Andrew ‘Pope’ Cody x Pregnant!Reader: Pope has a nightmare, but when youre not nearby, he panics that it might be real…
Surprise surprise, another Dad Pope fic from me! Mentions of: blood, nightmares, anxiety, hints of PTSD, impostor syndrome, angst with a happy ending, Pope being an overprotective husband/farher to his unborn baby
Pope was never a sound sleeper, and after you had told him you were pregnant, sleep almost entirely evaded him, even if he wanted to give in to it.
You had subtly mused and admired Pope’s guard dog-like nature; watching over you and silently keeping an eye on you and the unborn baby like his life depended on it.
But you grew concerned as this pattern of behavior didn’t wane, and in fact concerned you for Pope’s welfare.
It started off small, mostly Pope waiting for you to fall asleep before him. He couldn’t stand the thought of himself falling asleep before you incase you needed him. In case something bad happened.
Gradually, this began to snowball into Pope remaining practically awake all throughout the night, sitting upright beside you in bed, watching you from the moment your eyes closed over to when you began to fuss yourself awake at the first sign of morning when the baby would start kicking.
Pope’s vacant sleeping pattern didn’t go unnoticed by you; you’d linger on how dark his under-eyes were, his slip in organizing things (one morning you walked in on him throwing out a bowl of cereal that he accidentally poured orange juice into).
Baby, please, just sleep for a fee hours, I’ll be fine
Andy, you’re going to make yourself sick if you don’t sleep right
Your eyes look so tired baby, why don’t you rest for half an hour?
You had gently cautioned Pope to take better care of himself. That you were okay, and the baby was healthy and growing at a normal rate. But this did very little to change Pope. He was set in his ways, and would continue his sparse sleeping habit even after your lengthy reassurances.
———
You were now several months along, with a very visible bump. Pope had surrendered some (if not all) his oversized gym shirts to you as a means of bed clothes. This suited him as it meant he could draw back the worn thin fabric whilst you slept so he could observe your rounded out belly, his baby nesting safe and sound inside of you.
Tonight however, Pope felt his exhaustion weighing on him physically and mentally. It had suddenly all caught up with him, the months of getting by on two or three and maybe no hours of sleep. Pope felt it during the afternoon, his eyelids heavy as he sat listening to his brothers, half tuned in and half resting.
But after a little guilt tripping and several kisses and pleas, Pope let you drag him to bed for an early night, where you both stripped off down to your underwear - for yourself you picked one of Pope’s ragged old shirts with a skate brand on it- and curled up into bed.
Sure enough, Pope tried to maintain his habit of watching you fall asleep first, but the moment he saw you close your eyes…his own slowly blinked shut, sleep rolling over him with ease.
———
“Andy?”
“Andy! Andy wake up! Please!”
“Andrew please! Help me!”
Pope shot up from bed at the sound of your frantic cries for help, the shrill crying of a baby accompanying you. But when he looked to find you on your side of the bed, there was nothing, just a mess of blood, stained into the sheets.
Pope tried to shout.
Tried to call your name.
But nothing came out, just a strange yawning sound as he attempted to scream his lungs hoarse.
“Andy please! Don’t leave us please help!”
“Andy! Help!”
“ANDY!-“
———
Pope practically gasped and clawed for air as he scrambled upright in bed, the now sweat drenched sheets constricting his body as he tried to twist upright.
“Off me get the fuck off me” Pope hissed through his teeth as he gripped and pulled at the fabric, the sound of the sheet seams ripping slightly under his agitated and frantic tugging.
Check her, check both of them.
There might be blood.
Don’t be useless.
Don’t be useless.
Don’t be useless.
Pope turned and reached for you, but to his horror you weren’t there. His blood ran cold as he started to panic that his dream potentially wasn’t just a dream, and that you had indeed been crying out for him, all the while he had been sleeping.
Where are you. Where are you both.
Fuck. Please, where are you.
Idiot, you useless idiot she needs you.
“Baby!” Pope called out, then he called your name with a little more intent as he clumsily got out of bed, marching down the corridor in the dark, panting like an aggitated animal to seek you out, wherever you were.
“Andy?” You replied, confused and concerned as you called back from where Pope could sus out the you were in the kitchen.
Pope stormed into the living room, immediately spotting you standing in the kitchen, a look of concern etched across your face as you looked at Pope’s visibly rattled and upset demeanor.
“Andrew? Baby what’s wrong?” You said, setting down your glass of water and stepping closer to Pope as he briskly approached, his bare feet slapping against the floor as he made his way over.
Without stopping, Pope pulled you into his arms and hugged you tight, mindful of your bump. You felt how clammy he was, sweat clinging to his auburn curls, his fingers digging into you as he held you close.
“Andy? Andy, whats the matter?” You frantically asked whilst pushing a little at Pope, turning yourself to lean back and take his head into your hands and look him over.
You saw Pope’s eyes searching you over, then scrolling down to your stomach and legs, unbeknownst to you, he was checking for signs of blood. Incase his dream -or rather nightmare- had been a reality. Thankfully, there was no sign of any blood or injury.
“Where were you?” Pope asked, his voice strained and slightly whiney as he tried to keep himself together. “I had a nightmare…’bout you and the baby…an I woke up…you weren’t there, and thought…thought something…to you…n’the baby…”
Your heart cracked wide open as Pope’s brows knitted together whilst he squeezed his eyes shut, as if to will the lingering visions of his nightmare away. You saw his hands reaching up and wrapping around your wrists whilst you continued to cradle either side of his face.
“Oh baby” You hummed and rubbed your thumbs across his cheeks. “Oh Andy, Im sorry…I just needed to get a drink and stretch my legs. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I heard you screaming my name, and I couldn’t shout back…and you were gone…there was…blood-“
Flashes of his nightmare pushed itself into the forefront of Pope’s mind.
The bloody sheets.
Your voice, scared and in distress.
His muted voice, unable to respond to your plea for help. For him.
Quickly, you pulled Pope back into a tight embrace. Hushing him, assuring him that both you and the baby were fine, and that it was all a nasty dream whilst peppering kisses across his panicked face.
“It’s okay, I’m okay…I’m right here baby…we’re all safe…s’okay Andrew…it’s all okay”
Eventually, after some tea pushed onto Pope on your part, the pair of you returned to bed, where Pope insisted he replace the sheets with the ones from the spare room, seeing how sweaty he had made them alongside the sizable tear in the seams he had created.
Once he was satisfied with the pristine nest he had made for your side of the bed, Pope looked at you, expectantly. You smiled and crept into bed, and looked at Pope as he stood at the foot of the bed.
“C’mere” you whispered, reaching out for Pope.
He moved immediately, coming around to his side of the bed, and nestled under the covers with you. He assumed his position, Pope’s position, the position he adopted when he needed you and your loving stability. Though the space was a little cramped now that there was a second occupant taking up residence.
“M’not hurting you?” Pope asked as he rested his cheek against the side of your stomach, his large hand reaching up to cup the underside of your bump as he curled up into your body.
“Not in the slightest” You smiled down at Pope, how he pressed into your body, his face resting against you where only several inches of soft anatomy separated him from the baby.
It went quiet for several moments, you closed over your eyes and were half asleep, and perhaps sleep could have claimed Pope, had it not been for his horrible inner voice of anxiety and cruelty seeping in as he went to touch your stomach again.
Don’t touch.
Don’t ever touch. You’re hands are too strong, made for hurting.
You’ll hurt them!
Pope blinked tightly and rapidly as he attempted to regulate his breathing after sharply inhaling. He angled his head up to look at your sleeping face, how your brow suddenly wrinkled and your limbs began to retract from the cool air on your warm, sleepy skin.
No please don’t wake up
I didn’t want to wake you up
But it was too late.
“Mmmbaby?” You tired voice made Pope start. “Whatswrong?” Your said, slurred and exhausted as your eyes peeled open, the sound of Pope’s sharp intake of breath having taken you out of your sleepy state.
He’s still afraid. He’s not settled. You thought as you vaguely made out Pope’s stiff form beside you.
That…and something (or rather someone) else had roused you…
Kick kick…kick…kick kick kick
“S’nothing” Pope hummed as he leaned down to kiss your forehead “Sorry for waking you.”
“You actually didn’t wake me” You sighed and shuffled a little.
Pope frowned and felt you reach for him in the dark, searching for his wrist. He gave you it, and let you place his palm and fingers flat on your belly.
Nothing…nothing…nothing…kick
“Oh” Pope let out a tiny huff of concern.
“S’been kicking around for about an hour I think.” You sighed, but there was no irritation in your voice, tired amusement at the baby’s activity. “It nearly stopped…until just now.” You chuckled helplessly.
Pope tucked his lower lip under his teeth as he contemplated the small kicks under his hand. That there was life inside of you, a little person he had helped to create. The result of yours and Pope’s love for one another.
Kick…kick kick…kick
“Hey…hey ease up” Pope gently said as he moved to lower himself, and lay along the length of you again with his face eye level with your stomach.
Pope lay flush against you, his thumb swiping slowly back and forth across your stomach, absorbing the tiny kicks and protests the baby was giving out.
“Started when we heard you in the kitchen.” You quietly muttered, already falling back asleep in the comfy pillow and blanket nest Pope had made for you. “Think he heard his Daddy upset”
Pope swallowed, his throat tight and eyes suddenly feeling sore with the prospect of tears.
“M’here…m’right here kiddo.” Pope hummed against your skin, hoping some part of the baby could pick up on it.
Kick…kick…tap…press…press…nothing
You were already relaxed and asleep, though a hand remained atop of Pope’s curls, resting from combing through his hair as he remained alongside you.
“M’sorry…don’t kick at her…” Pope quietly pleaded into your body, pressing a little kiss to the side of your belly.
Nothing…nothing…press…press
Pope couldn’t be sure of it, but he wagered it would have been the baby’s heel pushing back at where his low voice vibrated against the barrier of your body to it.
And then, Pope uttered the words he had dreamt of uttering. Whilst he peppered little kisses to your belly, whilst you sleep safe and sound, Pope whispered.
“M’here…m’right here…Daddy’s here…”
That was the first night in months where Pope slept for over eight hours.
I just read your Andrew with reader who is a student doctor and get this. Reader and Andrew are husband and wife and it's her first day at the Pitt so why is there a man who looks exactly like her husband ( and they are not related ) ..
Seeing double
tags: andrew "pope" cody x ms4!reader, implied age-gap relationship (late 20s reader/early 40s andrew), jack abbot is there and confused, even more confused reader, quiet and awkward andrew, stare-y reader, medical inaccuracies, the pitt chaos, robby robinavitch (always), season 1 the pitt, pittfest, reader's nickname is slugger (explained in fic), 18+ MDNI
notes: thank you @nocturnalrosey for requesting! I hope I did this piece just how you wanted it to go! I love getting to add pieces to my doppleganger collection so keep the requests coming! if you'd like to join my permanent master list, please comment here! enjoy!
word count: 3.5k
To say you were nervous for your first day at the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center was an understatement. As you waited for your shift to start, you couldn’t stop rocking on your heels with your hands held behind your back, fingers twisting at your wedding ring, as you waited near the nurses’ station promptly at 6:55 am.
The ED bustled around the small, eager and probably equally nervous group that you were a part of. To your left, a brunette woman and a blond man held similar poses while a raven-haired, dark-skinned girl took the place next to your right, looking almost too young to be there. The urge to introduce yourself to the other three was swiftly put on hold when a rather tall, sad-looking man, probably your new attending, Dr. Robby, approached while talking to what you would call already-veteran doctors.
“Alright folks, listen up,” Robby announced before stopping. “As you can see, we have some new faces this morning. Starting with second-year resident Doctor Melissa King, fresh from the V.A.”
The happy-looking blond woman next to him smiled and slightly waved her hands. “Everybody calls me Mel. I’m super happy to be here.”
He nodded sat her before looking at your group. “And one new intern, three med students.”
You pursed your lips, waiting for him to start the introductions, but apparently it seemed like he had other ideas. He crossed his arms and continued to stare expectantly.
“This is where you introduce yourselves.”
Again, none of you spoke until the brunette to your left spoke up. “Trinity Santos. Intern.”
The raven-haired girl went next. “Victoria Javadi, M.S. Three.”
Then the blond. “Dennis Whitaker, M.S. Four.”
And that left you to finish out the group, finger still spinning your ring with nervousness. “Y/n Cody. Also M.S. Four.”
A redheaded woman with a fringe leaned over to a brunet male. “Would you look at that rock,” she whispered, but her voice carried enough that you were able to hear it.
You bashfully put your hands behind your back again. It wasn’t like you weren’t proud to be married, but the unwanted attention had you shrinking into yourself. Thankfully though, their eyes shifted away from you when a bleach blond older woman joined the group. Robby gestured toward her.
“For you new people, this is the most important person you’re going to meet today. Dana is our Charge Nurse; she is the ring linger of this circus. Do what she says, when she says it. Now, as you can see, the house is always packed.”
Your eyes drifted from the attending to look around. However, because of the motion, you weren’t able to get a good look at the person who spoke next.
“The ER is the gift that keeps on giving.”
Robby’s voice filled your ears again. “Most of our department is clogged up with boarders. Those are the admitted patients waiting for a room upstairs, sometimes for days. Beds are a precious commodity, so be quick and efficient with your workups. Half of your cases will be discharged from chairs. And while we treat the sicker patients back here, keep an eye on the waiting room to be sure no one’s about to die out there.” He turned to Dana. “Ready to rock and roll?”
Dana smiled. “To quote Wu-Tang, Bring the mother fuckin’ ruckus.”
Robby turned to the residents, and you finally turned your eyes back to him.
“Senior residents got sign outs?” he asked.
Two of them—the brunet man and a dark-skinned woman—nodded, their hands both holding tablets.
“Alright, let’s do this,” Robby said before turning away, already moving further into the department.
He quickly began to integrate your group into their daily routine. First stop was an exhausted-looking mother holding an even louder and exhausted-sounding baby. You kept quiet while they worked, wanting to more take in everything instead of jumping the gun and calling the wrong diagnoses. After Dana walked away to get some Nair for the baby’s hair tourniquet, Robby continued on, each of you following him like a lost duckling.
After the small moments of calm in the morning, the following hours ascended into madness. The first traumas had been a woman who’d been pushed down onto subway tracks and ended up with a degloved foot. The second adjacent trauma had been the man who’d tried to save her life.
During the procedure to reset the woman’s foot, you were unfortunate enough to be closest to Victoria, who had been looking sick since the wrapping came off. Not wanting her to hit the ground, you stepped into her freefall and stuck your arms under hers, keeping her semi-upright while she became dead weight.
Trinity looked over with a smirk. “Med students are playing dominos.”
“Just didn’t want her to hit her head,” you grunted, easing her down until she was flat on the ground. “That’d be too much paperwork that I absolutely do not want to deal with on the first day.”
An echo of “preach” followed your statement.
“You’re certainly a good catch, slugger,” Trinity quipped. “Ever think about playing for the Pirates? I’ve heard their outfield has been struggling this season.”
You shook your head and flashed her a sarcastic smile. “Sadly, I think my hand eye coordination is better for catching my peers instead of balls flying at 90 miles an hour. And I really don’t think my husband would been too keen on me switching careers this fast after one day.”
You knew she wanted to say something back, maybe ask a question or throw another snarky remark, but you were quickly called away to help another resident.
By noon, your brain was quickly getting overwhelmed with the sheer number of patients in the halls and the number still waiting to be seen. Thankfully, charting gave you a small moment to catch your breath, the tying quickly getting your mind off the panic that’d been building for a small while. While you sat there, you wished your phone would buzz even though you knew you wouldn’t.
Andrew was out for the day, and that normally meant you wouldn’t see him until you got home after shift. But that was fine; you really didn’t need any distractions on your first day, mind too focused on making a good enough impression that they might consider you for residency after you graduated.
The thought had you sighing, which somehow caught the attention of Dana just behind you.
“Why the loud sigh, hun?” she asked, coming into your line of sight. “Shift treating you that bad already?”
You winced, smile slightly slanted as you met her gray eyes. “It is bad I’m already ready for it to be over?”
She smiled sympathetically. “Welcome to emergency medicine. This is how it’ll probably be for the rest of your time here.”
“Should have gone into cosmetology then,” you joked. “Maybe the assholes there would be different than the assholes here.”
