Island, which means I forgot to eat, which means I’m running on fumes on what has arguably been the worst shift of my whole life.”
You take a much-needed breath when the words are gone from your mouth.
Jack does not jump immediately to defend himself. He knows he doesn’t deserve it now. He just lets himself stew in your fiery words instead, so you know they’ll have a real impact on him before he responds.
“You’re right,” he sighs after a few long moments. “I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be sorry,” you shake your head at his apologetic tone. “Just don’t… Don’t be so mean, you know? If you don’t wanna be with me anymore, why can’t you just say?”
“Because I do want to be with you,” he answers, weathered features screwed in offense. “How would you ask me that?”
“Because you aren’t acting like it—”
“Because I almost told you that I loved you,” Jack blurts suddenly, in a stern tone of voice that snatches the breath from your lungs. He swallows hard and continues. “Last night, I mean, when we… I almost said it… Because I felt it, but then I… I realized I hadn’t said that to anyone since my wife passed, and it freaked me out.”
“But…” you start in a broken whisper. “Why does that have to be such a bad thing?”
“‘Cause it makes me feel guilty,” Jack answers. “The way I love you makes me feel guilty, like I’m abandoning her. And I… I don’t know what to do with all that… grief.”
You feel your heart aching, for the third or hundredth time that day. You notice Jack’s right hand hanging on your shoulder, how his fingers fidget anxiously there, and how his left hand scratches at the rough fabric of his camo pants — made overwrought by his confession, and unsure what to do with it now.
“Why don’t you just give it to me?” you wonder quietly, then shrug at the confused look Jack gives you a second later. “Your grief, I mean. I can take it. You know, make it a little more bearable for you. So you don’t have to carry it all on your own.”
The softness of your words knocks the breath from Jack’s lungs.
The corner of his mouth quirks in a wavering smile as he blinks burning tears out of his eyes. “Jesus, we're a couple of goddamn sad sacks, aren’t we, honey?” he scoffs a sad laugh and runs his free hand down his scruffy face.
Your lips twitch upward, feeling giddy but fighting it. “That’s the first time you called me that in two days…” you observe distantly.
“What?”
“Honey.”
“Yeah,” he sighs. “I’m sorry for that, too…”
“Don’t be sorry,” you repeat, this time with a smile. “Just— kiss me or somethin’…”
“Gladly,” Jack says with a wider grin.
You tilt your chin up to meet him halfway when he leans down to kiss you. His nose bumps into the side of your bruised one, as your hand reaches for his wounded shoulder. You flinch against each other in tandem.
“Ow,” you whimper.
“Ouch,” Jack winces. “Shit, honey— Sorry.”
“Are you okay?” you ask with a sympathetic scrunch to your features, cupping his scruffy face in your delicate hands. “I haven’t checked in on you yet, I know you’re hurt—”
“I’m fine,” he assures with a shake of his head, leaning instinctively into your touch. “I got a little banged up, but… I’m good now.”
“Promise?” you whisper, swiping an eyelash from his cheek with your thumb.
“I promise. I'll tell you about later,” he nods once and smooths his calloused fingers across your temple, looking at you with a tenderness you’ve been craving all day. “What about you, honey— Are you okay?”
You inhale sharply through your bruised nose and nod on a slower exhale.
“I will be,” you answer honestly for the first time all day.
PRAISE PERFECTION
PAIRING ➩ jack abbot x inexperienced younger reader
WC ➩ 8.9k
SUMMARY ➩ striving for perfection and running off nothing but study books and bitter coffee, you’re struck by your new night shift attending and his gentle praise that gets under your skin
AUTHORS NOTE ➩ torn between letting this be a stand alone fic or writing a part 2 with the smut i know you’ll all be begging for lol so let me know what you like about this part and ill work on that!
NOT PROOFREAD
part two
You weren’t exactly sure where the need for perfection even came from. It might have been something you were innately born with or maybe it was nurtured by the indifference on your parent’s faces whenever you came home with your report cards.
At first you had tried rebellion but that didn’t even get an eye blinked in your direction so you figured you had to switch it up, go as hard as you could for as long as you were able to handle and then maybe you’d be able to satisfy the itch to be something better than whatever you were.
Eventually the need to prove yourself to your parents went away but the lack of tolerance for mistakes didn’t, growing heavier and heavier until your back was aching over your desk and your migraines were almost constant from lack of sleep.
You made it through school with barely a single conversation held that was beyond surface level, your entire being obsessed with studying and what your talents could bring to the table even if nobody knew or cared enough about you to even be sitting at it.
Emergency medicine wasn’t your first choice, it was actually pretty close to the last but you realized quickly that a large amount of med students were just as anal as you about being perfect and your studying habits didn’t seem as outrageous when surrounded by your actual peers. There was no more casualness and the sudden feeling of genuine competition was almost beyond what you were able to push through.
It didn’t take long for your first round picks to be taken by somebody who worked harder, came from a better family, or just had more natural talent. And then your second and third were filled too and before you knew it you were three years deep into your time at the PTMC.
You didn’t dislike it and you figured the long grueling hours were just par for the course in this career, you even felt a sense of relief when you got home and felt the ache in your body and saw the bruises coloring your skin.
To you it felt like a small victory, visible proof that you had worked harder than anybody might have assumed you were capable of if they had bothered to assume anything about you at all.
You weren’t really sure why it hurt you so bad when you were suddenly moved to a different shift last week. You didn’t have any real friends in the department, not even somebody you’d feel comfortable enough to borrow a protein bar from but the routine was something you’d become used to and you’d just started to perfect your way around any avoidable social situations.
The scowl on your face must’ve been more prominent than you realized when you walked in on your first day on the night shift, hand curled tightly around the single backpack strap were wearing.
You saw all of the same faces you had seen each morning for the last three years but now they looked weathered and tired in the way they did when you typically bid them a quick goodnight nod. Finishing their shifts as you began yours, a new normal that didn’t seem to disturb the flow of things at all for anybody minus you.
Robby gave you a nearly sympathetic look when he passed by you in a hurry and you didn’t meet his gaze out of anger, not necessarily at him since you knew the lack of staffing for the night shift wasn’t his fault but you felt a weird sense of betrayal.
“He feels bad you know.” The low voice to your left would have made you jump if you weren’t so exhausted already, failing to properly flip your schedule in the two days you’d had to prepare for such a drastic change.
“Yeah I bet.” You replied back to Ellis, barely giving her a once over as she leaned on the desk next to where you were currently frozen in place.
Your voice was flat and laced with irritation that you almost felt bad about. You knew these people well enough, been through shift change talk throughs hundreds of times and even sat around for a few awkward drinks on the nights out you were forced to go to by the newer student doctors.
There was an uncomfortable feeling when her face fell and she sighed softly, hating the fact you were being so standoffish and ruining any chance of making a friend before you even really started. You tried to loosen your posture a little to look more approachable and even half planned to tell her you were just tired before she was walking off with a pitying smile pointed your way.
You groaned inaudibly as you kept walking and made your way to the locker room, instinctively trying your old one with your code before remembering halfway that they’d moved you. One of the night shift doctors already had yours and had you beat in seniority by nearly a decade.
The deep breath left you shakier than you intended and you rested your forehead against the cold metal for a few more, letting the grates press hard into your skin to try and wake yourself up.
“Heard coffee is effective.”
You knew who the low drawl belonged to without turning around so you didn’t bother, eyes opening and another louder sigh leaving you with intention.
“Really? You should patent that.” You only responded after a few seconds went by without the sound of departing footsteps, turning around at the end of your sentence to raise an eyebrow at the man who was standing leaned against the door with his arm crossed.
Jack Abbot was one of the only faces on the night shift that wasn’t a near stranger. He spent enough time picking up unnecessary hours and lingering around the desk long after his shift ended to talk to Robby so you’d had your fair share of encounters with the older man.
He gave you a barely noticeable smile at your quick comment back, his ankles crossing over each other as he relaxed in the doorway.
“You used to smile more when I first met you.” He said in return and you fully rolled your eyes at this, ignoring the lack of professionalism considering you knew he didn’t care for it much anyways.
You turned again to open your new locker, trying not to fumble with the code under his watchful eye from behind you. Abbot was a direct opposite of Robby who felt like such a natural leader in every decision he made down to the tone of his voice, that cadence that some people were just born with.
Abbot seemed like he was always trying to leave a room as unnoticed as possible and despite being charming and as personable as anyone working the graveyard shift could be, he was more prone to quick nods of approval and silent pats on the back when someone was in desperate need of encouragement.
Sarcastic quips replaced the inspirational speeches Robby would give after a hard day and you didn’t need to work a full shift with him to understand that his methods were something you’d clash with.
You were self admittedly very sensitive, slow to understand a joke especially when you were the butt of it and unable to hide the insecurity in your chest that seemed to be clawing its way out almost constantly.
“No I didn’t.” You replied back and you finished putting your things away, closing your locker softly and walking past him in the doorway.
There was no surprise when he followed behind you, both because he was your new first in charge and also because he was never really one to let a conversation end so briefly when you were in a sour mood.
“He really does feel like shit about this whole thing.” He continued on and you kept your gaze forward as you slid into one of the rolling chairs behind the main desk and scanned your badge. He leaned forward onto the counter in front of you, the hair on his arms just barely visible out of the top of your eyes as he folded them together. “Robby.”
“He doesn’t have to.” You said smoothly with a light shrug like it wasn’t something that had been keeping you up for the last two nights wondering what you had done wrong to get booted at the first chance.
“He said you’re his best.” Abbot continued on and now you finally stopped the fast paced typing you’d barely been paying any attention to, eyes flickering up to him as he watched you with a sense of knowing that made you feel nauseous suddenly.
“He also said not to listen to anything you said about him.” You said flatly once you finally had your light dinner back down your throat, looking at him beneath your lashes to catch his reaction and feeling a bit smug when he snorted a small laugh and nodded as he looked off towards the entrance.
“Fair.” He replied in a softer tone as he pushed himself up off the counter and took a few steps back, pointing in your direction until your eyes rolled again.
You figured you saw Abbot a few dozen times during your shift but it was such a blur of red and stark white that you barely registered him, your medical vocabulary rolling off in autopilot and your hands moving through procedures before your brain could catch up.
It wasn’t until the fourth hour in, nonstop damage control from the shift change off and post dinner rush in the waiting room leaving you feeling dizzy when you stood still, that you actually got a chance to focus on his presence again.
Robby had a sort of nervous energy to him that followed him around the room like a static, catching the attention of his staff and keeping you in your toes.
Abbot was nearly the polar opposite in this way too.
He felt like a solid force in your corner, there enough to remind you that you were supported but letting you do the leg work as much as possible. The night shift certainly had a different level of darkness and chaos to it but the staff themselves seemed to be operating in a way that left you a little awed.
