Pope Cody who’s spent his whole life around mindlessly muscular and strong men, who never really had to work hard for those abs, who just had em. Who finds a soft belly to be the ultimate display of femininity. You’re not supposed to look like him, why would he ever want that? Women are supposed to have bellies. For babies and stuff, he doesn’t know okay.
All he knows is he fucking loves it.
At first you were self conscious about it. Popes Staring never bothered you, maybe it turned you on a little. But when you’d see his eyes on your stomach you’d panic a little. Sit up straighter and adjust your clothes. He hated that.
He always was touching it. Standing on line? Hand on your tummy. Cuddling? Arm around it, hand on it. Sex? Don’t get him started about sex. He’s the worst when it comes to sex. Kissing it, staring at it, watching it giggle and shift with each hard thrust, seeing his cock make it bulge out just a little. Your tits are right there, but he’s focused elsewhere.
Eventually you ask him if he thinks you’re fat. And then you have the balls to tell him, like it’s your place, that he doesn’t like it. Because he stares at it. He gets a bit pissed. “I stare at it because it’s sexy. Don’t tell me what I like.”
You swallow the fact, as hard as it is to believe. Becuase Pope wouldn’t lie to spare your feelings. He’s Pope.
But it becomes more explicit and obvious.
Bathing suit shopping he sees you only looking at one pieces and asks why. Maybe there’s a reason you do that. You look at him like it’s obvious. “No one wants to see that.” “I want to see it.” He says like it’s obvious. “Whats the point in showing off your stomach if there’s nothing to show” he says like it’s obvious. Like the opposite isn’t the common belief.
You wear low rise jeans and he thanks every god he’s ever heard off. It’s the best thing he’s ever seen. You’re a bit shy but he’s feral. “Muffin top” you complain about. He throws his head back and laughs. “And that’s the only part of the muffin anyone likes.”. Well. Who can argue with that logic.
summary: the inside of your mind has always been an anxious place. you once thought no one could understand exactly how you feel. but when you start working the night shift, your attending makes it look easy.
pairing: anxious, intern!reader x jack abbot
word count: 24.1k
warnings/tags: anxious/night shift/intern reader, attending jack, descriptions of ptsd/anxiety from pittfest, as much medical jargon/scenarios as i could fit in, power imbalance relationship (and the associated guilt!), yellow mug mentions galore! descriptions of being creeped out by an uncomfortable patient, as much slowburn as i could try, smut - oral (f receiving), cute first time with jack things. unprotected sex, jack likes overstimulating you, lots of gratuitous praise kink, they really are a couple of idiots in love. one (1) emma x joy mention because i adore them. robby would not behave like this towards anxious reader, but for the sake of fiction, i suppose...
ao3 link
based off of the night shift reader blurbs
thank you to my amazing beta reader @attheheartofmylove without whom i'm certain this would have never been finished ♡
though you didn’t really understand it at first, you now know clearly, that the attendings have their own favorites.
they’re all cut from the same cloth—high achieving, independent, confident. they rattle off the answers to complex questions and are caught up on the latest literature and they’re the ideal resident, each in their own way.
you are not one of them. you think robby tolerates your slowness and your occasional confusion and profoundly apparent lack of confidence because it’s been a couple months since the pittfest shooting, and he feels bad.
it makes sense from the outside, you suppose. you are just an intern. you thought the whole point of this year was to adapt and understand and try to figure out where you fit in within the food chain that is the hospital hierarchy.
day to day it depends on the senior resident you’re assigned to. you try, really hard, to stay caught up, to not let your mind wander, to have the right answer and make diagnoses as quickly as you can.
you think maybe there’s just something wrong with you. it hadn’t always been like this. you were getting better.
and then everything happened and its felt like one step forward, two steps backward ever since.
robby is the one that finally caves and approaches you. he must have gotten enough complaints, or he must be fed up with your zoning out and freezing up, because he pulls you aside for a chat at eight in the morning.
“how do you feel about switching to the night shift for a little?”
his idea, as he’d explained it to you, was that maybe being on the night shift would help your skills to grow. that the pace and the little extra time in between patients and dr. abbot’s tutelage might help you get more adjusted to the environment.
i am adjusting, you want to argue, i’m trying my best. but your best is not enough when it comes to life and death.
you know where your faults lie. slow to get to the answer, slow to move without thinking. even your muscle memory is slow—you feel like you’re always waiting for someone to tell you what to do, before you start doing it, just to make sure you’re not doing the wrong thing.
it hurts your chest to think about it. you’d matched emergency medicine wide-eyed and excited. it’s hard to think about when you enjoyed the hustle and bustle, thought it was exhilarating to be in trauma rooms instead of terrifying, when you were excited to help people with their bad days and stopping them from getting any worse.
it’s you now that has the perpetual bad day. coated in embarrassment and anxiety, worried sick that you’re not doing good enough, that you’re going to be on the chopping block if you don’t get it together.
and then the rush of gurneys and yelling brings you back to the chaos of pittfest in an instant, and you think dealing with the triage patients’ burns and sutures is all the commotion you can handle for now.
on your last day shift for the foreseeable future, you tell dana that you’ll see her at sign-offs tomorrow night.
“you sure you’re doing okay, kid?” she asks, and you feel her concern like it’s something visible hanging in the air.
you’re not doing okay. you don’t know the last time you felt okay.
but you’re also not a nutcase. you don’t need any rumors at work that you’re not cut out for this—you don’t need to feel that burden weighing down on you, not on top of the others that are already there. you don’t think you could handle it, don’t think your own brain would let you process it. you might be close to giving up if that happens.
you snap out of it when dana repeats your name.
“i’m okay,” you lie, “just not sure about this sleep schedule. i need to set up my black-out curtains,” you say with a forced laugh, hoping she can’t see right through you.
dana looks back at you a little quizzically, like she’s trying to figure out the real meaning behind your words, but she gets called away before she can finish her assessment.
“just let me know if you need something, okay?”
“i will,” you lie again. it sucks—you don’t like lying to dana. she’s everyone’s work-mom and you know she actually cares.
maybe you don’t fully understand it yourself. you want to tell someone how you feel, but you don’t want to put your burden on her shoulders either, not when she already has so much going on, so much to worry about.
it’d be unfair, you conclude as you head out for your walk to the bus-stop.
it’d be unfair to put the task of helping you and listening to you and fixing you to someone else’s already long to-do list.
and as you go to sleep that night, trying to stay up as late as you can to sleep in as much as you can, you think—and maybe hope a little bit too—that robby is right. maybe night shift is what you need.
𝜗ৎ
“she’s not doing that good,” robby admits, his eyes following you as you handle your triage sign-offs with parker. he turns back to jack. “she’s anxious. a little slow, but i’m not saying that-”
whatever robby is saying to him briefly fades into background noise. jack’s eyes go to where robby was looking—watching you for a moment.
he knows who you are. he knows your name, knows you’re an intern. he knows robby is mildly concerned about you, knows that he set you up in triage and chairs because you were having trouble with the trauma cases.
jack knows that it’s not right—an intern needs to experience what it feels like to be in the thick of it. there’s no short-cuts when you become a second year and third year and beyond—you have to know how to conduct yourself. it’s a non-negotiable part of the residency program, it’s how their program creates competent residents and good doctors.
he follows you with his eyes again. you blink fast and play with your necklace while explaining the last of your cases.
he knows you’re going through the pertinent history, the acute presentation, your assessment and treatment plans and what’s left to monitor for continuity of care.
it’s not what you’re saying. it’s how you say it. you look like your heart is racing, like someone’s about to cut your tether to the hospital if you say the wrong thing. like you’re waiting for someone to stop you and tell you that you’ve messed up.
even from the across the room he can tell something’s wrong. he feels something strange move around his brain and make its way into his chest. he dismisses it immediately—maybe it’s because he hadn’t noticed the issues you’ve been having himself. jack thinks he’s usually pretty good at that sort of thing.
when parker moves on to the next patient and cassie takes over, jack is still looking at you. your shoulders, which seem to be perpetually up by your ears, relax a little. you let go of your necklace and take a deep breath.
“jack?” robby’s voice says, and he doesn’t hear it until robby repeats himself.
“yeah?” jack answers, turning back to face robby.
“so, what d’you think? does it sound like a good plan?”
“what plan?”
“have her come to night shift for a little while. show her the ropes. work her way back up. sounds good?”
honestly, jack can’t tell if it does sound good or not. on one hand, there’s less residents working on the night shift. there’s not as much cherry-picking, and everyone has to lend their hand equally. you would get to see everything you’ve been missing out on during the day shift.
he’s sure that parker could guide you well. jack thinks for a moment that taking on another responsibility wouldn’t be a good idea, but watching your sullen expression as you finish sign outs, like you’re counting down the seconds until you can leave, he thinks it’d be better to get you help now, rather than delaying the inevitable.
jack almost snorts. he’s one to talk.
he concludes that maybe this might be a good idea given that you’re only an intern and you still have so much to learn and you’re much too young to be stuck in this feeling forever. your sad expression lingers in his head even after you’ve walked back to the lockers.
maybe, just maybe, jack could help with that.
when he looks up at robby to respond, he’s half way across the room.
“thanks a lot, brother,” robby half-shouts, and this time, jack does groan.
well after the day shift has left, he tries to think about the best plan of approach. he has to tell parker, obviously, since some of the responsibility will fall on her too. he’ll tell john the next time he sees him.
he could start you slow. a step-up from chairs triage, starting with some urgent cases and working your way up.
if too many people is the problem, you’ll be good as gold after a few shifts. he thinks about the rest of the plan, how he can get you started on incoming traumas and maybe if there’s something you can read to work on a step-by-step approach, if that’s where the issue lies—he doesn’t know since robby didn’t tell him anything else—but he gets distracted all at once.
your sad, pretty face hasn’t left his mind since robby pointed you out. jack can’t tell exactly why, but it feels unfair, almost. unfair to you that this is what you’re going through during your first year as a doctor.
jack understands the nerves. he would expect you to be nervous, everyone is. it’s the fact that it’s not followed by excited. nervous and excited.
nervous and excited and gaining confidence, all things you should be feeling.
it’s the combination you have instead that worries him. nervous and anxious and sad and pensive.
and well, if that’s what you’re going through, maybe he can help you after all.
𝜗ৎ
jack doesn’t know how much robby’s told you. he keeps it simple on your first shift of nights—tells you that you’ll be working on the remainder of the patients from the morning and then jumping on the most urgent of the chairs alongside parker until you feel (or he decides) that you’re ready to handle it solo.
jack doesn’t know what he expects from you, if anything.
it’s a colder night than usual, and you wear a cream-colored underscrub with the sleeves pulled over your hands. he notices a jacket on the chair behind you, baby pink. and just before he approached you, you set down a yellow water bottle.
but when he meets your eyes, the words go out the window.
sad and pretty. you look at him with your full attention, like looking away would get you in trouble. you nod to everything he says, even though he knows you must be getting anxious at his words. you try to hide it well, but your hands—chewed nails, he notices—go to your necklace right away.
huh, jack thinks. so that’s your tell.
and just before he leaves, heading out to finish up with robby’s patients from sign-outs, you speak to jack abbot for the first time.
“i’m sorry,” you say quietly. “sorry you have to do all this for me.”
jack swallows. you’re incredibly beautiful, and almost devastatingly sad. how can he respond to that—he hasn’t done anything, not yet at least. he showed up for work like any other day. he gives you an assignment like he would any other resident. there’s nothing to be sorry about, but you still are, and he thinks that he really needs to understand why.
jack dwells on it for half a heartbeat, trying to figure out what to say, but you smile—half heartedly—and turn around to go find your next patient.
oh no.
𝜗ৎ
the night shift is, like robby had told you, a little better for you. it hasn’t even really slowed down yet, but there’s something about the environment that just feels a little more digestible to you.
maybe it’s those things that you were trying so hard to bury—how your feelings of incompetence increase even further when the 4th years on their rotations seem to move faster than you, seem to have the answer quicker than you.
maybe it’s extra worse because when you were doing your audition here—you had been that student. ever-eager, trying to prove your worth to whichever resident you’d been assigned to that day. you went home and studied rosen’s emergency medicine textbook and listened to case-report podcasts on your commute to the hospital. you answered questions quickly and you didn’t let it show when you got tired and you did everything right, just to end up worse than when you started.
you can’t wrap your head around it. there’s something deeper going on with you—bubbling beneath the surface of your skin, trying hard to rip through and make its way out. you’ve been suppressing it ever since that night, watching how everyone around you made their way back to normal, wondering why you’re the only one that’s lagging behind.
or maybe they’re not back to normal. but it’s obvious to you that everyone is better at hiding it than you are.
case in point—you’re the only one that robby shipped off to the night shift.
you guess you need to earn your stripes back. the first mission towards that goal is convincing jack abbot that you’re not a complete dud.
maybe the thing that’s been setting you off so much lately is that you have no idea what’s going to come in from those two doors. you can distinctly remember a few short months ago where that feeling was exciting, almost exhilarating. you were seeing something new every single day, the pages of your textbooks coming alive in patients that you finally got to treat, instead of waiting and watching and observing.
that’s why working out of chairs feels so much safer. the list is endless—sprains and allergic reactions and lots of sutures. it was, at the very least, predictable.
you smile at your patient—a little girl who was playing with scissors instead of finishing a school project, despite, you’re sure, the many times her mom told her to not do that. mom is heavily pregnant and watches you suture her hand, near tears herself even though the little girl is taking it like a champ.
“all done,” you hum, wondering if you can go find a lollipop somewhere for her. “you did great.”
you look up at mom, offering her a tissue for her tears before explaining the rest of the steps. you’re about to find the written suture care instructions just incase, when parker pokes her head in.
“incoming, five minutes. we’re up. meet you out there.” she’s gone before you can even say anything. you spend two of those five minutes making sure the mom gets the instruction paper she needs, and then you walk towards the ambulance bay.
parker is already gowned and gloved up, and dr. abbot is pulling the yellow material on, and you can even faintly make out the outline of his arms under it.
standing there, it hits you all at once. your feet feel frozen to the ground. the ambulance is maybe sixty seconds away, and you can hear the sirens, and in the craziness of the day shift, the noise didn’t stand out as much as it does now.
it almost sounds multiplied. like there’s a dozen sirens going off. you can’t fathom that your brain is making it up, so there must be some sort of crazy trauma with tons of patients and absolutely no time for you to shut down. you can almost hear it—the noise will fill the space soon. screaming and crying and that sound that tires make when the person driving slams the brakes too fast.
you are not ready for that. you thought dr. abbot said something about working your way up, slowly, that you’d deal with the lower tier cases before jumping back into incoming traumas. maybe you’d misheard him—you’d felt so embarrassed that he even had to have this conversation with you to begin with, and he was looking at you so earnestly.
he was probably wondering what was wrong with you. you’re asking yourself that question every day.
dr. abbot takes a few steps towards you, and for some reason, you take a step backwards. as if the extra foot of space would protect you from what’s about to happen.
the part of your brain that’s always reminding you about how you need to get it together has momentarily gone silent. where is it, when you really need it, like right now? the part that reminds you that you’ve done this before and that this used to be something that excited you and that the person coming in that ambulance is counting on you to help save their life? where did it go?
you don’t know how you must look to him. a mess, probably. appearing like way more work than he signed up for. you should apologize again, maybe, like that might help your situation. you are on his night-shift for the foreseeable future.
“um, dr. abbot, i-” your heart is pounding in your chest.
“that’s okay,” he says, taking a step closer, shrinking the space between the two of you. the sound of the siren gets louder and louder—
but he’s not very far from you. looking up at him, you see hazel eyes that are focused on you. his hair is actually curly—you hadn’t noticed before.
“i-i thought that-”
“you’re fine, kid. you’re not jumping on any traumas until you’re ready. why don’t you go find bridget and get started on something to present to dr. ellis?”
your relief must be visible to him—your shoulders sink down, your heart slows down a little, and you blink like you’ve just been rebooted.
“okay,” you start. “i’m sorry, i-”
“stop apologizing,” jack says, walking towards parker, towards the trauma, snapping gloves over his hands. he stops for a moment. “take a deep breath. come find me if you need me.”
“okay. i will.”
it’s like your feet need a minute to thaw before you can move. you stand there, processing what dr. abbot just said and your own feelings and why you locked up at the very sound of an incoming trauma for a little longer, as if you won’t spend the rest of your shift and all night and all day tomorrow thinking about it.
and you don’t catch it—but jack looks back at you before he steps outside. stuck for a moment, your fingers going to your necklace, before you turn around. and he turns around too.
𝜗ৎ
your next patient is a man who just flew back from england earlier today. his calf aches and his chest hurts. he tells you how he’s been worried sick since he got back home, and he’s never usually like that.
must be nice, you think, scrambling to find parker once her and dr. abbot leave the trauma room. their patient is going up to surgery and you see dr. walsh in the room.
you feel better once parker’s in the room with you, and then you think about how messed up that is. you should feel perfectly confident with or without someone beside you. you shouldn’t require a babysitter, and maybe you need to make your next goal figuring out how to gain some of that confidence back, but—
“so, walk me through it. what’s next?” parker asks, her gaze going towards the monitor to evaluate his stats.
“dopper ultrasound of the lower extremity. uh, CTPA, order a d-dimer. monitor stats to see if we need supplemental oxygen.”
“good. and?” she asks, and you blank for a moment.
“and?” you repeat. you don’t know why your brain does this. hurry up, you think, he could die while you’re waiting to figure out what else he needs. “and, um-”
through the glass, you see dr. abbot walking by. he glances in, locking eyes with you for a second, and then he walks away, like he’s not worried about what’s happening in the room.
“and we start him on anticoagulants after the imaging.”
“good,” parker says, nodding. she explains the next steps to the patient, and one of the night-shift nurses whose name you don’t know yet gets the bedside ultrasound ready. “hm.. let’s see. how about virchow’s triad?”
you shake the ultrasound gel bottle and warn the patient that it’s a little cold.
“venous stasis, hypercoagulability, and endothelial injury.”
“good job,” she states, and you appreciate the comment, just because it’s been a while since you’ve heard it. while you work the probe up, she monitors the screen with you. “now, what are we looking for?”
“a darkened area, where the veins don’t compress. no flow on the doppler.”
“uh-huh. bingo. see that?”
“yeah,” you breathe. “i do.”
it’s a small thing, but handling the case with parker feels good. you’d already been taught times to never assume what the diagnosis is, even if everything is pointing in that direction. coming up with the answer—the correct answer—feels good.
there’s nothing wrong with wrapping up ankles and stitching up lacs. but you feel a step closer to whatever goal it is that you’re trying to achieve.
the patient heads off to get a ct scan and you and parker go back out to find the next case.
while you walk back to central, she brings it up. it’s inevitable, and you should have thought ahead.
“so…” she starts, and you swallow. “i didn’t know about the thing with the incoming traumas.”
“i, um,” you blink, heart rate increasing again. you feel your hand going to your pendant, moving it around your fingers. “i’m working on it.”
“that’s okay,” parker says, reassuringly. “well, you did great in there.”
“thank you,” you breathe. “i’m not sure what they told you-”
“don’t worry. abbot told me afterwards. no traumas until you’re ready, i got it.”
“he said that?”
“you can ask him yourself,” parker says, her eyes going to somewhere behind you. you turn around to see dr. abbot walking towards the two of you.
“how’s the patient?” he asks, though he’s looking at you.
“good. um, he’s up in ct right now. we’ll start anticoagulants once we get the results. he was stable, though.”
“good, good. who’s next?”
“working on that right now,” parker replies. she turns to you next. “i’ll come find you.”
you nod, turning back to face dr. abbot. your eyes go to his badge for a moment, clipped to the pocket on his scrub top. jack. it’s hard to think of him like that when he’s only ever been dr. abbot to you, the shoulders you see from behind swaying as he shifts his weight from leg to leg, talking to robby at seven pm or the camo backpack walking out at seven am.
you zone out for a moment, but dr. abbot snaps you back into it.
“you doin’ okay so far, kid?”
you wish you weren’t the person that everyone had to ask that question to. the embarrassment alone is enough to make you want to work even harder to get back to day shift, to get back to the level you were at before.
“i’m okay,” you respond after a pause. your heart rate hasn’t slowed down. “i, i-i’m sorry about earlier. i don’t know why-”
“i told you to stop apologizing,” jack repeats, and it comes out a little sterner than he wanted. but it gets your attention. you look up at him, blinking quickly.
“dr. abbot-”
“these things don't change overnight. you…you can’t expect yourself to get back to normal in a day.”
you go quiet, contemplating his words. without even meaning to, you feel your waterline brim with hot tears.
“i feel like everyone else did,” you admit quietly. “i’m so behind. i feel like i’ll never catch up.”
you take a deep breath, and then you widen your eyes. these are things that you’ve never even admitted to yourself, never given your brain enough time to mull and mope on. and now they’re pouring out in front of your attending, a man you’ve had maybe three conversations with, most of which were today.
“i’m so-”
“stop,” dr. abbot says firmly. “no apologies. you’re not behind in anything. thinking like that is only going to make you feel worse. you don’t have to say anything, just nod if you understand.”
you feel your head nodding before you even realize you’re doing it.
“before you leave night shift, you’ll be caught up in whatever you feel like you’re behind in. okay?” you nod again. “good. i’m sure dr. ellis has a case for you, if you’re ready.”
you release a breath you didn’t realize you were holding in. your hands fall to your side. your heart slows down a little. you start walking towards parker but then you pause, turning back again.
“dr. abbot?”
“yeah, kid?”
“thank you.”
you smile at him again—that quick half-smile, and you’re gone before he can even try to stare.
𝜗ৎ
your first night shift is, overall, a success. you don’t jump on any crazy incoming traumas, though you help treat a man who took a spill down some stairs around midnight that came in via ambulance. you mostly attend to the rest of the people in chairs, switching off between the lacs and dislocations to the more urgent cases as they come in.
it’s almost four before you know it—and during one of the lulls, you go to the empty break room and make yourself a cup of tea. you try to get as much of your charting done before you see the next person and before your tea gets cold—the longer it takes you, the longer dr. abbot has to wait before he can review them, and the longer he has to stay after the shift ends.
you started yawning because you don’t think your body has adjusted yet, or even will adjust for the next few weeks. mid-yawn, stretching your arms, you had looked around and saw that dr. abbot was already looking in your direction.
you turned quickly and went back to the charts. god knows you’ve already embarrassed yourself in front of him enough today.
despite whatever you think and assume, it seems like he can almost read your mind. you start feeling anxious when you notice everyone coming in for the day shift, going to the lockers and preparing to come back out.
it’s your first time doing sign-offs for night shift. it’s clear to you that everyone knows there’s something wrong with you, and that’s why you made the switch. even if they don’t know, they’re about to find out.
but before you can think too much about it, dr. abbot comes up to you. it’s quick, just in passing before he goes to robby, no doubt to tell him how you did.
you feel doubly embarrassed that you’re even a topic of conversation for your two attendings.
jack abbot tells you you did great, kid. see you tonight, and walks towards robby. and the hand that was coming to play with your necklace falls to your side. when you do sign-offs, you forget to be nervous.
for once, you think you had a some-what decent shift. and you know what, or rather who, is responsible for that.
but this is just one shift. you have a lifetime of them ahead of you. you need to take it day by day, hope for progress with each passing one.