“Ha!” Dana barked, hand coming down gently on your shoulder. “I like you, kid.” She turned back towards her board. “So, what’s your story. Why you here?” Her accented twang sounded lovely in your ears, comforting you in a way.
“My husband, actually. We needed a fresh start; Pittsburg seemed like a good enough place to do so. We just moved from California.”
She cocked her head. “Beaches not enticing enough for you to stay?”
“I’m more of a mountains girl,” you responded. “Plus, I didn’t pick here. My first thought would have been Kentucky. But the gloom here was enough to satiate me.”
“Well, we’re glad to have you here. The Pitt can’t be a teaching hospital without people to teach.”
You folded your hands on the desk. “I’m excited to learn.”
Apparently, that had her handing you a tablet. “Then Room 4 is all yours, slugger.”
A groan rumbled your chest as you stood. “Did Santos already blab about that?”
“News travels fast everywhere, but it travels even faster in a hospital.” She tuned back towards her board. “Better get to your patients. Robby’s available for when you need him or find Samira; she’s probably looking for someone to help.”
You looked down at the tablet. “Thank you, Dana.”
“Don’t mention it, hun. It’s my job.”
Your eyes trailed the tablet as you left the hub in search for your new attending or one of the senior residents. Thankfully, it didn’t take long for you to find Samira, the tablet still clutched to your front.
“Dr. Mohan?” you asked as you walked up to her. “Dana handed me the chart for Room 4, and I was wondering if I could tag along with you for it?”
“Samira is just fine.” Her deep brown eyes gleamed, matching her shining smile. “But sure! Mrs. Thompson is one of our regulars,” she began while walking in the direction of the room. “Her husband died a couple of months ago, and she has a history of OCD and hypochondria.”
You hummed. “So for her, do you normally listen and bring her down?”
“We at least try to. Sometimes we’ll give her plain saline but say it’s a medication so she believes she’s getting treatment.”
“Isn’t that lying though?” you asked with pinched brows.
Samira, in return, gave you an understanding look. “That’s just sometimes the best thing for her when she gets stuck inside her head.” She gave one knock on the door before entering with a large gin. “Hi, Mrs. Thompson. I’m Dr. Mohon, and we have one of our med students here if you’re comfortable with that.”
Mrs. Thompson was exactly how you imagined her: graying hair, wide and scared eyes that roamed the room, and nervous hands that rested on her skirted lap. You stayed next to the door just in case she asked for you to step out.
“No, that’s fine,” she answered, looking right at you.
“Thank you, ma’am,” you answered before pulling the privacy curtain shut.
You stayed close to Samira as she sat down on the edge of the bed. While she talked to Mrs. Thompson, you let your eyes roam while staying alert to any questions. However, once your eyes landed on the small side table, you noticed how the instruments weren’t that straight. Another thing you noticed was how Mrs. Thompson kept glancing towards them as well, and the twitch of her finger had you guessing that she too wanted to straighten them. Without saying anything, you shuffled quietly over and rearranged them from shortest to largest, also making sure that they were evenly spaced out while staying as straight as possible. When they were to your liking, you stepped back behind Samira in time to see Mrs. Thomspon take a large inhale, her shoulders relaxing just a bit more as she went over why she was in today.
It wasn’t until you left the room that Samira put a hand on your shoulder.
“What was with the instruments?” she asked. “
You took another glance back at the room. “You said Mrs. Thompson has a history of OCD, and she kept looking over at them. Her fingers would twitch each time she did. I thought I’d just go ahead and put them in order, thinking she might be able to focus more on what you were saying instead of overthinking about them.”
Samira cocked her head. “Oh; I didn’t think about that. Great catch then.”
“What did Slugger catch this time?” Trinity asked as she walked right up to the two of you, hands deep in her pockets, a wide smirk on her face. “Did your patient fall over this time?”
“Our patient was showing non-verbal signs of an OCD tick,” you replied. “I just wanted to make her more comfortable.”
“How’d you even know to look for stuff like that? Did you take a specific course in school?” Trinity asked.
You shook your head. “Not really. Uh, my husband has OCD, and if you live with someone for long enough, you pick up on the little things.”
Samira handed the tablet back to you. “Like I said, good catch. That was actually the smoothest conversation I’ve had with Mrs. Thompson before.”
“Glad I could help,” you said. “Should I give this back to Dana since she’ll be discharged soon?”
“That’d be great. I’ll find you when I get my next patient.”
“Common, Slugger. Let’s see if there’s any other fun patients to grab,” Trinity said while taking your wrist. “Maybe the next one you can show of your catching skills again.”
“Ha, ha.”
_______________________
The one rule you should have paid more attention to was that if everything seemed to go well in the ER, it wouldn’t stay that way for much longer. With only one hour left of your shift, Robby announced a Code Triage alter, and your stomach sunk so deep you feared it’d disappear into your feet.
“Okay, everybody listen up,” Robby yelled over the growing panic. “There is an active shooter at Pittfest. As the nearest trauma center, we are going to be getting the majority of the victims. We don’t know yet how many we are getting, but we are instituting hospital-wide emergency protocols. We need to move every patient out of here. They either go home, they go upstairs, or they go to Family Medicine. Call you loved ones now if you need to. I can guarantee your cell service will soon be overwhelmed. Eat something. Stay hydrated. Use the bathroom while there’s time and meet back here for a full briefing in five minutes.”
With that, you quickly turned away, hand already digging for your phone. Your heart clenched at the screen that indicated you still hadn’t received any notification from Andrew, but that didn’t stop you from pulling up his contact and pushing the call button. When his voicemail answered instead, you closed your eyes and sighed sadly.
“Hey, Andy. Um, listen, I’ll probably be home late tonight unless you want to come pick me up. There’s a shooter at that festival, and pretty much all hell’s about to break loose. If you try to call back, I probably won’t be able to answer. Just know I love you, and I’ll be home as soon as I can.”
You ended the call there, hoping and wishing the cell service would hold enough for it to go through. Your hands were already slightly shaking as you put your phone back into your pocket, also sliding off your rings so they wouldn’t get lost. However, the moment you looked up, you froze completely.
Because, for some odd reason, Andrew was currently talking to your attending like they’d known each other for years. You wanted to go up to him right then and there, but your feet kept you from doing so. Honestly, after a few moments, you were glad as it gave you enough time to figure out that, no, that man wasn’t Andrew at all. While they shared the same hazel eyes and muscular build, this man’s curls were salt-and-peppered where Andrew’s was still holding onto bits and parts of auburn. You also didn’t realize how long you were staring, brain desperately trying to separate Andrew and whoever this man was.
Across the way, Jack could feel a pair of eyes on him, and one quick look had him finding your wide and confused eyes.
“Brother, you hiring med students with staring problems now?” he asked with furrowed brows.
Robby turned around and also caught your surprised look. “Cody,” he called out, breaking you from staring at his friend. “Everything okay?”
You shook your head. “Sorry, Dr. Robby. I'm just trying to figure out if my husband has a twin he never knew about,” you nervously laughed, eyes finding the man's ID tag. “I didn't mean to stare for so long, Dr. Abbot.”
Jack waved a dismissive hand. "No trouble. You were just looking at me like you'd seen a ghost. And last I checked, I haven't died just yet."
That earned a small snort from your nose. "Thank goodness for that, yeah? However, I think if I see you and my husband in the same room, I might explode."
He smirked widely. "Well, we don't need that happening."
“Okay, party people, our first ambulance in on its way in, so let’s get moving,” Dana announced while walking right between the three of you. “Cody, go help Whitaker with the disaster bins.”
“On it.” You paused. “Again, sorry for staring, Dr. Abbot.” Without waiting for an answer, you turned away and began searching for your fellow M.S. 4, leaving the two attendings by themselves.
“So, do you think her husband really looks like me?” Jack questioned after a short moment while his eyes followed where you were walking away.
“Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing we’ve seen, brother.”
_______________________
By now, you were sweating more than a sinner in the middle of a Southern Baptist choir special. Blood dripped off your arms, your front, and onto your shoes. Everywhere you stepped squished with the thick liquid, and you knew you’d still smell the iron scent hours after you’d gone home. Thankfully, though, the worst was over, and like Dana announced, the Pitt would be opening back up soon to take in regular patients.
Trinity shoulder nudged you slightly while you leaned on an empty gurney. “That was fucking exhausting.”
“I can’t wait to get in my bed,” you replied with a groan.
“With your husband that looks just like Dr. Abbot, right?” she teased.
“Fucking fast traveling news.” You pushed yourself up, back protesting at the sudden change. “Hey, I need to go change, and I don't know if he's coming to pick me up or not. In the event that he does, if you happen to see him, can you let him know I'll be back soon?”
Trinity smiled and nodded. “Oh, I definitely will!”
"Thank you, Santos," you replied, hand coming up to cover a yawn as you walked away in the direction of the locker rooms.
Trinity turned and ripped the smock off and pushed in down into the nearest bin. Around her, the ED gave a large sigh of relief, and everyone slowed down for the first time in hours. As she waited by the nurses’ station, she watched a few regular patients start to trickle in, but one in particular caught her attention.
The man was tall and rocked a head of auburn curls that were just starting to gray near his ears. His hazel eyes were narrowed as he looked out of place in his civilian clothes in a sea of scrubs and gowns. Trinity noted the amount of freckles that spanned across his face, and for one tiny moment, she saw a vision of Jack Abbot in his face. Not even a breath later, it clicked that the man was probably one who put that rock on your finger.
Her lips stretched into a smile, and she itched to walk up to him and ask if he was your husband. However, Samira, still in the adrenaline rush with a wide eyes, hastily walked up to him. Trinity didn't even think she knew that the man she was approaching was not the night shift attending she'd been stealing glances at between blood transfusions and saving lives.
"Dr. Abbot!" Trinity heard her all but yell right in the guy's face, voice a little too stretched. "I was hoping I'd catch you. I have a patient who's about to go up to the OR, but I need an attending's sign off on it first."
As she rattled off, Trinity watched the man looked at her with the most confused expression she’d ever seen someone have. His eyes had widened just a fraction, but that didn't stop him from looking around every so often like he was desperate to find someone who wasn't in the room. His mouth parted in an attempt to say something, but Samira, bless her heart, wasn't even looking at him. Her eyes stayed glued to the tablet in her hands.
“Oh, this is absolute gold,” Trinity muttered before turning to the charge nurse. “Hey, Dana. Look at this.”
Dana’s attention moved from her board over to where the man was standing awkwardly while Samira continued to talk at him. “Did Abbot dye his hair?”
“Not that I know of,” Jack responded, suddenly appearing at the nurses' station, brows pinched at Dana's question. “When would I have had time to dye my hair?”
The sound of his voice must have caught Samira, because in the next moment, she looked up at the man like a dear caught in headlights. Horrified, she turned her head and met Jack's confused gaze that had moved from her and to the man she had been talking to.
For once in his life, Jack didn’t know whether to start laughing or run away. Because staring right back at him was a man that looked like him in pictures from 10 years ago. His brain struggled to comprehend until he remembered what you had said earlier before the chaos of the casualty.
"Oh."
By now, the commotion had drawn eyes from everywhere, and everyone who looked over wondered if they were truly seeing double.
The man, who did look exactly like a younger Jack Abbot, walked quietly over to the station and stopped right in front of Jack, chest puffing slightly even if both of them were the same height. His hazel eyes scanned behind Jack's shoulder before he met hazel hues that mirrored his own.
“I’m looking for my wife,” Andrew finally gruffed, hands curling into fists by his side, and obviously not liking the number of eyes that were on him. “She works here.”
Trinity stepped into his line of sight. “You must be Mr. Cody; damn, I was not expecting this. Slugger wanted me to let you know that she's changing, but she should be out soon.”
His brows somehow furrowed deeper, and the corners of his mouth tugged downwards in a matching frown. “Slugger?”
“Your wife has an affinity for catching people. Baseball might be her actual calling.”
“Trinity, I told you that I have no want to switch careers, thank you very little," you announced after you walked out of the hallway. Your eyes gleamed when they landed on a very, uncomfortable-looking Andrew and equally confused coworkers. "Hi, baby."
Andrew looked over and down at you. “Hi.”
“You didn't have to come pick me up,” you said. "I didn't mind driving home."
“Wanted to,” he muttered while taking your hand into his. "Knew you'd be tired."
You warmly smiled up at him. "Well, I'm glad you're here then." Your face turned as you looked over at the small crowd that had gathered; their jaws wide open. "I guess I should explain. Everyone, this is my husband, Andrew. Andrew, these are my coworkers." You gestured towards Jack. "And I guess this is your secret twin."
Andrew stayed silent for a second too long. “Hi.” He offered nothing more than a fleeting moment of eye contact with each of them before turning to you with what people could only call puppy-dog eyes. “Ready to go?”
“Yeah. Let's go home.” But before Andrew could tug you away, you quickly waved at everyone. “See y’all in twelve hours!”
They all stayed silent as Andrew led you out of the ER with you babbling the entire way while he seemed to not say anything, just looking happy to be the center of your attention after a long day.
Finally, Jack broke the silence. “I should probably call my mom and see if I had a twin she gave up and never told me.”
Robby patted him on the shoulder. “You do that, brother.”
you're outside of his place, sitting on his motorcycle. pretending to ride it, no helmet on. like you're trying to prove a point.
"you really gonna leave on this thing?" you ask, pretending to rev it.
you look out of place on it, but you don't at the same time. its more robby doesnt want you riding it, would rather have you safely in the passenger seat of a car so he knows you're protected. but if you rocked up on a bike like his (helmet on, ofc), he wouldnt exactly be surprised.
maybe a little hard.
"c'mon," he says, tipping his head back slightly. "off."
you obey, climbing off the bike. but you're still there, still in his way.
"you've been weird since you planned this trip," you tell him. you're fiddling with your fingers, twisting the rings around. "what if we took a road trip together instead?"
its the look robby gives you then. a smile that seems so sad. you wrap your arms around him, press your face against his chest. "you've been talking like you're not coming home, michael," you whisper.
he kisses the top of your head. "jack put you up to this?" he asks.
you shake your head. "i'm being serious, robby. take the sabbatical but don't go. come stay at my place if you need a break. we can cook together and bake bread and garden and shit."
you hate it when he laughs at your offer. "i'll think about it," he says and climbs onto his bike.
you look towards his house. "can i?" you ask and robby nods.
he takes off on his bike, no helmet (as if he's trying to torture you) and you head inside.
***
"you're late," jack says as robby joins him on the roof. it's gonna be a damn hot day, but it's starting out a beautiful one.
robby shrugs he's shoulders. he steps up beside jack, close enough to touch. "figured you'd know why," he answers.
jacks eyebrows go up, but he can't hide his grin. "i take it you had a visitor," he guesses and robby nods. "she say anything interesting?"
"she said lots of things," robby responds. "offered to let me stay at her place so we could make bread and garden together."
"sounds nice." because it does. sounds like the sort of thing jack wants to do with you, but only if robby is there too.
robby breathes in. "she's at my place," he tells Jack. "should probably go keep her company before you go and do that swat shit."
unbelievable. un-fucking-believable. "maybe i wouldn't be doing 'that swat shit' if you weren't planning on driving that death machine to smash your skull in canyon."
robby doesn't bother correcting him. "you gotta deal with your shit, man. you got two people that need you around and you're still leaving."
neither of you need him. that's what robby's convinced himself, anyway. you and Jack have each other, and robby's convinced himself of that. neither of of you need him getting in the way of something that could be so good.
"you're gonna break her heart, brother. mine too."
"am I gonna get this same speech before I go?" robby asks.
"yup," jack answers. "I'll bring our girl by, making it all the more difficult for you."
neither of you are letting him go without a fight.
single!mom reader who brings her kid to the pitt and said kid proceeds to out the two of them and their secret relationship.
I tweaked this just a little bit, but it did inspire the next 2.5k
“Hi, my names Dr. Robinovitch, but everyone calls me Robby,” the man who addressed you said as he looked over your son’s admission chart. “What brought us in this morning?” He’s still reading over the notes that the triage nurse had recorded.
“My son, Oliver,” you sounded so exhausted. It wasn’t hard to imagine you’d probably been up for as long as Robby himself had. A sick six-year-old would do that to someone. “I thought he just caught something from school—“ You started, but the words weren’t coming out fast enough. “I’m not so sure it’s just a cold anymore.”