They almost seemed to be finding downtime in the endless stream of injuries and traumas, including Abbot who was currently leaning back on the counter and fidgeting with the corner of a file cover.
You were a similar position as you were before when he was giving you a half assed attempt at helping you understand Robby, but now you were on the other side of the counter.
It had to have been the delirium that left you leaning on the space next to him, enough distance between you for two people to fit but still more comfortable than you probably would have been after a power nap. He sent you a glance from the side of his eye that made a sigh leave you.
“You know…” He started slowly and his voice graveled in a way that made the traitorous hair on your arms stand up. “It’s okay if you take a breath, nobody is going to sue you.”
“Don’t jinx it.” You say back and your gaze lands on him, staying there until he meets it and then looking away with the new feeling of his eyes on the side of your head.
“We are happy to have you here.” He adds suddenly and you feel your eyebrows furrow at the sincerity of it, feeling like it’s misplaced considering you hadn’t exactly been a delight the entire night. “Hey.”
It’s a call for attention and you give it to him, picking up your gaze to lock with his and trying not to sink into yourself at the intensity of it. He gives you a firm nod like you’d passed some invisible test you didn’t understand and yet you still feel a surge of pride blossoming deep in your chest.
“Really?” You had really meant to quip something smart back at him but instead you croaked out the single desperate word and clenched the counter in a tight fist.
“I mean it.” He says back and it’s nearly soft now, halfway to a whisper and your head starts to buzz beneath the sleep deprivation. He doesn’t even slightly shy away from the eye contact, not that you expected him to considering you had definitely noticed it was a habit of his. “Hope you stick around.”
He was gone before you could let out another breath and you let your head sink down against the chilled counter top, pressing your forehead down until it turned red and you felt a dull ache.
Then you were picking yourself up and getting back to work.
—
The first three weeks flew by and you felt yourself adjusting to the changed shift way faster than you had anticipated. You’d picked up one or two day shifts when needed and your rhythm there was now awkward, fumbling around more than you ever had and finding yourself longing for the nights instead.
You felt beyond relieved that your brain and body seemingly decided they were okay with your new assignment and it was a breeze to sleep through the daylight now.
You knew part of it was because the staff and their demeanor, another half dedicated to your own hard work and your determination to make the most out of it. But there was a large portion that was reserved for the man currently standing in front of the room and talking calmly.
Abbot was leaned back against the desk, somewhere he apparently frequented considering it always seemed to be where you found him. He was talking with his hands outstretched and his posture as straight and military as it had been since the day you met him, favoring the side without his prosthetic leg.
To his left was Robby, nodding along with a drained expression that made you think he was barely listening to the brief. You couldn’t necessarily judge him considering you were pretty sure you hadn’t heard a single word that was said in the last five minutes but you figured you could ask Ellis later since the two of you actually managed to become sort of friends after your interaction on your first day.
It wasn’t like you to get distracted so easily and you had spent the better part of the last few weeks beating yourself up over whatever the actual fuck was happening to you whenever your attending looked proudly in your direction.
You’d sought after Robby’s approval yes, beamed under his praise and blossomed when you felt like he was truly trusting you to save lives, but whatever it was that you felt deep in your chest when his other half merely gave you an approving nod was nearly dangerous for your career.
Crushes were not something you had any experience with considering how study focused you were your entire teenage years, you’d felt a flutter here and there but you had never let your eyes linger too long and it was almost criminal to have your thoughts entertained by any fairytale fantasies.
So the fact the entire staff was dispersing without your awareness, leaving you standing in place staring at Jack Abbot like a lovesick puppy, was a serious problem.
You shook your head to try and get yourself together, hurrying away to busy your hands and mind with low risk patient cases. You spent the first half of the night talking to sick old ladies and stitching up simple knife wounds that any student doctor could do with ease.
It was a little after midnight when you were stopped by a firm hand on your shoulder, freezing you in place with a sharp breath as you turned around to see Abbot looking down at you with furrowed eyebrows.
“Could’ve used you in trauma two.” He said lowly and you felt shame immediately rush over you like cold water. “Where were you hiding out at?”
“I…” You trailed off in an automatic lie that got caught in your throat, sighing and letting your shoulders deflate under his palm. He removed it but only to slide down your arm and briefly cup your elbow before letting it hang back at his side. “I’m sorry I wasn’t trying to hide. I just… needed to slow the pace down a little.”
“No you don’t.” He replied immediately and now it was your turn to furrow your brows as you watched him crossed his arms and adjust his posture. “You can handle it and I need you by my side when the hard cases come in because I know you can.”
You looked down at your feet as he half scolded and half praised you, not sure if you were touched by your own apparent importance or embarrassed that he had realized what you were trying to do so easily.
The embarrassment must’ve shown clearer on your face because his gaze softened and he exhaled, rubbing a palm over his stubble and looking towards the busy hub where some student doctors were currently fussing over the ever growing patient chart.
“Pass off your easy patients to the newbies.” He said and his voice dropped down into a whisper, leaning in just enough for your cheeks to momentarily inflate from the way you suddenly held your breath. “Let them learn something, you know plenty.”
“Isn’t this a teaching hospital?” You finally managed to get your voice back and you glanced upwards at him just in time to see the amusement pass over his face. “Technically I could always learn more.”
It was silent for a few seconds long enough for you to regret making a sarcastic joke when he was clearly trying to make you understand a legitimate point about your abilities. You almost started to apologize, already internally beating yourself up for thinking his usual dry humor was appropriate at any time when his low chuckle stopped you short.
“Yeah I guess you’re right.” He nodded slowly as he spoke, lips curling into a small smile and your eyes stayed locked on the movement. His gaze drifted back to you and you hoped the way your eyes widened was minuscule enough he wouldn’t notice. “But let me teach you. Deal?”
You didn’t even notice his hand had extended inbetween your bodies until the tips of his fingers lightly brushed your scrub top, head turning down to identify the feeling and laughing a little at the ridiculousness of it all.
Your hand wrapped around his much larger one, trying not to flush at the roughness of his palm against your soft skin. You squeezed around it and he returned the action before you shook them between you. Yours was retracted and stuffed into your pocket after barely three seconds of touching but it was enough for you to press your nails deep into your skin once it was out of sight.
“Deal.” You gave him a firm nod that you hoped looked more professional than that little moment felt.
The rest of the shift consisted of following behind Abbot from trauma to trauma and trying to act like his steady voice and calm demeanor wasn’t still somehow sending you into a state of nerves despite it having the completely opposite intentions.
—
You didn’t spend as much time in the ambulance bay as some of the others did on a hard night, from the nurses with smoking habits they couldn’t kick to the students who felt like they couldn’t breathe around their eight hour.
But now you were on your fifth minute of standing outside the automatic doors with tense shoulders nearly up to your ears, breathing in and out so audibly you would have felt self conscious if there was anybody else around.
It really wasn’t that grand of an offense considering your shift was ending in less than ten, the sun already peeking around the cement pillars and making your headache sting even sharper than you thought was possible. Plus it had actually been a relatively slow night when it came to the flow of foot traffic but that hadn’t made it any easier.
You’d lost somebody young before it had even hit midnight and the entire ER felt the typical shift that came along with something like that for the rest of your time there.
Then there’d been a drunk man getting rough on his way in that had sent you and two nurses flying against one of the environmental carts, insisting you were fine and rushing to glove up to attempt to assist him with the beer bottle currently sticking into his thigh.
You’d been stopped by a sharp glare from Abbot that you knew wasn’t necessarily directed towards you but it still made your throat tighten with the urge to cry.
He didn’t even need to say a word to dismiss you, head hanging low as you ripped off the glove you’d gotten on halfway and threw it roughly into the trash can on your way out.
After that you spent the next few hours taking patient after patient as the ache in your ribs built steadily. You hadn’t even noticed it at first in the chaos but a trip to the bathroom around five alerted you to the large bruise forming under your chest, wincing as you tugged your undershirt back down and splashed some water on your face.
So you didn’t feel too awful for standing outside and taking a nearly meditative amount of breaths while the shift change happened somewhere in the building behind you.
The doors sliding open didn’t alarm you nearly as much as the slow measured footsteps did, the slight drag of one of them making you stop your breathing entirely. You knew Abbot by his stride on a regular day and even more-so when he had been on his feet beyond comfortability and his leg started to bother him, the slight limp he adopted nearly unnoticeable if you weren’t paying as much attention as you always seemed to be.
Next was the smell of him as he stood shoulder to shoulder with you, the fabric of his shirt barely brushing your hoodie sleeve. He carried the same sterile scent you all did after a long night but there was the unmistakeable musk and light cologne hidden underneath it.
“You know what that was about right?” He said lowly and you pursed your lips at the sound of his voice, not realizing how close you’d been to crying until the silence was broken.
“You don’t need to explain to me.” You replied as smoothly as possible but your voice was tight and lacking any air.
“But I’m going to.” He shook his head and stepped forward so he could turn and be in front of you, giving you no choice but to stare at some part of him as he blocked the sun coming up behind his solid frame. “It wasn’t about your ability as a doctor but your safety as a member of my team.”
You didn’t want to talk because you knew you were tired enough to try and argue with him that you had been fine, that you didn’t need to be wordlessly booted out of the trauma room in front of half a dozen people like you were an intern. You almost wished he had yelled at you for a mistake rather than that disapproving look he gave you when he saw you gloving up.
Your silence must have bothered him into boldness because suddenly his hand was moving between you, sliding under the undone zipper track of your hoodie and pressing lightly around your rib cage. You immediately hissed in pain and shrunk away from his touch, nearly taking a full step backwards from the sensation.
“That’s what it was about. Do you understand that?” He asked quietly and you kept your mouth closed shut tightly as the scratchy sob like feeling continued to build. He pressed on the area a few more times in a wider range like he was trying to examine how far the bruise stretched out under your clothes.
You stayed quiet and let him do the same routine you’d done hundreds of times in your career, heart racing only a few inches above where his fingers were softly pressing.
“How bad was it?” He continued to whisper in that low tone as you avoided looking at him.
“It’s fine.” You said back because you knew the silence was pointless and you were partially paranoid he was concerned enough to look himself if you didn’t answer soon. “I looked at it a few hours ago and it wasn’t anything to worry about, just tender.”
“You of all people know how misleading a bruise can be.” He shook his head and you sighed again at the light show of disappointment even if it was as light hearted and casual as a comment could be from your boss. “I filed a report. For the two nurses too.”
Your back tightened up and you reached down to grab his wrist loosely, just enough to get him to stop touching you so you could focus on the conversation. His arm tensed and his gaze left your midsection to watch your expressions closely at the touch.
“You didn’t have to do that, he was drunk and probably confused. It wasn’t that big of a deal and I really would rather not deal with the paperwork.” You were nearly rambling but you couldn’t handle the thought of this becoming a larger issue than it already was.