(when you go home and shower and then crawl into bed, with your gray curtains completely shut, despite the fact that light pours through regardless, and a sleep mask that you bought during medical school, you think, for the first time in ages, that you’re not dreading going to work tomorrow. it’s not dread. it’s not excitement either. it’s something in between, something that makes you want to get up in the afternoon because you know what’s waiting for you in the evening. or rather—who is waiting for you in the evening. someone kind and patient and who understands you without needing to say anything at all. and then, you fall asleep.)
𝜗ৎ
you’re back under the fluorescent lighting of the hospital before you know it. you elected to leave your house early today—you couldn’t sleep past two and you had time to do everything you wanted and then some.
you made yourself a big lunch. you tidied up your apartment, put in a load of laundry. you paid bills and scheduled a dentist appointment that you can actually go to now. even with all of that, you still had enough time to leave early and buy yourself an iced chai before your shift.
you take sips of it while working on your charts once you find a moment to sit down. it’s mostly melted ice and milk now, but still, you’ll take any caffeine you can get.
you’re mid-yawn, covering your mouth when he walks over and stands behind the computer screen.
“oh,” you say, putting your hand down. “sorry, dr. abbot.”
“what did i say about apologizing to me?” his voice is gruff, but he has a teasing lilt to it.
you wonder if he talks to all his residents like this.
“sorry,” you say inadvertently, and then you freeze, realizing what you did. “you know what i mean.”
and then dr. abbot laughs.
you can’t help the smile that takes over your face. his laugh seems contagious to you, and you start laughing before you can help it.
staring at his smile, you realize that you can’t remember the last time you had laughed in the hospital. it always felt like there just wasn’t any time during the day, with so many people to take care of, with so many conversations happening that you didn’t realize where you could even fit in.
it doesn’t really feel that way now.
“so,” dr. abbot starts, and you focus all your attention on him.
you wonder if he’s going to want to talk about it—your freeze-ups and whatever blanks robby didn’t fill in for him. he must be curious, at least, why you needed the change so quickly, so out of nowhere. at least, that’s what you think, because surely, you’d be curious too if someone—
“-how’d you sleep last night?”
you stare at him. the thoughts circling your brain shut up mid-sentence.
“um, good?” you answer, tentative. as if you could possibly be giving him the wrong answer. “how about you?” you ask, brightening up a little, pleased that you can have a real conversation not only about a patient with someone at work.
“uh, fine,” he answers, his eyebrows furrowed like he’s a little confused. “i just meant, i know the first shift on nights is hard. hard to fall asleep during the day.”
“oh.” you want to smack your ipad against your forehead. “oh, yeah, definitely. i mean it was hard, but it was fine. i fell asleep eventually. and then i-i woke up and i couldn’t go back to sleep. so i left early to-”
your eyes flick down towards your melty chai. the plastic cup’s left a ring of condensation on the station where you were typing up your notes. dana would have your ass if she saw water on the counter—
jeez. your mind is bouncing around at a mile a minute. what were you even talking about?
you look at dr. abbot blankly, and he looks like he’s suppressing a laugh, like your behavior is entirely amusing to him.
“-i’m gonna… stop talking now.” stupid. stupid stupid stupid. you have one coworker who kind of gets you and he happens to be your new attending and you can’t stop looking like a fool in front of him and he’s staring at you with these hazel eyes—
“don’t stop on my account,” he laughs with a quiet laugh, and you feel your face burn. but you can tell he’s not laughing at you, something you’ve forced yourself be able to discern quickly. he’s laughing with you, or rather because of you. “i’ll, uh, let you finish your charts.”
“thank you,” you reply, a little too quickly. you just need a moment alone, maybe, like that could fix the things that are wrong with you. “sor-” you close your mouth before the word can come out.
the look that dr. abbot gives you is a new one. you’ve seen a couple so far, notably the one by the ambulance bay and the one at sign-offs this morning.
this one is almost approving. like he’s pleased you’re listening to what he says. pleased that you’re doing what he tells you.
“try the black-out shades. those are really helpful.”
“oh, really? i-i will,” you lie between your teeth. the black-out curtains you ordered are sitting in a discombobulated mess by your window. you had tried putting them up for all of fifteen minutes before giving up and going to bed with your quilt pulled over your head.
“yeah. i can’t sleep without ‘em.”
“good. that’s good. i will,” you get out before he walks away. you release a breath and finish the rest of your chai before throwing it away.
𝜗ৎ
your shift is going just like the one from yesterday. maybe even slightly better—now that your apparent inabilities have already been broadcasted to the team, you don’t have to explain yourself or try to work up some twisted excuse as to why you can’t assist on traumas.
you take care of three fractures—two scaphoids and one pinky toe. you suture up a few different lacs and correctly diagnose a hot appy which gets sent up to surgery.
and right now you’re with a mrs. wilson, a sweet older woman who fell at her house. her daughter drove her in and you take her back almost immediately, getting her a ct and waiting for her bloodwork.
she’s got a small cut on her forehead from the spill that you’re using dermabond to repair when parker stops by.
“what’d we got here?” she asks you, and you rattle off the case information. “do you use a blood thinner, ma’am?”
“i never forget to take my eliquis,” she responds, and you smile brightly at her.
“that’s great, mrs. wilson.” you turn to parker. “her daughter just ran to get a coffee. uh, history checks out, head ct’s negative. labs are all normal. she’s on an anti-hypertensive. i think it was orthostatic.”
“agreed. what’s next?”
“-what’s next is that you need to get me that gentleman’s phone number,” mrs. wilson interjects. she’s staring past the open curtain towards central, and you move your eyes almost involuntarily to see what—or rather who—she’s looking at.
you blink quickly. your mouth feels a little dry.
parker turns to look too, turning back with a laugh.
“that’s our attending,” she says. “i’m sure he’ll be around to check on you shortly.”
“no, dear, i need his phone number-” she starts again, locking eyes with you. “unless, of course, he’s married-”
you blink faster.
oh my god. mrs. wilson has just made you realize that you’re a complete idiot.
you turn your head again to stare at him, waiting five seconds before he picks up an ipad with his left hand. dr. abbot has a black wedding ring that he’s been wearing this entire time. and here you are, staring at him and falling asleep thinking about him and looking forward to the night shift because he’s making your life somewhat easier, easier than it’s felt in months and months, and—
“i-i’m so sorry, mrs. wilson,” you stammer, a little too quickly. you can feel parker’s eyes move to you. “i think is he married.”
the news seems like a hit to the both of you.
“aw,” she starts. “my daughter. she’s divorced. i’ve been trying to set her up for months, but, well, all the good ones are always taken, y’know, i told her—”
“actually,” parker says quietly. “he’s not. but, mrs. wilson, right now, we need to focus on your-”
your eyes go a little wide. it takes all your strength and willpower not to zone out again while parker discusses the next steps in patient care with mrs. wilson.
her daughter comes back with that cup of coffee while you explain how to take care of the wound at home. and you hate yourself—hate—because you find yourself looking at her, groaning internally because she’s very pretty and very nice to you.
and you file away the new information you’ve learned to a small, hidden part of your brain. dr. abbot is not married, but he wears a wedding band anyways. and then you go see your next patient.
𝜗ৎ
you think you’re beginning to find a rhythm. it’s hard, but with each passing day, it feels like it’s getting easier.
(you bury thoughts of your attending deep inside your head and then you close the door and lock it up with chains, placing a mental do not open sign in front of it. it might be working.)
your focus should be on your medical education. you’re almost positive that’s the only thing dr. abbot is concerned with, anyways.
at least, you think that’s the only thing he’s concerned with.
you groan as bridget hands you the ipad detailing the information of the next case. fifty-three year old man, chief complaint of priapism.
“really?” you sigh, and she shoots you a sympathetic look.
you think you’ve been doing better. you haven’t worked up to the level of severe incoming traumas just yet, and you know you’d be useless if there was a few back to back, but you’re trying your best for now. the night shift doesn’t have as many of those incidents as the day shift, so you’ve begun collecting back your confidence in bits and pieces.
this doesn’t phase you. you celebrate the small victory, that you can handle the urgent chairs cases alone, that you’re not stuck in that familiar pattern you had been only a short week ago.
(you try not to dwell on the reason why you’ve escaped the pattern.)
your only concern for the patient you’re about to see is what he’s taken and how much he took. you know the procedure, having assisted once with cassie, what seems like forever ago. the order is nerve block, aspiration, irrigation, and then injection.
you’re thinking about where you saw john last. you’ll have to report to him and then both of you will have to do the procedure. you’re going to have to track him down—it’s getting to that part of the night where he’s on the hunt for a snack, once his coffee runs out.
you pull back the curtain and smile politely at your patient.
that might have been your first mistake. you introduce yourself, and while you confirm his name and date of birth, the only thing you can think is sleazy. this guy looks sleazy.
there’s a reason why he’s in the emergency room with priapism at two in the morning, and you don’t think you want to know why, though you’re about to find out.
and a little while later, across the room, jack is looking for you. it’s become his latest bad habit—he likes to have eyes on you, like he’s worried you’ll slip away if he’s not careful enough.
(he does need to be careful, he thinks. it’s been a week of watching you get more and more comfortable around him. a week of watching you take on new, different cases and do your sign-offs without seeming frightened of the task. it’s been a good feeling. maybe, too much of a good feeling—)
“bridget?” he asks, approaching central. “have you seen my intern?”
his intern. the word comes out like a freudian slip. it’s supposed to be the intern.
if she notices, she doesn’t say anything. though, jack thinks she’s looking at him a bit more oddly than usual.
“priapism in bed ten,” bridget says. “i think she’s getting the history before—oh, speak of the devil.”
he turns around and you’re approaching him.
whatever part of jack abbot understands you, whatever’s inside of him that always seem to know what’s going on with you and how to fix it, and whatever compels him to care so much about you even though you’ve only been here for a short while, gets triggered on high alert when he sees your expression.
he doesn’t even say thanks to bridget before walking up to you, meeting you half-way.
you look uncomfortable. and jack has never seen you look like this before. it’s written all over your face and your body language. you don’t touch your necklace like when you’re anxious. no, you’re wringing your hands, rubbing your arms like you’re reminding yourself they’re still there.
“what’s the matter, kid?” he asks, and you look incredibly apologetic. he wishes you wouldn’t look at him like that. it makes him want to take care of you forever.
whatever precautions he was thinking about taking because maybe he’s getting a little too worried about you and a little too pleased with your progress goes out the window.
“um, i need help with my patient,” you start. “i’m sorry, i-i-”
jack is too much in his head about you. his hand hovers over your back, leading you to an empty corner against a wall. it doesn’t look all that professional, though there’s barely any eyes that are paying attention to the two of you.
he’s got a patient up in ct he’s waiting on for results. two people to discharge. and john is out there manning the front lines by himself for a few minutes.
but nothing else seems to matter when you need his help.
“what’s wrong?” he repeats, and something in his chest starts to churn uncomfortably. like a hand squeezing his heart at the speed that yours must be going right now, undoubtedly.
he wishes he could pick up your hand and feel your pulse, but he can’t. he knows he can’t. his fingers still twitch at the thought, though.
“um, my priapism patient is being really creepy. i-i don’t feel uncomfortable going back unless you come with me, maybe? or-or john. i know you’re busy, i-”
“what did he say?”
“um, dr. abbot-”
“what did he say?”
your eyes go a little big.
“he said something about… he’ll stay awake for the procedure if it’s me doing it, and…”
“and?” jack is beginning to see red.
“-and he won’t need the procedure if i would just help him out-”
jack has always been pretty decent at handling his temper, especially in the hospital. people are scared, people are frightened, people are worried about their life and limb and say things they don’t always mean. he keeps it under check because he knows better.
most of the time.
his hand turns into a fist while he’s talking to you. your eyes flick towards it before you go back to meeting his gaze.
“dr. abbot?” you say quietly, blinking fast.
“why don’t you go find bridget and find a new case to work on?” jack sounds surprisingly calm.
you should have expected it—of course, he’s calm. he’s your attending, after all, all-knowing and knows how to keep his cool in a situation like this much better than you do.
you couldn’t even handle it yourself. you ran to get help as soon as you felt uncomfortable. a different intern might have been able to handle it. you’re not sure how exactly, but you know someone else could have figured it out, someone smarter than you. a different intern might not have needed help—
“are you sure, i-”
“i’m sure, kid. go ahead.” dr. abbot pauses for a moment, like he’s assessing you too. you want to shirk under his gaze. “if you need a break you can go sit down for a little-”
“no,” you interrupt, fiddling with your necklace, “i don’t need a break.”
you do need a break. that guy was so, so creepy. you need to go sit down and watch videos of cats playing with yarn and eat something before you can go see someone else. but that’s not how this job works, you don’t just get a break because—
“why don’t you go find a protein bar and i’ll come get you?”
“no, dr. abbot, i-”
“find something to eat. break room,” he says, and you want to protest, feel the words almost coming out, but before you can, “-now.”
he walks away, leaving you in the corner, blinking stupidly at his back as you watch him go. you don’t know what it is—it seems like he can just read your mind, like your thoughts are out on display for him all the time.
you don’t think you like it.
you decide to be a good intern and listen to your attending.
you head to the break room and nibble on a granola bar that’s been in your jacket pocket for god knows how long. you pick up your yellow mug with the intention of making a cup of coffee, but you can’t stop pacing.
you just need to work on getting faster. thinking quicker on your feet. if you could figure out what to say, instead of freezing up and running away, you could probably solve half of your problems yourself, without needing help.
and you can’t stop thinking about what dr. abbot said.
not even exactly what he said, but more of how he said it. like he wants you to listen to him, like he’s not going to let up until you do. like you deserve snack breaks and time to sit down and recollect your thoughts after a bad encounter.
you don’t deserve that. a better intern wouldn’t need those things. a better intern would be out running head first into traumas, coming up with miraculous saves and not being too scared to answer questions and not feel their heart rate spiking every time they’re too close to the ambulance bay.
because on the night of the pittfest shooting, that had been where you—
“hey,” bridget says, and you look up quickly, snapped out of your thoughts. “i got a midnight fall two minutes away, and i can’t find anyone. are you—?”
“yes,” you reply, setting your empty mug down onto the table a little too hard. “i’ll be right there.”
you leave it as it is, shoving the granola bar back into your pocket. you forget for a moment that dr. abbot told you to stay put, but you certainly can’t ignore the patient to follow his instructions.
(something inside of you feels uncomfortable at the idea of not complying, though.)
you walk by the closed curtain where the creepy patient was currently residing. you can make out two pairs of shoes, one being dr. abbot and the other being john, you assume, and the sounds coming from behind the curtain almost make you stop in your tracks.
your mind wants to dwell on it for a little longer, but luckily, this time you don’t have a choice but to focus on your new patient, who is also fifty-three and tripped on a dog toy, courtesy of his new puppy, while trying to open the door to let her out.
you’re pleased with yourself at being able to run through the entire thing with a few watchful eyes. bridget leaves to find parker while you order your head ct and x-rays, though you don’t think there’s anything serious going on.
the thoughts are momentarily subsided—like each achievement can temporarily ease the burden they leave on your brain. the constant voice echoing that reminds you of how you should be doing better stays quiet while the patient smiles at you and thanks you for your help.
and you even end up eating the other half of your granola bar a little later, sitting at your station and working on notes until you’re needed next. you drink water to distract yourself from your tiredness, being thrown off your usual routine today.
john ends up finding you first.
“well,” he says, leaning on the other side of the counter. he buries his head in his hands for a moment and then stretches. “that was fun.”
“i heard,” you reply, pausing and taking a breath. “i, um, i’m sorry that i didn’t-”
“no biggie,” he interrupts, before you can finish the entire apology. “that guy was a weirdo. better me than you.”
you swallow uncomfortably.
“thank you.”
“i only have abbot to thank. he said we’re going to conveniently lower his pain meds and i said i was extremely in-”
you laugh, and then feel bad for doing so. while you try to come to terms with what john just told you, your head feels like it’s ringing a little bit. he didn’t have to do that, you think, feeling guilty about the patient’s pain. and then you remember the slimy way he’d spoken to you and suddenly you want to find jack abbot and give him a—
“so, you hold down the fort for us?” john asks, rustling through one of the drawers until he finds what he’s looking for—a packet of poptarts.
“uh, i tried,” you say with a small smile. “incoming who tripped over his dog’s toy. i think it’s a broken tailbone. dr. ellis is waiting on the ct, and then i thought i’d catch up on my charts, so..”
“yeah, good idea. don’t wanna leave those until seven. abbot will-”
“i will, what?” you turn your head to look at where his voice came from, but you falter as soon as you see it.
your yellow mug. in your attending’s hands.
if john’s confused, he doesn’t say anything. they keep talking and you hear laughter, see dr. abbot’s smile as he jokes around with john. your head feels like it’s ringing even louder, if possible.
well, it’s not like you’d announced it was your mug, or anything. people in the hospital share stuff like that all the time. there’s other communal mugs too, you’ve seen them. you just usually keep it tucked away, but you left it on that table, and maybe he thought—
dr. abbot turns towards you and he puts the mug down next to your keyboard. you stare at his freckled forearm for a moment too long.
“i thought i told you to take a break,” he says, and your mind goes empty.
your gaze flicks between the cup of coffee, that somehow looks exactly like the cup you make every night, and your attending, who is staring at you.
“i…i did take a break,” you finally get out, quietly. you finally tear your eyes away from your mug to look at him.
dr. abbot has incredibly pretty hazel eyes.
“it’s okay if you need a moment. that would have been a lot for anyone.”
“i… yeah, i guess so.”
he shakes his head, blinking at you.
“not a guess. i know it was. did you eat something, at least?”
“yes,” you answer, suddenly breathless. “but there was just a patient, so i-”
“yeah,” john pipes up, and the two of you break the seemingly endless, prolonged eye contact. oh my god, you think. john’s been there the whole time, watching as you gape like an idiot. “parker’s with the slip and fall now. and young padawan here handled it all by herself.”
you feel like your chest is going to explode from the emotions swarming around inside. dr. abbot smiles at you, meeting your eyes again—
“good job, kid. drink your coffee.”
“thanks, dr. abbot.”
he walks away, towards the trauma room where parker is. you have to force yourself to remember that he’s your attending, not just some guy who’s been sweet to you for the hell of it. his whole job is making you better at this. your chest still feels warm and fuzzy and you have to ground yourself, worried you’d float away with your thoughts if you don’t.
his job is to check on you, all of you. you’re not special just because—
“huh,” john says, peering over the counter and at the yellow mug resting by your hands. “he’s never made me coffee before.”
the coffee becomes a regular occurrence. each shift, around a quarter past one, your mug is delivered to you by your attending, no matter where you might be at the moment.
he leaves it at the desk where you type your notes. he hands it to you when you’re coming out from behind a curtain, telling you to sit down and drink it before it gets cold.
and before you can reply, almost as soon as thank you leaves your mouth, he’s off, walking in the other direction and going to help someone else.
parker and john have noticed. they’d be idiots not to. (one thing you know for certain is that you are the only idiot on the night shift.)
you try to brush it off mentally, almost like if you admitted it, if you said it out loud or even thought about it for too long, the walls would come crashing in around you.
you have so much on your plate as it is. you’ve just started getting better at this, having a better grip on your emotions, not spiraling every time you don’t know the answer to a question or getting nervous when someone looks at you for instructions.
you push it aside and decide it’s because you feel comfortable with your coworkers. not that you hadn’t before—but the fear of failure was so much more jarring with the day shift. the night shift seems decidedly more calm. there’s less people, so less opportunities to embarrass yourself. everyone’s been nothing but kind so far.
you feel supported and encouraged. and when dr. abbot tells you that you’ve done a good job you feel every nerve in your body tingle with joy. and when you drink the coffee he made you, it tastes better than any cup you’ve ever made yourself.
you used to have a countdown until your next day off, mentally ticking off the shifts, waiting for minutes and seconds to pass until you had a day of freedom, but now—
whatever jack abbot has done to you, it makes you want to work every day of the week.
and much to your displeasure, that’s not how the schedule works.
𝜗ৎ
when jack comes in at six forty-five, he thinks it’s a little weird. something feels off. parker shows up at six-fifty. shen at seven on the dot with his iced coffee.
and you are usually here at six-forty, five minutes before him. you’ve usually put your jacket on that chair you always sit at and have your ridiculously bright water bottle perched under the counter, waiting to be pulled out when you start your midnight charting session.
his eyes linger on your empty seat during sign-offs. he thinks he’s not being very obvious, until—
“even interns have days off, you know,” parker says, and john nods in agreement. jack hears the familiar noise of ice moving as john shakes his drink.
“actually, two. tonight and tomorrow night. golden weekend for the intern,” he replies, shaking his head. “where was mine when-”
parker and john continue chatting, but it fades into background noise. he doesn’t even realize they’re poking fun at him, that it must be obvious that he’s searching for you, even on your day off.
he’s your attending. he should really know about things like that. but you hadn’t brought it up last night, not even when he’d brought you your usual cup at two in the morning, right when he goes to get another cup of coffee—a little behind schedule this time.
you had smiled at him. sleepy. tired. thanked him sweetly like you always do.
you’d made sure all your notes were submitted and reviewed before seven, regardless of how much you yawn while finishing them.
and you are currently out celebrating your first few days off since you’ve started the night shift. you must be happy, he thinks, with two nights off in a row, and that too on a weekend. you must be celebrating all the small victories you’ve achieved, all the patients you’ve saved. he’d make you celebrate double for every patient you helped that came in on an ambulance, because even though the two of you haven’t talked about, it’s clear as day to him that—
you’re celebrating right now. and he feels oddly unhappy about it, because he’s not there with you.
and a few hours later, his head perks up at bridget, telling him to get ready for an incoming. female, twenties, alcohol poisoning. not very far from here, that bar just a few blocks away.
and by the time jack walks up with parker, the ambulance is already there, unloading the patient. he’s just pulling on his gloves, about to ask what do we got? when he hears it—
your voice.
his stomach drops. his feet move even faster, and then he braces himself, getting ready to see you on the gurney.