“It’s good you came in,” Robby could sense the hesitation in your voice. The kind of hesitation he hears in most unsure parents' voices when they think a trip to the emergency room is unwarranted or unjustified. “A mother's instinct is usually to be trusted.” He smiled softly as he stepped a little closer to the bedside where your six-year-old lay with teary, tired eyes, a clogged nose and some weird-looking skin irritation.
Robby does a quick visual examination, noting quickly that your son seems to be having trouble breathing. He could practically hear the pneumonia in his little lungs.
“What’s your name, mum?” Robby asked as he shone a small but bright white light into your son's eyes. He wasn’t perplexed about this ailment at all; it had to be pneumonia with a touch of contact dermatitis from something he’d come into contact with. A plant from school perhaps? or a cream you’d used.
“Y/n.” You replied. The name rang through Robby’s ears like a beautiful bell bellowing at midnight. The kind of ring that makes little ideas appear out of thin air. If he were a cartoon character…Robby swore a little lightbulb appeared above his head.
What are the odds? A beautiful woman with a young son who just so happened to have the very same name that not three nights ago, Robby had practically forced out of Jack Abbot's mouth with the threat of a new night shift resident.
“You look a little worn out too? After we draw some blood and get this little guy sorted, I think there’s a cup of coffee with your name on it at the nurses' station.” He smiled, pocketing his pen light.
“Oh,” You sighed out a small chuckle. “These bags are permanent, Dr Robinavitch—“
“Please, call me Robby.” He replied quickly as he walked around the examination room looking for all the bits he needed for a blood draw. “It’s my treat, there’s nothing I can do for the permanent lack of sleep, but a little caffeine is good for the body, brain and soul.”
“That sounds great, thank you, Robby.” You shifted in your chair to move closer to your son's side. His little hand now safely placed in yours.
“I’ll uh, I’ll be right back,” Robby caught the sight of his senior night shift attending heading out at the end of his shift. The very same night shift attending that Robby knew would want more than anything to be informed about this particular patient. “Excuse me.” He held up one finger and was gone before you could even say okay.
“Abbot!” Robby bellowed as he did a hop, skip and jump action past the nurses' station, where Dana was getting caught up to speed for her shift. “Hey—Jack!”
Jack sighed softly to himself before he stopped in his tracks. His old army bag was slung haphazardly over his left shoulder.
“Brother, I am five feet from freedom here, don’t do this to me.” Jack turned with a growl. He was just trying to get home after a long ass night. “I leave this emergency department in your capable hands.”
“Not so fast,” Robby cooed as he clamped his hand down on Jack's backpackless shoulder. “I need a consult, sick six-year-old presenting with possible pneumonia—“
“Nice one, sounds like you already have a clear diagnosis, what the fuck do you need me for, man, I’m off duty till seven!” Jack whisper-hissed through his teeth. His leg had been killing him since three, and Jack could practically smell the bacon and egg roll from Caramels calling his name.
“I’m pretty sure it’s your Y/n and her son, Oliver? Yeah—yeah, I think I’ve diagnosed that too,” Robby spoke as he rubbed the back of his head casually, like he was still trying to fake like he didn’t know it was you from the second he heard your name. “But I thought maybe you’d wanna come suss it out for yourself in case I’m delusional and can’t put two and two together.” Robby smiled as he watched Jack's entire demeanour change. It softened at the mere thought of you.
“You said pneumonia?” Jack followed up as he walked into Robby’s shoulder, making sure to make contact just to get back at the dick-like foolishness he had presented with. “And you're sure it’s Ollie?”
“Oh, you’re already on a nickname basis with her kid?” Robby’s eyebrows raised as he followed his own emergency contact back to the exam room. “I’ll be damned, do I hear wedding bells?”
Jack didn’t reply; all he did was make strides to where Robby had come from. Worry had already begun to take its rightful place inside his chest. Sure, Jack Abbot knew how to keep a calm and collected composure…but not when it had anything to do with the family he’d started to feel a part of.
It was casual. Something new. It wasn’t something that you had considered becoming serious or anything more than just two people spending some casual alone time together.
Casual. It was supposed to be a no-strings-attached thing. No feelings. No baggage. No attachments.
That’s how it started anyway…it didn’t stay that way for very long. How could it when Jack was all in from day one. He made that decision on his own terms. All it took was one date with you to know he was in this for the rest of his overextended life. One leg down be damned.
“Hey,” it was the softest hey Robby had ever heard. “What are you guys doin' here?” Jack asked as he walked in with a proud chest and enough confidence to tell Robby everything he needed to know and more.
This was Jack Abbot's found family. A second chance at all the things he lost when he lost a physical part of himself.
“I didn’t want to bother you,” You started in a near panic. “He’s been up all night. I made an appointment with our primary for Wednesday but—“ you didn’t get a chance to speak before Jack was dropping to his knees beside your chair.
“I’m your damn primary now, alright?”
You knew well enough that when Jack Abbot said something, he meant it with full conviction. All you could do was hold back a small quicker with pressed together lips as Jack placed a hand to the back of your head and drew your forehand to his lips.
Robby was rendered speechless. He’d never seen this side of Jack before.
“Uh, not to interfere, but I should probably continue my work up on Oliver here so we can get some sort of treatment plan in action.”
“I can do that, you go ahead and annoy some other attending for the rest of your shift, I’ve got this handled now.” Jack didn’t let Robby finish, and Robby knew better than to argue. He threw his hand up in surrender as Jack stood and looked around at where Robby had organised the equipment needed for a blood draw.
“How long did you say he’s been like this?” Jack asked as he looked down at the little boy, half asleep in the hospital bed that made him look ten times smaller.
“He was fine yesterday, I thought it was just a cold he’d picked up at school a few days ago, but—“ You paused as panic threatened to burst out into tears; you felt like you’d failed as a mother. “But he just hasn’t been himself since yesterday afternoon; he’s been up all night.”
“Yeah, he’s gonna be alright, I promise,” Jack cooed as he placed a comforting hand on Oliver’s forehead. “We’ll pump him up with some fluids, antibiotics, and we’ll go from there. Good call bringing him in, I just wish you would have called me.”
“Jack—“ You sighed, it wasn’t that you didn’t want to…it was more like you were afraid if you did…he wouldn’t answer.
“Anytime, anything, anywhere.” Is all Jack said as he worked on your son. He was locked in like a madman on a mission. Healing hands that worked miracles on patients all night now worked over your sons like he had something to prove.
And he did have something to prove…he wanted to prove to you that he was head over fucking heals for you. Making sure Ollie got the best care he could was only the tip of the iceberg.
“Alright, Bud, I’m gonna need you to make a tight fist for me so I can take some blood,” Jack told your son what he was doing. “But you’re gonna need to look over at mum while I do that, alright?”
“Isn’t my blood supposed to stay inside me?” Ollie mumbled as he felt the man who’d made him feel safe enough to call family tied off his blood pressure. All Jack could do was laugh as a big grin took over his tired face.
“Yeah, most of the time, but right now I gotta take some so we can run some tests to see what’s making you feel so miserable, alright?”
“Will it hurt?” Ollie asked as he looked towards you.
“A tiny little bee sting, but after that? Nope, plus I can do this with my eyes closed,” Jack looked up at you with a teasing wink of self-reassurance. “But maybe just one eye,” He caught himself flirting as he popped in the butterfly needle. “See? Bet you didn’t even feel that, huh?”
“Nope.”
“Good, now I need to talk to your mum outside in the hall for a few minutes, but Princess is gonna come in and get some fluids set up to make you feel better, sound alright with you?” Jack asked your son as if the kid had any say in the matter.
“Is she a real princess?” Ollie asked as he looked over to where Jack was looking at the small vial of blood.
“Yeah, Bud, only the real deal for you,” Jack replied as he gestured for you to follow him out. You did just that, but not without saying a loving bye to Oliver.
It wasn’t long before the two of you felt the weight of the entire emergency department’s eyes on you. Jack's day shift peers, who saw him as something of a traumatised enigma, all looked over like a mythical creature had just appeared. A rarity that was someone on a personal level with Dr. Jack middle name unknown, Abbot.
“He’s probably going to be admitted for a few days,” Jack started as he eyed down whoever he could lock eyes with. First it was Santos…then Dana. “I can assure you he’ll be fine, but I wanna keep an eye on him for at least twenty-four hours to make sure he’s reactive to treatment.
“Oh,” Your heart sank into your stomach at the thought of your son needing to stay here in the sterile, fluorescent environment. “Um—am I able to stay with him?” You didn’t know how any of this worked. This was all new territory for you. Up until now, Oliver never needed to be hospitalised. Hell, he’d never broken a bone so much as caught a cold.
“Absolutely,” Jack turned to you, recognising the guilt that plastered itself across your face. “But hey, on a more important note,” Jack tried to lighten the mood. “Who’s running the café this morning if you’re here?”
“Adam,” You replied politely as Jack reached for his phone. You caught the background clear as day. You, Jack, and Oliver at the park. “Why? And how is that more important than anything that’s going on right now?”
“Well, I need to know whose handwork I’m gonna fork out the Uber up charge for.” Jack doesn’t look up from his phone. He’s already got Caramels cafe, the cafe you owned, up on his phone. “Two bacon and egg bagels, an iced coffee and a long black coming right up.”
“I guess you haven’t eaten, have you?” Neither had you. How could you possibly eat when all you’d been doing was worrying yourself sick over Oliver’s battle with whatever flu or cold or illness this was?
“Honey, it feels like I haven’t eaten since March,” Jack teased as he walked with you over to the nurses' station. Dana, with all her bright joy and glee, waited patiently for Jack to introduce you. “Dana, this is—“ He paused for a moment, girlfriend never felt right. It felt like a title reserved for high school lovers. “Partner, my partner Y/n, her son is just about to start a round of fluids and antibiotics,” Jack updated the woman whose eyes never left you. “Make it known, VIP treatment for the kid in room three until peds has a bed.”
“Consider it done,” Dana replied. “I wish I could say I’ve heard all about you,” she continued as she smiled your way. “But Abbot here has an issue with personal and professional.”
“Yeah, I think we both share that same issue.” You replied as you looked around yourself at everyone staring your way. “Do I have something on my face?”
“No, darlin',” Dana chuckled. “It’s just not every day this department gets to see into the private life of Private Ryan here.”
“Oh, eat me,” Jack growled as he motioned the two of you back towards where your son's room was. “C’mon, I don’t want these pariahs giving you the creeps any longer.”
By the time you got back to your son, Princess had started an IV bag of fluids. He looked so small. So tired. But there was a sense of calm that came over you, knowing Jack was taking care of him.
“You guys hang tight, I’ll be back with our food in a moment.” The pain in his leg hadn’t gone away, not for a moment. But the pain didn’t come close to the sheer amount of love that was pumping through Jack's veins.
Adrenaline itself couldn’t compare.
“Hey, Jack?” You couldn’t let him go without a kiss. You reached for his cheeks and danced the pad of your thumb over his greying scruff. “I love you, thank you for being here.”
Jack swore his heart had skipped a beat. It didn’t normally do that. But when he felt your lips on his in view of all the emergency department to see, he couldn’t help but blush.
“I’m never gonna hear the end of this, you know that, right?” He whispered in your ear as he drew you in closer for a hug. One of the hugs he reserved just for you. “And this breaks like three code of conduct rules, fraternising with patients.”
“I’m not the patient,” You clearly reminded him. “I’m your partner.”
Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader, Dennis Whitaker x Reader
Summary: After your ordeal with Abbot earlier, you go to help Whitaker. Your encounter with Whitaker reveals more to him than you’d like, and you feel vulnerable and exposed. You’re upset, and before you can think better of it, your feet carry you to the rooftop- to the person you know will make you feel comfortable and safe. To the person you know you shouldn’t want, but do anyway. Your attending, Jack Abbot.
On the rooftop, you show Doctor Abbot your scars, and he shows you his.
Note: It’s important to note that reader has a medical condition. She has a large scar on her chest from previous heart surgeries.
Warnings: Angst, medical trauma.
Word Count: 6889
A loud crashing sound came from the same direction you heard Whitaker’s voice. Then another, then a muffled curse.
You were still in the hall, and couldn’t determine where you’d heard Whitaker call you from. When he’d yelled for you, your mind had been so preoccupied with Abbot and Robby, you hadn’t been able to spot the room he was in amidst the chaos.
“Whitaker?” You whisper-yelled into a dark patient room, slowly opening the door. Empty.
You quickly moved over to the wooden door on your right, slowly turning the handle and pushing it open.
“Oh thank god,” Whitaker sighed from his spot on the floor.
You put a hand over your mouth, trying to contain your laughter.
“What are you doing down there?” You asked through your smile.
Whitaker was sprawled on the floor, a large cabinet laying on top of him. The medium sized storage closet had a few filing cabinets, old medical gear and heavy machines that looked like they hadn’t been used since before you were born. The room was dark and dusty, and you waved a hand in front of your face to clear the dust that your arrival had kicked up.
Whitaker gave you a sheepish look, “Oh, you know, just checking the files underneath this cabinet.”
You laughed at his predicament, as he pretended to look for something on the floor.
“What really happened?” You propped your hands on your hips.
“I tripped over my own two feet trying to get to that old CPR dummy, and I took the cabinet down with me,” he pointed to the corner of the room with his one arm that wasn’t pinned beneath the filing cabinet.
You looked in the direction that he was pointing and let out a small terrified gasp.
“Jesus Christ,” you whispered.
An old CPR dummy sat atop an even older ultrasound machine, its fake skin a ghastly yellow-brown. It had one eye open, the other ripped out, with a wide open mouth, displaying a full set of teeth. A chill ran down your spine at the terrifying doll.
“I know! Freaky, right?” Whitaker commented from the floor.
You had been so focused on the cursed doll, that you had momentarily forgotten about his position on the floor. The cabinet was laying on top of his right arm and chest, pinning his right thigh.
You knelt down next to his head.
“Do you have any particular reason for wanting the haunted dummy, or are you just getting really lonely late at night?” You teased, reaching to lift the heavy object off him.
His face reddened. “No! No- nothing weird like that. I just wanted to take it home.”
“Oh, because that’s not weird,” you noticed that the edges of the cabinet were actually pretty sharp, and the corners were jagged.
“Oh, god- no- I didn’t mean it to come out like that-“ he stammered, trying to push the heavy thing off himself.
“I get it. It’s a lonely life during residency. Long days, cold nights. I get it,” you teased, but you couldn’t help but notice the truth beneath the surface of your words.
“No- can we just get this thing off me?” He huffed, his face reddening further.
“Ok, on my count, you push, and I’ll lift,” you dug your fingers beneath the metal side, trying to get a good grip.
He nodded, his dark curls jostling.
“Wait. Stop. Are you hurt underneath here? I’m not about to get sprayed with a big laceration or get jumpscared by exposed bone or anything, am I?” You raised an eyebrow at him.
You were so close to him now, your knee practically touching his head.
“I don’t think so…? I mean- my right leg went numb like two minutes ago- but I think I’m uncut under here…?” His blue eyes were unsure as he met your gaze.
He looked so pretty when he was looking up at you like that. Whitaker wasn’t handsome in the way that Abbot and Robby were handsome. No- Whitaker wasn’t something else. He was gorgeous- his features were more delicate and clean cut. You couldn’t help but admire his wide blue eyes and adorable features.
“Uncut?” You giggled at his choice of words.
“No- that’s not what I meant- I meant-“ he muttered, his mouth dropping open in protest to his own words.
“I know what you meant, Whitaker. I need you to be sure, though, because I don’t want to lift this off you, only to have you have some cut under here and you bleed out in front of me,” your words were firm.
You wanted to know if you should call for backup. Maybe Robby was back by now.
“Isn’t the best place to reveal a secret hidden cut, the hospital? Under the watchful eye of a doctor?” He waggled his eyebrows at you.
You gave him a flat look. “Just a resident, remember?”
“Eh, resident- shmesident. I trust you,” he tried to shrug with one shoulder trapped beneath the cabinet, resulting in a one shoulder only shrug.
“With your life?” Your eyes practically bugged out of your head.
“I guess so, then. Yeah. Why not? I trust you,” he quirked his mouth to the side.
You let out a bewildered scoff. This man. You waited for him to take it back, to say that he didn't really trust you with his life, but he remained silent.
He just looked up at you earnestly, those gentle eyes of his dazed.
You noticed how soft his hair looked, his wispy curls so endearing. You wanted nothing more than to run your fingers through them.
You were suddenly very aware that your lap was way too close to his head to be having these thoughts- your knee just touching the tip of his dark head.