You felt a sudden sense of humiliation despite the fact you hadn’t done anything wrong, it was almost a selfish feeling considering there had been other people affected to but you wanted the situation to be left behind with the rest of the shitty shift.
“Then I’ll handle the paperwork.” He said firmly and his voice took on that stern tone you hated so much. “Drunk or not, he hurt you.”
You knew his words and actions were coming from his place as a concerned boss, protecting you and the nurses as a mass collective being his only determination to carry out a consequence for what had happened, but you still felt almost touched by his want to handle this.
It was much easier to finish off the final few minutes of your shift after that conversation with the single delusional thought stuck in your head and the phantom feeling of his fingertips pressing against your clothing sending shivers down your spine.
—
You had the terrible habit of spending any day off you had in your bed scrolling on your phone until your eyes stung, possibly making up for the years in school you spent solely studying before you fell asleep.
It wasn’t something you had felt the need to break your first few years considering you thought friends were a distraction but you’d drastically changed your tune lately when it came to your social interactions. You felt nice when Ellis greeted you comfortably and a buzz of optimism when Shen remembered your coffee order three weeks in, the sudden desire to have friends hitting you.
So this time around, when you were invited to get drinks with some of the team, you actually accepted.
It had become a formality to just invite you regardless of the knowledge you’d decline so they all seemed thrown when you actually arrived.
The bar was smaller than it looked when you investigated it on google reviews before leaving and the music was a little too loud for it to be as casual as Ellis had suggested. She similarly had a day off and was sitting with a few of the day shift students you recognized more than the others.
Santos and Whitaker were in a quiet debate about something you couldn’t pick up, pushing a nearly full glass back and forth between each other like it was moderating their argument.
You’d expected to look at the other half of the circular booth seat to see Ellis by herself and ready to greet you but you froze halfway across the room when you saw who was currently occupying the spot.
Jack Abbot was not included in the list of names Ellis had casually said might be here tonight so you’d fully lowered your defenses that typically needed to be enabled to withstand being in a room with him.
You considered turning around and leaving before they spotted you, well aware that they wouldn’t be too shocked or disappointed to learn you weren’t coming. It was already too late considering Santos was glancing upwards and waving you over as soon as she saw you, mouth moving rapidly like she was trying to call you over.
You sucked in a breath, gathering as much air as you could manage to stuff into your lungs before heading over to them. Your greetings were stiff and awkward but they seemed to be buzzed enough to not notice, other than the older man who was watching you with a careful eye.
Abbot didn’t look much different outside of the hospital, black t-shirt pulled tightly around his biceps and the jeans worn out in a way you knew was from actual use and not design. You could see the shine of a belt buckle if you looked too hard under the table but you decided not to when you landed on his boots.
There was no where else to sit other than beside him but you perched nearly halfway off the booth seats to avoid touching him in any way.
“I never thought I’d see the day you actually spoke to us outside work hours.” Santos was quick to start her comments as soon as you settled down and got mildly comfortable. She was smiling as she spoke and you retuned it tensely even though it gave you a similar feeling to cruel comments you’d heard in high school.
“Don’t take it personally, I’m just boring.” You said back with a bashful laugh, glancing downwards as you picked at the loose wood under the tabletop.
Whitaker, who’d insisted you called him Dennis after you’d greeted him by his last name, was already shaking his head before you could finish your self deprecating statement.
“We think you’re cool.” He said simply and you gave him a disbelieving look. “Seriously, even Santos.”
You sent the same look her way and she shrugged her shoulders with a buzzed grin that made you laugh a little. You felt yourself growing comfortable with the small group which you were extremely thankful for, not sure you’d feel the same ease if anybody else had been there instead.
Although you hadn’t even begun addressing the quiet presence beside you, staying silent even when you all dove into conversation after conversation. You listened and added on occasionally, genuinely interested in their lives outside of work and fascinated by their dynamics, but he barely spoke a word at all.
You’d almost forgotten he was there by the time you slipped out of the booth to go to the bar and order a drink for yourself, barely sliding into the stool before his arm was in your line of vision.
He had it resting on the counter beside you, slightly caging you in unless you wanted to squeeze out the other direction past the large man who already was rocking drunkenly back and forth.
“I thought you worked tonight.” You said softly, feeling a wave of shyness you had never felt before in your entire career.
Being in the ER with Abbot came with clear guidelines on how to interact and a long list of boundaries that didn’t give you many opportunities to embarrass yourself. However, being in a dingy bar with him smelling too much like that rich cologne was a whole different playing field you had no idea how to navigate.
You figured talking first would soften the damage on whatever he was planning to say but you didn’t think it would matter anyways.
“Scheduling error.” He replied back simply, eyes on the side of your face as you desperately and silently willed the bartender to head in your direction so you could get back to the booth. “Disappointed?”
You sent him a confused glance, shifting on the circular seat. “No, of course not. Why would I be?”
“Not everyone wants to hang out with their boss.” He said and tilted his head down enough to try and catch your eye again.
You turned a little in your seat so you could actually give him a clear view of your face, enough so he could hopefully tell your next comment was meant to be a joke.
“Isn’t Robby technically my boss?” Your voice was mockingly curious and you felt a surge of pride when he laughed lowly. “No offense Dr. Abbot.”
His nose scrunched up at the sound of the title falling from your lips, something he’d asked you to avoid on your first day and you hadn’t missed the lack of it coming from the other residents.
“Jack works fine.” He said softly and his fingers tapped against the wood as the bartender passed.
You followed the movement as you listened to him order another drink, mumbling your own preferred one when he casually asked you what you wanted. You barely processed he had added your drink to his tab before it was placed in front of you.
You looked back at him to find him already watching you closely, hand curled around his glass but not taking a sip yet. You felt awkward drinking from yours under his gaze but you also craved the extroverted feeling alcohol gave you so you took a bigger sip than you probably should have, keeping eye contact as you slightly tipped your head back.
The glass touched the wood with a soft clink when you set it down and his hand move his own towards yours, lightly dragging it by the rim closer to him. It wasn’t out of your reach but enough so you’d have to lean your arm into his space to grab it.
You gave him a curious look but didn’t outwardly question it, like it made perfect sense to you that he would control where your drink was.
“You look different with your hair down.” He said suddenly and you watched his eyes track over your head and down past your shoulders.
It took you a second to respond and by the time you were starting to his hand was already lifted and softly touching the ends of your hair, not pulling or even really grasping but just letting it tickle his fingertips. You laughed at the way he stared, making his hand freeze in the air and his eyes go back up to you.
“How much have you had to drink?” You asked him with a smile you definitely had never showcased in the walls of the hospital before, a bit looser knowing he must be drunker than he seemed to be touching you so casually.
His hand on your ribs was a different story, the way it snuck under your hoodie may have felt historic but it was simply his doctor brain taking the lead in his decision making. Even the lingering hand shake had been sourced from a legitimate professional interaction, at worst just a bit too friendly.
This however, was completely unnecessary and out of character.
“I’ve been drinking since before you were born.” He rasped back and you felt a shiver run over your entire body, gaze narrowing a bit when his fingers started to move again just to twirl a strand of your hair. “I’m fine.”
The reminder of your age gap, not that you really needed one considering it was absolutely impossible to ignore, made you feel drunker than any amount of drinks could have even attempted.
You tensed up when the man next to you was attempting to get off of his stool, tipping sloppily in your direction and leaning against your side. You hissed in pain at the pressure and waved him off when he started to slur out an incoherent apology.
Jack went similarly rigid, standing to his full height from where he’d been leaning until the man stumbled away and then shrinking down a little to get a better look at you. Suddenly his hand was back on your ribs, large and encompassing almost the entire injured side of your midsection.
It felt different now than it had outside in the ambulance bay, the professional aura of the hospital surrounding you and layers of scrub and undershirt blocking out the warmth from his skin. Now you were in an intimately sized bar with a thin long sleeve pulled tight on your body, already feeling heated from the quick chug of your drink you’d done without the added effects of his touch.
“Still bothering you?” He said lowly and his eyes were locked on where he was touching, pressing lightly with his fingers tips and not backing off when you squirmed uncontrollably.
“It’s really not that bad it’s just sore when you touch it.” You breathed back, wincing again when he pressed down on the center of your large bruise. “That hurts you know.”
“Does it?” He hummed in response, his eyes meeting yours despite the fact his hand didn’t stop its light pulsing against your side.
You felt your throat tighten up and you knew you wouldn’t be able to speak even if you wanted to, not sure what words you could even say in this moment. This was clearly not appropriate for about a dozen reasons but the hidden school girl in you was ecstatic that a man like Jack Abbot was actually possibly flirting with you in a bar right now.
His fingers stopped pressing down on your bruise but he didn’t move his hand right away, letting the warmth of his palm cover your ribs until you squirmed on the stool.
“I’ve noticed something.” He hummed out and your eyebrows furrowed at him, gaze darting around to escape his intense staring.
“Yeah?” You hated that you sounded a little breathy and you halfway considered ripping his hand away from you just so you could focus for a second or two. “What’s your observation Dr. Abbot?”
His eyes darkened just enough to be noticeable and not for the first time, you wondered if you were making a mistake. You couldn’t tell enough to figure out if he had drank a lot before you came, his gaze seemed as steady as anyone’s could be but the way he shifted closer made you search for any sign of intoxication.
“You perform better when you’re told so.” He said it slowly like it was an indisputable fact and you watched him closely, trying to think of a way to deny what he was saying. “You like it.”
“Who doesn’t like it?” You whisper back, the only tone you could take without letting your shaky voice show.
“Everyone likes it but you need it.” He continued on easily and you inhaled sharply as his fingers started to lightly press on your bruise again. His lips curled up in a slight smile when your face contorted in a pained wince. “That okay sweetheart?”
You should have felt embarrassed for the near gasp that left you in response, head nodding rapidly the only translation to what the noise might have meant.
The pet name was spinning on a loop in your head and you were sure you looked completely ridiculous by now, seconds from falling off the stool if it meant being any closer to him. You could smell his cologne now under the faint scent of the whiskey he’d been sipping on since you got there and it was a nice change from the typical sterile smell you all carried at work.
“I’m not sure this is a good idea.” You found yourself whispering and you regretted it as soon as it left your lips and his hand was retracting back down to his side.
He cleared his throat, stood up straighter and you knew right away that you had messed it up.
Jack Abbot may be a flirt and he clearly had some sort of interest in you, you’d be stupid to try and deny that after how he was just looking at you a few second ago, but he was a good man above that all. You had signaled wanting to stop and he had done so right away without any hesitation.
He was a gentleman and that much was clear but more importantly, he was your boss.