“you can’t escape this place, can you?” parker shouts, over the blare of the sirens. you take the paramedic’s hand to help you get off the rig.
“i guess not. gcs nine, i think. sorry, i had a couple drinks too,” you say apologetically, like you should be chastised for drinking on your day off, as if you should have been aware this would happen.
for a moment, you look back at the ambulance, blinking fast, chewing on your cheek, rubbing your arms. jack almost misses your expression—but he’s relieved you didn’t catch him staring at you again. all your attention focuses onto your friend once you walk into the hospital.
the girl on the gurney looks delirious and tired. her head is rolled to the side and jack’s almost positive her eyes are closed.
“so this is where you work?” another voice pipes up from behind you. another girl, someone your age, he assumes, walks behind you, staring around. when her eyes go towards the fluorescent lights, she winces and looks down. “jeez. that’s bright.”
jack’s first question in these cases is always how much did she have? and he looks up at you to get the answer—you’re still saying something to parker, filling her in on whatever happened on the rig—and then he locks eyes with you.
parker’s placing orders and setting up fluids when jack realizes he shouldn’t have done that. it’s the first time he’s ever seen you out of scrubs, and he can’t stop staring.
your hair is done up all pretty, a little mussed up from all the commotion. your eyelids are glittery and your lips are shiny. you’re wearing a short skirt and he realizes he’s never seen the skin of your thighs before—
his eyes go up, following your exposed thighs to the skirt that’s going to plague him, all the way up past your shirt, to your fingers that are playing with your necklace. and then you two lock eyes again.
“i don’t know how much she took,” you say, chewing your cheek, like you want to say i’m sorry, but you know better. “we turned around for five minutes and she was downing shots-”
“that’s okay, kid-”
“well, i didn’t think she’d take all of the shots,” your other friend interjects, covering the light with her hand to protect her eyes. “we were supposed to be celebrating you, not her-”
“it’s okay-”
“it is so not okay,” your friend argues, and he feels an overwhelming amount of gratitude for her.
because it’s not okay.
it’s one of your two days off during the chaos of your intern year. you work the night shift now, which means you can’t just go out for drinks with friends anymore, because your schedule doesn’t work like that.
and from everything he knows about you, he knows you don’t do things like this very much anyways, even when you were on days. he shouldn’t be annoyed, but he is, annoyed that your golden weekend was ruined. annoyed that you somehow ended up back in the hospital. annoyed that—
well, he’s not annoyed about that part. the fact that he gets to see you after he spent most of the last four hours grumbling internally about how you weren’t there certainly doesn’t hurt.
the outfit you’re wearing—he can’t dream of being annoyed by that. the way you squeeze your friend’s hand and keep checking her vitals even though she ruined your night out. the way your other hand doesn’t leave your necklace.
all things he can’t be annoyed about.
bridget pokes her head in.
“thought that was you,” she says, and you look towards her, turning your worried expression into a smile quickly.
“what can i say? can’t go a night without my favorite charge nurse.” you stay smiling but shift on your feet, on what he assumes are uncomfortable, pretty shoes.
“oh, i’m gonna tell dana you said that.” bridget’s eyes glances towards your friend, and then towards jack. he’s still staring. “you want me to bring you some scrubs?” she asks, facing you again.
“oh, no, that’s okay. we’ll just wait in here until she wakes up. thank you, though.” you turn towards your friend again.
and jack doesn’t need anyone to tell him that you’re nervous. that you feel bad. that you’re embarrassed that you’re here, that you couldn’t take care of your friend.
“sure,” bridget replies, and then she looks at jack again. there’s something in her expression he can’t quite understand. “got another one pulling up in three minutes. let me know if you need anything.”
“sure. i’m coming,” jack says, though he wishes, momentarily, that he didn’t have to leave the room. he walks around the bed, next to where you are, and your eyes stay on him. “she’ll be fine, kid. you did everything right. and i’m not sure how much closer you can get to handling an incoming trauma than that, so-”
you interrupt him with a laugh and a smile. a winning combination in his eyes.
“thank you,” you say quietly.
“we’ll be back after to check on her. you should get some rest if you can.”
“yeah,” you reply. “i’ll try.”
your eyes turn back to your friend, and he slides the door to step out, and just as he’s about to close it, he hears it—
“so,” your friend starts quietly, still shielding her eyes. “which one is jack?”
“oh my god, shh-”
he smiles the entire way to the ambulance bay.
by the time he makes his way back to the curtain where they’ve moved your friend for monitoring, he’s seen three and a half extra patients, not including the incoming he originally got called away for.
it’s well past two, and jack feels a certain… displeasure bubbling inside of him. it started the moment he’d realized you would be stuck here all night on your day off, and hasn’t subsided since john had made a joke about giving you some scrubs and giving you a few of the overflowing patients.
the displeasure rears its ugly head, and turns into something worse, something he can’t describe, when he pulls back the curtain.
(yes, he’s supposed to be checking in on your friend—the patient—but it was really an excuse to see you. he tries to deny it, tries to reason with his subconscious that he spends every other shift making sure you’re okay, so tonight doesn’t feel any different. he’s not sure if he’s winning that argument.)
your other friend is asleep in the chair. the patient is still knocked out, snoring now, with stable vitals.
and you’re standing, looking between the monitor and your friend while you yawn and rub your eyes.
you turn at the noise and smile instinctively, fingers going to your necklace right away.
“hey kid,” he says quietly. he gestures with his hand, motioning for you to follow him, and you do, quietly closing the curtain behind you.
“how’s it goin’ in there?”
“oh, uh, good. they both fell asleep, but, i guess it is late for them.”
“but not for us. congrats, you’re a real night shifter now.”
you smile and laugh. you are tired, he knows, because he can tell. you’re supposed to be asleep now too, back in your own bed, without any alarms to wake you tomorrow morning.
you should be doing whatever it is people your age do on their days off. he wouldn’t have any idea about any of that. you’ve mentioned some stuff and he’s overheard others in passing—something about the public library and a coffee shop and those heated workout classes that sound like a nightmare—
“dr. abbot?” you question, saying his name quietly like you feel bad for interrupting his train of thought.
“yeah. sorry, uh, just wanted to come check on you-” you smile again, a little wider, before he realizes what he just said. “uh, you and the patient. but it seems all good, for now.”
“yes. yeah, it’s fine. i can monitor, too. i’m basically sober now.” your eyes travel—darting from him to your shoes quickly.
“don’t let shen hear you. an hour ago he wanted you on the floor.”
you laugh—which jack has come to realize is his new favorite sound.
“no, he just hates suturing. i’ll be back before he knows it.”
“sorry this happened on your day off,” jack says, and without meaning to, he moves his head, trying to catch your eyes. you look up slowly, locking gazes.
“that’s okay,” you say, sounding much too close to a default, rehearsed answer.
he’s positive that you won’t give your friend a hard time about this tomorrow. that you’ll neglect to mention how you paced for two hours and didn’t sleep or sit down until you were sure she’s okay.
displeasure turns into anger at the very idea that someone might take advantage of all of your sweetness, all of your caring and your anxious nature that doesn’t let you admit that it’s not okay.
it’s not okay, certainly not when he’s seen you freeze up when you take one step too close to the ambulance bay. how you try to hide how you really feel when you hear the sirens pulling up. why, even a few weeks in, he’s still easing you in to the noise and the chaos as much as he can.
“it’s not okay,” he says firmly, eyes latched onto yours.
you blink fast, tears suddenly welling up at his words. that’s silly, you think, crying over your attending’s words. he’s just trying to make you feel better, like he always does. in that moment, standing in front of jack abbot, you realize that he doesn’t really have to try.
he does make you feel better.
“it’s just that sound,” you admit quietly. you feel embarrassed but you can’t find the energy to care, not in your tired, barely-tipsy state. “the sirens. every time i get too close i feel like it’s that night all over again. it’s stupid, i know-”
“it’s not stupid.”
“no one else that works here feels like that. no one else lets it interfere with their work. it’s just me that-”
“it’s not just you. i promise it’s not. and there’s nothing wrong with needing to talk to somebody about it.”
something in his chest burns and shifts, like lava seeping through his veins. you’re so young to be feeling this way—like you’re all alone in the world, with no one who can understand what you’re going through.
how can he show you that he knows? that he understands, probably better than anyone else in this hospital? that you should talk to him, not here, not even today, not in scrubs under bright lights too close to the source of your worry.
somewhere else, somewhere quiet, where he could explain to you all the reasons why it’s okay to feel what you’re feeling. talk to you about how great you’ve been doing. show you that you won’t feel like this forever—and that he knows because he didn’t either.
it’s an entirely unprofessional thought that lingers for much too long. in a few months, you’ll be back on the day shift and this will all be a distant, faded memory. a few months after that you’ll be a second year resident and maybe he’ll see you on nights again.
but right now you’re an intern that he has no business thinking so much about. yet, still—
“how do you always know?” you ask, blinking at him. your wet eyes gnaw at him. he knows he’ll be thinking about them long after you’ve finally gone home.
“know what?”
“what i’m thinking. how i feel. before i say anything.”
“i know a little something about how you’re feeling, kid.”
“really?” you breathe.
“yeah. that, and you have a tell.”
“i do?”
“your necklace. it’s a wonder that thing hasn’t fallen off yet.”
you smile and he smiles too, and he’s thinking about what he could say next, when your friend says your name from behind the curtain.
“go ahead,” jack says, before you can think about apologizing for cutting the conversation short. you step towards the curtain and he turns to walk away, when he hears you.
“dr. abbot?”
“yeah, kid?”
“thank you.”
“you’re welcome.”
𝜗ৎ
just like you said, you’re back at work before you know it. monday evening at seven pm, you’re greeted by parker and john, who ask you how your friend is doing and joke about your brief interlude at the hospital this weekend.
and you tell them the truth—that she’s doing fine now, and has mostly learned her lesson about back to back shots past a certain age.
what you don’t fess up to is how thoughts of your last conversation with jack have kept you completely preoccupied through the rest of the weekend. they don’t need the details of that, though you feel like you’re suddenly hiding something.
you don’t like that feeling, either. hiding something usually means you’re doing something wrong, which can have brutal consequences if you’re not careful. and you don’t know if what you’re doing is wrong or not, though your moral guide is usually much sharper than this.
the truth is that jack abbot makes your head spin.
you feel suddenly breathless when he turns towards you to quietly ask you a question—usually revealing that he already knows something about you that you’ve been trying so hard to keep hidden. you’re close to lightheaded when he brings you your daily coffee. you get dizzy when you think about someone seeing, someone noticing what’s going on between you and the attending.
because that is wrong. you can’t justify that. attending-intern relationships are strictly frowned upon—you know this because they made you sit through a seminar at orientation with all the other first-years.
you also know this because you’re not that much of an idiot. you’ve watched the steamy doctor tv-shows. you’ve even lived it these last few months, when you overhear nurses gossiping about some resident upstairs who fell for the married attending.
john and ellis are still talking about something you can’t pay attention to when your heart starts racing. you think of how it might feel to be the intern that everyone’s talking about, for everyone to know that you have feelings for jack—
shit, you think. his name is dr. abbot. dr. abbot, your attending, not jack, the guy who seems to know you better than you know yourself.
dr. abbot, dr. abbot, dr. abbot—
you conclude that you’d have to find a new job. you remember how overwhelming and scary the process had been to find this job, but you think there could be nothing worse than leaving right now.
you’d just began making progress again—the good kind, that makes you excited over small victories, and has you less and less nervous with each shift that you complete. co-residents that you feel comfortable with, that you can approach with questions easily. nurses that you can make silly jokes with.
you feel like more and more of yourself is coming back with each night shift.
(you have to ignore why exactly that is, just to stomach the thought.)
you can’t possibly mess it up now, you decide, taking the ipad from parker and visiting your first patient of the evening for an evaluation of a burn.
you repeat it to yourself while you debride the wound—you can’t mess this up when you finally have something to lose. you remind yourself of it when you finish up with the patient, trying to find john instead of dr. abbot to report back to.
you almost zone out to your thoughts while bridget asks you about your friend from this weekend when she comes to help you with the discharge papers.
and you keep it going for as long as you can, doubling down even more when you hear gossipy chatter coming from somewhere behind you as you try to type up your charts during a brief lull.
you can barely deal with everyone knowing that you couldn’t handle the day shift anymore, much less the fact that you’re falling in love with your—
“hey, kid,” he says, and you look up so quickly that you feel your head rush. “you okay?”
the strength that was holding what little resolve you had melts down like ice cream in the sun. jack abbot, six hours into a busy shift, checking in on you during what’s likely his first opportunity all night to sit down.
“i’m okay,” you reply quietly, trying to move your eyes back to your computer. “just working on these notes. do you have a patient for me?”
you try to change the topic, hoping he’ll do that thing he always does, read your mind before you’ve even fully spelled out the thought yourself.
we can’t be something that people gossip about at two am, we can’t, we can’t, i can’t—
“not yet.”
jack leans against the counter, forearms set up right near the edge of your monitor. your eyes move between the screen and his arms quickly. if you look for too long you’ll start staring at his freckles, and you definitely don’t want that.
“i just wanted to ask, uh, how-”
“oh,” you breathe, interrupting him, even though you know you shouldn’t. you know what he’s about to ask. “she’s fine now. feeling a lot better. i talked to her this morning, so…” you drift off and blink at him, trying to regain your focus.
it’s just so hard when he’s around you.
“oh. that’s good,” jack says, with a small smile that makes your heart thump loudly in your chest. “but i was going to ask how you’re doing?”
you think that you must look like a confused fish right now—your mouth parts, your eyes widen, and you keep staring at him until you snap out of it. jack smiles like something’s funny about this, like it’s amusing that he turns your brain into a puddle of nothing with a few simple words.
you keep blinking, while a million thoughts run through your head. you’re so hardwired to worry about other people that you didn’t, for a moment, assume that jack was going to ask about you.
and you’re so afraid of your own anxiety and the thought that you might be doing something to make your own life harder, that you spent a whole half-shift away from the one person that seems to have a knack for finding your off-switch.
“uh… kid?” jack questions, tilting his head in a mix of confusion and concern.
“yeah?” you reply, the sound of your heart thumping in your ears. it’s getting louder with each passing second.
“how are you doing?”
you breathe out and the sounds of the emergency department return all at once. monitors and the ceaseless chatter and even your foot tapping against the floor.
“i’m okay,” you answer, and for once, you’re being truthful. “really.”
“good,” jack replies, and for a moment, you stare up at him, wondering if he’ll say anything else.
the truth is that jack doesn’t need so many words to understand you. he stays like that for a moment, watching your shy smile and deciding that this time, he does believe you.
why you thought he’d be asking about your friend is beyond him. jack knows you took care of her even after you’d left the hospital that night. he has no doubts about that, not with the way you care and worry so deeply.
for a moment he lets his mind drift off and wonder how it might feel to be on the receiving side of it.
“uh… dr. abbot?” you question hesitantly.
“yes?”
“i just wanted to say-”
“hey, abbot, just got a call about a multi-car pile up on the bridge. three incomings, five minutes out-” the shout comes from half way across the room. both of your heads turn immediately towards the nurse. you watch as john and parker move quickly on their feet towards the ambulance bay, and you even steady your hand on the counter, rising on your feet instinctively.
jack says something back and turns to look at you. he takes a step closer.
“you don’t have to help if you’re not ready,” he says, locking eyes with yours again.
the truth is you don’t know if you’ll ever be completely ready.
but you feel compelled to follow him, to help him for once, help the others, instead of being the one relying on help and strategic timing and praying for one less ambulance.
“i-i’m ready,” you say, and once your feet start moving, they don’t stop. you follow jack to the ambulance bay, pulling out a yellow gown and blue gloves for yourself.
if parker and john are surprised, they don’t say anything. they head outside first and while you quickly tug on the gown, you feel him standing behind you. jack ties the strings behind your neck and waist. warmth radiates from his touch and would make you a little feverish if you weren’t so anxiously awaiting the incoming.
you half expect him to say something about it being okay if you need to leave or tap out, because you know, even now, what he must think of you. you’re still figuring out your trauma skills and this is the equivalent of being thrown into the deep end, and still—
every time you think you know what jack abbot is going to say to you, you end up surprised.
“if you need something, just let me know, okay?” jack says quietly, and you find yourself nodding.
he doesn’t seem like he’s doubting your abilities. he doesn’t seem like he’s worried that you’ll run out in the middle of the trauma or freeze up to the point that you’re politely asked to leave, like you had during the day shift.
it seems like, to the best of your discernment, that jack believes in you. he thinks you can do this and you don’t want to prove him wrong.
you and jack follow parker and john outside, and as the sound of the ambulance sirens gets nearer, your hand creeps towards your neck. but when jack meets your eyes again, you feel it fall somewhere by your side.
it must be silly, the way it feels around him. the noise of the sirens is dimmed. the voice in your head quiets down enough for you to hear and process your own thoughts.
that’s exactly what happens. you end up on opposite sides of the patient, a woman who looks only a few years older than you. so far she’s got broken ribs from the airbag and a fractured leg. your job is on the e-fast, and you go through the views, glancing up at jack and parker for confirmation while you state your findings.
you shift over to the other lung when you see it on the monitor, a black area that makes you stop in your tracks.
“there’s a huge hemothorax on the left-” you start, adjusting your probe to get a clearer view.
“she can thank the airbag for that,” john comments. someone had read the vitals out just a few minutes ago, and you find yourself wondering how she’s still stable with this much fluid in her chest. a nurse pokes her head into the room, telling them that parker needs help, and john leaves, telling jack he’s got it.
the thought comes up and around your head quickly—you don’t know everything. another one, more quietly—leave it to the real adults, you’re just an intern.
but today is not the day to listen.
because you’re not afraid of being wrong around him. because there’s no punishment for you if you say the wrong thing. there’s no one coming to drag you away. just the soft hazel of jack’s reassuring gaze on you.
“i think we need to intubate, because-” you’re interrupted by the blare of the monitor. another nurse reads off the vitals, her oxygen tanking quickly, and you watch as they bring the ambu bag to her face.
“good call,” jack says to you. “c’mon, kid. you up for it?”
you nod.
you’ve intubated before—a few trauma patients and the dummy in the skills lab pop into your mind immediately—but this seems a little different. you position the scope into the patient’s mouth while the nurse pulls the et tube from a drawer for you.
and it’s almost like muscle memory. the patient’s head is tilted back, you move the tongue, and just as you’re holding the tube in your hand, scope heavy in your other one, getting ready to insert it, you freeze.
it seems like an eternity. the tube in your hand is moving in slow-motion, but your mind locks up. there’s a million thoughts in a second—starting and ending with the last time you intubated someone.
it was a young girl from pittfest and though you’d thought she was stable, she wasn’t. you’d also thought you could do it, but just like then, you’d frozen up for a moment. that day, luckily, mel had been walking by and helped you. luckily, they got her up to surgery in time.
but it wasn’t because of you. you had almost failed her.
and you’d thought that some other day you’d be alone, without anyone to help, and you’d have to figure it out by yourself, and you’d fail.
you’d fail yourself. fail your patient. let that poor girl die or get irreparable brain damage from hypoxia because you weren’t fast enough.
they tell you that in emergency medicine, the difference between life and death is a matter of seconds.
and this does take a second—one, maybe two—to think and process. to debate—flight or fight? which one will you step up to today?
and then one glance at jack standing next to you, looking at you intently, but not with concern, not with fear or worry, but rather something closer to trust. waiting for you to keep going. the safety net that he provides feels like a catch-all that could protect you through anything and everything.
you extend the neck further until you’ve got a straight shot down to the vocal cords. the tube glides in and by the time you secure the bag and check the end-tidal, the surgery team in rolling in to pick up where you and jack left off.
another head pokes in—bridget, telling jack that john and parker need him, and he looks back at you quickly.
he says good job, kid, and leaves, and you stay there, a little stunned at yourself, filling in the gaps for the surgeons, answering questions and watching as they work quickly, seeing where you can help.
in that moment, there’s no time to overanalyze everything. you work as quickly as you can to do the best you can for your patient. you don’t stop to think that you’re doing the wrong thing, that judgemental eyes will cast down on you if you take an extra second to think about your answer.
it comes back like a soreness, the good kind, like a muscle you’ve been neglecting to train.
by the time she’s been wheeled up to surgery, you take a breath and slump your shoulders. one of the nurses is on the phone, calling the patient’s emergency contact number, but you ask if you can do it instead.
you call her parents, leaning against the wall while you tell them that she was in an accident and was brought to ptmc, and that she has a few broken bones, one of which punctured her lung. you tell them that the team was able to stabilize her and get her up to surgery, and the relief in their voice, and the feeling that you helped contribute to saving her, gives you a rush unequal to anything you’ve ever felt.
it’s almost strange, feeling adrenaline rush through you and causing this sort of reaction. usually it’s coated in anxiety, sticking to every thought inside of you, resulting in thoughts that you try to shove down and away.
today it’s a high. one that will likely only last a little while longer—there’s head lacs and chest pains waiting to be seen, and they don’t care that you were saving that girl’s life, just that you took so long to see them, and you’ll have to calm your beating heart when you start stitching people up, but for now—
for now, you want to find jack and thank him for believing in you.
there were three gurneys that came from the accident on the bridge. your patient is wheeled upstairs, another gurney is parked by the nearest curtain, with the night shift nurse practitioner whose name you still don’t know suturing their wound.
and the last gurney is in the other trauma room, parallel to the one you’d been in. you peak in, but whatever excitement had been in your body dissipates as quickly as it had seeped in.
jack is doing compressions, covered in a sheen of sweat you can see from the window. but from the way john and parker look at each other, there was no reason to keep going.
you step away from the glass, wanting to give them privacy. it’s entirely unfair—you get to feel good about your save, only for the universe to take that feeling away from jack and john and parker.
it’s almost an hour later that you see him. parker had come by and you’d given her the update on your next two patients.
“so, how was it? back on traumas?” she asks, and you smile, but wish you hadn’t.
“reminded me why i’m doing this,” you answer sincerely. “i’m sorry about your patient, though. can i do anything?”
“no, but thanks. his family should be here soon.”
“do you want me to-”
“nah, don’t worry. we’ll work on these discharges. abbot will want to speak to them himself.”
you swallow uncomfortably.
“yeah, of course.” you pause, tiptoeing the line between professional and self-serving. “do you know where he is?”