He seemed to notice it too, because he cleared his throat and looked away from you.
“Are you sure there’s nothing cut or bleeding underneath here?” You gripped the underneath of the cabinet again.
“I think so,” he nodded.
“Be sure, Whitaker,” your tone was firm.
“Yes, ma’am. Nothing is broken underneath here. I’m sure,” he finally met your gaze again.
“Ok.” You nodded. “On my count.”
He reached his free hand to palm underneath the heavy metal.
“One, two, three,” you grunted as you tried to lift the cabinet off him.
Between the two of you, you only managed to lift it about two inches before your arms gave out and it dropped back down onto him. Whitaker let out a pained huff as if fell back onto him. The sound did things to your insides.
“I’m so sorry. It’s just so heavy! How did you even manage to take this thing down?” You whined.
“Pure clumsiness,” he groaned, “I don’t think that this kind of thing happens to literally anyone else.”
You let out a small giggle at his crestfallen expression. He just looked so cute when he had that little pout on his face, the small line between his eyebrows making an appearance.
“Oh, come on. In terms of embarrassing moments, surely this doesn’t beat me walking in on you changing yesterday?” You grinned.
Whitaker quickly averted his gaze at the memory, and you knew you had said the wrong thing, because suddenly, all you could think about was the toned body that he hid beneath his scrubs. His well formed chest and broad shoulders- his well formed biceps.
A beat of silence passed- awkward and uncomfortable.
“Should I- should I call someone in to help? I think I saw Santos floating around out there?” You suggested, looking at the door leading to the hall.
“Oh God. Please, God, no. Not Santos. Anyone but Santos. Anyone. She’d never let me hear the end of it,” he quickly rejected your idea.
“Who said I’ll ever let you hear the end of this? And ok, fine, no Santos. What about Mel?” You asked.
“Mel looks like she couldn’t lift twenty pounds. I doubt she’d be much help on a an old filing cabinet that is at least double my weight,” Whitaker shot down your next idea.
“Whitaker, I hate to say it, but with Robby and Abbot…otherwise preoccupied… that leaves McKay- and she scares me,” you admitted coconspiratorily to him.
“Me too,” he agreed sheepishly.
“So Mel’s out, and I don’t want to bother any nurses- Javardi looks like she’d judge me to death…Whitaker, I hate to break it to you, but it looks like our only option is Santos,” you murmured quietly, like the doctors you were talking about were right outside.
“Fine. Fine. But only because I’ve fully lost feeling in my right leg. Otherwise, I think I’d just build a life down here, and die here,” his tone was begrudging.
“I think you’d be pretty happy down here. You’d have great company,” you pointed to the CPR dummy staring menacingly at you from the corner.
You laughed as Whitaker groaned.
“Ok. Ok. Fine. Call Trinity before that thing comes to life and takes our souls or something,” Whitaker shivered.
“On it, Doctor Whitaker,” you saluted him and he rolled his eyes.
“Wait- I don’t have my phone on me,” you patted your empty pockets as you stood up.
“Oh no,” was all Whitaker said before you looked at him and his forlorn expression.
You didn’t even have to ask him. You knew by the sheepish look on his face where it was.
“It’s in your pocket isn’t it?” You gulped.
“Yep,” he popped his p.
“Well. I better get it before we have to amputate the leg,” you set your mouth in a grim line, ignoring the tiny part of you that revelled in what you had to do.
“Front right pocket,” Whitaker pointedly looked down at the part of his leg that was covered by the metal box.
“Ok, then,” you clenched your fist, as if readying it for what you had to do.
The cabinet was laying over top of his leg and chest, so you would have to shimmy your hand beneath the box, between the metal and his hard muscle to slip your hand in the right pocket and extract the phone.
Easy enough. You could do that. It was just Whitaker. Just a man. Just a man who was incredibly muscled and attractive. You had to slide your hand down his front to his pants. People did stuff like this all the time. It was just what friends did for each other- they helped each other out when they were in crisis. And Whitaker was in crisis. So what if the only solution was to slide your hand down his body in this dark room, with just the two of you?
“Ready?” You asked, first placing your hand on his chest, just above where the cabinet rested. His heart pounded wildly beneath your palm.
Whitaker inhaled a shaky breath and nodded. You suspected that he, like you, was beyond words.
You slowly slipped your hand beneath the cabinet. It was a snug fit, but you managed to slide your hand down his muscled chest. It was a strange dichotomy- the harsh hardness of the metal above your hand, and the soft hardness of Whitaker beneath your hand. You inched your way down, and tried to ignore the way your stomach was fluttering at the contact. Whitaker’s breath hitched, and when you looked over at him, his eyes were on the roof.
“You okay?” You whispered, your voice uneven.
He just nodded, still not looking at you.
You continued your trail, moving your hand down, feeling your lower belly betray you as it heated.
His skin was almost burning hot, so very warm, and you noticed droplets of sweat now beading on his forehead.
You could tell he was tense, his body straining with effort. Straining with the effort of what, you didn’t know.
You finally reached his pants, just finding his waistband. You felt the tie in his drawstring, and Whitaker surged upwards, his head rising and right thigh banging into the cabinet with a loud thud. Almost as if his hips had rutted upwards.
His face was bright red.
“Right side. Phone’s on the right.” He cried.
“Oh. Right,” you felt your own face heat.
You pulled your arm back towards yourself, his right, questioning his reaction.
Your fingers finally met the joint where his hip met his leg, and you slid your fingers further down, finally finding the opening of his pocket.
You reached in and found something hard. Praying it was his phone, you gripped and pulled. When Whitaker didn’t react, you sighed gratefully, and tugged his phone back up his body, much faster than you had been on the descent.
Whitaker finally relaxed his body as you slid the phone free, holding it up victoriously. You felt like a gold medalist with a trophy, you were grinning so broadly. Whitaker’s head thumped back on the floor as he finally went slack, the tendons in his neck no longer straining. The bulging veins in his neck and forehead retreated.
He flopped his head to look at where you perched by his side, a goofy grin on his face. You still kneeled by his head, but this time your knee pressed against his shoulder.
“Would you like to do the honors, or shall I?” You held his phone out to him.
“Go ahead. You earned it,” he grinned, his perfect teeth on display.
You searched his contacts for Trinity, and dialled, pressing the phone to your ear. She answered after three rings.
“What do you want, Huckleberry?” Her tone was annoyed.
“It’s me. It’s Reid-“
“Why the hell have you got Whitaker’s phone?” She snapped.
“It’s kind of a long story, but he kind of needs your help,” you bit your thumbnail nervously.
“Why would he need my help? Aren’t you with him?” Her tone bordered on concern.
“I am, but- it’s kind of easier if you see for yourself. Do you- do you workout?” You added.
Whitaker shot you a raised eyebrow.
“Um… I mean- I get to the gym when I can…why? Are you interested or something?” Her tone was confused.
“No! No! No- I’m not- I mean, not that you’re not gorgeous, because you are, it’s just, I don’t really swing that way,” what was it about these doctors that got you so flustered?
Whitaker gave you a bewildered stare from the floor.
“Relax, Doctor Reid. I’m just messing with you. Where are you and what do you need my help to lift?” You were surprised she had agreed so quickly to help.
“Wait, really? We’re in the storage closet by the elevator,” you told her.
“You’re in the storage closet with Whitaker?” Her tone was disbelieving.
“Yeah, but it’s not like that. Whitaker just had a little accident,” you shrugged at Whitaker when he threw his one free hand up as if to say ‘you couldn’t have phrased that better?’
“Whitaker had an accident? Say no more. I’m on my way!” Santos happily hung up.
“What the hell was that for?” Whitaker yelled, his forehead vein making a reappearance.
“It got her to come, didn’t it?” You said sheepishly.
He planted his free hand on his face and groaned loudly.
“She’s never going to let this go,” he moaned.
“Yeah, but at least this way, you get to keep your leg?” You smiled nervously.
“I don’t even want it at this point!” He grumbled.
“Oh, come on. It won’t be that bad. I think everyone judges her too harshly. I think she secretly has a big heart,” you don’t know why you defended her, but it felt right.
You were soon proven wrong however, when the storage room door burst open and Santos prowled into the room.
She took one look at Whitaker and burst out laughing. Whitaker gave you a look as if to say, ‘see?’ Her laughter soon turned into cackles, and she bent over, gripping her belly. She pointed at him and gripped a nearby x-ray machine for stability.
“How- how- did,” she couldn’t even get the words out between bouts of laughter.
“Are you gonna help me or just keep laughing, Trinity? Because it’s getting really old, really fast,” Whitaker snapped from the floor, obviously growing annoyed with the brunettes teasing.
“I know, I know. I shouldn’t find this so funny- but you just- you look so silly and little lying there on the floor like that!” She wiped a tear from her eye.
“Ok, Santos. You’ve had your fun. Can you help me lift it off him now, please?” You put a hand on your hip.
“Sure, yeah. Of course, I can. I just have to do one thing first,” Santos reached into her pocket.
You weren’t fast enough to clock what she reached for until it was too late.
She pulled her phone out and snapped a picture of Whitaker on the floor, grinning wickedly the whole time.
“This is so going to make a good tapestry,” she smiled, staring at the photo.
“It would even be a good welcome mat,” you suggested, leaning over to look at the picture as she showed you her screen.
Whitaker shot you a look. “Who’s side are you on?”
You opened your mouth.
“C’mon, Huckleberry. Have a sense of humor. It’s funny. You remember what fun is, don’t you?” Santos raised an eyebrow at him.
“Can we just get this thing off me?” Whitaker yelled.
“Ok. Ok. Jesus. Keep your pants on!” Santos walked over to where the two of you were positioned.
You tried not to think about how badly you had wanted his pants off earlier. And yours.
“How did you even get in this situation?” She asked.
You and Whitaker both spoke at the same time.
“Tripped getting to the ultrasound machine,” he lied.
“He was trying to get to that dummy,” you admitted, pointing to the haunted thing.
Whitaker glared at you, but it didn’t hold much menace, when his eyes were soft and he was pinned down.
Santos’ laughter started anew.
“Oh, Huckleberry, did you think you could use that haunted piece of shit to scare me into winning our little prank war? How cute!” She teased.
Whitaker looked at you, then the roof. “No.” His mouth was in a firm line.
“That’s what you wanted it for?” Suddenly it all made sense to you.
“Maybe,” he glanced at you, a guilty look in his eye. His blue eyes were a deep blue in the dim lighting.
You smiled at him. Not a teasing or judgemental smile. Just a genuine grin at his playful side. His eyes danced with light as his smile widened.
“Okay…if you two are done making eyes at each other, I’ve got to get back to work. I can come back later if you two need a moment?” Santos pointed sarcastically between the two of you.
You both dropped your gaze.
“No. No. Let’s get this thing off him,” you stood, dusting non-existent dust off your scrubs.
Santos kneeled down to Whitaker’s other side, placing her hands beneath the metal. You did the same on his other side.
Whitaker chose to watch you, as he placed his own palm beneath the cabinet.
“On my count, one, two, three!” you grunted.
All three of you groaned as you pushed and pulled and lifted. The cabinet lifted finally- first off Whitaker’s chest, then waist, and finally legs. He shuffled back, sliding free of the metal, and you and Santos lifted it upright.
The jagged corner, however, caught on your top. The corner snagged on the fabric covering your sternum, and as the cabinet finally landed in place, it tore the material of your scrubs.
You didn't notice at first, the ripping sound swallowed by the thumping of the cabinet landing. You lifted your hands in the air in victory.
“Yes! Whitaker! You’re free! You’re not going to have to live here with the dummy!” You shouted, but Whitaker- now standing- stared only on your chest. You were about to chastise him, when you noticed Santos also staring.
They were both wide eyed. You looked down at your chest, only to find that the shirt had ripped open, your long sleeved undershirt along with it. Luckily, your bra was still intact, but your cleavage and large scar was on full display.
“Oh shit,” you whispered, quickly crossing your arms to cover as much as you could.
Unfortunately, you only managed to cover your cleavage, your scar still on stark display. Santos was gaping at you, and Whitaker's eyes were wide as saucers.
“What the hell is that from?” Whitaker pointed at your chest.
“Puberty?” You grinned awkwardly, hoping he was pointing at your breasts and not the obvious scar.
“Jesus, girl. Someone carved you up real bad,” Santos added.
“What happened?” Whitaker's tone was soft, all joking at his expense forgotten.
“It doesn’t matter. It’s old. Can we drop it?” You asked, turning your body slightly to shield the old wound. You didn’t want to talk about your past. Not with them, not in this dusty closet, not now, not ever.
“Not when it looks like someone dropped a knife into you,” Santos was still staring.
“Is that a surgical scar? It almost looks like you’ve had open heart surgery,” Whitaker mused out loud.
Bingo. Too smart for his own good.
“Yeah, actually. I see that. Yeah, it looks like it’s a clean incision,” Santos crossed her arms and tilted her head, observing you.
“Oh my god! I asked you guys to drop it! I need a new shirt, where’s the scrub exchange station again?” You turned your pleading gaze to Whitaker. He would know.
He opened his mouth to respond, but Santos beat him to it.
“You can’t exchange ripped scrubs. Those can’t be washed. You’ll have to ask around and see if anyone has a spare top in your size.”
Fuck.
Who would have spare scrubs?
“I keep an extra pair in my bag, you could borrow mine,” Whitaker offered.
“Come on, Huckleberry, use your head. They’d be way too big. Reid, did you get carved up by a doctor or serial killer? I need to know. Either way is interesting, but-“ Santos kept talking, but you couldn't hear her.
You gripped both sides of your torn shirt, and tried your best to cover yourself as you turned around.
“Reid, wait- Reid, I was just joking around, come on!” Santos called after you as you opened the door.
Whitaker grabbed your bicep as you tried to slip out the door, his warm fingers circling your arm.
“I have to go. I have to find a new shirt. Thanks for dropping the obviously sore subject,” you eyed Santos at your last words.
“I’m sorry- I just- I wasn’t expecting-“ Whitaker tried to apologise as his wide eyes still moved between your chest and your eyes. His hand still wrapped around your bicep, sending tingles throughout your whole body.
Pity and sympathy filled his eyes. You couldn’t stand it.
“I know you weren't expecting it. That’s precisely why I don’t show people. Because of that look you’re giving me right now. Like I’m something fragile. Something breakable. You’re just like everyone else,” your words were harsh, but you couldn't help them. You felt raw and vulnerable and exposed. And when you felt hurt, you hurt back. You were like a wounded animal, biting the hand of anyone who got too close.
The light seemed to gutter in Whitaker’s eyes as you tore your arm free from his grasp.
You didn't let yourself think about it, as your mind quickly ran through the options of where you could go when you felt so raw and exposed. You needed to go somewhere you knew you’d be safe. That left you with only one option.
Luckily, the elevator was empty.
———
The elevator doors pinged pleasantly as you made your way up to the roof. You startled slightly when the double doors leading to the roof opened, revealing Robby. His eyes widened at your disheveled appearance, you holding your top together the best you could. You tried to quickly make your way past him, looking behind him, but he stopped you with his hands, placing them on your shoulders, pausing your movements. He ducked his head to meet your gaze.
“Hey, hey, hey. What’s going on? What happened to your shirt?” His gaze was concerned, his eyebrows raised.
“I’m fine. It was nothing. I just tripped,” you didn’t once meet his gaze, instead searching behind him for any sign of Abbot.
One of his hands left your shoulder, coming up to grip your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze.
“Reid. What’s going on?” His words were soft.
His dark eyes were flicking between yours as he gently cupped your jaw.
“I- my shirt ripped. Whitaker and Santos saw,” you shakily dropped your hands from your shirt flaps.
Robby’s gaze dipped to your now exposed chest. You had revealed yourself to him, your ugliest and most vulnerable part of you.
His eyes flicked back up to your face.
“How much do they know?” His jaw was clenched.
“Nothing really. Whitaker figured out it was a surgical scar, but Santos thinks it’s from a serial killer,” you murmured.
“I’ll talk to them,” his tongue poked at the inside of his cheek.
He dropped his hands on you, and made for the elevator that you had just come out of, but you stopped him with a hand on his arm.
“Please don’t,” you pleaded.
Your hand rested gently on his arm as his mouth twitched. He thought it over. He could have easily evaded your grip and left, but he remained.
“Please. Just let them think I survived a serial killer, or a shark attack or whatever crazy thing they come up with. Don’t tell them the truth. I’m not ready for that. For their questions and their pity. Please,” you whispered up at him.