You’d given him shit about it actually being Robby but you knew the specifics wouldn’t matter to HR and all they would see is the indisputable fact that he was your superior, both in rank and in age. You wanted to protest and take the words right back from where they sat awkwardly in the air but you didn’t know how to.
“You’re right.” He said gruffly and he didn’t look at all upset with you, just mildly disappointed and maybe even a little sheepish like he hadn’t realized just how far he’d taken it until you said something. “It’s not.”
—
The effects of that night out were carried with you to your next shift, sitting heavy in your chest and making it nearly impossible to get anything right.
Jack hadn’t said anything out of the ordinary to you but it was the absence of his usual banter and quick check ins that made your stomach turn. He wasn’t being cold, wasn’t even giving you any weird looks that would indicate he was ever in a bar with his hand on your ribs, but something was missing and you knew it was your own fault.
You were slow with your response time, fumbling around when you needed to quickly grab tools or make space for another set of hands in an operation. You were acting like a complete idiot and although you were still preforming above the average quality for any other doctor around, it was below your usual standards and obvious to anybody used to you and how you normally carried yourself.
At first you had been attempting to avoid Jack but you realized that was pointless considering he was removing himself from any room you were in anyways before you got the chance.
You knew him well enough to know he wasn’t upset with you but rather himself, he believed he had made you uncomfortable and you were the reason he thought that.
The trauma one room was heated with loud frustrated voices, overlapping commands and hypothesis about what could be wrong with the little boy currently seizing on the table below you. Your brain completely blanked out, something that almost never happened to you and you barely registered one of the nurses yelling for another attending to help.
You moved over on autopilot out of the way of whoever had arrived, lightly bumping into Shen on the other side and only coming back down to earth when you felt a hand brush against your back.
“C’mon kid.” The low rasp from next to you sent you spiraling right back down to reality and your head snapped up and over to lock eyes with Jack. He had worry all over his face from the way you’d seemingly gone absent for a few long seconds at a crucial moment. “You know what to do.”
It wasn’t a question but a solid and trusted statement.
You hesitated for a breath before nodding firmly at him and turning back to face the room, your brain finally catching up with your mouth as you easily spout out the steps to take to help the boy settle down enough to continue his care safely.
There isn’t another moment to breathe until he’s sent up to the ICU and you’re able to leave the room, barely able to get your gloves off before you’re slumping against one of the hallway walls.
You don’t need to open your tightly shut eyes to know who the approaching footsteps belong to, reluctantly opening them again to meet with Jacks concerned face. He looks hesitant to even be in a slightly private space with you, looking over his shoulder like he needs an exit plan.
“You did good.” He says it softly and your shoulders deflate a little in a large breath followed by a scoff.
“I could have killed him.” You say back in denial, voice painfully tight as you run a shaky hand over your messy hair to try and smooth the flyaways.
“You couldn’t have.” He denies as he takes a step closer and you want to correct him, to tell him all the ways it was possible and remind him of the times it had happened before regardless if it was directly your fault or not. Instead you just fall silent and give him a long pitiful look. “And I wouldn’t have let you. But you did good on your own, you pulled it together.”
Now it’s your turn to take a step closer even though you immediately miss the support of the wall against your back. He peers down at you and your chest tightens.
“I’m sorry.” You say it so softly it’s barely audible under the chaos of the night and the beeping of machines, his eyebrows furrowing just enough to be noticeable but the rest of his face impossible to read. “For the other night.”
“Don’t.” He says immediately once he understands what you’re referring to. “That was my fault. I should be the one apologizing for making you uncomfortable.”
You shake your head and somehow gather enough courage to let your hand raise and land on his bicep, squeezing softly to try and communicate with him through some sort of physical touch morse code. Thankfully he softens a little at the feeling and you can brave yourself through an actual audible sentence.
“I wasn’t uncomfortable Jack.” You reassure as sincerely as you can even though you see the contemplation passing over his features, like he’s not sure if you’re just trying to save face or if you actually mean it. “I was nervous. I just… I haven’t really done that.”
“Flirted with your boss in a shitty bar?” He rasps as he steps closer and you know he’s joking, especially considering the way his lips curl up in a soft smile, but you feel a little sick knowing you’ll have to explain yourself further.
“Jack.” You sigh out, eyes locked on his before glancing away nervously and squeezing his arm a few more times.
You’re not sure if it’s just something about you that leads him to understand what you mean, an inexperienced nature that you’re sure could be relatively obvious to anybody interested in you, or if he had just came to the conclusion on his own but his lips part in realization as he slowly nods.
Your face flushes and you drop your hand from his arm, not losing contact for long considering he’s immediately bringing his own much large palm back up to your ribs, his thumb rubbing back and forth right under where your bras underwire starts.
“That’s alright sweetheart.” He says in a soft whisper and you suddenly feel like you want to cry.
Both from the adrenaline of everything that’s happened in the last few hours, the way he avoided you throughout the day, and especially from how embarrassing it feels to get such an automatic relief just at the sound of the pet name coming from his mouth.
You hope you don’t look as visibly torn up as you feel but you’re sure he can see it on your face, his eyes softening even more if that was possible.
“Yeah?” You find yourself whispering back in desperate need for reassurance and he’s quick to give it, nodding his head and shifting close enough that your chest could brush if he moved his hand and leaned forward. “That doesn’t… freak you out?”
“Are you kidding me?” He laughs a little but it’s lacking any real humor, like he finds you genuinely ridiculous for ever thinking along those lines. “Nobody’s ever touched you right sweetheart?”
It takes a few seconds before you’re nodding your head and biting at your bottom lip from nerves, face undoubtedly bright red from the blunt way he put it.
“I promise that does the opposite of freak me out.” He rasped back and your eyes reluctantly met his again just to make sure he was being honest with you, finding whatever you were searching for in his gaze almost immediately.
His eyes are actually a little darker than you expected and you feel your cheeks flush immediately at the mere idea of him being the first one to touch you like that. Not some drunk hookup with a guy who can barely pay his taxes, not a stiff and awkward first time with a boy your age who isn’t focused on your pleasure at all.
Instead you finally let yourself imagine what it would be like with Jack.
Jack and his rough weathered hands and low rasp, his decades of experience that started before you were even a thought in your mother’s mind. His never ending attentiveness and easy dominance that he carried through the ED without ever needing to raise his voice or assert himself, the thought out and specific praise he gifted you whenever he could sense you needed it.
You knew the direction your mind had gone was probably written all over your face, his amusement leaving his own as soon as he registered what it was you were so quiet about.
“Sweetheart.” It was low, the lowest you’d heard from him and your slightly watery eyes immediately darted back up this face despite you not even realizing they’d been drifting down his broad chest. “You have a few more hours to go.”
He kissed his teeth like he was disapproving and you felt a little sick at how eager you were to fix that.
Who knew Jack Abbot could so easily slip into the role of a complete menace the second he realized you were interested in him that way?
You nodded your head and visibly gulped, straightening out your scrubs and doing your best to avoid contact with him in any way as you turned to leave the hallway.
—
There was almost a sense of fear as the end of your shift approached although you still had your doubts Jack would ever cross that professional line with you.
You knew he wanted to, he wasn’t being very subtle anymore with the very hungry gaze he kept fixated on you whenever you were in a room together for the rest of the night, but wanting and doing were two very different things.
A large part of you hoped you’d just be able to leave the hospital and head home to obsess over him in your own bed like any good doctor with a raging crush should do, stuff it down and keep living your life solely for the medicine and the job. You didn’t have time for this, you didn’t have the ability to make the time for it either.
But Jack Abbot was somebody who walked around like they had all the time in the world, shoulders relaxed after a brutal shift and humor dry and witty as ever behind you as he said goodbye to the day shift.
You’d expected him to walk past you, maybe give you a light parting statement possibly accompanied by another knowing half smile in your direction.
Instead you felt his warm hand on your lower back, wordlessly guiding you with him out the doors. You didn’t bother telling him that you hadn’t even grabbed your backpack yet, absolutely no protest coming from your lips as you walked with him.
You wondered what you might look like to any other staff members, maybe just like a mentor giving you a ride home and guiding your exhausted body to keep you upright. A caring boss who was providing comfort after a long night.
His truck was parked further back than necessary, high up on the parking ramp and in one of the corners you’d only use on a really full staff day. You didn’t have time to fixate on the minuscule details of what this meant about his character, willingly walking extra minutes uphill just to be parked in solitude on the highest point of the ramp.
You barely even had the time to gasp when he was turning you around, suddenly in front of you with his hand on your hip as he gently backed you up against the driver side door of his truck.
Your eyes must have been wide and unfocused because he made sure to take his time, gaze raking over you and your messy hair that he was brushing behind your ear. He let his calloused hand cup your cheek after the hair was tucked neatly and you instinctively leaned against it.
“You sure baby?” He asked softly, croaked out in a gentle way you didn’t even know his voice could produce.
You didn’t even really know what he was referring to but you could definitely make a few guess and after running through a handful, you realized there was very little you would deny Jack Abbot of.
Your head moved into a half nod before he was surging forward and pressing his lips against yours.
limerence
miya atsumu x telepath!f!reader
finding out your lifelong nemesis, atsumu, has the internal monologue of a victorian widow in a romance novel. w/c: 2.7k, request, kinda enemies to lovers. mind reading y/n is back :)
the universe has a really sick sense of humor, and frankly, you’d like to speak to the manager.
on a random day, you suddenly got a migraine that felt like a tiny, caffeinated construction crew was jackhammering the inside of your skull, and it ended with you standing in the middle of the crowded inarizaki hallway, realizing that the world is much louder than you previously agreed to. it’s a cacophony of ‘i forgot my lunch’ and ‘does my hair look like a bird’s nest?’ and ‘oh god, i hope we don’t have a pop quiz in stats.’ you’re currently clutching your locker door like it’s the last life jacket on the titanic, trying to filter out the static of three hundred teenage brains, when the ultimate boss fight of your life strolls into view.
miya atsumu.
the man, the myth, the absolute menace. he’s walking toward you with that signature, punchable smirk—the one that usually signals a thirty-minute debate about who actually won the last set of volleyball drills or who’s more likely to end up in a ditch by age twenty-five.
“mornin’, scrub,” he chirps, leaning a hand against the locker next to yours. he looks way too polished for 8:00 AM. “ya look like ya got run over by a bus. didja finally realize that yer serve is about as threatening as a wet napkin?”
you open your mouth to deliver a scathing rebuttal about his bleached hair looking like overcooked ramen, but then, a voice—his voice, but deeper, softer, and echoing with the resonance of a cathedral bell—thunders through your brain.