“if i had to guess, the roof.”
“w-why would he be on the roof?”
“uh,” parker starts, trailing off. you look at her with a quizzical expression, but before she can meet your eye, she’s looking somewhere in the distance behind you. her face changes too—into an expression of surprise. “to get some air. but forget i said that. he’s over there. and i think he’s looking for you.”
“me? uh-” parker doesn’t wait for your answer, taking off towards the curtains.
when you turn around, jack is walking towards you with your yellow mug in his hand.
“oh. thank you, dr. abbot,” you say, as he sets down the cup.
jack is mostly a mystery to you. you know him through bits and pieces, you think, through how he treats you and how he is with the others. he makes silly, stupid jokes and always reminds the residents to eat when they can. he’ll take over any trauma if it’s getting to be too much for one of you.
and he never fails to make you the perfect cup of coffee. sweet and much too delicious for regular hospital brew, though he has managed to perfect it. it can’t even compare to the cups you used to make hurriedly in between one and two during the day shift.
you’re sure that this cup will prove to be no different. you take a sip, feeling the warmth rush all over you, and when you meet jack’s eyes, you know it’ll turn from warm to hot, like always. his stare is as intense as they come, right now during the lull between patients and in the trauma rooms like you were earlier.
intense. in a way that you have gotten way too familiar with.
but when you look up to meet his eyes, they don’t seem that way.
jack looks, maybe for the first time, the closest you’ve ever seen to sad.
and it’s heartbreaking. for someone that you know through bits and pieces, it pulls at your heartstrings immediately. there’s no smirking smile, no reminder for you to sit and drink your coffee and work on your notes or take a break.
you don’t actually remember when or where you’d heard it. something about your attendings—robby and abbot—and the roof and getting some air after a bad patient. you hadn’t understood it at the time, mostly confused, thinking if they needed air, they should go out to the ambulance bay. there’s a tiny bench by the side of the wall, hidden from plain sight, and when you used to go and sit there and cover your ears, you should have understood what they meant about the roof.
but he didn’t go to the roof today. he went to make you a cup of coffee instead.
something hot and smoldering burns inside your chest at the thought. you want to say something, say the perfect thing, the thing that makes him feel better and makes him laugh and makes the horrible, aching feeling of losing a patient go away, even if it’s just for a few heartbeats.
but you’ve never been good at that sort of thing. that’s jack’s job.
“you’re not okay, are you?”
the words come out softly. too soft to be spoken to your battle-hardened attending. there’s just the two of you by the desks at central, everyone else running around or looking for a caffeine fix. but suddenly, it feels like the entire hospital is empty.
“don’t worry about me, kid,” jack replies quietly, and you feel your heart sink. “i’ll be fine.”
he won’t be fine. this is the sort of pain that gnaws at you for a while, keeps working until it’s through the skin and down to the bone. jack will move on and treat fifteen other patients before sunrise but when he goes home, he’ll think about the one he couldn’t save.
that’s always how it is. you know it firsthand.
and maybe for the first time, you think there’s not that many differences between you and jack abbot.
and he—well, he always takes care of you. always. in the room with the trauma. with the patient who harassed you. with your own emotions that are always battling against you.
maybe it’s your turn to prove to him, show him that you can take care of him too—
jack turns to leave, about to pick up his hand from where it rests near your cup, but you move faster than he does, putting your hand over his. he turns back around slowly.
“kid, i-”
“i know,” you say quickly, not wanting him to finish his sentence. “i know. but i can’t just let you be sad all by yourself. you never let me be sad by myself.”
“i’m not sad,” jack starts, taking a step back towards you. your hand burns where you touch his rough, warm skin. “i’m… i don’t have a word for what i am.”
how silly, you think to yourself, that a few hours ago you were worried about you and jack abbot becoming hospital gossip. it seems so small and inconsequential now, when you look into his pensive, pretty hazel eyes.
you’re holding your attending’s hands while you talk about the patient he lost. this isn’t just hospital gossip, it’d be front page news if one of the blabbermouths saw the two of you. but it’s so hard to care.
so hard to even think about that when you know what he’s feeling. hard to process that your all-knowing, all-seeing attending, who can discern your feelings from across the room, might be going through something just like you right now.
that you might be the only person here today that could help him through this. that you might be the reason he didn’t go to the roof.
“it’s okay,” you say, supplying words that he’s told you before. “you don’t have to know what it is. i don’t either, sometimes. but, you’re not alone. whatever you’re feeling. i feel it too.”
“you don’t have to,” he says, with a sad, quiet laugh. “you did great tonight. you saved your patient.”
“but i want to.” the words slip out before you can stop them.
“kid, i-” you interrupt him before he can finish.
“it’s not about being happy or sad. you’ve helped me every single time i needed it. why can’t i help you when you need it?”
jack pauses, his intense gaze boring into your eyes. then he looks down at your yellow mug, and looks back at where your hands are touching each other.
“you already did.”
“because you didn’t go to the roof?” you ask, biting your cheek.
it might be too bold, but you feel like you have to know, feel like there’s an answer that’ll make your head spin.
and jack thinks it too, keeping the thought in his grip tightly.
something about how when jack feels like this, he doesn’t want to go to the roof for air.
he goes and does the one thing that gives him an excuse to see you.
you, with the uncanny ability to make him think twice about his feelings. you, that he’s looked at for weeks, and wondered why you doubt yourself, why you feel like this, like he used to, when he’s there to help you through it. and so caught up in those emotions, he forgot that at the core of all of this, is the way you think about everyone and everything in this hospital.
think about what others are feeling, what others are thinking. what they’re doing and why they’re doing it. the overthinking intern that he wanted to coax into trusting your gut and calming your fears, while almost forgetting that it’s also your biggest strength.
you can see through jack in an instant. you see the worry and the pain underneath—the urge to take care of everyone stemming from a need to fix what he can, to make sure that the things he does have control over are taken care of. how uncertain it can feel when the things you thought you had control over fail you. when a patient doesn’t come back even though you did everything you could.
“because i didn’t go to the roof,” jack replies.
“if it’s worth anything,” you start quietly, eyes fixed on your overlapping hands, “i’m glad you didn’t. i… i don’t know what i’d do if you went to the roof.”
“you’d figure it out, kid.”
“maybe,” you reply, reflecting his sad smile back at him. your hand feels like it’s holding his a little tighter. “but i sure don’t want to find out.”
you use your other hand to take another drink, setting the cup closer to him. jack picks it up and takes a sip.
and he turns and leaves, going towards the viewing room and waiting for the family—a wife and two young kids. you stay there and finish your notes.
and until seven am, the two of you don’t stop thinking about each other.
𝜗ৎ
robby finds jack at six-fifty am on a wednesday morning. the shift was no different than any other, though he has a harder time remembering the patients and the traumas now than he ever has before.
jack skims through his memories and picks up a few easily—the cup of coffee he made you at midnight. the way you took a sip and then offered him one. he drank it, even though it’s insanely sweet compared to the way he takes his—just plain black. he remembers bringing you a protein bar at three, your sweet smile followed by a yawn, and the faded purple of your underscrub today.
“jack?” robby asks, and he blinks.
“uh, yeah? sorry. lost my train of thought.”
“no problem,” robby says, more confused than suspicious. “was your shift okay?”
it’s a harmless question which also carries the weight of a freight train. okay is relative these days, jack thinks, because there’s a bias forcing him to think he’s okay, even when he’s not.
or rather—making him think he will be okay, even if he’s not right now. you sit next to him for thirty seconds and talk to him in a soft, gentle voice like no one else should be allowed to hear what the two of you are saying.
and then you smile at him with reassurance, something you’ve had to work on since he got you here. it’ll be okay. we’ll be okay.
“it was okay,” jack answers. “what’s up?” he stretches his neck, trying to see where you’ve gone off to. you had helped him with the last incoming car accident at six, who is currently stable and waiting in trauma two for surgery. you had done the e-fast, intubated, found a pouch of free fluid and two broken ribs.
and he found himself smiling on the way out, telling you good job, teasing you without meaning to. you feel warm and don’t say anything but you don’t stop smiling either.
you’re smiling now, talking to king and kwon about your sign-offs.
it wasn’t even that long ago, he thinks, maybe yesterday or the day before. joy had come up to him around seven, groaning as she handed him the tablet he was searching for.
“get me out of here,” joy had said, and jack had looked at her with his usual, confused expression. her gaze is focused somewhere across the room, and when he looks to see what she’s looking at, jack finds himself smiling.
you. you’re talking to the new nurse—emma, he thinks—smiling and laughing with her. the two of you were wearing the same flower-patterned underscrub.
“what?” jack asks, and joy tears her eyes away from the two of you (mostly emma, he surmises), before groaning again.
“dr. bambi and nurse thumper. i didn’t realize i was working at the woodland animal clinic.”
he turns back to look at you, finding himself agreeing with that assessment. dr. bambi can’t be the worst nickname he’s thought secretly in his head before. the others aren’t nearly work-appropriate.
“be nice,” jack says, though he knows joy doesn’t mean it like that. he beats around the bush—the two of them are two idiots in a pod, staring at that coworker they’re not supposed to be staring at.
“now those two could have saved bambi’s mother, i’m sure.”
jack snorts. even looking at you now, the memory feels fresh. dr. bambi—
robby clears his throat.
“uh, well, i’ve been thinking maybe it’s time to bring her back to days. what’d you say?”
jack whips his head back.
“what? she just got here-”
“it’s been almost a month. and it seems like she’s doing great. i mean, i’m noticing a big change. haven’t you?”
fuck.
something in jack stirs, a sad, ugly thing that rears its head. he wants to lie, instantly, for purely selfish reasons. to keep you by his side a little longer, to protect the little bubble the two of you work inside of. a bubble made of late night coffee and early morning smiles and taking care of each other without really trying that hard.
it’s always been easy for him, he thinks, to try and take care of you. he’s only just begun to realize that it might be easy for you too, to take care of him.
and he’s selfish, he wants to keep you there forever. if not just for him—
he wants you where he can see you, can reassure you, can make sure you don’t go back to that place he just snuck you out of—full of doubt and fear and anxiety.
but it is for him, at the same time. you push away thoughts that he once felt he could never escape from. teaching you a new procedure or complimenting your work gives him a rush unequal to anything else—your grateful smile is just one part of it.
he has been beating around the bush with it, taking his time, trying to protect you, protect this, whatever this is, not rushing things and regretting anything.
but now—
he can’t lie.
lying would mean… saying that you’re not ready to leave. that you haven’t improved, that there hasn’t been any changes. that you’re not incredibly smart and competent, that you just needed a little push and a little encouragement and the safe space that jack abbot’s night shift team seems to provide you.
lying would hurt you. impact your education. if you found out that he said those things, things that he didn’t even believe, well, he might not be able to forgive himself.
he stares at robby, head swirling between the two ideas, wondering how, if at all, he can get out of this conversation. he briefly considers telling robby he’ll tell him later but right now he’s going upstairs, but robby’ll just follow him.
and you—well, you’ll follow him too.
“yeah. big change,” jack says, the words feeling painful to get out.
get it together. she’s your intern. this is a good thing.
right?
“al-right, then. maybe starting up at the end of the week? friday morning? i can go talk to her before-”
“no, uh, i’ll talk to her. i got it,” jack says, and robby’s expression is more suspicion than confusion now, but he doesn’t notice.
and you feel it before you hear it—the noise of thunder outside, the strike of lightning. you’ve already had one car accident today because of the wet, slippery roads and heavy rain, and you’re sure it’ll only be worse as the day goes on.
you’re grateful again for the night shift, because now you get to go home and fall asleep to the rain.
(fall asleep and dream, because all you’ve been doing recently is dreaming. about your attending, about his kind words and actions and big hands that make your yellow mug look so incredibly small.)
you say goodbye to parker and john, watching as they disappear with their umbrellas to the parking garage. you usually walk to the bus stop, but you stand by the door, waiting for him.
for jack. it’s something of an unspoken routine—you wait for the other. he walks towards his car, and you walk towards the street, and you don’t say anything besides get some rest, dr. abbot, and he replies with, you too, kid.
and that’s it—but it’s after every single night. and you’ve always been a creature of habit, so you wait, thinking he’s running a bit late.
you stare at the rain—too heavy to brave it without any backup. you look through your bag for your umbrella, but it’s nowhere to be found. it would be obvious—it’s yellow, like your mug.
you must have left it at home.
you unlock your phone, trying to find the rideshare app, scrolling when—
“hey, kid.”
“oh,” you breathe, your heart thudding in your chest, turning to face him. “hi.”
“i need to talk to you about something. it’s-” jack’s eyes flick towards your screen for a moment. “what’s that?”
“i, uh… forgot my umbrella,” you admit sheepishly. “and i didn’t want to get soaked walking to the bus stop, so-”
“you forgot your umbrella?” he questions, raising an eyebrow.
you think a few weeks ago your face would burn at the line of questioning. silly mistake from a silly intern. now you know that everything jack says to you has an automatic layer of concern on top of it.
it still makes your face burn a little bit, though.
“well, i-i didn’t realize it would be raining when we left.”
we. you shouldn’t have said that—it’s not even really the truth. you and jack leaving together every shift is not a promised thing.
it’s just a coincidence, you try to convince yourself.
you hope he doesn’t notice, and you start chewing on your cheek at the idea that may he does—of course he does—your hand coming to toy with your necklace when he responds.
“i can bring you home, kid,” he says, his hazel eyes staring at you with a different kind of intensity than you’re used to.
he looks almost… wistful.
you try to dismiss the thought—why would jack be wistful about driving you home? you’d be a filthy liar if you hadn’t imagined what it might be like to sit in the passenger seat of his truck, to listen to the music he likes, to watch his arms and hands while he—
“that’s okay, dr. abbot,” you respond before you completely give yourself away. “i can just call the-”
jack sighs, smiling a little, like he’s trying to hide it from you. but it’s not what his smile is usually like—sweet and amused like he’s watching a fawn walk on legs for the first time and resisting the urge to swoop in and help.
it’s something you can’t quite place.
“c’mon. truck’s over here,” he says, and you drop the challenge immediately. you follow him out, through the door that you never go through, the one that you watch him disappear past every day when you leave for the bus stop.
and stupid as it is, when you walk towards the passenger side of his truck, you notice that he’s following you instead of going to the driver’s side.
“oh. um, do you-?” you get out, a little confused.
jack steps in front of you, opening the door.
“oh. thank you.”
“you’re welcome, kid,” he says. you take a seat and he shuts the door, pausing for a moment outside the window while you put your seatbelt on. you meet his eyes through the glass for half of a heartbeat before he walks away.
when he takes his seat and puts on his seatbelt, you realize you’re terrible at this.
“are you okay?” you ask, staring at him.
it’s gloomy outside and the sky is painted in gray and white, the heavy rain making everything a little damp and slow. including your brain.
but you can’t help it. something seems off about jack today and you need to know what before it drives you crazy.
normally, you imagine you’d be beside yourself at the idea of sitting in his truck and soaking in the feeling of knowing that he’d drive you home even when it’s out of his way, but you can’t think of that when there’s something he’s not telling you.
“i’m fine, kid,” he says, and you don’t believe him for one second.
you decide to be bold.
you take your hand and put it over his, and he turns to look at you. you think this is what it feels like to melt. jack’s eyes reveal whatever he doesn’t want to tell you, and you feel your heart start to beat faster.
“what is it? it’s okay. you can tell me,” you say, starting to get nervous.
his skin feels warm where you’re touching it, realizing this is twice in a week that you’ve held jack abbot’s hands in your own.
the thought is… grounding. like there’s nothing that could be so bad as long as you have him with you to help you get through it. you think stupidly that you could do anything if you had him with you.
you had already done everything with him beside you.
“kid, i…” jack trails off, and your fingers twitch, rising for a moment, as though perhaps you’ve done the wrong thing.
oh god. had you completely misread this—was this something else entirely?
you thought being in his car meant you were a step closer to whatever it is that you want to be, whatever it is that the two of you won’t put into words or even coherent thoughts. it’s just the semblance of hope that hangs in the air, that maybe, somehow, someday, this might be more than just an attending and his intern.
had you misjudged him this badly? the thought lingers for a second, and you pick up your hand, bringing it back to your lap like a child who just got scolded for doing something wrong.
“i’m so sorry, i-”
“no, no, it’s not that,” jack starts, staring at you with those eyes again. he looks away, running a hand through his messy curls, and you watch, your heart dropping into your stomach. the light catches on his wedding ring.
“it’s okay. i-i can just walk home. we, um, we shouldn’t, if you don’t want to-”
“no, kid, it’s not that.” jack keeps his eyes focused on the dashboard, his hand tightening around the wheel. you watch the veins of his arms tense up. “robby, uh… robby wants you back on the day shift. i was trying to figure out how to tell you inside.”
oh.
you swallow uncomfortably, not sure if this is better or worse. your mind starts to spin, creating two alternating scenarios that start to fight with each other. robby wants you back on the day shift. you’ve finally done what you set out to do in the first place, earned your way back, gotten better at this job the way you’ve always wanted to—
but it’s only because of jack. his gentle guiding. the way he doesn’t stop believing in you even when you’re having a severe deficiency in that area. the way he makes you coffee that tastes perfect every time. the way he knows when you’re feeling anxious before you can even process—
“hey,” he says, and you blink, looking up at him. “what’re you thinking?”
“i… do you think i should go back?”
“i-,” he pauses, taking a breath. “i think you’re ready to. you’ve been doing great these last couple of shifts. it’s not about what i think though. it’s about how you feel.”
and the way jack says it, with so much sincerity that it’s practically dripping from him, makes your heart thud around in your chest. the blood rushes to your ears at the thought—no more night shift.
no more sleeping in until the afternoon. scheduling appointments during the day and not missing them when the day shift runs over. actually having time to finish your charting instead of staying behind until eight pm to catch up.
no more jack abbot.
the realization hits you squarely in the chest, getting hard to breathe like walls are closing in around you. it’s not that serious but it is that serious. you even try to justify it internally while jack looks at you with what can only be described as pure concern in his eyes.
you’re just scared—no more jack means having to face your shifts alone. the safety net would be gone, and it’s just as well—it’s not like you could have relied on him forever. robby’s a different type of mentor. he’s not going to walk you through your freeze-ups or notice when you’re playing with your necklace that it means you need a break.
no, robby couldn’t do any of that. nor, you think, is it his responsibility. his job is to run the emergency department and make sure that everyone inside is running too.
everything that has happened in the last month has been something special—something born of jack’s desire to take care of you, for whatever reason he had decided on.
you hadn’t asked and he hadn’t pushed, it had just come together the way it did. and it was nothing short of perfect.
and now, it’s over.
“yeah, of course,” you reply, hoping your face doesn’t completely give you away.
you take a deep breath and then release it, holding your hands firmly to your side. you don’t want to make it any easier for him to see through your lie.
“kid, you can take some time to think about it. it’s not an easy decision,” he says, and you turn your head to look at him, tearing your gaze away from your lap.
he’s got his elbow angled, leaning against the steering wheel. the tight, dark shirt he wears looks like it’s a size too small in the dim light of his car. or maybe you just feel that way because his arms look ready to tear right out of the fabric. his curls are mussed up where he ran his fingers through them, but the silver still reflects brightly.
and worst of all—his stupid eyes and his stupid smile. looking at you like they always do—filled with concern, like there’s nothing more important than making sure you’re okay.
you’ve denied it long enough, but now, with the very real possibility that this—whatever this is—is coming to an end, the thought doesn’t seem to leave you as easily as it has on other days.
“well i had to go back eventually, right?” you finally say, locking eyes with him again.
“yeah, kid. i guess so.” jack looks like he’s about to say something else, but you suppose he decides not to. he puts on his seatbelt instead, his hand moving to the gear stick. “c’mon kid. let’s get you home.”
𝜗ৎ
you tell jack your address, and just like you expected, he already knows where it is. you have to remind yourself that he’s been living in pittsburgh for most of your life, that the street signs and neighborhood names aren’t just words you throw around.
he’s probably got a memory in every street corner. a memory, you think sadly and a little selfishly, with his wife who isn’t here anymore.
you’re not the person who’s supposed to be seated in this passenger seat. you’re just the intern he’s a little too nice to at work.
and soon, you’ll be known as that girl who went back to the day shift.
you watch the black of his ring on his hand as he grips the steering wheel. he puts his arm around the headrest of your seat while he backs up, and he’s on the road after. you stare out the window, listening to the harsh, loud raindrops as they hit the roof of his truck.
his car is just what you expected. clean, though not in the way that would scare you off if he was a stranger. it feels weird to think, but his truck is almost… homey. there’s pieces of mail laying the console between the two of you. receipts tucked into the sun visor. dog tags, maybe intertwined with a necklace, hang from his rearview mirror.
and it smells like him.
you close your eyes for a moment, trying to soak it in. it’s your first and last time being in this car, being with him, if you’re really going to start the day shift again.
his truck has a cd player, something you might have commented on if it wasn’t for your current state of mind.
you’re too sad to think of something funny to say, so instead you lean against the headrest, listen to his beatles album, and watch the city waking up for the day.
it’s four, maybe five songs before jack says something.
“we’re almost there, kid. are you-” he stops himself, trailing off. “are you okay?”
“i’m okay,” you lie. “just thinking about it, i guess. it’ll be a big change. i was just getting used to the night shift, i think.”
it goes unsaid—i was just getting used to you.
“you’ve already seen it during the day. a lot longer than you did nights. it won’t take that long.”
“yeah. you’re right.”
“i think, uh…” your head perks up at his words, wondering if he’ll say what you think he’s about to say. “i think you’ll be just fine.”
“thanks, dr. abbot.”
when the car slows down, the rain sounds louder. jack pulls into the lot of your apartment complex, putting his truck into park.
you’re about to turn towards him, thinking of what you can say to make this feel different. to make it easier, but nothing comes to mind.
you’ll settle for whatever half-assed goodbye leaves your lips, when the heavy rain turns into a torrential downpour.
“oh god,” you say, without even realizing it. the rain is hitting his windshield so quickly that you can’t even see the brick of your building in front of you. “can you drive home in this?”
you turn towards jack, expecting him to be concerned about the shift in the weather. an annoying drizzle into the pittsburgh version of a monsoon. but when you look, he’s not looking outside. his eyes are on you.
“i’ll be fine.”
“maybe-” you start, a sudden surge of boldness overcoming your anxiety, for once, “you should wait it out. t-to be safe.”
“uh, kid, i-”
“you live across town, don’t you? i don’t think that’s safe. last thing you wanna do is end up back in the pitt at eight am.”
he chuckles at that, and you feel satisfaction bloom inside of you.