He was so tall, you had to crane your head to meet his stare. His piercing stare was on you as he thought it over.
“You’ll have to tell them some time,” he murmured.
“I know. I just don’t want to yet. I don’t want this to change how they see me. Not now. Just let me be normal for another few days,” you tried to imbue your desperation into your expression.
“I won’t say a word. It’s your secret to tell,” he relinquished.
You let out a relieved breath, your body slackening.
“Thank you, thank you. I will tell them eventually, I promise,” your hand slipped down his forearm.
He made a gesture with his free hand, as if he were zipping his lips and locking them up. You giggled at the silly gesture.
You finally broke his stare, looking behind him towards the roof. A lone figure leaned against the railing, clad in black scrubs.
Your heart sank at his posture. A man broken. Abbot stared off into the horizon, his stethoscope on the railing. His shoulders were slumped, his head hanging.
Robby noticed the direction of your stare.
“I talked to him. He’s not going to jump or anything, but I think he just needs to be alone for a while,” Robby’s tone was sad.
“Do you think it would be okay if I joined him? I won’t talk too much, I just think he might appreciate some company,” You asked tentatively.
“You could try, but just know- he’s more sensitive that he lets on,” Robby whispered.
“Got it,” you nodded.
Robby gave your shoulder a pat and a meaningful look, before he ducked past you into the elevator behind you. He couldn’t stay out here all night. There were patients downstairs that needed him. Doctors that needed him. He had to be there for them, but who would be here for Abbot? The duty fell to you.
The sun was setting on the rooftop as the time was close to six. Abbot mustn’t have heard your approach, or simply chose to not turn, as you made your way over to stand beside him. You didn’t bother to hold the flaps of your shirt together, the wind on the roof was too strong anyway to get a good grip. You didn’t know why you chose to let yourself be exposed to the rapidly cooling air. Maybe it was because you couldn’t be bothered to cover yourself. Maybe it was because you felt safe around Abbot. Maybe it was because you were sick of hiding. Maybe you thought he would be a gentleman and keep his eyes on your face. For whatever reason, you allowed your vulnerability to be exposed. He had exposed himself to you earlier, cracked himself wide open for you to see. You could return the gesture in some small way.
You pressed yourself to the railing beside Abbot. The sunset lighting gilded him in the most gorgeous way possible, his skin golden and silver hair laced with a warm glow. He didn’t startle when your elbow delicately brushed his. He must have heard you, then. He still didn’t look at you, instead choosing to look over the city.
“It’s a beautiful view,” you murmured.
He finally turned his head to look at you. “It sure is.”
The view from the rooftop was stunning, the large city on full display. At this hour, so many people were coming home from work, the roads filled with bustling traffic.
The view, however, was no match for him. Sure, Abbot had been handsome in the harsh lighting of the hospital, the white fluorescent lights cold on his skin, bringing out his beauty- the sharp lines and angles of him. But under the warm setting sun? He was ethereal, his skin softer, his expression less hard. His eyes were a soft green when they met yours.
Your elbows and chest pressed against the railing, your scar hidden from view by the metal bars.
Both of you stood in silence for another moment, just taking each other in and the setting sun.
“You shouldn’t be up here with me. Not after…earlier,” Abbot quietly broke the silence.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that all day. Ever since our little…disagreement this morning, I’ve felt sick to my stomach,” you admitted shyly.
“Sick? Why the hell would you feel sick? I was the one in the wrong,” Abbot’s tone was confused as he arched a brow at you.
“No, Abbot,” you placed a tentative hand over his, his hand cool from resting on the railing for so long, “I was in the wrong.”
His eyes glistened as he looked at you.
“I was ignorant and rude, and what I said was unfair. I had no idea,” you swallowed, “I had no idea about Claire. I just assumed-“
“You assumed the worst out of me.” His tone was sad.
He pulled his hand from beneath yours, pocketing it.
You ignored the pang of pain in your chest at the gesture. You left your hand on the railing. Cold and alone.
“I know. I know, I did. And I’m so, so very sorry. I have no excuse. I just- I felt silly and embarrassed when I saw the ring. So I hurt you the only way I knew how- with words. I don’t know why I do that. I lash out when I’m hurt. I’ve always done it. Ever since I was a kid. Maybe a part of me is broken inside,” you had never told anyone that.
“I think all of us are broken inside in some way.” He murmured after a long moment, staring off into the horizon.
“I just- I feel- I feel things that I shouldn’t when I’m with you. And when I saw the ring- I freaked out. I’m so sorry, Jack,” his eyes once again snapped to yours when you said his first name.
“I understand.”
“You understand?” You asked hopefully.
“You make me- you make her easier to forget,” he whispered. Almost like he was admitting this to himself for the first time.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered again.
A lone tear slid down his face.
“Don’t be sorry. It's not your fault. It’s been five years. It’s just- I’ve felt like I’ve been in a daze- a dream- for the last five years, just eating, sleeping and working. But then you came along,” he swallowed, “And I feel like- I feel like I’m finally awake.”
Your heart lurched painfully. You didn’t dare speak. Not until he got out all he wanted to say.
“I wasn’t wearing the ring yesterday. I haven’t in years, but this morning- this morning I put it on. Because I felt guilty. I felt guilty for feeling something for you when I should still be mourning her. She’s dead and buried because of me, and here I am, flirting with beautiful residents.” Another tear slid down his beautiful cheek, almost orange in the lighting.
Beautiful.
Jack Abbot thought you were beautiful.
He felt something for you.
“You’re allowed to move on, Jack. If the roles were reversed, wouldn’t you want her to stop punishing herself and allow herself to be happy?” You asked.
He nodded.
“And I told you earlier, but I don’t think it’s registering in that thick skull of yours,” a small quirk of his mouth, “it’s not your fault she’s gone. You have to stop punishing yourself. The guilt will eat you alive.” Your words were earnest.
A beat of silence passed as he thought it over.
“My skull is pretty thick, isn’t it?” He smiled a small smile.
“The thickest,” you grinned.
He slowly pulled his left hand from his pocket, the silver ring painted gold by the light. His hands were shaking, and you couldn’t help but reach out to steady them with your own.
He inhaled shakily as your warm hands landed on his cold ones. He’d been out here for too long, the cold air freezing. When his hands finally stopped shaking, you pulled your hands back, planting them back on the railing.
He slowly, ever so slowly, gripped his ring with his fingers, and slid it off his hand.
He sighed. In pain, sadness, relief- you didn’t know. You didn’t ask. You just let him sit with it a moment.
He planted the ring on the flat edge of the railing, a small plink the only sound.
You didn’t dare breathe.
“I think it’s time that I let her go. It’s time to wake up,” he murmured, just quiet enough for you to hear.
When he let the ring go, he seemed to sag in relief, as if the memory of Claire was a heavy weight to bear.
You noticed that he sighed again, bending at the waist to rub a spot on his leg.
“Sore leg?” You questioned.
“You could say that,” he huffed a laugh.
“Anything I can do?” You offered.
“Short of growing me a new leg, there’s not much you can do.”
“That bad, huh?” You turned slightly to face him, one edge of your shirt flapping in the wind. Not enough to reveal everything, but enough to show your shirt was destroyed.
“What happened to your shirt?” He changed the subject, eyeing the dark material.
“This whole thing with Whitaker. It’s a long story,” you waved a hand non-committably.
His eyes darkened.
“Whitaker ripped your shirt?” His voice had dropped an octave.
“No- oh, god no. It was nothing like that. Whitaker is a perfect gentleman- I don’t think he has it in him to rip someone’s clothes- but that’s not what I was talking about. It was a cabinet. I was helping him move it,” you were nervous again, Abbot’s dark glare almost menacing.
“And how would you know what Whitaker has in him?” He arched his brow.
“He’s my friend.”
“Friends don’t rip each other's clothes off.” His tone was flat as he crossed his arms.
“I just told you- he didn’t rip anything. The cabinet did. He was just there.”
“I see.”
“Why, Abbot, are you jealous that he got to see my chest?” You fully turned to face him now.
The wind tore at your hair and top. Revealing your scar and the upper swells of your breasts to him.
He opened his mouth to respond to your obvious taunt, but he closed it when his eyes dipped to your now exposed chest.
His throat bobbed. You hated that it turned you on so much.
His eyes met yours again. But instead of pity or sympathy in them, you saw nothing but lust and amusement. A small smirk played on his lips.
“Nice bra. I’ve never really loved the color red, but I’m liking it a lot more now,” his eyes once again took in your scarlet bra and the cleavage it revealed.
You were so glad that today, of all days, you had chosen to wear one of your nicest bras.
Your stomach dipped.
He hadn’t commented on your scar.
He hadn’t looked at you with pity in his eyes.
There was no sympathy.
He had looked at you with desire and playfulness.
He wasn’t like everyone else.
He saw you, not the scar.
You looked down at your chest, just making sure your scar was on display. The scar was stark in the afternoon light. How had he not said anything?
He saw the direction of your stare, your obvious confusion.
“It’s badass,” his voice was gruff.
You looked up at him. His expression was open, honest.
“You really think so?”
“Absolutely. Battle scars are always cool,” his arms were still crossed across his broad chest.
“It’s not exactly from a battle,” you nervously played with your fingers.
“You fought something, and survived. That makes you as tough as any soldier I know.”
Jack Abbot thought you were tough.
The compliment meant everything coming from him.
“You think I could win a fight against your military buddies?” You bit your lip to hide your smile.
“I already told you. I wouldn’t want to be on your bad side. You’re a fighter. I think you could win any battle you put your mind to,” his tone was somehow rough and soft at the same time.
He didn’t ask for an explanation of where you’d gotten it, how it had happened, who had done it. He had just admired your strength. Your chest felt warm and fuzzy.
You blushed as his compliments hit you, right in your gut.
“I bet I’ve got the coolest scar you’ve ever seen,” you teased.
“You’ve definitely got the prettiest one I’ve ever seen,” he smirked, and the sight of it playing on his lips was the sexiest he’d ever looked.
Your breath caught in your throat.
He glanced one more time at your exposed chest, at the visible upper swells of your breasts there, before he slowly bent down. You were about to ask what he was doing, when he gripped the bottom of his right pant leg, and pulled upwards.
At first, all you saw was his shoe, then a glint of silver, and you noticed the thinness of his ankle. It was a prosthetic. Abbot had a prosthetic leg.
You looked back up at his face, at the expression there. It looked like he was waiting for your judgement, your sympathy, your pity- and you realised that this is what you must have looked like. He was waiting for you to see him differently. Just like you had been waiting for him to see you differently.
“I think it’s badass,” you echoed his earlier words.
His face changed to something like approval. He nodded, and dropped his pant leg. You had passed his silent test.
“What do you think? Cooler than yours?” He teased.
“Definitely sexier,” you blurted.
Both yours and his eyes widened. Neither of you had been expecting you to say that, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to take it back.
It was true. You found it sexy. You found him sexy. His face, his arms, his eyes, his damn smirk. All of it combined made him the sexiest man you’d ever laid eyes on.
He took a step closer to you, a predatory step forward. The wind tore its icy fingers through your hair, but you didn’t care, not one bit as he placed his hand on the side of your face, his large hand splaying.
Your breath hitched as you noticed that his face was mere inches from yours. All either of you would have to do is lean in infinitesimally, and your lips would be pressed to his. You wanted that more than anything. You wanted his hands on you, his mouth on yours, his body on yours.
The lines on his handsome face were visible up this close, the soft curls of his hair. His eyes seemed more hazel in this lighting.
His tongue flicked out, wetting his bottom lip, and your eyes instantly tracked the movement.
He tucked a strand of wild hair behind your ear and you shuddered at the featherlight touch.
His hand dropped to the back of your upper arm, and your whole body tingled.
His eyes darted between yours, waiting for you to pull away, waiting for you to reject him.
summary — the first rule of sleeping with your attending was to make sure it meant nothing. you’d been very good at that right up until you weren’t.
warnings — 8.1k words. 18+ Minors DNI!! (explicit sexual content, oral [m! recieving], unprotected p in v, power imbalance [attending/resident], friends with benefits dynamics, mild dom/sub dynamics, hair pulling, a lot of talking during sex, can be read as slightly coercive maybe?), hurt/comfort, commitment issues, fear of emotional intimacy, lightly implied widower undertones, age gap (jack’s 50/reader’s a resident, implied to be late twenties), jack jokes about paying for sex, alcohol
notes — this one started light in the beginning and ended pretty heavy like idk where all that came from i wrote the first half when i was in a better mood and finished it when i got this request and i guess i was just feeling like i wanted to make it hurt even more
Jack Abbot came with his perks. He’d taken you under his wing when you first joined the PTMC as a second-year-resident, and somewhere over the space of a year, he’d taken you to his bed. You’d built him as a man who lived in a sad bachelor pad with the way he’d taken you to his house after a shitty shift; no preamble, just a jerk of his head toward the parking garage and a raspy ‘come on’ that you’d followed like he was still your attending after-hours.
And fuck, you couldn’t lie and say it didn’t feel slightly good to see a floor-to-ceiling windowed penthouse and drink something amber and expensive after you’d spent the last few years of your life not seeing the other end of what your work could bring you. It was grim and improper, you knew, fucking your attending in the early hours of the morning before the sun fully rose, but you knew it was coming; half the ED had placed bets on it and Cassie and Javadi were yet to know they were right.
He’d taken you against the window the first time.
“You afraid of heights?” he’d asked, and the question moved through you like warm liquid rather than reached you. You’d shaken your head, or tried to. “No,” he’d murmured, your jaw in his hands. “Didn’t think so.”
He’d taken his prosthetic off after, wryly claiming that the position felt good but the leg disagreed. That had somehow lead to another round, slower the second time with him on his back and you set over him.
A part of you wondered often the sort of impression you’d given Jack, what he’d seen, exactly, that made him sure he could have you like this and keep it weightless. Whatever it was, it had to have been right to some degree because you’d spent more nights in his penthouse than your own apartment for the past six months without ever calling it anymore than what it was.
He was a better lay than you’d ever had. He was probably the best option around to get steam off while you worked your way through residency. It helped that he was your attending and you shared the same strange hours.
You kept the books carefully and columns balanced. Sex, sleep, the occasional terrible four a.m. meal that didn’t count because eating was maintenance, not intimacy. You never stayed for coffee — you took it to go — and you didn’t learn his middle name on purpose. You’d never seen the inside of his closet. You left before you could risk having to go to work together. A woman in trouble would linger, and you did not linger. Therefore.
But the stupid books had started running a quiet deficit you hadn’t accounted for. You knew exactly how he took his coffee. The toothbrush in the second drawer that you reached for now without looking, muscle memory in a place you’d sworn was temporary.
And even though you could admit that Jack knew his way around you and never made you ask twice for anything in that bed, that wasn’t the line item that worried you. Bodies learned bodies. It was that you’d stopped taking your coffee to go some mornings without ever noticing the change; you’d sit at his counter with a mug that was somehow yours now, and drank it there while he read something on his phone and never told you to leave. You’d started to become a woman that lingered, and even worse, one who liked to do so.
And that had to stop, because Jack had told you point-blank what this was on the first night while you were still putting on your shirt with his mouth print blooming under the fabric.
This doesn’t have to be a thing. I’m not looking to make it one. Is that alright?
He’d said the words while putting on his briefs, and you’d agreed too fast, because at that time, it had cost you nothing. You’d wanted a body and a break, and he was offering both. He’d been more honest than any man you’d let touch you. He’d told you the terms up front and never moved them.
So, you simply had to put yourself out of the arrangement.
Jack found you by your car in the parking garage. He’d put on his coat a heavy thing that should’ve swallowed him but instead he was able to fill out almost perfectly.
“Jack,” you said, trying to find an even voice as he closed the distance between you. Before he could even ask, you forced out, “I’m not going home with you.”
His brows furrowed and he looked confused. For good reason, you supposed. Friday mornings had become sort of a usual for you, the easiest compensation in your life for missing Friday nights.
“You good?” He stepped close and tipped his head, and you watched him give you a complete once-over, eyes dropping to your hands and the set of your shoulders like you were a patient. “You looked a little out of it today. Come — I’ll make you soup.”
You pinched your eyes shut at his words. “What’s that even supposed to mean — I was fine.”
“Don’t take it personal,” he said. “Come on, soup.”