‘holy hell, she’s so pretty it actually hurts my chest. why is she looking at me like that? i want to tuck that stray hair behind her ear so bad my hands are shaking. please yell at me, y/n, it’s the only way i can breathe.’
you freeze. your jaw doesn’t just drop; it practically hits the linoleum.
atsumu’s lips are moving. “hello? earth to dummy? ya glitchin’ out on me?”
but his brain is screaming. ‘her eyes are like the stars or the sun, both bright and shiny. i’m a dust particle. i’m burnin’ and i’m dyin’ happy. if she touches my arm today i might actually spontaneously combust. i’d let her step on me if she asked nicely. actually, she doesn’t even have to ask nicely.’
you blink, rapidly. you look around. nobody else is reacting. osamu is ten feet away, thinking about tuna onigiri with an intensity that borders on religious zeal, but atsumu? atsumu is standing here, insulting your dignity, while his subconscious is busy writing a five-act shakespearean tragedy about the curve of your collarbone.
“are you… okay?” you manage to choke out, your voice reaching a pitch only dogs can hear.
atsumu scoffs, crossing his arms. “i’m fine! i’m great! i’m the best player on this court! yer the one lookin’ like ya saw a ghost.”
‘i’m not fine. i’m a mess. i’ve been in love with her since the fourth grade and i’m gonna die with this secret because she hates my guts. look at her nose. it’s so cute. i want to bite it. no, that’s weird. don’t bite it. kiss it. i want to kiss her until we both forget how to speak.’
your face erupts into a heat so intense you’re worried you’re going to set off the fire sprinklers. you’ve spent years—decades—trading barbs with this boy. you’ve called him a sewer rat. he’s called you a gremlin. you’ve shoved him into mud puddles. he’s stolen your gym shoes. you were enemies. it was the foundation of your entire social identity.
and now you find out he’s basically a golden retriever in a designer tracksuit?
“i have to go,” you squeak, slamming your locker and sprinting toward the girls’ bathroom.
‘wait, come back!’ his mind wails, a sound like a lonely wolf howling at a very specific, y/n-shaped moon. ‘i didn’t mean the wet napkin thing! yer serve is actually gettin’ really good! i’ve been practicing my receive just so i can be the one to catch your balls! that sounded wrong. god, i’m an idiot. i’m a dumpster fire of a human being.’
the rest of the day is a fever dream of unwanted intimacy.
you try to sit at the opposite end of the cafeteria, but the mental link you seem to have established with atsumu is like a high-tensile wire. even across the room, his thoughts slice through the chatter of the student body.
‘she’s eatin’ a peach. i wish i was a peach. wait, no. i want to be the one who buys her the peaches. i want to farm the peaches for her. i’d build her a whole orchard with my bare hands just to see her smile like that once. her laugh is like a choir of angels doin’ a remix of my favorite song.’
you choke on your juice.
osamu looks at you, concerned. ‘is she dyin’? if she dies, atsumu’s gonna be even more of a brat. please don’t die, y/n, for the sake of my sanity.’
you realize then that being a telepath isn’t a superpower; it’s a psychological horror movie. especially when the “villain” is actually a man so down bad he’s practically burrowing toward the earth’s core.
by the time volleyball practice rolls around, you’re exhausted. you’re the team manager, which means you have to be in close proximity to atsumu for two hours. you try to keep your distance, but he gravitates toward you like a planet trapped in your gravitational pull.
“toss me a ball, y/n!” he shouts, flashing a grin that usually makes you want to kick him.
‘look at me. please look at me. i’m doin’ this for you. every jump, every set, every sweat drop—it’s all a prayer to the goddess of management. i’m gonna nail this spike so hard she’ll have no choice but to think i’m cool. i’m a peacock! watch me fan my feathers!’
you toss the ball, your hands trembling. he slams it down with terrifying precision, the sound echoing through the gym. he lands, turns to you, and winks.
‘did she see? did she? i think her heart rate spiked. or maybe that was mine. my heart is doin’ the tango. it’s kickin’ my ribs. i love her so much it’s actually embarrassin’. i’d jump off a bridge if she held my hand while we did it.’
you have to sit down on the bench before your legs give out. it’s too much. the sheer volume of his devotion is like being hit by a tidal wave of warm syrup. it’s sticky, it’s sweet, and you’re drowning in it.
“you’re sweating a lot, miya,” you say, trying to sound like your usual, pricklier self. “it’s gross. stay over there.”
his face falls for a fraction of a second, his “enemy” persona snapping back into place. “shut up! yer just jealous ‘cause ya can’t move like i do!”
but internally? internally, he is weeping.
‘she called me gross. it’s over. wrap it up. put me in the ground. bury me with my ribbons and my dreams. but even when she’s mean, her voice sounds like silk. she could tell me to go play in traffic and i’d ask which lane she prefers. god, i’m pathetic. i’m a worm. a little y/n-loving worm.’
you feel a sudden, sharp pang in your chest. it’s guilt. and… something else. something terrifyingly like affection. you’ve always enjoyed your bickering, but you never realized it was the only thing keeping him alive. you thought you were rivals. he thought he was a court jester performing for a queen who hated his guts.
the breaking point happens after practice.
it’s raining—of course it is—and you’re standing under the awning of the gym, fumbling with your umbrella. atsumu is there too, lingering, ostensibly waiting for osamu, but his brain tells a different story.
‘don’t go yet. don’t go. the rain is perfect. it’s like a movie. i should offer to walk her home. but she’d probably use the umbrella to poke my eye out. i’d let her, though. i’d wear an eyepatch for her. i’d be a pirate. captain atsumu at yer service, ma’am.’
you look at him. he’s staring out at the rain, his profile sharp and actually, annoyingly handsome in the dim light.
“atsumu,” you say.
he jumps about six inches into the air. “gah! what? stop sneakin’ up on me!”
‘she said my name. she didn’t call me “rat” or “idiot.” she said “atsumu.” my name sounds like a melody when she says it—shawty is like a melody in my head—stop! STOP. i want to record it and play it on a loop while i sleep.’
“do you… want to walk together?” you ask. “i have a big umbrella.”
the silence that follows is deafening, both in the air and in his head. for three seconds, atsumu’s brain goes completely silent. it’s the first time all day you’ve had peace. then, the explosion happens.
‘YES. YES. A THOUSAND TIMES YES. OH MY GOD. IS THIS A TRAP? IS SHE GONNA LEAD ME INTO AN ALLEY AND BEAT ME UP? I HOPE SO. NO, WAIT. SHE WANTS TO SHARE AN UMBRELLA. WE’RE GONNA BE UNDER THE SAME CANOPY. WE’RE PRACTICALLY MARRIED. I NEED TO BUY A RING. WHAT KIND OF RING? DIAMONDS? NO, SHE LIKES STUFF THAT’S UNIQUE. AN OPAL? I’LL FIND THE BEST OPAL IN THE WORLD.’
“i guess,” atsumu says out loud, his voice cracking slightly. “if ya really need the company. don’t get any ideas, though.”
you step out into the rain, holding the umbrella high. atsumu steps under it, and suddenly, he’s very close. he smells like expensive laundry detergent and volcanic ash.
his thoughts are a frantic, chaotic mess of worship. ‘she’s so close. her shoulder is touchin’ mine. i can smell her shampoo. it smells like vanilla and sunshine. i’m gonna faint. if i faint, will she catch me? i should pretend to slip. no, don’t be a loser. be cool. be the alpha. be the—oh god, her hand is near mine.’
your hand is indeed near his on the handle of the umbrella. you can feel the heat radiating off him. it’s a cold evening, but he’s like a furnace.
“you know,” you say, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird, “people always think we’re dating. it’s annoying, right?”
you’re testing him. you’re a scientist poking a very emotional bear.
atsumu stiffens. “yeah. totally. localized insanity, that’s what it is.”
‘it’s my only dream. it’s the only thing i want. i’d give up volleyball to be her boyfriend. okay, maybe not volleyball, that’ll happen when we get married but i’d give up secondary setter rights for now. i’d give up gari-gari kun popsicles. i’d give up my soul. please, just let me hold her hand. just for a second. i’ll trade five years of my life for one second of hand-holdin’.’
you can’t take it anymore. the gap between his arrogance and his internal desperation is too wide. it’s heartbreaking. it’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever experienced, and it’s coming from the man who once put a lizard in your backpack.
“atsumu?”
“what now?”
you stop walking. the rain drums against the umbrella, creating a private, translucent world for just the two of you.
“you can hold it,” you say softly.
“hold what? the umbrella?”
“my hand.”
the umbrella wobbles as atsumu’s grip falters. his mind goes into a total meltdown. it’s just a high-pitched scream of pure, unadulterated joy. it sounds like a stadium full of people cheering at a buzzer-beater.
‘SHE SAID THE WORDS. THE WORDS WERE SPOKEN. THE PROPHECY IS FULFILLED. AM I DREAMIN’? I MUST BE DEAD. I DIED IN PRACTICE AND THIS IS HEAVEN. THANK YOU, JESUS. THANK YOU, VOLLEYBALL GODS.’
“why would i want to do that?” he asks, his face turning a shade of red that shouldn’t be biologically possible.
“because,” you say, taking a step closer, your boots splashing in a puddle. “i think you’ve been waiting to ask me for a long time.”
atsumu’s facade finally, mercifully, cracks. he looks down at you, his eyes wide and shimmering with a vulnerability that makes your knees weak.
“is it that obvious?” he whispers.
‘i’m transparent. she can see right through me. she knows i’m a goner. she knows i’ve got shrines to her in my mind. i’m a disaster. but she’s smilin’. why is she smilin’? she’s lookin’ at me like i’m somethin’ precious. like i’m not just the guy who annoys her.’
you reach out and slide your fingers into his. his hand is huge, rough-calloused from thousands of sets, and it’s shaking. the moment your skin touches his, the mental noise changes. it’s no longer chaotic; it’s a deep, thrumming pulse of contentment.
‘oh,’ he thinks, and it’s the quietest his mind has been all day. ‘her hand fits perfectly. i’m never lettin’ go. i’ll go to college like this. i’ll grow old like this. i’ll be the ninety-year-old man at the grocery store still holdin’ his wife’s hand because the first time he got to do it, it felt like the world finally started spinnin’ the right way.’
you squeeze his hand. “you’re not a worm, atsumu.”
he freezes. “what?”
you realize your mistake instantly. you can’t tell him you’re a telepath. not yet. he’d die of embarrassment.
“i mean… you’re not as much of a worm as i thought,” you recover, grinning.
atsumu huffs, but he doesn’t pull away. he pulls you closer instead, his arm brushing against yours, the umbrella tilting to keep you perfectly dry while his own shoulder gets soaked.
‘i don’t care if i get pneumonia. i don’t care if i melt into the sidewalk. she’s holdin’ my hand. she’s walkin’ with me. i’m the luckiest man in the history of the universe. suck it, “samu.” suck it, everyone. i win. i finally won the only game that matters.’
as you walk toward your house, the rain falling in sheets around your little bubble of warmth, you realize that having telepathy might be a curse for some, but for you? it’s a map. a map through the thorny, confusing, loud-mouthed wilderness of miya atsumu’s heart.
and honestly, the view from the inside is much better than you ever imagined.