“um, i can make us tea, if you want?”
“oh,” jack says. “i was just going to wait it out in here.”
“oh,” you echo, feeling your entire face burn with heat. “sorry, sorry, i-”
“don’t apologize,” he interrupts. “i could… go for tea.”
“really?” you question, not sure if he’s trying to play into it to protect your embarrassed feelings from entering into utter humiliation.
“yeah, kid. i… love tea.”
(jack abbot does not love tea. he doesn’t even drink tea. the only thing he knows about tea is from when he makes you a cup of hot water on days where you’re too wired to have a cup of coffee. you keep little packets of the stuff with you and it’s always a new, odd color when he glances into your yellow mug.)
you end up on either side of your kitchen counter with jack abbot, tea lover. you’re both soaked, despite running to the door of your complex. his curls drip water onto the granite of the countertop, his shirt clinging to him as though it’s a second skin.
you feel cold. you’re in your damp underscrub, your scrub top thrown into your hamper. you bring him a towel for his hair and try to dry yours, before giving up entirely.
the only thing that might make you feel better is a long, hot shower once jack abbot leaves your apartment.
whenever that might be. in fifteen minutes, the rain hasn’t let up even once. you can hear it hitting the windows, the gusts of wind that sound scary, even from a few floors up.
you rub your arms as the kettle begins to whistle quietly. mugs, you tell yourself, opening your cupboard. you glance back to see jack drying his hair, his arms flexed as he stretches, and you look back to your significantly less interesting dishware with a dry mouth.
you put two mugs on the countertop, opening the drawer of your tea packet options.
“um, do you know what kind you want? i have a bunch,” you say, and he looks at you blankly.
fuck. maybe he shouldn’t have lied about the tea. he’s about to get caught red-handed, when you interject again.
“i have chamomile. it’s caffeine free, if that’s okay?” you ask politely, and he swallows hard, nodding.
“sounds good.”
you put the packets into the mug and pour hot water over them. jack glances around your apartment. the entire place is a testimony to you. it’s organized but comfortable, filled with clean clutter and warm colors. there’s a candle you’ve almost completely burned through on the countertop next to him, and enough books to fill a library on different shelves in your living room.
you hand him the mug and he can’t help but smile—
it’s yellow, a carbon copy of the one at the hospital. in your hands is a third duplicate, as you swish around the tea bag. he copies your motions.
“so,” he starts, a little stupidly, because he’s unsure of where the sentence is leading. “chamomile.”
“yeah,” you breathe. “they say chamomile is good for anxiety, so…”
there’s something else, a suppressed thought that you won’t let out hiding beneath the surface. jack’s determined to get it out before he leaves.
when you take a small sip, he does too. the drink isn’t half bad—he prefers the taste of black coffee, even if it’s decaf, but jack supposes he could get used to this too.
the second thought fills him quickly—there is no getting used to this.
this is about to end. this is the final act, the goodbye.
“kid, i-”
“no,” you interrupt, a little out of character. “don’t. i, um… this is hard enough for me as it is. i don’t do good with change. in fact, the only reason i even did good with this change is because of-”
you don’t finish your sentence.
“i just wanted to tell you that-” jack starts, but you don’t let him.
“i don’t think i wanna leave night shift,” you blurt out.
oh.
“that’s okay,” jack says, his voice trying to stay calm and steady. something burns inside of him though, smolders at your confession. it echoes his—i don’t want you to leave night shift.
“is it?” you ask, picking up your mug to take another drink. “because i’m pretty sure i’m not allowed to make calls like that. i mean, if robby wants me back, i have to go back, right?” your voice sounds pained, something he really, really doesn’t like.
jack takes his cup into his hand and moves a little closer to your side of the island. your mug looks comically small in his hands here too.
“if you’re not ready, then i’ll talk to robby. he’ll understand,” jack says. the liquid is still too hot to drink, but he does anyways, just to give him something to focus on besides your pretty, sad expression and wistful eyes.
“that’s the thing,” you finally confess, tears building up before you can stop them. “i am ready to go back. i just don’t want to.”
“kid,” jack breathes. “don’t cry. please, don’t cry-”
“i-i was trying to not think about it. about you. but it’s so hard,” you say, those tears that are much too familiar to him streaming down your cheeks. it’s no fair—you’re even pretty when you cry. “i’ve never felt like this before. it-it can’t be that wrong, can it?”
“it’s not wrong,” he says, taking a step to bridge the distance between the two of you. he puts his hand over yours, and your skin feels like it’s burning where the two of you touch.
jack swallows when your big, teary eyes turn to look at him again.
“i… i haven’t felt like this in a long, long time,” he admits, and you watch him with careful anticipation. “i just… it’s wrong but it’s not. when he asked me if you’re ready to come back, i almost lied. just so i could keep you with me a little longer-”
you don’t wait for jack to finish this time. you lean up to find his lips before your fear can stop you.
jack’s lips are soft, and his grown out scruff is scratchy against your soft skin. it’s hard to care, though, when he’s kissing you.
jack abbot is kissing you.
“oh my god,” you breathe against jack’s mouth, and he pulls away for a moment, his hands coming to cup the side of your face gently.
“what’s wrong?” he asks in that light, calm tone that drives you crazy. it’s barely above a whisper, his hazel eyes shining down on you. you’re so close that you can even make out the specks of brown—
you answer with another kiss, pressing your lips together again. your arms wrap around his neck, and his hands leave your face, wandering down to hold you firmly by your waist. his fingers sneak underneath the wet fabric of your shirt until he grips the bare skin of your hips.
you moan into the kiss. the feeling of jack’s hands on you is close to unreal. it’s everything you thought it would be and more, feeling how hot his mouth is, how deeply he kisses you. you don’t think you’re breathing but it’s hard to care, exactly.
you yelp into his mouth when you feel his hands on the globes of your ass. he hoists you up, placing you onto the countertop, your legs wrapping around his while he keeps kissing you.
your hands pull eagerly wherever you can—namely, his stupidly tight shirt. the two of you detach for a second, just to get the stupid thing off, which takes a moment since it’s melded onto his chest.
but once it’s off, you feel your body go a little weak and limp. jack’s shoulders seem even broader like this, his chest somehow wider, his arms somehow bigger. you can make out the veins that you’re always admiring in the shitty hospital fluorescents, where they start all the way to where they end.
it takes all of your power to not start tracing them.
you’re snapped out of the thought when you hear jack’s low, rumbling laugh and the way his chest vibrates with it.
“you’re laughing at me?” you ask, a little dumbly.
“you’re cute like this,” he says, leaning in close again, his shirt discarded on the ground. you bring the palm of your hand flat against his bare chest, soaking in how his skin feels against yours.
“cute like what?” you ask, but you don’t get an answer. jack leans in for another burning kiss, and your mind goes empty.
you grip his shoulder, finally feeling the muscles under your hand. they tense and flex as he keeps kissing you, and as he moves his mouth down to your neck, your nails leave little crescent shaped indents on his frecked skin.
that’s the other thing—he has so many freckles. they’re all over, hundreds more than you had expected. he must have spent all of his life shirtless in the sun, or something, you think, before it dissipates.
jack works his way to your collarbone, pressing a warm kiss there, over the metal of your necklace, and then another right on top of the pendant.
you sigh, your fingers tangling themselves in his wet hair. you don’t pull, rather enjoying the sensation of the strands while you follow his head wherever it leads.
he doesn’t go any further. you hold back a whine, letting go to lift your shirt off, when jack stops your hands from moving.
“what is it?” you ask impatiently. your lips are swollen and your eyes are blinking quickly at him. jack brings his fingers to your jaw, holding you in place gently.
“are you sure about this, kid?” you nod eagerly. “we can stop whenever you want. we don’t have to rush this-”
“stop talking,” you breathe, crashing your lips against his again. you’ve waited so long to do this—to kiss your attending, to be left breathless and flushed by him, that stopping it to talk seems so stupid.
jack’s hands go back to your hips as he keeps kissing you, swallowing your soft moans and whimpers as he explores your skin. finally he holds you in his grip, lifting you off the countertop while your legs tighten around his waist.
he carries you, leading into the open door of your bedroom, a yellow-walled room with gray curtains. he sets you gently on the bed, hovering over you, still not pulling away.
jack’s mouth is hot on yours, and you sigh into him, your hands resting on his chest again.
“jack,” you whimper, as you feel his hands tease around the hem of your shirt.
“easy, sweetheart. lift up for me,” he instructs quietly, and you comply. he peels off your underscrub and then your bra, working down until your scrub bottoms are the next thing to go.
you’re bare in front of him, just in your panties that you had no idea he would be seeing. you would have made a wiser choice, maybe, if you knew this was even your last shift with him, just in case, but—
“jesus christ, kid,” jack breathes, and you feel your stomach flip into a jumping jack over and over again. “you’re perfect.”
“stop talking,” you repeat, leaning up to catch jack’s mouth again. this time, his hands wander everywhere, exploring the miles of smooth skin he’s revealed, feeling as your body trembles under his touch.
you’re sensitive everywhere, he can tell, and he wonders how to explain to you that he needs to take his time with you. you don’t seem particularly patient right now.
he pulls away again.
“jack,” you whine, but he doesn’t pay attention this time. he starts kissing down the soft skin of your chest, working down until he’s at your stomach. he wants to take his time—tease your perfect, peaked nipples until you’re crying, kiss you all over until he’s memorized the taste of your damp skin.
you won’t let him right now, he knows, but the thought still lingers. he’ll have to choose his battles with you, and this is not one he wants to fight right now.
instead, he moves your hands into place for you, just like he knew you’d like. he arranges you until you’re squeezing your tits, fingers playing with your nipples while he stares at you.
open mouthed, gasping from pleasure, while he watches. and then, once he’s finally ready to look away, he rubs his nose against your clothed clit.
“jack—!” you cry out, thrashing up against him. he keeps one hand on your stomach to hold you down, his eyes glancing up to tell you not to stop, to keep going, like he told you.
you comply, going back to teasing your sensitive nipples while he thinks about what he’s going to do to you.
he places an open-mouthed kiss against your cunt, lapping at the wet spot that’s already formed there. you’ll cringe with heated shame, he knows, but he inhales deeply, soaking in the scent of your wetness.
there’s a thin piece of cotton separating him from what he really wants. he should really just slide it off, but it seems like too much work now, right when he’s got you exactly where he wants you.
you look down to see jack ripping your panties, tearing the fabric into two pieces, letting it fall somewhere on the floor of your bedroom.
“you’re doing so good, sweetheart.”
your head thuds against your pillow while you moan into the air.
“jack,” you beg, your legs beginning to shake. “please, jack, i-”
he doesn’t let you finish. jack dives in to lap against your leaking cunt, licking his way up and down until your moans fill the room.
your entire body spasms when you feel his mouth tighten around your clit.
“oh my god,” you cry out, fingers leaving your nipples to weave into jack’s hair. you keep them there, pulling his hair while you buck up against his tongue, feeling his nose nudge against your most sensitive parts—
until he stops.
“jack?” you breathe, your throat dry and scratchy. “what-”
he moves up slightly, just to take your hands out of his hair, and put them back on your chest, covering your tits again.
“oh,” you whisper. “i’m sorry, jack, i-”
“keep teasing your nipples for me,” he says, and your entire body feels like you’ve been lit on fire.
your attending is saying those words to you, an hour after the night shift got out.
it’s something out of your wildest dreams, jack’s head between your legs, licking at your cunt like a starved man, his thick fingers—the very ones that you’ve watched insert chest tubes and plug bullet holes and save lives—are prodding at your cunt.
it’s hard to think about when he plunges two wide fingers into your leaking hole. you moan so loud that you’re sure your neighbor can hear you, before your exhausted, horny brain supplies you with the fact that no one’s home right now.
everyone’s at work. another perk of the night shift.
you listen to jack, teasing your nipples until sparks of electricity are coursing through your entire body. jack thrusts his fingers in and out, timing it with the way he laps the flat of his tongue over your clit, teasing you and giving you everything you want at the same time. that familiar hot, burning coil tightens in your belly, feeling even stronger when you feel jack’s brute strength keeping your legs pried open.
no matter how hard you tried, you wouldn’t be able to overcome him and the thought is enough to make you cum instantly, though you resist.
it’s not until you feel it—feel him talking to you, or rather to your cunt, that you begin to truly lose control.
his lips vibrate around your clit, the words coming out low and soft. the obscene squelch of his fingers fucking you fills the room, and you think this is the wettest you’ve ever been—and he hasn’t even been inside of you yet.
“c’mon, kid. be a good girl for me. like you always are,” jack says, repeating the words until you feel the ground beneath to slip out from under you.
“oh god, jack, please, please can i come, please-”
“come on, sweetheart. come for me, come on,” jack encourages you, and everything goes white.
that tense feeling in your stomach tightens, and then gives out completely, snapping until the white-hot sensation rushes through your whole body.
and all you can think the entire time is that it’s jack abbot making you feel like this. the thought makes you sink into your bed, eyes fluttering shut, fingers going lax against his hair.
you feel boneless and tired when jack greets you with another soft kiss.
“hi,” you whisper.
“hi, kid,” he breathes. you smile before you can help it.
your eyes dip lower, looking at the waist of his scrubs. you can see the tent where he’s hard underneath, and your hands start to wander there, but jack stops you. he catches your wrist.
“what happened?” you ask, staring back at his pretty eyes.
“it’s okay. we don’t have to do anything-”
“but i want to,” you whine, looking determined. “don’t tell me after all of that you’re going to leave me hanging-”
he shuts you up this time, pressing a searing kiss to your swollen mouth. whatever you were saying turns into a sweet moan, one that he gladly swallows.
he listens intently, keen on remembering these noises forever. your hands stay pressed against his chest, your fingertips digging in around his pec.
when he pulls away to let you breathe, you sigh with contentment.
jack sits up, smiling at your wide, eager eyes as you stare at his every movement. he sets his feet against the rug of your bedroom floor, his hands moving down to pull on the hard shell of his prosthesis, tugging until it’s fully removed.
you slide closer to him, leaning against his back, your arms resting against his as you watch intensely.
“can i help?” you ask, your eyes moving to meet his, and jack releases a rush of air—a breath he didn’t realize he was holding in.
“no, kid, i got it,” he says, turning back once he takes off the liner. his pants are next, his hands fiddling with the belt and the zipper.
you smile eagerly, excitedly, but he notices it again—your fingers playing with that necklace again.
now he knows what that necklace feels like against his lips.
“are you sure about this?” he asks again.
in another world, maybe you’d think it’s because jack’s having doubts. but in this one, you know he doesn’t. he’s trying to make sure that you don’t.
“are you sure?” you repeat, bringing your bottom lip between your teeth and biting. jack hovers carefully over you, and you slink down into your sheets, until the two of you are lined up, bodies melting into each other.
“i haven’t done this in a while, kid,” he says, and you bite your cheek to hold back a laugh.
“that’s okay,” you whisper. “i’ll be gentle.”
you and jack both laugh, the quiet sound filling the space of your apartment. it feels unreal—jack hovering over you, his skin against yours, feeling the soft breath of his laugh against your neck.
you lean up, pressing a kiss to his nose.
“you don’t know how long i’ve thought about this,” you admit in the form of a whisper. the confession feels bold, especially for you, but it seems like there’s no better time for him to know.
maybe, you think selfishly, if you tell him he’ll move. do something, anything, than tease you like this, without even trying to.
the thought is striking. jack abbot is too good at taking care of you.
“yeah, kid?” jack says gruffly, and you feel your body shudder under him. he takes himself in his hand, stroking gently, and then roughly, and it’s all you can do not to moan out loud—
“yeah,” you breathe, continuing on. “i couldn’t decide how it would be. gentle or-”
“always gentle,” he interjects. the words are in the form of a moan. that feeling returns to your stomach, hot and tight and winding up again. “always gentle with you—”
jack prods the thick head of his dick to the entrance of your cunt, moving it slightly up and down to collect your wetness. your eyes snap shut, mouth falling open at the sensation—unlike anything you’ve ever felt before.
of course it is, you think dumbly. how could anything, any stupid toy or your own fingers compare to this?
you suck in a breath and it turns into a cry, one that comes out as jack’s name, as he pushes in just barely. even the tip stretches you open, a delicious, gentle burn that washes over your entire body. you feel it all over, your toes curling—
“jack, please, please-” you moan, not realizing that you had started begging.
he thrusts the full length of his dick into you, and your moan turns into a scream. you hold onto his arms like they’re a lifeline, your eyes snapping shut.
your ears are still ringing from when he made you cum all over his tongue. this doesn’t help matters. jack is speaking to you, saying quiet things that you’re sure would make you lose your mind, but you can’t hear it right now.
all you can think about is the stretch of him. it’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt before, and stupidly, you wonder how you were ever satisfied by his thick fingers.
he thrusts in and out, his hips brushing against yours with every turn. it’s all too much—the fullness and the way you feel him in your stomach and your chest and all over, your skin burning as his pace increases.
jack leans down to give you another kiss, hot and wet, and you finally hear whatever he’s been saying—
“you’re perfect,” he says, the words a stuttered, pleasured grunt. “you’re perfect for me-”
your eyes shut tightly, soaking in the words. you didn’t even have to tell him, you think dumbly, he just knew.
isn’t that what he’s always like? somehow, he always knows. whether in the hospital or your apartment or inside your very mind, at the core of your being—jack abbot knows.
you meet his mouth halfway, lips colliding as hot tears stream down your face. it’s all too much—the emotions that are lingering behind every word, how jack stretches you out, how he’s ruined you for anyone or anything else.
you don’t let him pull away from the kiss, demanding more while the pace of his hips gets faster and faster. the noise is just as obscene as you imagined—filling your room, the sound of your wetness and the scent of you and him combined in the air.
you pulse around him when he pulls away—murmuring more words of praise for you, making your stomach tighten and your cunt clench around him.
jack moves a little and you whine—he’s suddenly too far away for a kiss. but you can only linger on the thought for half a second, before you feel his rough fingers tracing circles on your overly sensitive clit again.
your legs jerk up, trying to kick against him, thrashing as much as you can from the position. jack’s body weight still holds you down, while he fucks in and out of you, his eyes singularly focused on where the two of you are combined.
“oh, jack—!” you cry out, the sensation of his fingers and his thickness suddenly too much.
“come on, sweetheart. be good for me,” jack says, and that’s all it seems to take.
he doesn’t stop even for a moment, working you through it while your entire body tries to jolt up.
it explodes through you, a match lighting a flame that leads to a brilliant, hot blaze that burns through you. it’s almost painful, how sensitive your entire body feels, your cries and moans reduced to a throaty breath, panting while you try to regain your senses.
the senses remind you that jack’s still fucking you, your sensitive cunt spasming around him, clamping down in a way that you didn’t know was possible.
“jack,” you repeat, the noise coming out as hiccup and a moan in one. he leans over you, bringing your lips together again. “jack, please-”
you beg, though you don’t know what you’re begging for. but just like always, you don’t have to say it for jack to know what you’re thinking.
your nails dig into flesh of his back and you feel it—jack’s hips start to stutter, and he buries his face in your neck. he says your name and over and over again, until it doesn’t even sound like a word anymore, and then—
“please, jack,” you beg. “i want to feel it-”
jack moans into your ear, his hips finally snapping almost painfully against yours, until you feel his body tremble. he finishes, hot spurts of cum filling you, making your eyes roll back in your head at the sensation.
you can’t help but giggle when you feel jack’s body weight sink on top of you. it’s only a moment before he moves, but you think you could have stayed like that forever.
he shifts the both of you until you’re nestled comfortably next to him, his thick arm wrapped around you, your eyes shutting again as he presses a kiss to your forehead.
the two of you stay like that for what feels like forever.
“i think it stopped raining,” jack says, and you sigh against him.
“can you stay?” you look up to meet his eyes. he doesn’t give you an answer just yet, pressing a warm, gentle kiss to your lips instead. you smile at him and he smiles back.
you lean your head against his chest.
“of course i can.”
“jack?” you ask quietly a few moments later, from your place in his arms.
summary: Every year, around the anniversary of his wife’s death, Jack starts slipping away from you piece by piece—and this time, the loneliness festering between you finally reaches a breaking point.
cw: angst, smut (mdni, 18+), arguments, misplaced jealousy, insecurities, discussions of death, jack's not doing great, a happy ending
smut warnings: the opening scene involves consensual sex with some internal conflict and hesitation from the reader. there’s no explicit refusal, but there are moments of discomfort and emotional tension, so please read with that in mind.
wc: 5k
a/n: I’m lying, this fic is 4.9k words. not beta read bc i don't want to
now playing: Renegade – Big Red Machine, Taylor Swift
You have loved Jack long enough to recognize the signs. The fleeting eye contact, the missed dinner reservations, the drifting—he turns into a ghost around this date, like he can’t wait to join the woman he truly yearns for in the afterlife.
Part of you is aware that he doesn’t mean to hurt your feelings, and that you are hardly being fair in your bitterness, but the jealousy comes and won’t go when you watch him sink into his melancholia.
You hold your breath and hope that the phase passes, as it always does, and that while it does, your soul stays intact. Despite the vicious covetousness that floods through your every vein, you want him to feel your support—you can’t begin to imagine what it feels like to have lost the love of your life. You only know what it feels like not to be the love of his life.
It’s the early morning, and for once, Jack isn’t coming from his night shift to immediately get himself shot with SWAT. You hear the front door close, then the soft thump of his shoes being placed in the cupboard. Only half asleep, you can picture his after-work routine: a full glass of water downed in one sip, a quick shower, and then a fresh pair of pajamas. Except for the change of clothes and the removal of his prosthetic, none of those things happen before he slips into bed.
His hands are cold when they find your waist, pulling you close to his chest. You wait for the kiss on your cheek that he usually bestows upon you to greet you, but it never comes.
“Hi,” you mumble, sleep sticking to your voice.
He hums a half-answer, not a single word actually discernible.
You’d blame it on a bad shift if the upcoming Friday wasn’t that date.
Jack moves a little, and his hands wander up from your side to cross in front of your chest. It’s harder to breathe like this, but you missed him so much you won’t complain.
Your nipples harden when his fingers brush over your breasts, and heat collects in your lower tummy, along with the slightest bit of discomfort. You would never say it out loud, but you’re terrified he’s imagining her right now.
He palms you through your camisole, his cool hands gentle but demanding.
It was one of the first things you noticed about him—how cold his hands always were. He had laughed when you told him and said he was a doctor, that that was just part of the job. And it stayed true to this day; whether he was holding your hand, passing you something, or burying his fingers deep inside you, his skin was always icy enough to make you shiver a little.