“Seriously, I was fine.” You were almost offended now, which was clearly his intent, the bastard. “I’ve been awake for nineteen hours, I’m not sick —” You caught yourself getting pulled into it, defending your honor, exactly the kind of dumb circular thing you’d let him rope you into a hundred times because arguing with Jack was sometimes fun. You shut it down. “I’m not going home with you,” you said again, this time with a sharper edge.
He pursed his lips and crossed his arms over his chest, giving you another once-over as he recaliberated the situation in real time. “Did I upset you?”
“No, it’s not a fight,” you said fast. You dragged a hand down your face. “I’m not mad at you, Jack. I’m done with this. The whole — all of it.”
He tipped his chin down when you gestured vaguely with your finger between the two of you, at the whole abstract nature of you. Then, he said, “You’re calling it?”
“Yeah, very much,” you said, voice dropping a register as you leaned against the driver’s side door of your car. Then, when you saw how his brows furrowed and how he looked just slightly caught off-guard, you added, dumbly, “Sorry. I guess.”
He held your eyes a long beat, something working in his mouth, and then closed the last of the distance between you. His hand came up to your jaw, and you felt your face turn to liquid as you involuntarily leaned into it; his thumb dragged slow along your cheekbone and his gaze followed it, and you stood pinned to your own cold car door and let him, because telling him to stop would mean pretending you didn’t want it, and you’d never once been able to sell that lie for either of you.
“You mean it?” he asked, voice rough, and his forehead dropped to yours. When you nodded, he mimicked your movement. “Alright. Then let’s at least end it properly.”
When you showed no urgency to decline, his mouth found yours before you could decide whether you trusted yourself enough to end it properly. One of his hands stayed at your jaw while the other one fitted you back against the cold of the car. He smiled against your mouth, and you used your palm to push him by the chest.
He went back, just slightly, dropping his head to your forehead again. “I’m guessing that’s a yes?”
“One time,” you said quietly, almost in a whisper. “And then I mean it. It won’t change anything.”
“I believe you,” he said. “Last time, then. Make it count.”
Jack was making it obscenely difficult for you to make it count. The rhythm you’d settled into with him at around month two — the one where the two of you skipped the drink and went straight into his bed — had disappeared tonight. He just really needed a drink tonight, and then another, and then he really didn’t want to shut his mouth.
He poured the second one without offering you a top-up and stood at the window instead of coming to you, two fingers of amber catching the lamplight. You watched him and watched him, answering his questions until the two of you finally ended up in the bedroom.
He’d opened his mouth to argue something and you got his belt open instead slowly, and whatever he’d been about to say faded elsewhere. The city sat out past the glass, unblinking, that audience he never drew the blinds against. His hand found your hair, resting with his thumb at your ear, almost gentle and completely fucking distracting.
“Slow,” he murmured when you took him into your mouth, and the word came out scraped down to nothing. His head went back against the headboard. “Fuck.”
You went the opposite of slow; you knew that taking your time with it, acknowledging the last time of it all, would crack something open in your chest you couldn’t afford to have open. You did everything you knew undid him — six months of evidence, a body of proof — fast and certain, and the breath punched out of him and his fingers curled into your hair and the smug, talkative version of him went quiet for about four seconds.
“You — huh — last time. Really?” he managed to say, fingers tightening against your scalp, the blunt fingernails scraping against the skin. You slid your tongue down his length, and he let out a short groan, letting out a wrecked, “Good girl.” His hips lifted a fraction before he caught them, forcing himself still under your hands. “Good — yeah.”
You’d have smiled if your mouth wasn’t otherwise occupied, so you settled on humming around him. You let yourself think you’d won the quiet, and then his thumb moved against your temple slowly, and he ruined it.
“You really mean it?” he asked quietly, words aimed somewhere at the ceiling. “You’re done?”
You ignored him and kept your rhythm. It wasn’t a question you were going to dignify with him in your mouth and your resolve already pooled somewhere on his bedroom floor.
His hands flexed in your hair at the silence, then tugged, a frustrated little pull that went straight down your spine and that he absolutely felt you react to, because his thumb pressed flat behind your ear like he was talking to your pulse there.
“Don’t go quiet on me,” he said, rasp going uneven, breath catching somewhere between the words, his whole stomach drawn tight. You watched the muscle there jump when you took him deeper as his jaw worked. “You hear me. I know you — shit.”
You’d found the underside with the flat of your tongue you slowly dragged, and the sentence collapsed. His head dropped back and your eyes caught the tendon at his throat standing out. One of his heels dug into the mattress and you felt the tremor run up his thigh under your palm.
You’d have been lying if you said this wouldn’t be missed. Not the talking, but this, the privilege of watching Jack Abbot lose a fight with his own body, a man who controlled every room he stood in coming apart by degrees because of what you were doing. You pressed your thumb into the crease of his hip and felt him shudder. You took him to the back of your throat and swallowed and he said your name that came out of his mouth breaking.
“You’re really gonna — ” He inhaled sharply, hand fisting tighter on your head. “ — gonna do this and walk, you’re — ”
You pulled off of him with a slow, wet, and deeply unflattering sound and sat back on your heels and looked up at him, lips swollen, thoroughly out of patience, your hand still working him just enough that his hips chased it. His eyes were closed, and he let out a large exhale.
“Are you kidding me?”
He cracked an eye open, then shifted his head to the side against the pillow. “What?” he muttered.
“Why won’t you shut up?” You squeezed deliberately and his jaw clenched against the noise that almost got out of him. “You’re acting like a child.”
“Acting like a child,” he huffed, head tipping back. “I’m pretty aged out of the tantrum bracket.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” You dragged your thumb up the length of him slowly. “You’ve been throwing one since we got off.”
His hand left your hair and closed around your wrist instead — the one still working him — stilling it, and then he was pulling with his unarguable strength, drawing you up over him until you had to crawl up his body or be dragged.
You ended up straddling his waist. He stayed flat on his back beneath you, one arm folding behind his head while the other spread warm and heavy over your thigh, and he looked up at you with his chest still heaving and the gray stark at his temples.
“Better,” he muttered. “Neck was startin’ to go, watching you be stubborn down there.” The hand on your thigh slid up slowly, settling at your hip, thumb working a lazy circle into the bone. He tilted his chin up slightly. “What’s this really about?”
You went still because you had too much of an answer, and it was the sort of one that you didn’t believe could survive being said out loud over a man who’d made it clear exactly what this was on day one.
“You know,” you said.
“Maybe. But humor me.” His eyes stayed on your face, looking patient as ever, as the circle of his thumb continued moving. “Thought we had something nice going and now — ” He tilted his head slightly against the pillow. “So, what’s going on up in that pretty little head of yours?”
“I want more than this,” you said plainly. “That’s what’s in my head. I want the whole thing — the relationship and dates and stuff. I think I’ve got enough time to — get into that.”
“Yeah?” he said, voice coming out in a breath His thumb stilled on your hip. He looked up at you and his other hand came up and pushed a piece of your hair back off your cheek.
You had to press your lips together, because you obviously weren’t expecting him to offer, and yet you’d been holding your breath anyway.
“Yeah,” you said. “I do.”
His hand stayed on your cheek a moment longer, the pad of his thumb resting just under your eye. Then his hand dropped back to your hip where it was safe.
“You should,” he said after a moment, swallowing. “Get into that. You’ve got the time.”
“That’s it?”
“What do you want me to say?” His hands flexed at your hip, his hips still beneath yours and the want still humming under all of it. “Not gonna talk you out of one thing you actually deserve. Even I’m not that selfish.” His brows furrowed, like he’d just processed his own words. “Most days.”
His hand left your hip and found your waist, and then he was turning you, guiding you off of him onto the side on the mattress beside him, leaving the two of you laying facing each other in the gold dark. His thigh slid between yours.
This close, you could see everything you usually didn't get to study: the silver threaded through the stubble at his jaw, the small white seam of an old scar through one eyebrow, the way the lines around his eyes weren't from laughing. He had one arm folded under his head and the other draped heavy over your hip, fingers spread at the small of your back, and he just looked at you, the want and the conversation both still hanging in the air between you, neither resolved.
“S’it somebody at work?” he asked. “Has to be. You don’t have time yet to meet anyone who isn’t.”
You shook your head slightly against the pillow, and your brows furrowed together at the idea. “No — no one. I haven’t met anyone yet.”
He huffed. His eyes dropped from yours to somewhere near your collarbone, then came back up.
He turned his face toward the pillow for a second, as if to hide his face from you, then met your eyes again. “You’d rather have no one than me, huh?”
“Wow,” you breathed out in almost a gasp. You pulled back an inch against the pillow to look at him properly. “Now that’s mean, Jack. I can find someone, you know.”
“Yeah?” His brow lifted, scar catching the light. “Course you can.” His hand slid off your hip and down, palming the back of your thigh, drawing your knee up over his. “Always hear someone in the hospital talking about you.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“M’not.” He hitched your leg higher, fitting himself into the space it opened, and you felt the blunt heat of him press where you were already aching for it, rubbing slowly against your folds. “I mean it. It’s about time you got out from this old man.”
“Don’t call yourself that.”
He dragged the length of him through you again, catching you over and over where you wanted him and not giving it. “It’s what I am. Fifty, boring life, no good to you past this.” His mouth ghosted the corner of yours, breath warm and uneven. “You should be out with someone who can give you the whole thing. I’ve already done my time.”
You could do it again, you wanted to say. You could be the whole thing. But the words sat behind your teeth, because you already knew what he’d say and do if you’d said them, and you couldn’t take hearing it kindly. Especially not with him notched against you like this when it was supposed to be the last time.
You let your hand find his jaw instead, the rough of the stubble, the silver, and you watched his eyes flicker at the touch, at how your lips moved from one side to the other as you tried to keep the words down. It seemed like he’d understood whatever you didn’t say.
“Yeah, baby,” he muttered and pressed his thumb to the back of your thigh, eyes fluttering shut at the touch of you. “I know.”
He pushed in then, slow, all the way, mid-breath like it was just the next thing between you. The shudder rolled clean through him as he sank into you, his exhale breaking ragged against your mouth. Your spine arched off the mattress. His arm hooked under the small of your back and dragged you flush, no space left, no air, the two of you pressed chest to chest in the gold hush.
“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth, holding there, buried to the hilt and not moving as he felt you clench around him. “Spoiling me rotten and then telling me you’re leaving.”
“Shut up now — ”
He drew back slow and sank back in deep, and the sound you made came out somewhere against his shoulder. Each roll of his hips pressed you up the sheets. “Get me used to this and then — what? Go hand it to someone who hasn’t earned it.” He laughed brokenly against your throat. “Selfish girl.”
You got a fistful of his hair and pulled, hard enough that his breath stuttered. “Go find — someone else yourself,” you said through your teeth, because opening your mouth seemed like something embarrassing would follow. “You’re not lacking options — ”
“But I like having my cake,” he breathed, and there was almost a laugh under it. “Eating it, too.”
“Gross,” you mumbled against him.
One month was meant to be enough time. Lying awake the first week, you’d assumed it’d take thirty days to unlearn a person. It had worked on the obvious things. You’d stopped reaching for your phone at the end-of-shift and stopped seeking him out by the lockers. You’d slept in your own bed and not found it lacking, mostly. But nobody warned you that being in a car for four hours would call it all into question.
One month of calling him Dr. Abbot across the bay, crisp and so weightless, handing him a chart without your fingers brushing his. You’d gotten good at it. Then Robby floated the conference. Some emergency medicine thing four hours upstate; a block of credits, a hotel with a conference rate, a chance to put PowerPoint slides between yourself and the actual work for two days. Dana volunteered the department van before anyone could think of a reason not to, already half out of her scrubs spiritually, determined to get a few days of being a person instead of a charge nurse.
Like these things usually did, the seating assembled itself, which was to say it was assembled badly. Robby drove while Dana drove shotgun. Trinity somehow won the entire back row. And the middle row was you, Dennis, and Jack.
You in the middle, because the universe worked in fucked-up ways. In this case, the universe was named Dana.
“You’ll fit,” Dana had said, and pressed a duffel of granola bars into your arms like a consolation prize, steering you into the gap between the two men before you could mount a defense.
You fit pressed thigh-to-thigh with Jack Abbot for four hours up interstate, his arm slung along the seatback behind you because there was genuinely nowhere else for a man his size’s arms to put it, the heat of him bleeding through your sleeve like a low fever. You knew that arm. You knew the weight of it, the places where his hand fell when it wasn’t thinking about where it fell. It was a quarter-inch from touching you, which was worse than actually touching you, and you suspected he knew that, too.
The van pulled out of the lot at five in the morning. Dennis had his headphones in before the drive even started. Up front, Dana was already arguing with Robby about the music. Trinity was sprawled in the whole back row to herself, scrolling on her phone.
Thirty minutes into the drive, Jack broke the seal.
“Excited?” he asked, eyes still out the window, profile flat and bored as anything. His voice was pitched low enough that it lived in the space between his mouth and your ear and nowhere else.
You kept your head tipped back against the seat. “More excited about sleeping in a comfortable bed than the conference.”
His brows narrowed as he turned to look at you. “Some Marriot-adjacent mattress? You’re aiming low.”
“It’s horizontal and not on-call. I’m easy to please.”
“Since when?” he drawled, bone-dry, eyes going back to the window. But his thigh had pressed a degree closer against yours, a shift you couldn’t call a thing without admitting you were keeping track. Up-front, Dana won whatever argument she’d been having and something with a heavy bassline filled the van. Jack let the noise ring and leaned half-an-inch closer that nobody would ever catch. “You used to say my sheets were scratchy.”
“For a man with that penthouse, they were scratchy — ”
“Finally,” he breathed out, satisfied, like he’d been fishing for exactly that and reeled it in. Something in his face eased and you hated, a little, how much you wanted to have done that. “I almost forgot you’d been in it.”
God. You hadn’t forgotten anything. That was the whole problem. You knew the place, the cold floor on the way to the bathroom, the exact freckles on his chest up close. You knew he wore a ring you had never once asked about and he’d never once explained, and that you’d both kept your eyes politely off the subject the way you keep your eyes off a wound that wasn’t yours to dress. You knew all of it, and all you could do was keep promising yourself it didn’t count anymore.
“Can we stop at the next exit?” Trinity said from the back. “I need coffee and the bathroom. In that order.”
Dana hummed. “There’s a Sheetz coming up in ten. That good?” She looked through the map on her phone. “Everybody go when we stop. We’re not pulling off twice.”
“Works for me,” Robby said.
Dennis plugged out one of his earphones and glanced over everyone in the car. “We’re stopping?”
“Yup,” Dana confirmed. “Bathroom, snacks, ten minutes, back in the van. Whitaker, you want anything, you decide now.”
Dennis considered, then put his earphone back on, apparently deciding the whole thing was beneath the commitment.
Jack leaned in from beside you, barely. “Single stall in the back of those places, you know?” he said, voice low, barely audible over the music. “There’s a lock on the door and everything.”
You kept your eyes on the windshield in front of you. “Weird thing to know off the top of your head.”
His thigh pressed warm against yours through the curve of an off-ramp that didn’t strictly require it. “How much would it take?” His eyes flickered back out to the window, even as his shoulder now pressed up against yours. “You and me in there. Ten minutes. Name a number.”
“Can’t be bought.” You forced your eyes to the windshield. “Sorry. Not for sale.”
“No?” His voice dipped, amused. “Everybody’s got a price.”
“Not me.” You turned your head and found him already closer than he’d been a second ago. “You really think you could afford me?”
“Could take a run at it.”
“Wouldn’t get far.”
“Fifty,” he said, and you could see the slight grin crawling onto his lips.
You let out a short laugh, then immediately pressed your mouth over your lips before it became any louder. “I don’t get out of bed for fifty dollars, Abbot, let alone on my knees.”
“Oof.” He winced, mock-wounded, dragging a hand over his chest. “Expensive date.”
“It’s never a date with you.”
He bit his lip at that, eyes raking over you, the grin caught behind his teeth. “Right. Hundred, then.”
“I’m gonna report you to HR. You’re my attending.”
“Good luck with filling out the history we have for that.”
You turned to look at him, and let your mouth curl. “You really think I’m the sort of girl to do it in a gas station bathroom?”
You watched the grin go still on his face, watched his eyes drop to your mouth and drag back up, the warmth in them tipping into something darker. “Would you?”
You scoffed, shaking your head. “In your dreams, Jack.”
“Frequently,” he said, not missing a second. “Vividly, too.”