“hey, y/n?” he says as you reach your front door.
“yeah?”
“same time tomorrow? the walkin’ thing and maybe some drinks? not because i like ya or anythin’, just… for safety. rain and stuff.”
‘please say yes. i’ll wait in the rain for ten hours. i’ll be a lighthouse. i’ll be whatever you need.’
you lean in, standing on your tiptoes, and press a quick, soft kiss to his cheek. his skin is hot, and his heart rate—you can practically hear it—is going supersonic.
“it’s a date, atsumu.”
you slip inside your house, closing the door behind you. through the wood, you can still hear him. he isn’t moving. he’s just standing on your porch in the rain.
‘SHE KISSED ME. A DATE. SHE CALLED IT A DATE. I NEED TO CALL MY MOM. NO, I NEED TO DO A LAP AROUND THE BLOCK. I’M GONNA SCREAM. I’M GONNA EXPLODE. I LOVE HER. I LOVE HER SO MUCH I COULD RADIATE ENOUGH ENERGY TO POWER ALL OF HYŌGŌ PREFECTURE.’
you lean your back against the door, smiling to yourself. it’s going to be a very long, very loud, and very wonderful life.
atsumu finally starts walking away, his footsteps heavy and rhythmic, his thoughts fading into the distance but still clear as a bell.
‘i wonder if she likes lilies. i’m gonna buy her a million lilies. wait, no, roses. red ones. the big, dramatic ones. she deserves the whole damn garden.’
you laugh, the sound echoing in your quiet hallway.
you’ve got a lot of work to do, but for the first time, you’re looking forward to every single word he never says out loud.
n: oh atsumu, how i love you.. he’s so silly, i’m shoving him in my pocket 😛
tsumu’s taglist 1/3
@cvntyandfasionable @the-bloopsters @nelinkythoughts @kukikoooo @briestrom94 @averys-place @sxnnee @anzuuhoshi @evilari111 @tetsurae @asyaacia @rabbitcola @yeonette @forgottensniper @katzline @michexoxo @pelicanpizza @han0vyc @meikstv @babybird-meena @depressinglyobsessed @keiob @ghostwifeyy @bigdaddyyaoii @mptality @qardasngan @crystal-lilac @methiart @fiannee @wensurr @emotiandon @alyriaschoenheit @suha-reads @sillylule @horanghaepaws @imjustanobody2024 @hibernatinghamster @olliesoxenfree @griffincorn @snowstormsandavalanches @starzlytoetsie @ceramic-raven @nekoffie @littlemissfix-itfic @kuroofangirl67
© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners !
iloveu
side A of a sylvain standee comm!
compromise
Jack Abbot x resident!reader
Synopsis: Your attending is worried your mouth is putting you in unnecessary danger with testy patients, which you find ironic coming from a man who gets shot at as a side gig.
Warnings: Jack’s swat shift injury is a little more serious than canon (also mentions of bullets/being shot), violent patient/code hula hoop, they say fuck a lot, Did Not do enough rewatching/research and probs butchered everything medical in this SORRY
A/n: fighting jet lag and simply could not get sweaty swat shift 1pm jack out of my head, soooo! oops
——
“Knew that mouth was gonna get you in trouble one day.”
Dr. Jack Abbot murmurs his admonishment for you in a voice so low that you barely hear it over the steady hum of alarms and voices, not to mention the residual sound of blood pounding in your ears from adrenaline.
Standing in front of you where you sit on the exam bed, his presence looms over you such that you can’t help but feel he’s looking down at you.
Down on you and the decisions that he thinks landed you here.
His grips your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting your head to the left and the right, flecks of concern marring his hazel eyes.
You smack his hand away.
“Are you blaming a female healthcare worker for violence from a male patient twice her size?” you challenge, quirking your brow in mock offense.
You know that’s not what he means, and you almost feel bad when his face falls in guilt. But you’re still fired up from the encounter and you can’t ever resist a chance to spar head-to-head with your attending — unlucky for him, this one’s been served to you on a silver platter.
“Should we call Gloria?” you press. “I can get Javadi to make a TikTok.”
He retracts his hand back to his side where it belongs — not anywhere near you, as far as you’re concerned. It’d be frozen, hovering at the side of your face.
“Good point,” he says, hands now on his hips. “Sorry. You okay?”
You blink your rapidly swelling eye, dabbing at your split lip gently with the pad of your ring finger. “Yeah. Never better.”
He shakes his head, any concern replaced again by disappointment. “You gotta call hula hoop, kid.”
“Why? I knew you were watching.”
He opens his mouth, then closes it, rolling over the tray Lena had prepared for your room. “Well I’m not always going to be.”
You doubt that — sometimes Jack felt like a fly you could never swat away, right over your shoulder when you least needed him to be. You guess tonight is an exception.
“Those procedures are in place to keep you safe. If you’re gonna run your mouth—”
“Again, with the blaming,” you accuse.
“I’m not blaming you. It’s not your fault,” he says. “But sometimes…”
He trails off, ripping open a swab, bringing it to your lip. His other hand holds your face again as he dabs at your lip.
The bleeding had stopped after a while once Lena supplied you with gauze to hold against it, rattling off assessment questions while you could still hear Jack and Crus working with security to restrain the patient in the background.
She looked at your eye and begged you to let Shen order a CT, but you’d sat there frozen, reeling until Jack had appeared where you were situated in the empty room next door, his chest heaving and hair mussed, clearing everyone else from the room and telling them to get back to work.
The swab stings a little, even with his feather-light touch, and you can’t help but rear back, even if you don’t slap his hand away this time.
“Sometimes what?”
“Hold still,” he says, hand tightening on your chin. He keeps dabbing, swearing when you feel a new line of blood start to trickle down your chin. You grab a pad of gauze off the tray and hold it up to your chin yourself, before he grabs it from you and wipes it himself. “Sometimes I just wish you’d mouth off a little less.”
You scoff, and he pulls back with frustrated resignation, like he’s ready for the monologue you’re about to burst into. He’s heard them enough times.
“Sorry I don’t just let these daddy’s money fucks walk all over me for our patient satisfaction scores,” you spit, your lip aching, head throbbing, heart pounding. Traitorous tears push at the back of your eyes. “They don’t scare me, and neither do the suits upstairs. They’re all cut from the same cloth. I came from a hospital way worse than this.”
“I’m sure,” he nods, still paused with the swab in his hand, holding the gauze pad with the other. “But you’re at my hospital now. So cool it. If not for your own sake, then for your attending’s, who has to sign off on all of these reports, yeah?”
“What happened to being the weirdest and wildest?” you say. “Hooah?”
“You can do that without having to enter concussion protocol,” he argues, dropping the gauze to the tray. “Night crawlers gotta be careful, too. Probably even more so.”
“Um, that’s wild. Was it not you I heard earlier telling someone to shut their fucking mouth?” you retort. He still holds your jaw, his grip firm but not harsh — nothing like the man who’d done this to you — continuing to dab at your lip until he’s satisfied before discarding the swab onto the tray next to the gauze.
He grins at your remark then, some tension evaporating from the room, even if he still scans your face with intensity. He looks kind of silly, trying to smile with a crease in his brow.
“Touche. I for one can’t wait to read the review he leaves,” he says. “I’m sure I’ll get a CC on that one.”
“‘Stupid bitch doctor didn’t let me obstruct an active investigation,’” you say. “‘Cut my ugly Brooks Brothers golf shirt off. Papa’s lawyer will be in touch.’”
Abbot’s still smiling and you find yourself doing it too, wincing when your lip stretches over the broken skin. “Motherfucker.”
“C’mon, res,” he sighs, reaching for another swab, ripping it open. You let him fix up your lip unbothered this time, not speaking. He doesn’t feel the need to hold your face still this time, but you almost wish he would.
When he speaks again, it’s no longer chastising.
“How about,” he starts, throwing the second swab on the cart, shucking his gloves into the trash and opening the monitor across the room with his badge. “‘Put my stupid, privileged hands on a pretty resident and got tossed into police custody. Zero stars.’”
He makes another off-handed comment not to laugh at that and fuck up your lip again before he mumbles his way through your chart. But you’re not laughing at all, your stomach actually flipping at his words.
“Patient presents agitated.”
“Wait, what are you doing?” you say, standing, nudging into his space to see he has a chart open for you. “Can’t we keep this off the books?”
He laughs, still typing, his arm moving against yours. “Not a chance in hell. Go home.”
——
You’d noticed something off about Jack as soon as he’d entered the ED during the day shift half of your double, yelling and sweaty in his SWAT gear, bringing a wave of testosterone onto the floor along with his colleagues.
But he’d struggled throughout the entire procedure, leaning on you and Robby for every step.
“Bag him,” he practically winces, shuffling out of the way, hands held up while you take over Hiro’s intubation.
With Hiro’s vitals closer to stable, Garcia nods for him to be taken upstairs into a waiting OR, and Jack barely cracks a pained smile to an insult about being an adrenaline junkie — nothing smart to say for once.
He exits the room promptly at Robby’s question about contacting Hiro’s family, saying someone else on the team can help him, passing directly behind you.
“You’re with me,” Jack says, his breath fanning against the nape of your neck. “Now.”
His eyes find yours for one brief, weighted moment as he shoulders open the Trauma 2 door with a poorly concealed wince.
If not for your worry, you’d have immediately made a snide remark.
You look to Robby, slightly shell-shocked, wondering if he’d heard. Perlah definitely had, if the eyes she’s giving Princess say anything.
Robby just shakes his head. “I don’t think he was asking.”
You sigh, ripping your gloves and gown off into the bin and stalking off in the direction he’d gone, seeing a flash of camo duck into one of the South rooms across the way, wondering what you could’ve possibly even done to tick him off in the measly 10 minutes he’d been here.
You open the door after taking a deep breath outside the room.
“You know you can’t boss me around when you’re not even on shift,” you start.
“Shut the door,” is his instant reply. Message not fucking received.
Jack’s sitting on the bed already, the curtains drawn closed around the entire room, only a small gap left for you.
The room quiets as the door clicks shut behind you, and you draw back the curtain just enough to join him bedside before closing it again.
“What’s—”
One of his elbow pads already discarded on the bed, Jack is undoing the velcro straps on the right side of his Kevlar, but there’s that wince again once he moves to his other side. He tries to reach around his torso, but he can’t get the angle right, and he looks at you.
“Please help me get this thing off.”
You still have yet to learn why he’s clearly in pain, but you can tell the sweat running down his temple isn’t just from the July heat anymore as you step into his space.