You want to speak up, say something to him, ask him about his day, but the only thing that makes it out of your mouth is a soft moan when he cups your breast and kneads it.
“Such a pretty sound, baby,” he whispers. His lips brush the outer shell of your ear, chasing goosebumps up and down your arms. His breath ghosts over your face, and your lashes flutter, fighting to stay open as Jack spins his webs of sweet comfort around you.
He spends so much time working you open and pliant for him—tugging and twisting your nipples until you are writhing right in his arms, desperation turning you into a whining mess. Only then does he move his fingers lower. They drift between the valley of your breasts, then over your belly button, until he meets the edge of your panties.
“Jack,” you gasp, his name more prayer than anything else.
He shushes you sweetly, then slips underneath your waistband. You’re warm and wet and gooey, like honey on the stove. His fingers drag through your folds, collecting your arousal that already drenches your underwear.
“Fuck,” he whispers, “So goddamn wet for me. Missed me that much, hm?”
He has no idea. How much you still miss him even now, while his pointer and middle finger circle your clit, the pressure just gentle enough to keep you eager.
“Jack—yeah, I-I did,” you manage to answer.
With his free hand, he finds your mouth. His thumb swipes across your bottom lip before he tugs it down a little. Your tongue darts out almost instinctively, and he uses that opportunity to press the pad of his finger against the wet muscle. When your lips close around his digit, he moans out loud.
The pressure in your mouth almost makes you gag, but with his fingers teasing your entrance, all you can think about is how badly you want him. You keep letting your tongue swirl around his finger, sucking him deeper into the hollow of your throat, while his middle and ring finger slip inside of you.
At first, the fullness is what you’ve been waiting for. Your warm walls stretch for him, accommodating the size of his digits that work their way in and out of you. But when he thrusts his fingers deeper into you, there’s a new coldness introduced, one you wish wouldn’t belong to him.
As he curls his fingers to meet your G-spot, you feel the hard metal of his wedding ring bite against your skin. It’s a sensation you’ve gotten used to, but today, it feels different—just another reminder that there was someone before you, someone Jack would give anything to have again.
Your jaw grows slack with his thumb still inside your mouth, and part of you wants to tap out, but the heat at the base of your spine grows tighter. The knot unravels as his fingers piston in and out of you, and you cum on his hand with a muffled cry.
Jack works you through your release until you are shaking from overstimulation and pushing his hands away.
“That was a good one, huh?” he mutters, and pulls his respective hand from your mouth and cunt.
You are still catching your breath as you nod, tears that won’t spill collecting on your waterline.
“Yeah,” you whisper.
Jack hugs you from behind, wrapping his big arms around your middle. You stare at the wall in front of you, waiting for that inherent feeling of sadness to pass.
“How was work?” you ask.
“Fine,” he answers, then presses a kiss to the back of your neck. “Less busy than usual.”
He clears his throat and tightens his arms around you.
“I’m really tired,” he declares softly.
You swallow hard, the spit in your mouth bitter.
“You should get some sleep then, my love,” you whisper, “I gotta get up soon anyway.”
--
You’ve learned to only ever cry in the shower when Jack gets like this. It wouldn’t be fair to him to unload your burdens and insecurities on him while he is grieving the life he could have lived.
As the warm water cascades down your back, and the suds of soap collect at your feet, you let the tears flow until you no longer feel like you are going to choke on them.
The lump in the back of your throat doesn’t exactly go away, but it eases. You breathe a little better, and the tightness in your chest feels more like a memory than an active threat.
Wrapped in a towel, you stand in front of the mirror and look at yourself. You might look worse than him—dark circles under your eyes, your lips dry and flaky. You pull on the dead skin with your teeth until you bleed, then put on moisturizer and get dressed.
Jack is asleep, or pretends to be, when you walk into the bedroom. His eyes are shut, his chest rises and falls softly. Your wet hair drips down the back of your neck and drenches your fresh blouse.
For a moment, you watch your boyfriend. He always looks younger in his sleep, but it is so obvious that this time of the year is tough on him. It’s not that you expect him to just be okay; you’re not that selfish. You simply wish that he would talk to you instead of acting like things were fine. But then again, one might say you are doing the same thing.
So you keep getting ready for the day and make yourself lunch while this large cloud of things left unsaid hangs over you.
Work passes by in a blur and drags on simultaneously. It’s a little after 5 pm when you come home, and Jack is up by then. You put your shoes in the cupboard and walk into the kitchen.
“Hi,” you greet him.
Jack turns to face you, a tender smile on his lips. He crosses the room slowly, then kisses you briefly.
“Hey,” he answers when he pulls away.
He smells freshly showered, and the tips of his hair are still a little wet.
As you lean against the counter, he fills up a glass of water and passes it to you.
“Drink up,” he says.
The gesture is sweet, but your skin crawls during the entire interaction. Everything feels so utterly performative and unreal that you almost wish he would leave for work early. The word ‘disassociation’ bounces around in your mind, just jumping out of reach every time you try to get a hold of it.
When you look at Jack, his face doesn’t mirror yours at all. He seems unaware of your emotional turmoil, as if he doesn’t take issue with the situation at all. His face might as well be blank.
Every day, you miss his smug smile, his cheeky remarks, and the way he loves to tease you. All those habits die down every time the date gets closer, and then it takes a few days afterwards until he builds up the courage to slip back into that persona.
Sometimes, you feel like you are being gaslit. Like you’re imagining all these issues, because he just won’t say or show that there is something wrong.
So you pour a little oil into the fire.
“Any plans for the weekend?” you ask. “I saw that you’re not working.”
His work schedule hangs on the fridge, this weekend being the only one blank for the entire month.
You watch as Jack freezes in his step, just for a moment, before he fills his mug with tea.
“Nope, not really,” he answers then. Lie.
“Yeah?” you go on, knowing that you’re treading the line, and leaning dangerously to one side.
“Yes,” he says, a little sharper than before. His fingers tap against the counter once, twice, before he looks out the window.
“Actually,” he continues, “Maybe I’ll visit the garage with Robby. Check out some bikes with him.” Lie.
“Oh,” you reply dumbly.
You watch as the tension builds in his shoulders, and you think you might have him now, but when he turns to face you, Jack is smiling.
“Yeah, don’t worry, sweetheart, I won’t start riding, too,” he vows quietly.
He holds your chin between his thumb and pointer finger, then kisses you again. There is not an ounce of feeling to it.
You smile weakly, and he accepts that.
The hour between your arrival from work and his parting for his shift, you spend in shared discomfort. You start cooking dinner and pack some of it for his ‘break’ that he won’t get, while he hovers in the kitchen like he is scared to leave you alone for too long, but not willing to talk to you either.
You’re incredibly thankful for the invention of music because you would have fled the house if Jack hadn’t turned on some jazzy playlist to cover the fact that neither one of you had anything to say to the other.
The second the clock strikes half past six, you pass Jack a Tupperware with his food, then kiss him goodbye.
“Have a good shift,” you mumble when you pull away.
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes as he answers, “Will try.”
The front door falls shut, and dinner tastes like ash.
--
On Thursday morning, things come to a boil.
Jack comes home from his shift, the look of death written all over his face. He barely even greets you before he walks straight to the bathroom and locks himself in there for thirty minutes.
You call in sick to work when you hear the water running but never catch him stepping into the bathtub.
Pure fear settles in your stomach, so you pace up and down in front of the bathroom. You know you should tell him you’re there for him and that he can talk to you, but you are too scared to spook him. Your nervous wandering turns into a slow trot before you slide down the bathroom door and sit there in silence.
It’s almost 10 am when you dare to call out his name.
“Jack?”
You hear a gasp and a soft thump, then his voice follows.
“Sweetheart? What- what are you doing here? Why aren’t you at work?”
The thick wood of the door makes him sound muffled, but you don’t miss his tone. Jack usually compartmentalizes well, even after a terrible shift, but right now, he sounds like rock bottom is close, and he is holding a shovel.
“I took the day off,” you reply.
He stays quiet for a moment. You picture him in the room, sitting on the edge of the bathtub or leaning over the sink with horror etched into his face, memories he’ll never shake replaying in his mind.
“Wish I had done that,” he murmurs then. The words are so quiet that you barely catch them, but you do.
You chew on your lip, trying to think of something to say, anything that might soothe his aching soul, but you can’t come up with anything. So you try the next best thing.
“Can you let me in?”
Your choice of words almost makes you laugh—after all, that is all you’ve wanted for the last few days.
The other side of the door stays quiet for a long while, and you almost give up hope. Until the lock clicks. You scramble to your feet just in time to meet Jack’s eyes. It breaks your heart to see him like this. Faint tear tracks glisten on his cheeks, wiped away hastily until his skin had reddened.
“My love…,” you mumble, and he looks away instantly.
“Just a bad shift,” he mutters, his eyes trained on the floor.
You shake your head and take his hand.
“It’s not just that, is it?”
You know the answer; you knew it before you even asked the question. Jack’s eyes find yours for a second, and your heart drops as you see his expression: there’s anger in his gaze. Just for a moment. Just a millisecond. It fades into sadness, the one you’d do anything to carry for him. But it was there long enough for you to see it. To read it. To file it away and have it gnawing at your already dwindling confidence until the end of your days.
But now is not the time for your worries and hurt feelings.
You pull yourself together and lead Jack out of the bathroom. After situating him on the bed, you bring him a fresh pair of sweatpants and a simple black shirt. You watch him change, watch how his skin is exposed and then covered again by cloth. The faint scars, from training and his time overseas, the ones you know by heart, are a little more noticeable today.
“Let’s get you into bed,” you whisper to Jack as you push back the blanket. He follows your request on autopilot, slipping underneath the covers. Seeing the blank stare, you almost wish he’d go back to being angry at you.
“Do you want to eat something, my love?” you ask.
He shakes his head.
“Can I keep you company?” you continue.
You hold your breath as you wait for his answer, and he takes his time. The vacant look in his eyes threatens to trigger tears in your own. His lips part once, twice, before he turns his head and looks away.
“I’d like that,” he mutters then.
His skin is cold beneath your fingers when you find your place next to him on the bed. Your palm comes to rest on his chest, feeling the sturdy beat below.
You take a deep breath and try to think of the best thing to say.
“I know tomorrow will be hard for you,” you begin.
Jack’s entire body tenses up, and his head whips to you, the first sign of life flashing across his face.
“Don’t,” he pleads. “Don’t talk about it.”
Your lips part, uncertainty making it impossible to think properly.
His eyebrows draw together as you struggle for the right answer, and you can almost hear his thoughts.
“Alright,” you whisper against your better judgment. “Just… just get some rest, honey.”
--
Friday morning, you wake up to an empty bed—not the way you’re used to. In the entirety of your relationship, you can practically count the days you woke up in Jack’s arms on both hands, but today, it’s a new loneliness that greets you as the sunlight filters in through the curtains.
His side on the mattress isn’t even warm anymore, and you wonder just how much time he had even spent asleep.
As you climb out of bed, you let your eyes drag through the room and find your favorite photo of all time. Your face is half hidden in it, mushed into Jack’s neck, your nose tickled by his slightly unkempt beard, but it is the happiest you’ve ever looked. You still remember the day as clear as if it had been yesterday.
It had been taken on your six-month anniversary, just you, Jack, and a small boat he barely knew how to commandeer.
As the salty sea water had sprayed your face with its cold droplets, you grinned at Jack, all smiles and teeth and pure unfiltered happiness.
He had wrapped his arms around you and whispered, “I love it when it’s just us.”
With his chest pressed against your back, you had stared out onto the sea, his warm lips pressing against your cheek.
“Me, too,” you had mumbled fondly.
Now, you wonder how much of that was still true today.
Back then, you had known that he was a widower but hadn’t known the date of his wife’s passing yet.
You know it’s wrong to be so jealous of a dead woman—and Jack would probably hate you if you knew just how much you despised her on some days.
But as your fingers drift over the cold, empty space in bed next to you, you allow yourself to wallow in your melancholy a little longer.
Selfishly, you think you wouldn’t want Jack to move on if you were to die. Of course, no part of you wished to see him sink into depression and utter loneliness as he’d mourn you, but your heart constricts at the idea of him finding love after your passing. You wonder if his wife had thought the same thing, or if she had been a much better person than you and hoped for his happiness—or if the thought hadn’t even crossed her mind at all.
The sound of the front door closing rips you out of your head. You run to the window overlooking your front yard just in time to catch Jack slamming his car door shut and driving off.
“Fuck,” you whisper to yourself.
You think of the past years, of all the anniversaries of her death during which you watched from the sidelines, breath bated.
On the first, you didn’t even know what was happening. Jack had hidden from you all day, keeping his head buried as he worked a double shift. When he came home, all 24 hours of her death day having already passed, he confessed to you what the date meant to him.
A year later, you thought you were prepared—you were wrong. You bought flowers and made soup and lasagna, the most comforting food you could think of. When Jack came home that morning (—this time around, you had convinced him not to work all day—), he ate a spoonful before he excused himself and cried in the bathroom. His sobs still echo through your head every now and then when the darkest, deepest part of your insecurities comes to life.
Eleven months after that, you made the biggest mistake to date. You tried to get Jack out of the city for that week. A booked hotel room, couple’s massages, and room service all went down the drain when you tried to surprise Jack with it. He hadn’t screamed at you—it might’ve hurt less if he had. Instead, he had only muttered that he couldn’t believe you’d think he’d want to do something like that on a day like this.
Which is why you didn’t come up with any plans this year.
But not doing anything at all feels worse than giving yourself to him as an outlet for his pain.
The day passes like chewing gum stretches. It expands and grows and keeps giving until you think it might snap, but it doesn’t. Solitude clings to you, burying itself in your bones—it practically settles in your lungs to the point where you’re not sure anymore whether you’re still breathing.
You wander around, fulfilling chores and taking care of things that need to be done, but you don’t remember any of it by the time the clock strikes seven pm.
Jack isn’t home.
You are.
He is chasing a ghost you’ll never be able to replace.
As you get into your car and drive, it’s an obvious guess where he is.
--
Wind chases goosebumps down your spine when you open the squeaky gate. Its metal looks old, the rust on its surface rough against your palm. The lush greenery all around surprises you—it’s too early in the year for the shrubs to have that color, but you understand the intention. No one wants to grieve their loved ones in a field of grey.
The graveyard looks well-kept, some of the graves more than others. Shame fills your chest as you catch yourself wondering how much money Jack might spend on the upkeep of his wife’s one per month.
It could be more than your rent, and she’d deserve every penny.
He is easy to spot. The silver hairs stand out, illuminated by the gentle evening sun just beginning to settle in for the night. He stands awkwardly, most of his weight shifted onto his left leg, and you feel your heart clench. It’s obvious that he is in pain.
You don’t know for sure whether he has been here all day, but you assume so as you walk up to him.
The bouquet you’re holding trembles in your hands. You take a deep breath before you come to a stop just a few meters shy of him.
You try to think of something to say, something clever or loving or maybe even funny.
“Hi,” is all you can manage.
Jack flinches—and you wish you hadn’t come. You almost wish he had never even met you.
Seconds that feel like hours pass where neither one of you speaks or moves. One of the petals of the chrysanthemum in your bouquet falls to the ground.
Jack’s mouth opens and closes twice, but not a single sound comes out.
“I…”
You stand there in front of him, feeling like a little kid caught up past their bedtime.
“I hope it’s okay that I came,” you mumble then.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he glances at the flowers in your hands and clenches his jaw.
“I’ll come home soon,” he murmurs.
His voice is rough from disuse, thick with tears unshed, or maybe they have been shed already, and he has run out.
Your heart sinks.
“You don’t have to,” you reply. “You- you can stay here. I can stay here with you.”
“No.”
His answer is final. It’s not cold or disapproving, just desperate—but so are you.
“Jack, please,” you beg. “Let me stay. Just… let me help you.”
He flinches as if you shot him. One hand raised uncomfortably, like he’s trying to keep you at bay, he stands there as still as a deer in headlights. You’re the car going ninety.
“My love, please,” you repeat, taking a step towards him. “I… Just talk to me. Tell me- tell me how you feel, or about her—”
“No,” he interrupts. “Jesus Christ, do you really think—”
He stops himself and shakes his head.
Your worst fears unhinge their jaws as they get ready to feast on you.
“Do I really think what?” you prompt bitterly. “Do I really think that I… that I deserve to know her? That I’m the one who could maybe help you a bit through this grief? I don’t know, Jack, you obviously don’t.”
His mouth falls open.
“What?” he croaks.
You shrug helplessly.
“You don’t want me here,” you reply.
“No, I don’t,” he replies. “But not… not because I think you don’t deserve to know her, but because… because you don’t deserve this weight on your shoulders. My grief—my fucking… never-ending grief…”
As his words drizzle out into uncertainty, you’re left to stare at him.
“I… I just don’t want you to see me like this and think… think that I…”
He shakes his head.
“That you want her instead of me,” you finish for him.
“That’s not the case,” he says sharply.
“Isn’t it?” you counter.
“No,” he hisses. “She’s gone, and there’s nothing I can do to bring her back. You’re here.”
“Yeah, but if you could—”
“But I can’t!”
His shoulders tremble as he fights to keep his voice down.
“She’ll never come back. Never.”
“But you’ll never stop loving her,” you whisper.
“How can I?” he snaps. “I… I vowed to love her until death do us part, and now—now she is dead, and we’re apart, but I’m still here. And I fell for you.”
He takes a deep breath.
“Every day, I’m fucking terrified that I make you feel like… like you have to compete for my love with someone who is not here anymore, and obviously, I’ve fucking done that. And you look at me like… like I’m wounded. You treat me like I’m someone to take care of, so I behave like it.”
“But you don’t let me take care of you,” you reply. “You don’t let me in. You don’t let me help.”
“Because if I do, I’ll have to start talking about her to you. I’ll have to tell you how much I love her and that—I can’t fucking do that to you!” he answers.
“But I’m asking you to do that,” you spit out. “I’d rather hear how much love her than live with her fucking ghost looming over us unmentioned. Like that, I don’t even get to feel second best next to her.”
The world grows quiet at your admission. The wind that was blowing before dies down, much like your bravery. You want to take it back. You wish you could rewind time.
“Fuck, Jack,” you whisper. “I’m sorry.”
His eyes are glassy as he looks at you.
“You’re not second best,” he mutters. “You matter as deeply to me as she does. I just don’t know how to show you that.”
“Maybe start letting me in,” you whisper. “Treat me like I’m worth your time. Don’t lie to me about how terrible you feel. Help me help you.”
You awkwardly shake the flowers in your hands.
“Let me be part of your grief.”
His eyes follow your hands, and he swallows hard.
“Did you buy them for her?” he asks quietly.
“Yeah,” you mumble.
As you walk towards him, it feels like crossing a bridge into unknown territory. Maybe you’re overstepping. Maybe you’re being cruel. Maybe you should be more understanding.
“They’re… I don’t know what kind of flowers she liked, or… if she liked them at all, but they’re chrysanthemums and Peruvian lilies,” you explain.
“She would’ve liked them,” he answers quickly. “She liked all flowers.”
He reaches out but stops himself.
“Do you… do you want to…”
He motions to the grave and steps aside. Your path is clear.
Her grave stone is made from smooth limestone, her name engraved in simple, strong letters.
Beloved wife.
You crouch down and lean the flowers against the stone, then stay there for a second. As you glance over your shoulder, you see Jack looking at you. At both of you.
“I didn’t get her any,” he mumbles.
You straighten up and return to his side.
“Why not?” you ask.
He stays quiet for a moment before he turns to look at you.
“It felt disrespectful to you.”
For a second, it’s like he has stolen all the air from you. The pit in your stomach deepens. And then it eases.
“Jack,” you whisper, “I don’t care if you get her a million flowers—I’ll deliver them here myself. I just want to know that you look at me and see me. Not her, or her… her successor.”
“I do,” he vows, “I do see you.”
in floriography (the language of flowers), chrysanthemums and peruvian lilies stand for honor, respect, and loyalty
❤︎ just a quick reminder that the best way to support authors on here is to comment and reblog ❤︎ ☆ find my masterlist here ☆
pairing: pope cody x bambi!reader ( no use of y/n )
summary: pope wishes he was your favorite cody brother.
content warnings: fem!reader, mention of how pope gets mistreated by everyone else in his life, mention of drugs + alcohol, they share a bed, too many mentions of smurf, they're kind of loneliest guy in the world x loneliest girl in the world
a/n: hai my lovelies! this is me introducing bambi reader to you!!!! the link leads to a pinterest board, which i'm still working on, but i hope you like her as much as i do. gif credits to @wesandresons !! <3
wc: 4.4k
No one was exactly sure why you were friends with Craig. Not even Craig, but he liked you. And though he tried his best to get you into his bed, it never worked. And god, he tried. Annoyingly so. Your resolve never wavered, standing with not being interested in Craig whatsoever.
At every party he threw, you were the girl hiding in the living room or in the kitchen. Anywhere where strange, drunk and high, people couldn't talk to you. It was almost impossible to find you, yet you also seemed to never go home, instead deciding to remain at the loud party surrounded by people you didn't like.
It was strange for Pope to watch you, know that you feel the same things he did, but do nothing.
You had every right to disappear, leave this haunted house, go back to your own.
Instead, he'd find you in the living room, remote in hand. You'd usually shoot him a sweet, knowing smile, aware that he was feeling just as uneasy as you did. Not fond of any loud noise, or drunk people. And he wished he had the courage to ask you if you wanted to leave the house with him, if you wanted to just drive around, sit at the beach and watch the waves.
But he'd always turn on his heels and go back outside and hate himself for it.
If he asked you to sit with him, you probably wouldn't even bother him, wouldn't try and force him to drink alcohol or get high like everyone else. You probably wouldn't even talk to him, knowing he liked his silence. He always regretted not asking you the moment the smell of beer hit his nose, and the moment water splashed onto his clothes, while people laughed around him. It made him feel lonely and different.
Still, he couldn't figure out why you were always at their house. Smurf wasn't good company, obviously, though she tolerated you just barely. Mostly because you kept to yourself. She knew you wouldn't blab to anyone about the Cody's jobs or that you never intended on going against her.
You were just there.
And no one complained, because you were like a fresh breath of air. You smiled and within two minutes you'd have J smiling too. You stayed around a lot, but never for too many days. If you went over, you were there for a long time, but the moment you disappeared, you were gone.