You leaned in enough to feel his breath catch. “Keep dreaming, then. It’s all you’re getting.”
You sat back before he could answer, fingers playing with the seatbelt, sweet as anything.
“Christ.” He dragged a hand down over his jaw, his head tipping back against the seat and looked at you sideways through the gray morning light, and the bit fell off his face. “Missed you.”
Before you could even process the words with his attention on you, because he was who he was, his jaw worked once and looked back out the window, ending it himself before you could, handing the silence back to you to do with it what you pleased.
Your chest squeezed just slightly at that, and you had to be the one to force yourself to look away, catching sight of Dennis’s head bumping against the window as he soundly slept, oblivious, lucky.
At some point past the gas station you lost the fight with your own exhaustion. Nineteen hours of being awake before the drive, and the van was warm, and the bassline had mellowed into something Dana hummed underneath her breath, and the road had gone smooth — almost hypnotic — interstates often did when they’d gone out of the clutches of the city. You’d meant to stay awake. You’d made the small private rule about it, too; you went under anyway, somewhere between a stretch of dead farmland and the next, your head listing by degrees toward the warm solid thing on your left because your body, again, moving without giving a single shit about how you felt.
When you surfaced, it happened slowly. The light had changed; it was full morning now, white and flat through the windshield. Your cheek was pressed against something that rose and fell in a long, even rhythm, and your brain took its time arriving to the fact of it. You’d fallen asleep on Jack's chest. One month clean and your face was tucked into the seam of his jacket like it had never stopped being there.
You weren’t proud of how you didn’t want to move just yet, so you didn’t move.
You could feel his breathing under your cheek, slow enough that he might have been asleep, too. There was a smell to him you’d made yourself forget and were now remembering, completely against your will. It was nothing fancy, just clean cotton and something warm. The Gatorade bottle you’d been clutching was in the cupholder against your knee now, and you had no memory putting it there. Which meant there was a slight chance Jack had worked it out of your sleeping hand at some point so it wouldn’t tip into your lap, and set it down.
You cracked one eye to assess the damage to your dignity. Dennis had leaned in the same stretch of road, toward you, hood up and mouth open, gone to the world. And somewhere in all that, Jack’s arm, the long span of it along the seatback, had come down around you with his hand had ended up resting flat on the top of Dennis’s skull, holding it off your shoulder, fingers spread over the kid’s hair like a melon he was deciding whether to buy.
You’d furrowed your brows at the arrangement, reeling, when the camera shutter went off.
Jack came awake all at once. He always did; he was never groggy, never had a transition. It was like there was an off and on button to him, as though his nervous system had been trained somewhere that didn’t allow the luxury of waking up slowly. He clocked it in a half second: the phone, you against his chest, the unexplained weight under his own palm. He followed his arm down to where his hand was cradling a sleeping resident’s head and his face crumpled slightly.
He smacked it off, open-palmed, off the top of Dennis’s skull.
“Ow.” Dennis jolted awake, flailing upright, a crease pressed into his cheek from your sleeve. “What — Dr. Abbot — what —”
“Wrong shoulder, kid,” Jack said.
“I wasn’t —” Dennis took in the angle for himself and recoiled. “Sorry. God. Sorry.”
You’d started to sit up to peel yourself off Jack’s chest and salvage some dignity to sit back into the cold neutral air of your own seat where you belonged. His palm came up to your forehead and pushed you back down against him.
“Not you,” he said. His hand stayed flat on your forehead. “You’re fine where you are.”
You reached up and pulled his hand off your forehead, sitting up out of the warmth of him.
“C’mon,” he said quietly, under the music, softer than a command.
You paused with your hand still around his wrist and turned to look at him full-on. He was already looking at you, none of the previous needling present in his face.
You shook your head once, a small gesture. You didn’t trust the words to come out the way they needed to, so you let your face carry it instead.
He held your eyes a second, then his jaw shifted slightly and the corner of his mouth went to a worn-down half of a smile. He gave you the smallest nod. His eyes fell shut and he tipped his head back with a small shake of his head as he eased his wrist out of your hand.
You put your hands in your lap where they couldn’t get you in trouble, and stared out at the flat white morning coming up over the interstate, and made sure to not look at him again.
The conference threw a networking event the first evening, which meant a low-lit ball room, a cash bar charging eleven dollars for wine that came from a box, and a couple hundred physicians standing around in lanyards pretending they’d be here without the boxed wine.
You’d lost the group almost immediately. Dana was drawn to a cluster of people she knew in a previous life; Robby to someone he’d done a residency with; Dennis to the food; Trinity to one of her college buddies. It left you working the edge of the room with a plastic cup of wine, doing a slow orbit as you read badges, when a man peeled off a nearby conversation and aimed at you.
He was older. Closer to Jack’s range, give or take. He had silver coming in at the temples and an unbothered ease that made you wonder if he’d ever had it hard. His badge put him outside Columbus. He had a good face and seemed aware of it without leaning on it, and no wear that graced his features; a man who slept fine, you assumed, and didn’t own a single thing he refused to speak about.
“Pace yourself with that,” he said, tipping his own glass in the direction of yours. “It comes up to you pretty quickly.”
“Bit late for that,” you said, lifting the cup up an inch. “This is already number three.”
“Then I’m too late to save you and might as well make it worse,” he said, offering a hand. “Mark. Philly. I run the shop out there.”
You introduced yourself. He had a good handshake, dry and brief, none of the holding-on the men sometimes did at these things.
He tipped his head to look at your badge. “Pittsburgh Trauma. You like it?”
“Most days.”
He shrugged. “Anybody who says every day is lying or hasn’t been doing it long enough.” He took a sip and let his eyes come back to your face. “Let me guess. Senior resident. Somebody made you come.”
You were going to say something back—you had something, you’d half-built it—and then there was a hand at the small of your back. You knew the weight of it, the breadth, where the fingers fell. It settled low against your spine and stayed, warm through the dress.
“Mark,” Jack said from beside you. He had a club soda in his free hand and an easy nothing on his face. “Jack Abbot. Pittsburgh.”
“Jack.” Mark did a quick thing, the hand, the half-step Jack had folded into the space between you without seeming to take it, the way you hadn't stepped out from under his palm. Something recalibrated behind his face, pleasant and unhurried. He stuck the hand out anyway. “I think I’ve read you —” He referenced one of Jack’s studies you knew all too well, something he’d handed over to you once in his bed like it was a bedtime story.
“That’s me.” Jack took the handshake. His thumb moved once at your spine, where the angle hid it from the third person entirely. “Philly? You inherit the department or build it?”
“Little bit of both. Mostly inherited the problems,” he said lightly. “You enjoying the conference?”
“It’s a conference,” Jack said, lifting his glass half-an-inch. Then, his head tilted in your direction. “You know this one’s my best trauma resident? I’d put her on anything. Watched her run a procedure last month half the seniors I came up with couldn’t have called that fast.”
“That so?” Mark looked at you again, interest sharpened. “He doesn’t seem the type to hand those out.”
“He’s nice to everyone.”
“She’s underselling it.” Jack’s hand spread a degree wider at your back, the heel of his palm settling into the dip of your spine, fingers easy along your hip. “You’ll be reading her name in a couple years and remembering you met her here, of all places.”
It got the laugh Jack wanted it to. Mark took a sip, easy, regrouping, and you watched him do the math the way smooth men do—fast, behind a pleasant face—and land on a play.
“Well.” He tilted the glass toward Jack. “I won’t monopolize you. I’m sure you’ve got the room to work — everybody wants a minute at these things.”
The thumb that had been moving at your back stilled, and Jack’s features crossed into something amused as he narrowed his brows at the man.
“S’alright,” he said pleasantly. “Got everyone I need right here.”
Mark recaliberated again, watching him take Jack’s measure one more time; the hand, the half-inch of space that hardly qualified as space. You watched him arrive to the easy conclusion that whatever was happening here had been decided before he ever walked over.
“Fair enough,” he said, setting his empty cup down at the nearest high-top. “Pleasure. Good luck with the residency.” He nodded at you, then to Jack. “Abbot.” And then he was gone, folding back into the room, off to find the next conversation that wasn’t already spoken for.
Jack’s hand was still on your back, and you stepped out from under it. You turned to face him, and felt the thing that had been climbing in you all night finally find a target.
“Why would you do that?” you asked, shaking your head and pressing your lips shut to keep yourself from saying anything more.
“Do what?” he said mildly, the glass loose in his hand.
“Don’t.” You kept your face arranged for the room, tamping down your voice so it wouldn’t carry over to strangers. “You know what you did. You’re not stupid.”
“I said you were good at your job.” He had the gall to look reasonable. “Becuase you are.”
“That’s not what it was and you know it — thank you.” Your jaw tightened. “You don’t get to walk over and put your hand on me when I’m talking to another man and act like — ” Your fingers moved between the two of you, a small and sharp movement. “ — like you’ve got any claim. We agreed to this a month ago.”
Jack’s lips pressed in a thin line at the words, and his eyes raked over your face. “He’d have you in his bed by ten,” he said, calmer now. “Guys like that — it’s their whole game at places like this. One night, gone by checkout. You didn’t lose anything worth keeping.”
Your brows furrowed at that, and you felt something go hot in your neck. “Yeah?” you asked, voice going quieter. “Isn’t that what you were?”
He looked away for a second, one hand coming up to rub over the bottom half of his face. “If you can’t tell the difference between me and a guy like that,” he said evenly, and there was something genuinely stung underneath as his eyes met yours, “then I really don’t know what to tell you.”
“Maybe there isn’t one.”
His face twisted at that, and he let out a disbelieved laugh. “That’s how you think of me?”
“That’s not — ” You stopped, because his face had knocked something loose in you and you had no idea what you thought anymore. “That’s not what I said.”
“It sounded a hell of a lot like it.” He shook his head. “Six months and you’re putting me next to a guy you met ten minutes ago. Alright.”
“Jack — ”
“You wanted it, too. Okay?” When you let out a small ‘what?’ he continued, “You heard me. You’re acting like you just went along with it, and you never once asked for more either.” His voice had dropped low, and he’d walked closer to you before you even realized. “You never once asked for more until the night you walked. So don’t put it all on me.”
“I asked,” you said, voice cracking just slightly, and you looked around the room to see if anyone was close to you. “You were the one who told me to go find someone else. You said you’re no good past what we were doing.”
“I said it because it’s true,” he said quickly, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m not the guy you build the rest of your life around. I tried to do the decent thing.”
“Then stand on that,” you said. “You don’t get to tell me to find someone and stop it the second anyone shows up. Pick one. You don’t get to keep me in your life like this forever because you can’t stand to either let me in or go.”
“I’m trying to do right by you,” he said roughly.
You pressed two fingers above your eyelid, shaking your head. “Why are you doing this?” You shoulders came up to your ears. “I don’t — it was never going to be us, Jack. You said so yourself. I don’t get why — I need to move on.”
He closed his eyes at that for a moment. “I know you do,” he said quietly, the fight gone all out of him. His eyes flickered down to his hand for a second, then made a loose fist out of them. “I — can we go somewhere else?” He leaned in slightly, body stiffening up. Reading the hesitation on your face, he said, “Please.”
You’d watched him avoid the word in a dozen rooms, so you nodded slowly and forced yourself to not look too hard at why. You couldn’t, because if you stopped to let yourself consider it, it’d make your body hurt even more, and you’d still do it.
The stairwell was the only door on the floor that wasn’t a room or a lobby. It was fire-exit cold, raw concrete, a fluorescent light overhead. The reception came up through the floor as bass and nothing else, the words gone out of it. The door sucked shut behind you both and took the noise with it. You both walked four floors up, apparently neither of you being ready to do anything about it. And then there was simply the buzz of the bad light and Jack, six months and one month and four floors and a whole conference away from you, standing with his back to the cinderblock and his hands jammed in his pockets.
You crossed your arms and your eyes involuntarily flickered up to the ceiling because you weren’t sure you could talk. But when he let the silence drag on, too, you said, “Jack — ”
“Did you want it to be me?” he said immediately, like your voice had spurred him into action.
“What?”
“The whole thing you said you want. Dates, the rest of it.” His body was stiff against the wall. “Was that — did you ever imagine me, or just, someone else. Someone who would.”
You took in a shaky breath. “You.” It came out more plainly than you’d expected, like your body had been ready to be rid of it, to place it somewhere in the open. “I left because I wanted more — with you, and you made it pretty clear I could never have that.”
His hands jammed in his pockets. The light buzzed overhead, that sick fluorescent flutter, and somewhere four floors down the reception kept going, two hundred people who'd never know this was happening over their heads.
“I don’t think I can give you that,” he said.
“Okay.” You forced yourself to nod, and your eyes went hot. “Thanks for telling me that, then.”
He raised a palm just enough that it caught in your eyesight. “I didn’t — didn’t say I never wanted to. Don’t think that.” He tilted his neck up to meet your eyes properly. “Wanting you that way wasn’t hard. I’ve been doing that against my own advice the entire time.”
He'd come off the wall a step without seeming to know he'd done it, and his face had lost the arrangement it usually wore, the bored set of it, and underneath was something you'd caught glimpses of and never the whole of. His eyes shifted to the wall, the stenciled number, anywhere but you.
“I did years of this already. And it ended about as badly as it could end.” He laughed wryly, no humor in it. “I stopped letting myself want things — I thought it’s a lot easier to get through a night if there’s nothing you’d be hurt to lose.” His muscles tensed on his face, the lines deepening as he pinched his eyes shut and shook his head. “Feels like I’m losing you, and it hurts like hell.” He looked up at the ceiling. “I don’t know when it happened. It wasn’t meant to.”
You pressed a finger against the underside of your eye then, determined to catch anything that could possibly leak out.
“But you don’t know if you can do it,” you said, words coming out shakily.
He tugged his bottom lip between his teeth and shook his head slowly. “No,” he said honestly, and it was worse than any lie he could’ve told. “I don’t know.”
You nodded again, because there was nothing else for you to do.
“But — but, I don’t wanna lose what I’ve got with you,” he admitted, voice dropping into something shameful. “I know that the nights you’re not on are longer. And if I can’t have you, I want you to know you do that for me. It started being pretty serious a long time ago — for me, too.”
The light fluttered overhead and you let the finger drop from under your eye, gave up on holding it, let whatever wanted to come just come. Somehow, they were words you’d always wanted to hear and yet they arrived wrong, off-rhythm. You’d kept careful track of everything he wouldn’t give you, a whole running tally of it, and he'd just gone and paid the entire balance in one breath in the worst-lit room, and the awful part — the part that made your blood run even hotter — was that it counted. It counted, anyway.
“So what do we do with that?” you said. “I don’t — I don’t know where that leaves us.”
He was quiet for a moment. You watched him sit in the question instead of dodging it, which was new, which was maybe the most he’d ever given you in one night.
“I’d want to try,” he said finally, words careful, like he was setting something down that might break. “Not the old way. I mean the other thing. What you wanted.” He let out a breath. “If you still want it. I wasn’t very great the first time, and I’m out of practice, too.”
You wiped your cheek, and winced as you felt your hand scrub at your skin a little too roughly. “You were okay with it a month ago — ”
“It hurt,” he said immediately. “It hurt, you walking out. I didn’t have anything better than to let you, but don’t — don’t think it didn’t.”
He moved when you didn’t respond, stepping closer than the conversation needed. His hands came up and settled at your arms, just below the shoulders, loose, holding you in place or holding himself there, you couldn't tell which, maybe both.
“Let me try,” he said roughly. His thumbs moved once against your arms. “I want to learn this with you.”
You looked up at him. He held it — your eyes, the closeness, all of it — instead of glancing off the way he had all night. You realized distantly that this was a sort of contract you’d be signing, and he was laying out the option for you to not do so.
“You can’t disappear on me,” you said instead of considering the second option, “when it gets hard. I don’t ever want to feel like I made up something I didn’t.”
He nodded stiffly. “If I do, you can drag me back out.”
His forehead came down, to the top of your head, his chin resting in your hair, his arms folding the rest of the way around you like he'd finally run out of reasons not to. You felt him breathe out, the whole tense length of him going down an inch against you.