“You’re hurt,” you realize, undoing both velcro straps on his left side. You dig your hand into the slight gap between his camo quarter-zip and the vest, pulling the straps out of the plastic loops attached to the back panel of the vest.
“Not badly,” he says, stilling as you push his hand away where he’d been trying to free the straps on the other side, doing it for him.
Both sides undone, you stand back slightly, moving your hands toward his shoulders. You detach the radio he has clipped onto the vest’s collar, placing it on the bed.
“Ready?”
He nods.
The vest comes off easy, but it’s heavy — he still winces as it drags over where he must be injured.
“Sorry.”
“You’re fine,” he breathes. “Just throw it wherever.”
You set it aside on one of the chairs, taking his radio, too, and setting it on top. When you turn back around, he’s already swearing under his breath and struggling with his long sleeve, caught under the remaining elbow pad.
“Alright,” you say, slightly annoyed, but mostly worried. “Do you want my help or not?”
He manages to undo his elbow pad, but grimaces as he shakes it off his good arm. He stops struggling with the shirt after a bit, his right arm stuck halfway through his sleeve. You can’t help the smile that sneaks onto your lips.
“Wow,” he says, but he’s smiling a little, too, incredulous. “This is funny to you?”
“Only a little,” you say. You assess how his arm is awkwardly caught in his sleeve, deciding on your next move. The thing is, you know exactly what you’d do if this was a patient, and not your attending. But you suppose he’s more one than the other right now.
“Do you mind?” you ask, gesturing to the bottom of his shirt.
“No. Not at all,” he says.
“Okay,” you say. “Let me just…”
You pull his right sleeve taut, your other hand going up under his shirt — thankfully, you feel an undershirt on the backside of your hand. He snakes his arm through the rest of the sleeve, and you stretch the shirt up over his head, his sweaty curls flattening further on his head. You really ought to offer him some electrolytes, and maybe a towel.
“I can’t believe they make you guys run around in all this gear when it’s this warm out.”
“Supposed to—” he winces as you drag the rest of the shirt down the arm on his injured side “—keep us safe.”
“Results may vary,” you say under your breath, setting his long-sleeve on the bed.
“Bullet could’ve gone right through without it. I’ll take my chances.”
Your mind catches on the first word, frozen as Jack seems to barely pay it any mind. Why would he, you wonder to yourself, given his history and his reputation — a troubling affliction for adrenaline.
“You got shot?”
“Shot at,” he says, shrugging. Another grimace. “Fuck. It should be a superficial wound, but it’s on my back, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to treat it.”
Your gaze assesses the last layer between you and his skin, his black undershirt, fitted across his chest and arms. No way you’re getting that off of him without it hurting like hell if he can barely undo his elbow pads.
He narrows his eyes. “What are you—”
“It’s the only way.”
“This is my nice shirt,” he warns slowly, eyes tracking you across the room to one of the drawers he knows as well as you do stocks the fabric shears.
“You’re sweating and bleeding all over it,” you say flippantly. “Or do you really want me to try and pull it off?”
He huffs a sigh.
“It’s a fucking t-shirt, Jack,” you say, already hacking at his sleeve. “We can get you a new one. Size small?”
“You little—“
“Extra small. Got it.”
His left arm free after you cut a line from the sleeve to the collar, his pale, freckled shoulder now exposed to the room, you finally get a chance to look at what he’d been complaining about.
“Holy shit,” you breathe, leaning over the side of the bed, getting the best look you can.
“S’not that bad, is it?” he asks, turning to look over his shoulder, grimacing once again.
“Stop moving,” you say, your hand on his face, pushing it away from you. “Have you taken any pain reliever?”
“Got kinda busy,” he says. “You rocked that shit in there, by the way. With Hiro. I’m sure you knew that though.”
Your hand falls away from his jaw. “Doesn’t hurt to hear.”
You come around to cut the rest of the material away, suddenly painfully aware you hadn’t gloved up again in the rush of it all. You pull the fabric from his body as far as you can, but your knuckles still brush against his stomach, his chest, his sternum as you make your way up. The butchered material falls away as you push it off of his body, guiding it down his good arm. You turn away pointedly as soon as he’s properly shirtless, bunching up the ball of fabric and placing it with his vest just to have something to do.
“Just trash it,” he says softly. “I might have you get another from my locker, though.”
“All that fuss,” you say, finally putting a pair of gloves on. “And you had a spare.”
He’s smirking when you do turn back around, and you roll your eyes.
“Let me see, will you?”
It’s quiet after that as you assess the wound. He’s right that it’s superficial, but it still could probably use a few stitches.
You tell him as much, and he nods.
“Whatever you suggest, doc.”
You pull your mouth to one side, still assessing, your hands light. “Maybe we get Robby or someone else in here, just to check. Or I can grab you a mirror?”
You see him shake his head. “I didn’t ask Robby to come in here. I asked you. I’m your patient. Make the call.”
You stop crouching over him just as he turns around again, his gaze fixated on you, his eyebrows raised in anticipation.
“I’ll grab a suture kit.”
He nods. “Good. A shirt too, yeah?”
You snap your gloves off and throw them in the trash, flipping him off when they miss and you have to pick them up off the floor.
“I’ll have Dana get it when I put in the order for the anesthetic,” you say, logging into the monitor by the sink after sanitizing your hands. “I think some imaging, too. You’re in a lot of pain.”
“Don’t involve anyone else. I’ll sign off on the order,” he says, then pauses, and you can see him squinting at you in your peripheral. “What are you doing?”
“Starting a chart for you,” you murmur mindlessly, entering his details into the demography section. “Patient presents agitated.”
“Off the books,” he says firmly.
You scoff, tapping the rest of the current line of your assessment out before saving it, locking the display, like he’s in any shape to lunge over and delete it. “Not a chance in hell. Be glad I saved you a little speech about being careful. They’re quite dull.”
“No hula hoop on a SWAT raid,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest, wincing when he remembers he can’t do that right now.
It’s too late though — the image of your attending shirtless, wearing camo pants and sweating all over the exam bed, arms taught over his chest, will be burned into your retinas for the foreseeable future.
“Maybe there should be,” you mumble, crossing the room to him again. You look at his wound one more time, mentally noting you’ll need irrigation, too, and maybe a Plastics consult that you know he’ll refuse.
“Yeah?” he asks, looking up at you when you stand full height again. “You worried about me?”
You shrug. “If you die and leave me stuck under Robby…”
He chuckles. “‘Cause they’d never stick you with Shen, right? You’d get fuck all done together.”
You can no longer help the smile that has irritatingly been threatening to break through for a while — ever since you’d discovered he actually was okay, really.
“It wouldn’t be good for the hospital.”
“So maybe we both agree to be a little more careful then,” he suggests, wincing as he stands again, pushing himself off of the bed. “Deal?”
“Deal,” you say.
“Your eye looks good, by the way,” he says. Your eyes narrow at the way his voice has dripped into that deeper register. The same one it takes on when he tells you atta girl and you’re with me, now. “Healed nicely.”
Open bullet graze, sweaty curls and all, Jack makes his way to where you’re standing, his hand grabbing your face like he had just last week, titling your head side to side. This time, his thumb brushes softly over where your lip had split, the skin new and soft under his calloused fingertip.
“This, too,” he murmurs, pressing down just slightly.
You let him linger for just long enough, chancing a look up at him through your lashes, reveling in the way he looks down at you now — something that had annoyed you only last week when you were up on that bed instead.
But then you smack his hand away.
“Don’t think any of that’s gonna convince me not to submit this to your police department.”
ocean eyes
dennis whitaker x reader ~ word count: 2.7k+
“your eyes are really pretty up close.”
or - dennis didn’t plan on falling for a coworker when he started at ptmc, but then he meets you, the cute new x-ray tech.
this is my submission for @elixirfromthestars writing challenge!! i played a game of chance using the generator for my prompt/scenario 🤍 dialogue prompt: “your eyes are really pretty up close” + scenario: one love interest is injured and the other cares of them
warnings/tags: x-ray tech!reader, fem reader, slight sunshine!reader vibes, fluff, reader gets a minor concussion, a patient gets combative resulting in injury but it isn’t described in detail, possible medical inaccuracies, dennis is smitten, dennis’ pov, short n sweet
˗ˏˋ ✦ ˎˊ˗
“You’re going to scare her off.”
Santos’ voice, sudden and unwelcome, nearly makes Dennis jump out of his skin. He cuts his eyes to glare at her - she isn’t even looking at him, too focused on trying to catch up on her charting.
“No, I’m not,” Dennis mutters defensively, looking back to the room across the hall, where you’re carefully positioning his patient - an elderly woman with a neck injury - for an x-ray using the portable machine you brought down from radiology. “I’m not even looking at her. I’m just…worried about my patient.”
“Sure,” Santos agrees sarcastically. “You’re just worried about your patient. That’s why your eyes bulged out of your head and you started drooling like a rabid dog the second she walked in the room.”
“Oh, come on,” Dennis groans. “I did not—”
“Who’s drooling like a rabid dog?” Princess appears out of thin air, as she has a knack for doing at the most inopportune times.
Great. Two of them. Just what he needs right now. Santos alone, he can handle. He’s only known (and also lived with) her for one week and he’s already used to her teasing jabs, but her and Princess both at once?
Santos leans back in her chair, nodding in the direction that Dennis had been staring just moments ago. “Huckleberry has the hots for the x-ray tech.”
Dennis’ face burns hot with embarrassment. He may be new to PTMC, but he already knows that if there’s even somewhat interesting gossip, regardless of its validity, Princess will find out. And, within a matter of hours, so will the rest of the emergency department. Maybe even the entire hospital, with his luck.
“I don’t have the hots for her,” Dennis denies calmly, not wanting to feed into any wild conspiracies undoubtedly forming in Princess’ head right now. “I don’t know her. I literally just met her five minutes ago. I don’t even remember her name.”
Two truths and a lie. He knows your name - committed it to memory the second that you introduced yourself. Just like he committed the soft curve of your smile and the way your voice instantly put his patient at ease to memory.
He would rather get puked and pissed on in the same day again than admit that to Santos or Princess, though.
“It’s her first day,” Princess chirps. “She just transferred here from Presby. Graduated from La Roche. And she’s single.”
Dennis is not going to ask how the hell she knows all of that.
He waits, hoping he doesn’t look too eager, as you finish taking the necessary images for Ms. Crawford. As you back out of the room with the x-ray machine, Dennis straightens his posture, earning a snicker from Santos.
“Quit,” he hisses under his breath.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Dr. Whitaker?”
Your sweet, cheerful voice saying his name makes him forget whatever he is going to snap back at Santos. He walks towards you, leaving her and Princess undoubtedly staring after him with shit-eating smirks.