There seemed to be no specific reason for it. You seemed to be just overly concerned that you were being too much and bothering people. He knew you were a lonely girl, but he was also aware that your fear of being too much overpowered your grave sense of loneliness that you were never able to hide.
It was a bad habit of yours, always apologizing, even for existing seemingly. Craig had shot you numerous perplexed looks, never having heard this many sorry come from one person ever. But Pope knew he liked it, enjoying the fact that someone saw him as important enough to feel bad for him, that he was worthy enough to receive the sweetest girl's ever apologies.
Pope on the other hand, hated it. He hated the word sorry, and he especially hated it coming from you.
Whenever you apologized, whether it was accidentally brushing his arm while you were in the kitchen, or speaking, what you thought was, for too long, Pope would shut you down. And he'd always do it in a cold tone, knowing that was the most effective way to stop you completely from ever uttering that word around him again.
He knew his voice would startle you, not expecting Pope who was always kind to you, to speak to you that way.
His plan worked, and you started biting your lip hard the moment the word slipped out. You'd look up panicked, and that would usually be enough for him. He'd shot you a dry look, bored even. And you'd shake your head and mumble, 'I take that back.' and he'd drop the look immediately, resorting to his normal soft look that he always wore around you.
The word didn't completely disappear from your vocabulary, but now you uttered it almost never when he was around, and it made Pope feel less worried about being in your presence.
Everyone adored you and sometimes he hated it. It worried him that everyone felt the same adoration he did for you, that somehow you'd never pay attention to him. Given his brothers were much better at being affectionate, it made him feel like he was behind. Like it was a competition to be your favorite brother, and he was last, not even having started the run, because he didn't know how to. That the moment Craig brought you into the house and introduced you, a starter pistol went off, and everyone started running.
It didn't stop him from seeking you out all the time. Whenever the question 'Where's Pope? popped up, the answer was the same. With you. Always with you.
Mostly, because you followed him around. When he'd reject your offers to sit with you on the couch at parties, you'd get up and follow him.
There the two of you would stand somewhere and observe the party together, both with the same repulsed expression. For him, it was the dirt and the carelessness, for you it was the loudness of it all.
When you caught Pope in front of a dark TV, staring at himself in the reflection, you'd tap his shoulder softly. Just two taps, never wanting to overwhelm him. "My car's making weird sounds," you'd say softly, and he'd get up and help you.
Sometimes you'd tell him something was broken in your home, and he'd drive to your place without a word. You'd always try to drag out his stay, offering him cookies (because you were absolutely terrible at cooking) or offering sodas.
Sometimes, he'd catch you looking around the room nervously, looking for new problems he could fix. So he'd grumble out a "Sink sounded weird earlier," and you'd smile so wide, it was like the sun came out from behind the clouds.
Things like this made him doubt everything.
Maybe you didn't dislike him as much as he thought, maybe he did have the potential to be your favorite brother.
But then he'd watch you light up when Deran would tell you he finally figured out how to make your favorite mocktail. (Obviously, you never had to pay a cent. If not for Deran shaking his head as you handed him money, then it was Pope who paid for everything you ate and drank.)
Even Craig offered to teach you how to surf. The shy expression you always wore around Pope would disappear and your smile would be so radiant Pope wouldn't be able to look away, never having gotten the privilege to see such an open expression from you.
Things like these made Pope doubt everything, consider that maybe the shy expression was just your uncomfortable one, that when you needed help at home, it was simply because you needed help and nothing else.
He knew Deran and Craig were absolutely terrible at fixing things, and he feared that, just like everyone else, you too viewed him as a tool, something to use and throw away. That he was just waiting for the throw-away part, and that it was coming sooner or later.
But he couldn't help but have all his worries vanish into thin air, whenever you decided to grace him with your big thankful eyes and an even wider, dazzling smile.
The first time he felt like too much for you, so much he wanted to run away, was when you joined him in the garage.
You softly knocked against the doorway. "Andrew?" you always said his name so sweetly, it made him want to record it and listen to it like a lullaby until he fell asleep, which didn't happen much these days.
He looked up at you. "You're awake." He furrowed his eyebrows in concern. It was pitch dark outside, and he figured you were asleep in the living room.
You shook your head. "Couldn't sleep." you smiled softly, your eyes telling him to please drop it. He did, turning his head back to what he was working on.
You stepped closer, and he could smell the perfume that he loved so much. Before he knew it, you were towering over him, lightly brushing up against his shoulder. "What are you working on?" you titled your head, staring down at whatever it was you were looking at.
"Part of the car. Stopped working last night," he replied in a low voice, not raising his head, even though he really really wanted to see your pretty face.
You glanced around, spotted what you needed and sat down. You pulled the chair closer to him, setting your elbows on the table in the process. "Mind if I watch you?"
Pope glanced at you, and his eyes darted all over your face, trying to gauge what exactly the point here was. You seemed sincere, so he hummed.
You laid your cheek in your palm and watched him. Your big eyes stared at his hands with so much interest, they started to tremble a bit.
The silence between you was filled with the sound of an owl and the ticking of a broken clock somewhere in the garage.
Five minutes must've passed by now and Pope had never understood until now how silence could be nice even with someone else in it. It wasn't like he couldn't feel your presence. No. He knew you were here, but he enjoyed it. More than enjoy, he craved it. He wanted to stay in this little room forever, hearing nothing but your soft breaths and the sound of you tapping your foot restlessly on the floor.
He didn't hate the silence like when he did with Smurf, who sat with him in silence at breakfast and watched him eat.
No, he loved the feeling of your soft eyes watching him work, knowing he was good at what he did, and that you were admiring him.
"You're not tired?" you asked after a while, careful not to be too loud, not wanting to disturb his work.
"No." When Pope looked up, he met your eyes immediately, like you'd been watching his face rather than his eyes, and your lips lifted into a flustered smile.
Embarrassed, like you'd been caught. He wasn't sure what it was, but he almost felt the need to gloat about it. Sweetest girl he knew was caught staring at him.
Stupid.
He looked away again, almost in shame, because how dare he think that you were admiring him. You were sleepy and he was awake. That's it. Had Craig been out here, you probably would've joined him too. He was nothing special.
"S'nice watching you," You brushed a hand over your face, rubbing your eyes tired.
Pope looked up, because surely he'd misheard, but you shot him a sweet smile, soft hair falling over your shoulders as you rubbed your eyes, hard, again.
People couldn't even stand to utter his name, and you were telling him that he was nice to watch. Like his presence was worth acknowledging. Like it was something good, like his presence wasn't to be feared, like he didn't hear the rumors in town about how people feared the thought of him.
Horrible, awful Pope who hit and hurt people, who made a mess of people and things, of everything.
A kind girl like you liked to watch him in the middle of the night doing things that his brothers called weird, made them shake their heads as they looked away in disappointment and shame, wishing they'd had a normal brother, one more like them.
He must've stayed quiet for too long, because you froze. "Sorry, did—did I say something wrong?" nervously, you toyed with your heart necklace.
"No—No you didn't." Pope shook his head quickly, eyes darting back down to his car part. His fingers twitched nervously. "You should try to sleep." And he could sense he'd said the wrong thing, because your eyes widened for a second, and worry overtook your face.
"Oh—right, yeah you're right." Stumbling over your words nervously, you stood up, and Pope regretted it.
He hadn't meant this. He was just trying to tell you that he appreciated your kindness, but surely he wasn't that interesting. "I meant— it's not healthy to stay awake," he managed out, eyes darting back up to your face and back down. "It's not good for you." he managed out nervously.
You looked down at him, and you stood there for a bit, before sitting back down slowly, understanding he didn't want you to go. "Yeah— I know." You toyed with a bolt on the table, rolling it in between fingers before you looked back at Pope who was still watching you. "Craig keeps yelling in his room about his video game, and Smurfs still awake by the Pool." You dropped the bolt. "It's distracting."
"You can sleep in my room," Pope said, and given your reaction, it wasn't exactly something you expected him to say. But it made sense to him. "You can't hear Craig in there."
You stared at him, your eyes wide, making them bigger than they already were. "You want me to sleep in your room?"
Pope wasn't sure what was so confusing. It wasn't like his room was bad. Sure, it was a bit empty, but he took care of it, it was clean. He pushed the car part away, getting up from his chair. "I'll get you new bed sheets," and then he just walked out of the garage. You stood in the empty garage, mouth open, before you scrambled to follow him.
To your luck, Smurf was fast asleep, bottles of alcohol next to her, and you hurried to follow Pope. Inside, he led you to his room, grabbing clean bed sheets out of one of the closets in the hallway, before walking into his room.
You stood in the doorway watching Pope fix the bed for you. Were you dreaming? Was Pope actually fixing his bed for you?
You looked down and pinched your skin. "Ouch." you muttered to yourself. Not a dream, officially and definitely not a dream.
Pope turned his head to you. "You need pajamas?" he asked, but you shook your head.
You never took, unless you were outright suffering and Pope's eyes slowly darted down to the goosebumps across your skin, which were visible even with just two night lights on.
You were wearing a simple white lace tank top and California nights weren't exactly known for their heat. Even Smurf outside, was sleeping with at least two blankets. He turned, opened a drawer and grabbed a hoodie. When he handed it to you, you didn't take it.
"Is that yours?"
Pope nodded, almost worried. "I—You can have one of Deran's if you want."
"Nope, I—I'd like yours." you managed, grabbing the hoodie and letting it swallow you whole. It was warm, and it smelled nice, so very nice. You couldn't help the way your head just lowered a tiny bit, letting yourself smell how nice Pope's scent was.
Pope had already looked away the sight too much, and was now awkwardly staring down at the bed, fingers twitching nervously at his sides. "Okay, have— have a good night."
In all of your years of living, you'd never been this bold before. You weren't even sure what overcame you. Your hand reached out, and you grabbed Pope's bicep lightly before he walked past you.
You felt him freeze up, eyes locked onto your hand around his bicep, and you had to resist the urge to squeeze, to test how really hard and warm his bicep was. "Will—" you bit your lip, already regretting starting the sentence. "Don't you wanna sleep?"
"I have to work." His eyes flickered back down to your soft hands around his bicep.
You had pink polish on with brown polka dots. It was sweet. He'd seen you paint them once, you'd even helped Lena with hers. Lena had been so happy, and hadn't stopped talking about you the entire afternoon after you'd gone home. He had been glad to know that someone else felt about you the way he did.
You dropped your hand, disappointment flickering across your face. Pope's eyes darted around your face, noting how close you were but also how you were still trying to find your words. He waited.
"I'd like you to stay," you phrased it so sweetly, the way you always did, but for the first time you told him what you wanted. There was no if it's okay with you, you don't have to, no it's okay.
No, you straight up wanted something from him and God would he be stupid if he said no to you.
His eyes darted back to the bed and his eyes stayed there for a while, thinking. "I have to turn off the lights in the garage."
"I'll wait here!" You looked like you were about to start bouncing up and down from excitement.
Pope watched you for a second before turning and walking down the hallway, wondering what on earth led him to commit to this.
Meanwhile, you were in disbelief, palm to your mouth, as you muttered. "Oh my god. Oh my god." Oh my god, you were going to die. You glanced at the bed, deciding to get in now, before you were stuck in the awkward moment of having to argue with him about what side to take.
You pushed back Popes clean blue covers, slowly settling down in bed, and god was it was warm and soft. And it smelled nice.
You pulled the hoodie sleeves down over your wrists, nervously squeezing your eyes shut. You couldn't believe he'd agreed to this.
Pope walked back slowly, boots thudding on the floor until he stood in the doorway looking at the top of your head. Not to seem like a creep, he didn't linger, quickly stepping in. He could feel your pretty eyes watching him as he grabbed a set of fresh boxers, shirt and a towel.
"Gonna take a shower, won't take long," he said, barely looking at you. The sight was too much for him to handle.
"Okay," you said softly, eyes following him until he was in his bathroom.
You passed the time by opening every drawer of his, checking out what he had in there. Barely anything. You sighed, Pope wasn't much of a talker, so you'd hoped you'd find out more about him in his room.
He wasn't joking when he said he wouldn't take long, because just as you were checking out his bottom drawer, he showed up. You shut the drawer with the loudest bang! possible before scrambling back into a horizontal position, embarrassed.
Pope's eyes darted down to the drawer before lifting to your embarrassed expression. He was more endeared by anything. Any other person and he would've gotten suspicious, but you were toying with his sheets nervously, avoiding his eyes, and he knew you'd just been curious.
He'd caught you walking around the house, staring at every picture more than once. He was more than aware of your curious nature.
He brushed a hand through his curls as he walked to his side of the bed, and you lifted the sheets for him.
You somehow managed to still surprise him with your small sweet gestures. He'd lived his whole life in Oceanside, and with his reputation, people had stopped granting him kindness, even as simple as receiving a thank you.
He felt so endlessly grateful that one person on this earth was able to be kind to him, that maybe he wasn't as evil as he thought, that there was a chance for him. That if someone like you looked at someone like him and thought he was worth it, worth spending your time and sweetness on, he might actually have a chance in life.
He slipped under the sheets, and you dropped them, making the warmth hit him all at once. He liked to sleep on his side looking at the wall, but it felt almost insane to miss out on seeing your pretty face all night, so he stayed on his back, view narrowing to the ceiling.
You, on the other hand, turned to your side, palm under your cheek. "Your bed's soft." You whispered, and he turned his head to you, eyes darting away shyly when he noticed your intense stare. He figured his bed was nice enough, almost relieved it was up to your standards. He'd been worried in the shower that you'd make some excuse, and he'd come out, looking like a wet puppy, to an empty bed.
"What?" he asked after he felt you stare for a little more.
"Your curls are nice," you whispered. "Always wanted to tell you that, but was too scared."
"Of me?" It just slipped out of Pope's mouth. He didn't want to know the answer to that question.
"What? No." Confusion was written all over your face, your lips curling into a frown. "I'm just— it's a weird thing to say. That's all."
Pope stared at you. Not scared of him. You weren't scared of him. ’S'not weird." He held your stare for a while until his nervousness overtook his entire body, leading him to glance away again, eyes focusing back on the white canvas above him.
"Thanks for dinner tonight."
Smurf hadn't been up for it for some reason and Deran or Craig didn't care, so Pope had made food just for you. You hadn't even told asked, and maybe that's why he made it, because he knew you never would.
He turned his head, happy you were giving him an excuse to look at you. "D'you like it?"
"Loved it." you smiled softly. "You could be a professional cook."
Pope's mouth almost lifted into a smile at that, but then you scooted closer, and he froze up. His arm, which had been resting on the side of the bed, almost touching your stomach now. You were so close, he could see how pretty your eyes were up close.
They had always been his favorite part about you. When Craig had first introduced you, Pope knew his brother had warned you about him, told you he was crazy and weird. His brothers did that with everyone they brought to the house, and their friends would always eye him weirdly, and he'd never be given the chance to show them that he was capable of kindness. That he could be as normal as they wanted him to be.
But you, you, had smiled, lifted your hand in a wave and looked at him in a way that no one had looked at him in years. Soft, kind, and open-minded.
He stared at you, and you stared back, and then you slowly lifted your hand.
"Can I—?" you whispered softly, and he was startled by the fact that you asked, so he nodded.
People never asked before they touched him. The only touches he received were involuntary ones from Smurf, or punches from his brothers and strangers. Never ones from sweet girls that asked before they settled their hand softly at his temple, toying with one of his curls.
The bottom half of your hand touched his cheekbones, and you brushed over his hair, thumb catching in a curl. He watched you, eyes big, before finally turning to his side, deciding that he'd make it easier for you.
He saw the smile you suppressed, absolutely delighted that he was so open to you touching him.
He took a second to absorb and analyze the expression. His hazel eyes darting all over your face, looking for any lie, that this was just a game to you. That maybe you'll look at him in the morning with pity in your eyes. But your eyes were glowing, and even with his insecurities choking him when he was with you, he could tell that no lie was in your eyes.
"They're wet," he provided you with the most unnecessary information, already wanting to smack himself for pointing out such an obvious thing.
You just hummed, too distracted to be touching his hair to focus on his awkwardness. You looped a curl around a finger, thumb brushing right above his eyebrow.
Your eyebrows were furrowed like you were studying his hair, but he knew you weren't as relaxed as you seemed. Your breath was going quicker, he could feel it against his face. He could smell your perfume, something floral and vanilla and felt the need to press his face into your hair and just stay there.
Your eyes traveled back to his face, and you observed him, before your hands went back down to his bicep. "You can relax," you whispered. "I won't do anything you don't want me to."
Pope stared at you, hazel eyes wide, never once leaving your face. "You have to sleep too."
"I will." Your hand already back in his curls. He let the feeling of your warm hands overtake every other feeling. Every sense of fear, insecurity and worry.
As much as he knew you wanted him to, he couldn't sleep. Whether it was because of his nightmares or because of you being here, he wasn't sure. His eyes continued to track your face, and it didn't take you long before you let your hand drift from his hair to his cheek, brushing your thumb lightly over his cheekbone one first and last time, before dropping it back in between you.
Your eyelashes fluttered lightly like a good night to him before you closed your eyes. Pope let himself watch you, let himself feel the phantom feeling of your hands. Your perfume continued to linger, and he wished his room would absorb it forever, that every time he walked in, he'd smell your perfume. He knew his bed would smell like you for at least the next couple of days now, and he hoped so desperately that the next time you came over to the house, you'd sleep in his bed.
Maybe next time he'd be the courageous one and ask you to stay.
this is not super perved out but like imagine reader doing pope’s curls for him :((
like maybe reader has curly/wavy hair and pope sees them doing their hair routine and he’s like “what are you doing?” all cute :((
i love this man so much
andrew cody x gn!reader
oh my god thank you so much, you have literally unlocked a whole can of worms here bc I have curly hair myself and have literally daydreamed of somebody holding my diffuser and styling my hair for me bc my back hurts #unc. anyways here's you doing your curl routine on andrew's hair <33
Imagine you’re still early on in the relationship and he hasn’t really stayed over at your place much but you’ve told him that you need to go shower and it’s gonna take a long time because you need to wash your hair and style it. He’s a bit confused (the poor baby) but he nods, tells you to “take your time”.
You come out of the shower, wearing one of his shirts, and then you open the door because it’s just so humid inside. You’re standing in front of the mirror as you start styling your curls. Wrapping them around a brush, coiling them and scrunching your curls cream in.
Andrew comes and leans against the doorway, staring at you with his mouth pressed together like it often is and his brows furrowed in confusion.
“What are you doin’? What are you puttin’ in your hair?” He asks all cutely.
You smile.
“Oh that’s my curl cream to help my curls not get frizzy, and then this is my mousse that helps the curls stay and give them volume.”
Andrew nods, a bit overwhelmed, but still trying to understand. He comes into the bathroom then, seeing all your products stacked on the counter. He picks one up, examining it, reading the ingredients.
“So you do all this every time you wash your hair?”
You nod, “Yeah.”
“Oh.”
You look up at him then.
“Andrew, you have curly hair, don’t you put anything in it?”
He shakes his head.
“No, I just let it dry after washing it and then it ends up like this.”
He points to his head.
You giggle.
“Next time I come over to yours,” you begin, scrunching more mousse into your hair, “I’m gonna bring some things with me.”
That makes the sides of his mouth tilt up a little as he stares at you.
“Okay.”
Then a week later when you’re staying over at his you keep your promise, bringing all your products and your diffuser even, in a bag.
You make him sit the bathtub, head tilted back as you gently massage his scalp while washing it.
He lets out soft whimpers every time your nails press against his scalp, muttering out a soft “feels good” every now and then.
Then you condition his curls, using the same one you use on your hair.
“Smells like you,” he whispers as he breathes the fruity scent in.
You just let out a soft laugh and continue rubbing it in.
After washing it all off, you softly squeeze the mousse onto his head, the foam piling up. He leans back into you hands as you scrunch it all in gently, cooing at him, telling him how pretty and soft his curls are.
Once that’s done you plug the diffuser and gently hold his head while you run it all over his head, drying it. He closes his eyes when the heat hits him, face scrunching up a little.
“Nearly there honey, is that okay?”
He nods, “S’okay. Feels good.”
Your sweet, sweet boy.
Once it’s all done, you press a kiss on his beautiful fresh curls.
Tilting his face towards you, you cup his cheek.
“Did you like that? Your curls look so pretty, Andrew.”
“Yeah, I- that felt nice,” he says, blushing.
There’s a pause then, as his eyes bore into yours, mouth pursing, searching for the words.
“Can you do that for me again next week?”
Your heart clenches at how softly, how hesitantly he says the words.
“Yes of course, honey.”
You press a kiss to his cheek, then pause.
“Tell you what, you’re not allowed to wash your hair without me anymore.”
He smiles a little at that, eyes fluttering as he leans in to capture your lips with his.
so i wrote this instead of doing laundry but that's just the power he has over me i need this cookie bad
summary: everyone adores you. always checking on everyone else, but never yourself. jack notices the pattern long before anyone else does. when a brutal shift ends in your fainting, the roles reverse. and jack refuses to let you keep putting yourself last.
pairing: jack abbot + reader
word count: 2.5k
warnings/tags: hinted established relationship, not explicitly stated between jack and reader, night shift cameos, shen mentioned to have a wife, more crus appreciation !!!
notes: based on the ask from anon, tysm for requesting!
reblogs, likes, and comments are so so appreciated! if you want to read more from me, kindly submit in my inbox !!! xoxo
"You're kidding me. You actually packed him a lunch?"
Jack leaned against the nurses' station, arms crossed, watching as you rummaged through your bag like a magician pulling endless scarves from a hat.
"Not just a lunch," you corrected, emerging with a bento box wrapped in a chequered cloth. "
"Three lunches. One for Crus, he forgot his again. One for the new intern who looks like she's running on caffiend and terror." You tapped the lid of the third box, "And this one's for Shen. He's been on his feet for so long."
Jack blinked. "And yours?"
"Ah." You waved a hand dismissively, already halfway down the hall toward the breakroom. "I'll grab something later. The cafeteria's open till three."
By noon, you'd checked on Crus twice ("Eat the damn sandwich, I saw your hands shaking earlier"), coaxed the intern into taking a ten-minute nap in the supply closet ("Hand me your pager, I'll cover it."), and discreetly swapped Shen's watered-down coffee with a fresh one.
At 2:47 AM, Jack found you in the middle of explaining discharge instructions to an elderly patient, your voice patient as you repeated the same sentence for the third time.
Your pen hovered over the paperwork, but your fingers had started trembling. You didn't seem to notice.
By 3:15 PM, you managed to sneak a granola bar into the pocket of Crus' scrubs, reassured the new intern that no, she hadn't killed anyone by mislabelng a vial, and somehow talked Shen into sitting down for five minutes.