The entire three seconds that it takes Dennis to reach you is spent thinking that you’re the prettiest thing he’s seen inside these hospital halls since he first started.
“Dennis,” he corrects gently. He doesn’t really want to point out that he’s only a student doctor. Plus, he wouldn’t exactly mind hearing you say his name. “You can just call me Dennis.”
“Dennis,” you repeat, your smile an exact replica of the one you wear in the picture on your ID badge. “Well, Dennis, Ms. Crawford speaks very highly of you.”
He shrugs, going for casual. “Yeah, apparently she’s a frequent flyer. I’ve only been here a week and I’ve seen her twice already.”
Your brows shoot up, amusement on your face. “She told me that she asked for you by name, you know.”
“She did?”
“Mhm.” You nod. “Said that you’re the nicest doctor she’s had in years.”
Dennis doesn’t need a mirror to know that he’s bright pink, from the apples of his cheeks to the tips of his ears. “I’m…not technically a doctor yet,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.
Your eyes shoot down to the ID badge pinned to his scrubs, gaze briefly settling on the words student doctor before you look back up. You shrug. “Could’ve fooled me.”
Then, before Dennis can attempt to stammer out a flustered response, you begin backing away with the portable x-ray machine in tow. “Nice meeting you, Dennis. I’ll get these images up to radiology and let you know as soon as we have the results.”
He watches you walk away for longer than he probably should - doesn’t look away until the sound of someone clearing their throat catches his attention.
Santos still sits feet away at her desk, looking at him with raised brows. “What is it you were saying about not staring at her?”
˗ˏˋ ✦ ˎˊ˗
“Don’t ever date where you clock in, Dennis. Makes the mess twice as hard to clean up. You can ask your uncle all about that.”
The unsolicited advice that his mother had given him over the phone the night before his very first shift at PTMC has echoed in Dennis’ mind since the day he met you months ago.
With each passing day, the words ring a bit louder than the day before. Loud enough to stop him from crossing any professional boundaries, but never loud enough to deter him from going out of his way to see you every chance he gets.
Princess, Perlah, Vivi, Jesse - the Pitt has no shortage of nurses more than happy to wheel a patient to the radiology department when they’re capable of transport and in need of an x-ray, but Dennis likes to personally deliver his patients to radiology these days.
So he can see with his own eyes that they get there safely, of course. That’s what he tells himself on the days that he knows you’re working, anyway.
In addition to his mother’s voice, he also tends to hear Santos’ - although hers is much closer, more frequent, and far less loving.
“Jesus. You have her work schedule committed to memory?”
“You know you look like a golden retriever waiting for the mailwoman anytime she comes down here, right?”
“If you don’t ask her out, someone else eventually will. I see Mateo making heart eyes at her every time she’s around.”
He does have your work schedule committed to memory, but not in a creepy stalker kind of way like Santos likes to insinuate - he knows which days you work because you’ve personally told him. Because, believe it or not, he doesn’t just stare at you from across the room like a “golden retriever waiting for the mailwoman” every chance he gets. He actually talks to you and has gradually learned all about you over the last few months.
He has learned you originally wanted to be a pediatric nurse but ultimately decided against it because bodily fluids make you squeamish. He has learned that you enjoy working on Wednesdays because of the taco truck that comes to the park next to the hospital. He has learned that you always bring a cardigan to work because the radiology department is freezing. He has learned that you keep Jolly Ranchers in your scrub pockets to give to kids once they have completed their x-rays.
He has learned that you’re the closest thing to sunshine in human form that this place has.
He’ll give it to Santos. She’s right about one thing - if he doesn’t ask you out, someone else will. Maybe it’ll be Mateo, or maybe that tall, conventionally attractive x-ray tech that you work with in the radiology department, or perhaps it’ll be someone that doesn’t work anywhere in this hospital. But someone, somewhere will ask you out, and Dennis will have no choice but to come to terms with the fact that someone else had the nerve to do what he’s too scared to do.
And when that day inevitably comes - when someone a little braver than him gets to be the one to make you smile - it’ll be on him. Because he’ll know he had a thousand opportunities to try, and didn’t take a single one of them.
˗ˏˋ ✦ ˎˊ˗
“….and my primary care doctor looked at my asshole and said woah. Have you ever had a doctor look at your asshole and say woah? These aren’t normal hemorrhoids, doc. I’m talking golf ball sized—”
Normally, Dennis would love to spend the last thirty minutes of a long shift listening to a patient describe their hemorrhoids in excruciating detail, but ever since he overheard Cassie and Samira muttering something about a combative patient in radiology as they walked past moments ago, he is having an increasingly difficult time paying attention to Mr. Jackson and his record-breaking hemorrhoids that brought him to the ED this evening.
Combative patient. Radiology. X-ray tech. Fall.
That’s all he caught, but it’s more than enough to have his thoughts spiraling more by the second.
Because you’re working today. He saw you no more than a few hours ago, when you came down to take x-rays for one of Mel’s patients. You had said hey to him in passing, making butterflies erupt in his stomach with a singular word and a soft smile.
“—nothing is helping right now. I’ve used all the creams, witch hazel pads, ice packs, fiber supplements, sitz baths. You name it, I’ve tried—”
Dennis glances in the direction of the nurse’s station and his stomach flips and then sinks entirely.
You’re there - in a wheelchair, with an ice pack pressed to the side of your head, surrounded by Dana, Robby, Cassie and what looks like every other available doctor and nurse in entire fucking ED.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Jackson,” Dennis interrupts the man. “Will you excuse me for a moment? I’ll be right back with Toradol and some lidocaine gel for you and we will go from there.”
He doesn’t wait for Mr. Jackson to respond before he’s power-walking out of Central 12 and pushing his way through the small crowd of doctors and nurses to get to you.
“What the hell happened?” Dennis asks, trying and failing to hide his concern.
You look like you could die of embarrassment. “It’s nothing, really. I’m fine. I’m sure it’s just a bruise—”
“A elderly patient with dementia became combative while she was trying to do his x-rays,” Robby explains with a sigh. “He forgot where he was and pushed her while trying to run away, causing her to hit her head on the machine.”
“Jesus,” Dennis grimaces, his brain already jumping to all of the worst possible diagnoses. Skull fracture. Amnesia. Intracranial hemorrhaging. “You need to be—”
“Examined?” Robby interjects dryly. “I agree. Whitaker, why don’t you take care of her?”
Dennis nods without hesitation, eagerly taking over the wheelchair. He’s vaguely aware of you continuing to protest that you’re okay, that your head is barely even hurting, that you’re totally fine to walk and finish out the remainder of your shift, but he agrees with Robby. You need to be examined, and he’s going to be the one to do it.
“Mateo,” Dennis calls as he begins to wheel you towards the first empty exam room that he can find, “Mr. Jackson in Central 12 is waiting on lidocaine gel for his hemorrhoids. Would you mind helping me with that?”
If anyone were to ask, he would say that he chose Mateo for the task because he was the closest nurse at that moment, but deep down, Dennis can’t lie even to himself - there’s a small but undeniably petty of him that picked Mateo because of the heart eyes, as Santos refers to it, that he likes to make at you.
Dennis wheels you into the empty exam room and parks the wheelchair right next to the bed. He crouches slightly in front of you, palms hovering awkwardly like he wants to reach out and touch you but can’t decide whether he’s actually allowed to.
“Okay,” he says hesitantly, “I need to check you over.”
You open your mouth to protest yet again, but Dennis is already pulling out a penlight from his pocket. “Please,” he murmurs, cutting you off. “For me. I just…need to know that you’re okay. It won’t take long. I promise.”
You give a reluctant sigh, motioning for him to continue.
“Look straight at me,” he instructs gently, then flashes the penlight. First, he checks your pupils. Then, ever so gently, as if he’s touching fine, breakable china, tilts your chin upward with two fingers.
He’s performed exams exactly like this more times than he can recall, but he doesn’t think his hands have ever trembled like this during one. He can only hope that you don’t notice.
“Pupils are slightly dilated,” he notes quietly.
You blink slowly, flinching a bit at the light. “That’s really bright.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry.” He clicks the pen off. “Any nausea? Dizziness? Blurry vision?”
You shake your head, then wince at the motion. “No, I don’t think so. My head just hurts a little.”
Dilated pupils, sensitivity to light, and a headache. All signs that point to a concussion. At least a mild one. He tries to stay focused - tries not to imagine you falling and hitting the machine. He clears his throat. “Okay. Can you tell me your name and where you’re at right now?”
You roll your eyes. “Dennis.”
He huffs out something between a laugh and groan, taking a small amount of comfort in knowing that you remember his name. “Your name.”
You answer him correctly.
“Good,” he breathes. He takes the ice pack that you still hold to the side of your head. “I’m just going to feel around a bit, yeah?” He reaches a careful hand to where you had been holding the ice pack, wincing even harder than you do when he quickly finds the raised, angry knot.
“Does it hurt when I press here?” He watches your face - only a foot or so away from his own - for any signs of discomfort.
“It isn’t too bad,” you grimace. “It doesn’t feel great, but it isn’t unbearable. It’s like a dull…”
You trail off mid-sentence, squinting at him.
He freezes. “What? What is it? Are you okay?”
You blink a few times, your gaze never leaving his. “Your eyes,” you mumble. Then, more clearly, “Your eyes are really pretty up close. They look like oceans.”
Dennis would think that he’s the one with the concussion and that he’s imagining things if it weren’t for the fact that he saw your lips move, plain as day.
It seems to dawn on you that you said the words out loud. Your mouth opens in shock and you shake your head, dropping your gaze to your lap. “Sorry. I don’t know why I said that. I mean, it’s true, but I don’t know why I said it.”
He can’t help the grin that grows on his face. He has no doubt that his face is as red as a beet. “No, no,” he laughs. “Don’t be sorry. I just…I think you might only be saying that because you have a mild concussion.”
“Yeah, maybe,” you agree with a small laugh. You look back up with a bashful smirk. “But it’ll still be true, even after I’m no longer concussed.”
At this moment, there’s one thing on his mind. The same thing that has been on his mind since the first day that he met you, and truthfully, the very last thing that should be on his mind right now because technically you’re a patient and possibly concussed but he knows that if he doesn’t step through this door that you’ve nudged open, he might regret it for a very, very long time.
He knows damn well that Santos will never let him forget the fact that it took you getting attacked by a patient to finally make a move, but he doesn’t care. Right now, he isn’t hearing her voice, or his mother’s, or anyone other than yours.
Your voice, telling him that he has pretty eyes.
“After you’re no longer concussed,” Dennis starts, voice a little shaky but absolutely certain, “I’m finally going to ask you out.”
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did anyone catch the random superstore reference i sprinkled in??
thank you for reading!! if you comment/reblog i love you forever mwah mwah
born to write fanfiction, forced to socialise 😔