You were mid-sentence, something about ibruprofen dosing, when the world tilted sideways.
Not metaphorically.
Your vision narrowed to a pinhole, the edges fuzzing like static on an old TV. The papers slipped from your fingers, fluttering to the floor. You reached for the counter to steady yourself, but your hand missed entirely, swiping at empty air.
The last thing you registered was the sharp scent of expensive cologne, the distant sound of someone calling your name. Your name, not "Doc" or "Hey," and then the cool unforgiving floor rushing to meet you.
Jack saw it happen. One second, you were talking, hands moving in that animated way you had, like you were physically shaping the words between your fingers.
The next, you were folding at the knees. He moved before he thought, his body reacting faster than his brain could catch up. He caught your before your head could hit the floor, one arm hooking under your knees, the other cradling your shoulders.
The first thing you registered was the smell. Then the texture beneath your fingertips, the kind that came standard on hospital-issued blankets.
You blinked, and the ceiling tiles swam into focus.
"Back with us, sleeping beauty?"
Jack sat perched on the edge of the gurney, his usual smirk replaced by something sharper, tighter. He held a juice box with a straw already punched through the foil.
When you didn't immediately reach for it, he shook the box pointedly, the liquid sloshing inside. "Drink," he said, and it wasn't a question.
You tried to sit up, but the room spun violently. Jack's free hand shot out, pressing gently against your sternum to keep you horizontal. His palm was warm through the think fabric of your scrubs.
"Nope. Try that again and I'm cuffing you to the rails." The jokes fell flat when his fingers twitched against your collarbone.
Across the room, Shen hovered near the door, his arms crossed. "She's fired," he announced, too loud, like he'd been rehearsing the line.
The juice box straw brushed your lips, and you took a reflexive sip, the flavor bursting across your tongue. Jack's gaze didn't waver, tracking the bob of your throat as you swallowed.
Behind him, Shen snorted. "Even I can't fire her for fainting," Jack said, still staring at you like you'd personally offended him. "Half the department's running on caffeine and spite."
You managed to lift a hand. Weak, but enough to take the juice box from him. His fingers lingered a half-second too long before releasing it.
"Statistically," Shen drawled, "she's also the only one dumb enough to forget to eat for hours while force-feeding the rest of us like we're her kids."
Jack leaned in, voice dropping so only you could hear. "When was the last time you ate?"
You opened your mouth, then closed it. The granola bar you'd given to Ellis flashed in your memory. Your last one, plucked from your locker this morning.
"Thought so," Jack muttered. He reached into his scrub pocket and pulled out a crumpled protein bar, the kind stocked in vending machines. The wrapper was already torn open, one corning missing.
"I bit it," he admitted, handing it to you. "Just to make sure it wasn't expired."
The bar tasted like sawdust and regret, but you chewed anyway, because Jack's stare had taken on the intensity of a laser. Shen, still hovering by the door suddenly snapped his fingers.
"Hold on. She packed my lunch today." He left for a moment and came back with a tupperware container in his hands. "Here. Eat this instead of that expired vending machine crap."
Jack looked at the container before you could react, flipping the lid open. His eyebrows climbed "You made him goddamn club sandwiches?"
You swallowed another bite of the bar, which was sticking to the roof of your mouth like glue, and shrugged weakly. "His wife's out of town. He burns toast."
Shen pointed at you triumphantly. "She gets it."
The sandwich tasted like guilt. Rich with mayonnaise and thinly sliced turkey, the kind of careful meal you'd never make for yourself. You managed two bites before you hands stalled, the weight of eyes pinning you to the gurney.
"Jesus," he muttered, plucking the container from your lap. "You're worse than the med students." He tore off a corner of bread and held it up, hovering near your mouth.
You opened your mouth, more our of shock than compliance, and Jack fed you with a precision that suggested he'd done this before, probably with Robby drunk.
Shen coughed into his fist, clearly enjoying what he was seeing. "I'll just..." He gestured vaguely toward the door. "Charting. Or whatever." He disappeared before you could protest, abandoning you to Jack's relentless stare.
"Don't look at me like that," he grumbled. "You'd do the same for any of us." The truth of it hit you square in the ribs. You had done this. Last month for Ellis when she was hypoglycemic after a double, last week for Nazely who'd forgotten her lunch.
The difference was, no one had ever noticed when you skipped meals.
The next bite came with a sip of juice, Jack tilting it toward your lips with exaggerated care. His thumb brushed your chin, catching a crumb you hadn't felt fall.
Something cracked behind his eyes. "You're allowed to be selfish, you know," he said, so low it was almost audible. "Just enough to not collapse in the middle of paperwork."
Your fingers curled into the blanket, the starchiness of it grounding. "I didn't..." you started, but Jack cut you off.
"Yeah, you didn't mean to. That's the problem. You keep giving everything to everyone and nothing for yourself. It's stupid."
The word should've stung. Instead, warmth pooled under your ribs. No one had every called you stupid with that particular edge. Like it physically pained him to say it.
"Christ. You're smiling? Now?" But his thumb was already tracing the curve of your lip where it had lifted, rough skin catching. He froze, as surpised as you were by the contact.
A knock of three sharp raps flooded the quiet room. Crus, leaned in, his scrubs rumpled. "Uh. We have a GSW incoming, ETA for minutes."
His gaze flicked between you, Jack's hovering hand, the half-eaten sandwich. "Should I... tell them you're working on something else?"
Jack didn't move. "Yes."
"No," you said at the same time, pushing upright. The room only spun a little this time. Jack's palm landed between your shoulders, steadying. "I'm fine. Just low blood sugar."
Crus hesitated. "Garcia was called downstairs. She said you--"
"Garcia," Jack interrupted, "can eat my entire--"
You elbowed him. Hard.
Crus' mouth twitched. "Right. Well. The GSW's stable, but it's Senator Reeve's nephew, so." He mimed an explosion with his hands. "Media circus incoming."
The senator's nephew could wait. Jack's hand stayed firmly planted between your shoulders, his grip telegraphing a silent, immovable no before he even spoke.
"Crus," he said, "tell them we're in a trauma consult." He didn't blink. "And if anyone asks, I'm instructing her."
Crus opened his mouth, glanced at your still-pale face, then snapped it shut with a nod. "Got it. Try not to let her die before shift change, please." He ducked out before you could protest, the door swinging shut.
"Lie back down."
"I'm fine, Jack."
"Lie back down," he repeated, softer this time.
And you did, because his voice had cracked open somewhere between exasperation and something raw. The gurney creaked under your weight as you sank back against the thin pillow.
Jack's fingers skimmed the curve of you shoulder, tentative, as if he wasn't quite sure he was allowed. "You scared the hell outta me."
You stared at him. Really looked, and noticed the faint tremor in his fingers, the way his jaw worked like he was chewing on glass.
"I didn't mean to," you said, and it came out embarrassingly small.
Jack's thumb traced idle circles against your collarbone. "That's the thing about you," he murmured. "You never mean to."
His gaze dropped to your mouth, then flicked away just as fast. "But you do it anyway. Every damn time."
The overhead lights hummed as Jack's fingers stilled against your collarbone. His thumb rested there, an anchor point in the spinning room.
"You're not going back out there today," he said in a way that wasn't negotiable.
You opened your mouth to argue, but Jack's other hand came up, pressing his fingers to your lips. "Don't even," he warned. "I will physically restrain you."
The threat should have been laughable, but the way his jaw tightened suggested he'd bench-press the gurney with you on it if it meant keeping you there.
A knock shattered the silence. The door creaked open just enough to reveal Crus' wary face.
"I know you said to tell them you're busy, but the nephew's asking for the 'hot doctor with the nice hands.'" His eyes flicked to where Jack's fingers still hovered near your mouth. "I'm assuming that's not you at all, Abbot."
Jack didn't move. "Tell him she's off-duty."
Crus hesitated. "He's--"
"Tell him," Jack interrupted, "she's indisposed."
Crus' eyebrows shot up. The door clicked shut with exaggerated care.
You stared at Jack. He stared back. His fingers were still at your mouth, close enough that you could feel the heat of them, not quite touching anymore but not pulling away either.
"You're staring," he murmured.
"So are you, you whispered back.
The overhead page crackled to life. "Dr. Abbot, STAT to Trauma Bay 3. Repeat, Dr. Abbot, STAT to Trauma Bay 3."
Jack's fingers tensed against your collarbone, his body already pivoting toward the foor before the announcement finished. But he didn't let go. His thumb pressed into the hollow of your throat like he was memorizing the shape of it.
"Don't move, okay?" The protein bar wrapper from earlier fell to the floor as he reached for the IV pole beside your gurney, yanking it closer. "I'm hanging a bag of dextrose. "
Another page, more urgent said, "Trauma team, Trauma Bay 3, now--"
You saw the exact moment duty won. His jaw locked, shoulders sagging as he stepped back. The warmth of his touch lingered.
"Crus!" Jack shouted toward the foor, never taking his eyes off you. "Get in here!"
Crus materialized instantly, as if he'd been hovering just outisde. He took one look at Jack's expression and raised both hands. "I'm on it. Go."
Jack hesitated. Just a breath, just long enough for his gaze to drop to your mouth again, then turned on his heel.
Crus let out a low whistle, nudging the abandoned juice box toward. "So. That happened."
You pressed two fingers to your pulse point, counting the slugging rhythm as Crus adjusted the IV drip with practiced ease.
Crus didn't comment on the way your gaze kept flicking to the foor. Instead, he nudged the juice box closer. "Drink," he said, echoing Jack, but gentler. "Before Abbot comes back and burn me alive."
You took a sip, the flavor cloying without Jack's glare to make it taste like a challenge. The ER's distant chaos filtered through the closed door. The raised voices, the beep of a crashing monitor, the unmistakable sound of gurney rattling past at a sprint.
Crus' pager buzzed violently against his hip. He glanced at it, grimaced, then deliberately silenced it. "There's someone else on the floor, it's okay," he muttered, though his knee had started bouncing in a restless tempo.
"You should go."
Crus shook his head, adjusting the IV flow. "Abbot said--"
"I know what he said." The words came out sharper than intended. You softened them with a weak smile. "But we both know he's elbow-deep in someone's chest right now. Go help him."
Crus hesitated, his fingers drumming against the rail. "Abbot's been pacing the nurses' station like a lost child since they wheeled you in here," he admitted, voice dropping.
"Nearly took the head off an orderly who tried to move your chart." He tilted his head, studying you with sudden intensity. "You know he canceled that thing he had with that cardiology chick last week? Said he had 'charting' to do. Pretty sure he just sat in the break room watching you force feed Nazely those sandwiches."
The juice box crumpled in your grip, the straw bending at an awkward angle. "For what it's worth," he said, "I've never seen him bite open a protein bar for anyone else before."
His pager buzzed again, more insistent this time. He ignored it. "Pretty sure that's his version of a love letter."
The door burst open before you could respond. Jack stood framed in the doorway, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His chest heaved like he'd sprinted the entire way.
"You're still here."
Crus stood smoothly, pocketing his pager. "She's all yours, Romeo." He dodged Jack's half-hearted slap, pausing to turn back and look at you, "He told me he cried during Marley & Me in med school," before disappearing into the chaos beyond.
The overhead lights hummed a steady note as Jack stepped fully into the room. His fingers flexed at his sides, still damp from where he'd scrubbed hastily at the blood streaking his forearms.
Jack didn't speak. Neither did you. The silence between you stretched, elastic and charfed, as he reached for the IV bag with one hand, his fingers skimming the tubing to check the flow rate. His other hand landed on the gurney's rail.
The bag crinkled under his touch, nearly empty now, the last of its content slipping into your veins like a slow, sugared confession.
None of you said anything, but you're exactly where you want to be.
thank you for reaching until the end! i'd love to know what you thought about this story anddddd if you'd like to see more ;)
—since a lot of yall r flooding my inbox about jude and yn 👀👀👀
The paddock always changed when celebrities showed up.
Not because the drivers cared all that much (most of them had grown up around cameras and famous faces) but because everyone did.
PR teams stood straighter. Photographers became vultures. Sky Sports suddenly found twelve different excuses to film the hospitality entrance.
And for this weekend, Mercedes had invited Jude Bellingham.
You found out through a message from your media manager at seven in the morning.
Heads up. Jude Bellingham joining Mercedes guests this weekend. Might do garage tour Saturday.
You stared at the message while half-asleep in your hotel room.
Cool.
Which was a lie. Because by the time you arrived Thursday morning, the paddock had already turned it into an event.
"Big football fan?" Lewis asked casually as you walked into engineering.
You narrowed your eyes immediately. "You're smiling too much."
"I'm just asking."
"You've never asked me about football in your life."
"That's because Jude Bellingham has never been in our garage before."
The first time you actually saw him was during FP1.
You climbed out of the car after a brutal run, helmet tucked under your arm, sweat sticking to your skin, and there Jude Bellingham was standing beside Toto.
He was tall. Calm. Trying very hard to look like he wasn't overwhelmed by Formula 1. Which immediately made him more likeable.
Toto spotted you first. "Ah! There she is."
Every camera in a ten-meter radius moved simultaneously.
Jude stepped forward with an easy smile. "Nice to meet you."
"You too! Glad you're here."
"I've wanted to come to a race weekend for ages."
"Careful," you said, pulling your gloves off. "Once they get you in here they never let you leave."
That actually made him laugh. Not the polite media laugh either, a real one.
f1gossip
liked by username and 8,239 others
f1gossip JUDE BELLINGHAM IN THE MERCEDES GARAGE WITH YN LN 👀
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user28 sports royalty meeting sports royalty
user94 why do they actually look good together
user35 lewis third wheeling in every photo 😭
user77 the edits are already being made as we speak
mercedesamgf1
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mercedesamgf1 Our weekend guest at the garage ⭐⚽
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user38 she's so comfy around him
user63 yn looks so happy talking about racing omg
user90 WHY IS JUDE LOOKING AT HER LIKE SHE INVENTED THE DAMN SPORT
user64 nah because why is this chemistry kinda crazy
user51 mercedes admin saw the opportunity and RAN
The worst part was that Jude was so easy to talk to. And you hated that.
Usually celebrity guests came in acting like they understood F1 after watching one season of Drive to Survive (We will not name).
Jude actually asked proper questions. About tire degradation, braking balance, how you neck survived high-speed corners.
"You trained specifically for that?" he asked while walking through the paddock that night.
"Yeah."
"How bad is it?"
"There was one time it was so bad I physically couldn't turn my head properly."
"That's insane."
"C'mon, you play ninety minutes while getting kicked in the legs."
"Yeah but that's normal."
You stared at him. Then both of you started laughing because neither sport sounded reportly normal when explained out loud.
By Saturday qualifying, it was chaos.
You dragged the car into P2 by less than a tenth, climbing out to deafening noise from the grandstands.
The second your helmet came off, cameras swarmed.
And somewhere behind the crowd, you could see Jude clapping. You could barely see him, but unfortunately the internet did.
f1
liked by tchalamet, zendaya, and 6,238,921 others
mercedesamgf1 YN LN SECURES P2 IN QUALI !!!
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user54 WHY IS JUDE IN THE BACK LOOKING LIKE A PROUD HUSBAND STANDING ALONE LIKE THAT LOL
user90 everyone focus on the LAP PLEASE 😭
user61 the internet is about to become unbearable
user3 someone check on the edit accounts
user15 mercedes accidentally created the biggest crossover fandom of the year
That night, TikTok got even worse. There were clips of him watching you onboard during qualifying, of you talking to him, one painfully zoomed-in video where he helped move a barrier so you could walk through the crowd easier.
Then race day arrived with the paddock buzzing about two things. Whether Mercedes's race pace was untouchable, and whatever the hell was happening between you and Jude Bellingham.
You ignored both. Mostly. Until you climbed into the car and Luca said:
"By the way, our guest wants to wish you luck"
A beat passes. Then Jude's voice came through the radio.
"Uh... don't crash?"
You burst out laughing instantly.
"Very inspiring," you replied dryly.
"I'm trying my best."
Luca was grinning ear to ear next to him.
You finished P1. And that was barely.
A brutal final stint. Defensive driving for nearly twelve laps. Pure exhaustion by the time the checkered flag was waved.
When you climbed out of the car, the roar from the crowd hit you like a physical wave.
And through all the fireworks, the cameras, the team sprinting toward you, you saw Jude standing behind the barriers applauding with the biggest smile on his face.
Not staged. Not media-trained. Just genuinely impressed.
Later, after the podium celebrations, interviews, champagne, and endless noise, you finally escaped back toward the hospitality quieter than before.
You were still in your race suit, still tired enough to fall asleep standing up.
Jude leaned against the entrance when he saw you coming.
"That was ridiculous," he said immediately.
"I think I lost feeling in my hands halfway through."
"No seriously," he shook his head. "That might be the most stressfull thing I've ever watched."
"You play knockout football for Real Madrid."
"Yeah," he replied, "But I'm not going 300 kilometers an hour."
Fair point.
And for a second, neither of you said anything. Just the distant noise of the paddock around you.
"I get it now."
"Get what?"
"Why people are obsessed with this sport. With you."
robby rats you out for calling jack a "daddy figure" during a father's day joke
MASTERLIST | RULES | PINTEREST
PAIRING jack abbot x reader
WARNINGS implied age-gap, sexual innuendo / 'daddy' kink language, public teasing and humiliation, flirty jack, caffeine levels that qualify as a controlled substance, threatening elders with sub-par retirement homes
WC 0.8k
REQUEST here!
Jack manages to intercept you before you’ve even made it to your third iced coffee.
You’re standing at the desk with a chart half-open in your hands, whispering to yourself as you read, because sometimes the information only becomes real if you say it under your breath in a running little stream of nonsense commentary.
To be fair, this is not remotely out of the ordinary for you.
At hour thirteen of a double, very little about you resembles a person operating under regulated conditions. Your ponytail is in the late stages of collapse, your notes look like they were taken mid-exorcism, and your whole body has that bright, fried, over-caffeinated buzzing to it, like if someone touched your shoulder right now you might either diagnose a patient or burst into glitter.
What is out of the ordinary is the shit-eating grin Jack is wearing when he steps up beside you and drops his forearms into the space to your left.
“Y’know,” he says, entirely too pleased, eyes skimming your face while his spoon clinks a slow waltz through the mug, “I had a really interesting handoff this evening.”
Your pulse skips a beat, already bracing for impact. “Did you?”
“Mm.” He takes an appreciative sip. “Robby’s a great storyteller.”
You had known, in the aftermath, that what you had said in a moment of fun might come back to bite you. You just hadn’t expected it to boomerang back this quickly. Or with Jack looking downright delighted to wield it.
Slowly, like it’s made of nitro, you lower the chart to the counter. “It was a joke.”
It’s not a good excuse, but it’s all you have on such time constraints.
“Was it?”
You lift your gaze to find him already studying you, lip curved in that infuriating almost-smirk, just enough teeth to say jackpot. Luxuriating in your discomfort. Wallowing in it, even.
“It was funny in context,” you insist, defensive squeak slipping out.
“Then by all means,” he says, lifting one hand. “Give me context.”
You skewer him with a glare. He merely idles, waiting like he has all night.
And yes you technically have the entire shift to burn, but unlike him you’ll be spending it duck-and-covering through live psychological artillery if the story’s made it to any of your other co-workers.
It started near the end of your first twelve, right as the ER tends to slide into a carnival of cranky zombies.
Espresso counts climb, call lights chorus, and every resident sprints on whatever’s left in their IV of vending-machine sugar and unfiltered determination.
Robby was hunched at the nurses’ station, glasses slid halfway down his nose, peering over Santos’s shoulder with that chronically jet-lagged look he wears like a spare ID. You shambled past, juggling a granola bar and a dog-eared chart, when the date finally flicked.
So you paused, gave the counter a jaunty little tap, and chirped, “Happy Father’s Day, Robby!”
He glanced up, weariness sharpening to confusion. “I’m… not a father.”
“Right, but you still do the whole dad-energy thing, so… honorary title.”
Santos snorted from behind the monitors. “Wouldn’t Abbot make more sense as your father figure substitute? He enforces nights like a walking curfew.”
You flicked her away with a granola-crumbed hand.
“Jack is… a daddy figure. Totally different classification. No offense, Robby.” Robby only blinked, owlish and exhausted. So, naturally, you plunged the shovel deeper, aiming a finger right at him. “And before you tell him, remember I’m technically one of the few people in this hospital who’d be willing to choose your nursing home.”
“I’m not that old.”
“You are to me.”
And then you had floated away thinking, stupidly, naively, beautifully, that maybe the moment had passed.
It had not passed.
It had apparently been preserved in amber and delivered word-for-word at handoff to the one man on earth who would enjoy it most.
Now Jack parks his coffee, arms cinching across his freakishly broad chest.
“So,” he deadpans, “daddy figure?”
You make a mental note to reserve Robby a retirement home where ‘recreation’ is a single dusty puzzle and reach for anything coherent you can muster, ignoring the impeding lump in your throat.
“Strictly taxonomy, Jack. Think kingdom-phylum-class. Father figure is, like, sensible minivan and Roth IRA energy. Daddy figure is an entirely different genus — high-performance emotional support with optional leather interior. Totally complimentary, I swear.” His eyebrow arcs; your hands start semaphore-panicking. “Not, like, kink compliments — just, you know, admiration for your, uh, management style.”
He’s silent for a second, eyes making slow work from your mouth to your nose to your own eyes. He leans in closer.
You try to dampen the fiery feeling prodding at the tips of your ears until his intense gaze. It’s hard to do.
“For the record, kingdom-phylum-class is an incomplete taxonomic ranking. You skipped order, family, genus, species. If I’m your daddy genus, what does that make you? Under the same umbrella, or something considerably more… subordinate?”
You sputter. Suddenly it’s a hundred degrees and you’re a busted radiator.
“That’s, um, well… I think we’re, uh, past my flash-card set.” You laugh-hiccup, cheeks on fire.
You wonder if he can feel the heat emitting from them.
Jack’s smile unfurls into full smirk. One finger hooks under your chin, tilting until panic meets espresso-dark amusement.
“Thought so,” he murmurs, stepping back. “Now run along, kid — Daddy’s got rounds to patrol.”
MARIA NOTE happy father's day to any who celebrate and especially mr dr jack abbot... clock out and come home, babe; the kids miss u ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋🌼🧺˚˖𓍢ִ🌿˚.
"slut era" i say as i rot and decay in my bedroom and watch the years pass me by as i miss out on core experiences other people my age are having while i think about the past