“Just let me try,” he said again, into your hair, voice a whisper. “Please. I’m asking. I don’t do that a lot.”
tags: andrew "pope" cody x fem!reader, !!!possible spoilers for the animal kingdom finale!!!, near-death experience, hurt andrew, canon typical violence, mentions of death, blood, non-descriptive injuries, andrew gets his happy ending, 18+ MDNI
notes: I saw that one Shawn interview where he spoke about how different he'd make Pope's ending, and I couldn't help but want to write it into existence in my own way. I hope you all enjoy this, if you'd like to join my permanent master list, please comment here! enjoy! and if you'd like to join my permanent master list, please comment here!
word count: 4.5k
Andrew’s bleeding body and betrayed soul burned almost as hot as the house behind him.
Flames threw heat against his back with every staggering step he took. His large hand pressed against the wounds littering his torso, his shirt squishing wetly under his palm. Each inhale and exhale caused spurts of blood to continue soaking the fabric. Exhaustion dragged him down like a ball and chain; he was so tired.
He wondered if this was it, if he was about to just give up in the house that started it all. Surely someone had already called about the fire; surely cops and other federal officers were on their way. But even with those thoughts, Andrew couldn’t help but worry about everyone but himself.
The pool lapped in crashing, rhythmic waves against the concrete side, a calm sound compared to the raging chaos around him. With a grunt, he lowered himself to sit on the edge, boots coming to rest on the first stair, the fabric instantly soaking in the chlorine scented water. His body ached, ached, ached, and his mind reeled with the last hour where everything went so horribly wrong.
His betraying nephew, his lost and probably injured baby brothers, his fading life; Andrew wasn’t sure which one hurt the most.
With shaking hands, he pulled out two items from his back pocket: his phone and a small photo. The corners of his mouth failed to turn at the sight of his younger self and his sweet-looking twin that he had failed so many years ago; J had made sure that his failure to protect her sank deeper and hurt more than his wounds. A small sob pushed out in one puff of air, and a singular tear made its way across his cheeks, mixing with the blood trickling from a cut near his eye.
Andrew placed the photo down carefully and looked at his phone second. Behind him, the fire continued to roar on, leaving no part of the famous Cody house untouched. His attention should have been on getting out of there, on finding Deran and Craig, but all he could think about was the phone call he had to make. For a split second, he hesitated, thumb frozen over the contact, before he touched the screen.
You picked up in two rings. “Andy?” you breathed, voice already filled with a panic that made his heart clench. “Andy, what’s going on. I saw—you were being transferred, but—the news, I don’t know what’s happening.”
He pinched his eyes shut, allowing more tears to squeeze their way out of his tear ducts. “I’m sorry,” he said first. “I’m so sorry.” He could almost envision your pinched, worried face if he thought hard enough. “You need to listen to me.”
“What’s going on?” you repeated. “Talk to me.”
Iron-tanged saliva pooled around his tongue. “Everything went south. J talked; Craig and Deran are gone but—” He inhaled sharply. “I don’t know if they’re going to make it.”
He couldn’t stand the sound of your shaking breathing on the other line, the one you made when you worried on his behalf.
“Andy—”
“There’s money,” he interrupted, so awfully aware of the growing heat behind him. “In your name. You’re gonna be taken care of, I made sure of it. You’ll never have to worry about anything, understand?”
“Money? What? What are you saying, Andy?”
He looked down and over at the photo then down to his pool-soaked boots. “I think this is it for me,” he whispered, heart breaking right into two at the thought of leaving you alone in this world. “Cops are comin’; the house . . . I took care of it.”
“You’re at the house?” you questioned, and Andrew could hear the tell tail sound of your keys jingling on that keychain he always told you would mess with the ignition.
He mentally cursed himself for the slip up, not wanting you to come after him and possibly find what he left behind. “Stay home,” he ordered. “Don’t-don’t come here; it’s not safe.”
“But—”
“Promise,” he stated, hand reaching to pick up the photo again. “Promise you won’t come here.” Each word hurt to get out.
“I’m not going to leave you to die, Andrew,” you argued. “Not when I can do something about it.”
“No,” he moaned, sides protesting with the word, body tensing with fear at the thought of you driving over. “Sweetheart, don’t come.”
Your keys stopped jingling, and he quietly sighed in relief. However, his heart sunk down to his toes when the sound of your car humming to life filled the speaker. The tires squealed.
“Just,” you started, pausing when words failed. “Wait for me. Please, Andy, wait for me. I’ll be there soon; you know this. You don’t get to die on me, Andrew Cody.” Your voice rose with each sentence.
Andrew sat there for another moment before his world slowly tipped to the side. His bones protested at the change, and his shoulder screamed when it came to rest on the concrete. Like sticky molasses, he shifted slowly until his hands dipped into cool water, photo of him and Julia quickly becoming soaked. His chest heaved in heavy, labored breathing. His poor auburn curls flattened under the weight of his head against the brick outline.
“Andy?” you whimpered. “Are you there?”
It took him a minute to gather the strength to speak. “Yeah,” he croaked. “’M here.”
“Do you remember what you told me the first time you walked me home?”
This time, Andrew’s lips quirked upward for a millisecond at the memory. “Yeah.”
“You said—” He heard you thickly swallow. “You said that no matter what, you wouldn’t leave me behind.”
He closed his eyes.
“A-and if-if—” It was almost like you couldn’t even speak the idea of him dying into existence in fear that it’d happen. “That’s breaking your promise.”
Andrew stayed silent as sirens wailed in the distance to the point that he thought that you could probably hear them through your phone. He didn’t want you mixed up in any of this; he had tried his damn hardest to keep you as far away from his family activity as possible.
“I’m almost there, okay? I’m coming.”
He didn’t know how much time had passed between your sentences, the world becoming blurry and sounds reaching his brain through cotton. He had lost a hold on the picture minutes ago, and it had slowly drifted out of reach, close to being so waterlogged that it threatened to dip below the surface and sink to the bottom. The only thing he kept a firm grip on—even if his strength was quickly waning—was the phone, his one lifeline to you.
Dark black spots danced in his vision, and his breathing stuttered and slowed.
“Almost there,” you kept repeated, like saying that would grant you the power of teleportation. “I’m almost there, and then, I’m going to get you all patched up. You’re going to be just fine. We’ll move somewhere safe, start a future together, just like we talked about yeah?”
Andrew’s chest heaved. “Yeah.”
“Tell me what you see, Andrew. What do you want our future to look like; keep talking to me.”
The next few words hurt, but he wasn’t just going to leave you without saying anything else. “A house.”
He heard a large sniff, followed by a watery exhale. “Yeah? What kind of house.”
“Big. Safe. Warm.”
“It sounds so nice.”
“Full.” He closed his eyes. “Full house.”
“You always did want four kids,” you tried, but the attempt to lift spirits fell flat. “What else?”
“All girls,” he muttered, his energy almost draining each time his mouth opened. “First one, then twins, and one baby.”
A small laugh crackled through the speaker. “Sounds like a dream. You’re going to be such a good dad, Andy.”
He hated the way you continued to speak like he was going to make it out alive. He knew you were still on the way, and the sirens were slowly growing louder even through his cotton (blood)-filled ears. His fingers loosened, and the phone dropped onto the ground with a thunk.
“Andrew? What was that?”
He thought he responded, but really, the words were all jumbled in his mouth. He dragged his cheek across the rough concrete to get his mouth closer to the dropped phone. The black spots had grown significantly as blood continued to pour from his body.
With one last large breath, he said, “I love you.”
His mind went quiet soon after, despite your yelling across the line for him to hold on. All fight left his body in a single moment, frame deflating under the weight of what was about to happen. Andrew Cody was close to death, and for the first time since meeting you, he felt truly at peace. Every blink of his eyes slowed; he didn’t know which one was going to be the last, but when his eyelids finally settled, and he couldn’t find the strength to open them again, he fully welcomed the darkness.
_______________________
You didn’t know what to expect to find when your car squealed into the fully-flame-engulfed Cody house’s driveway.
Andrew had gone silent on his end almost two minutes ago, and your heart thundered against your sternum. You didn’t even pull the keys out of the ignition before your door swung open. Your feet hit the ground, and you dashed around the corner to the side fence entrance. It took your shaking hands two tries before the latch gave way. Flames roared in your ears as you pushed through the gate, but all you could focus on was the Andrew-sized lump lying unmoving at the pool’s edge.
A cry of pure anguish tore through your throat. You didn’t stop running until your knees hit the pool’s ledge. You didn’t have time to dwell on the pain of your joints.
“Andrew?” you questioned, hands reaching to roll him over on his back. His body swayed under the motion, completely boneless. “Andrew?” Your hand curled into a fist and rubbed erratically against his sternum, just like you’d seen on TV. “Come on; come on!” Tears began streaming steadily down your face. “Andy, Baby, come on! Don’t do this to me!”
When he failed to make any signs of waking up, you quickly dug two fingers into the side of his neck and held your breath, waiting—hoping to feel something, anything below his skin. When you felt a dull pulse, you pulled your fingers away with a gasp of relief.
“You stay with me, Andrew Cody,” you grunted as your hands slipped under his arms, back straining under his dead weight.
Really, you hadn’t thought anything through; Andrew was almost double your weight, but the adrenaline coursing through your body was somehow enough for you to start dragging him across the backyard.
Almost back to the fence, you stumbled, ass falling down to the grass with Andrew pressing down on your front. Almost on the next street over, the sirens were getting dangerously close. If you didn’t move in the next few moments, they’d either drag you away and shoot Andrew on the spot as a convicted and escaped murderer or they’d drag you away and leave him to burn along with the house. You couldn’t let that happen; you’d rather die than let that happen.
So, with all the strength you could muster, you stood back up and kept yanking. Andrew stayed unconscious as his body bumped along the grass and then dragged across the small bit of driveway. A deep groan from the house had your head whipping up in time for you to witness the integrity give way under the flames. Plumes of smoak wafted high, but Andrew was already put in the passenger seat with the back all the way down for him to lie against. If you happened to pass officers on the way out, they’d only see you, Andrew being covered by the door.
Just like when you pulled in, your tires squealed on the way out. Your left hand gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles while the other held onto Andrew’s limp hand, thumb brushing against his split knuckles. Through the air, your phone rang a few times before a voice answered on the other line.
“Deran?” you called out.
He answered with your name in a saddened tone. “Yeah?”
“Where are you? Is Craig with you?”
A sobbed choke followed. “Craig’s . . . Craig’s—fuck!”
You bit down on your bottom lip to stop it from wavering, and your hand gripped Andrew’s just a tad bit tighter, knowing he was about to meet the same fate.
“Please,” Deran said, not waiting for you to say anything else. “Please tell me you’ve heard from Pope. He went back to the house to go after J; he said he’d find us, but—” He shakily exhaled. “But it sounded like he was saying goodbye instead.”
Your eyes drifted from the road down to Andrew, who still remained unconscious. “I have him, but Deran—” You looked back toward the road, blinking rapidly to rid your eyes of tears. “It’s bad. There’s so much blood. I—” You sniffed loudly. “I have to get him to a safe place. Is there anywhere you can think of?”
The line went silent for a few moments. “Smurf had a house . . . in Encinitas. I can meet you there, but . . . do you think he’ll last that long?”
“He’ll have to. Or I’ll bring him back just to kill him myself,” you muttered, spinning the steering wheel under your palm to take the closest exit. “Send me the address, and Deran?”
He sighed heavily. “Yeah?”
“Stay safe, okay? I’ll see you there.”
You hung up without another word, and the address came through not even a breath later. Your thumb continued to run across Andrew’s knuckles the entire 13.4-mile drive, hand never once letting go of his. The only thing that kept you from losing hope entirely was the slow up and down movement of his chest. Oh how you prayed for his hazel eyes to open, but even with your muttering and begging, they stayed closed.
Every so often, you’d look over your shoulder or stare right through the rearview mirror, heart thudding in awful anticipation of possibly seeing any battalion of police cars following you. But as your car stuttered to a halt in front of a non-descript house, the fear of being found was slowly overtaken by the fear of truly losing Andrew.
You exhaled slowly, forehead coming to rest against the wheel for just a moment, giving yourself a small chance to breath before you got out of the car. You quickly rounded the hood and opened the passenger door. Deran was nowhere in sight, and you didn’t want to wait for him to get there to help you transfer Andrew indoors. He needed to get inside as quickly as possible.
So, for the second time in thirty minutes, you shoved your arms under his and pulled with all your might. His feet hit the ground hard, but it was at least better than his full body. Your feet scuffled along, sandals definitely not the best choice for lugging your almost-dead fugitive boyfriend into a safehouse.
His weight pressed against you as you tried to get through the door, mentally thanking whoever last stayed there for stupidly forgetting to lock it. With one hand, you twisted the knob, and a wave of heat washed over you once you got through the threshold. You didn’t dare stop until you lugged Andrew onto the closest couch.
You all but collapsed next to him, shoulder pressed against his arm that had fallen over the side. Without thinking, you reached up and gingerly brushed a curl away from his face. He didn’t move one inch, and that terrified you.
You weren’t a doctor. You weren’t certified to give him any medical attention. However, that didn’t stop you from ripping his shirt off, finally laying eyes on his multiple wounds and bruising that almost swallowed his skin. Your hands hovered over his torso, mind not knowing where to even begin.
The sound of the door creaking open, though, had you grabbing the gun from his waistband and pointing it toward the front. Your finger shook against the trigger, but when the door opened fully and reveal an exhausted Deran, a sigh of relief wheezed from your lungs.
“Deran,” you sobbed, pushing up from the ground and speed walking over to his open arms. He smelled of thick sweat and blood, but the solidness of his arms around your shoulders was enough to make you feel safe. “P-please; I don’t know-know what to do.”
Deran took one look over your shoulder, and his breath hitched of his older brother looking closer to death than he’d ever seen. His arm slipped from your body as he walked over in small, hesitant steps. “He—” He sucked in a breath. “He’s not dead, right?”
“No,” you breathed out almost instantly. “He’s still holding on. But with all the blood loss, it’s going to take him a long time to wake up.” Your arms wrapped around your middle. “But he has to-has to wake up.”
You watched Deran lean down and press his forehead against Andrew’s before withdrawing. Recovery was going to be long, and the moment he woke up, you’d have to move him quickly to someplace safer. But all you could do for now was join Deran at the couch and stand like guard dogs, watching over Andrew as he slept.
_______________________
Andrew tensed the moment he became cognitive enough to know that he wasn’t dead.
His hands clenched at his sides before taking fistfuls of plush couch cushion. His bones ached as he lied there, unknowing exactly there was. If he’d been caught by police, a couch would be the last place they’d put him. And if he actually died, he wondered if God was playing a trick on his mind, putting him someplace comfortable before he’d be judged for his sins. Neither idea though seemed to stick while he pushed himself in an upward position. He blinked rapidly, and the scene before him came into a sharp, vivid image.
Bloodied rags and bottles of alcohol covered the spans of the small table that seemed to have been haphazardly pushed out of the way. Lines of drying, brown blood made a small path from his couch to the front door, and Andrew could only guess it all belonged to him. He kept a hold of the cushion in a grounding fashion. The last thing he remembered was your scared voice begging him to keep talking.
Flashes of pain raked through his soul, and panic began to bubble under his skin.
He’d been taken from his burning grave. He didn’t know where you were or if you had even made it to the Cody house. The idea of you pulling up, running inside just to not find his body had him itching to stand. But his knees buckled the moment he tried to get up, and a low groan pushed from his chest.
The sound must have echoed, because a thunder of footsteps followed almost instantly. Andrew tensed again, mind running with the possibility of who had actually taken him away. His hand reached for the gun he knew he had tucked in his waistband, but all he grabbed onto was an empty space.
His hands would have to be enough. They curled into fists and rose in front of his chest; however, they immediately fell back to his sides when you and Deran came around the corner into view, both pausing when you noticed who exactly had made the large thump.
You gasped loudly before continuing to rush toward him. Only sobs spilled from your mouth while you kneeled in front of him, hands gently coming to rest on his naked shoulders. You tucked your face into the crook of his neck, and your left hand quickly buried itself into the curls at his nape.
Andrew, almost frozen in disbelief, shakily placed his hands on the small of your back.
“You-you’re awake,” you stuttered, pulling your face back to look him in his hazel eyes. “You woke up.” You softly swiped you thumbs across the skin under his slowly blinking eyes. “You came back.”
Andrew closed his eyes fully. “You told me to wait.”
Wanting to be closer, you leaned forward until your forehead touched his, your eyes also fluttering shut as the two of you held each other. It wasn’t until Deran shifted that you parted. Andrew’s eyes opened and looked over your shoulder at his brother, and his eyebrows pinched when he wondered what was wrong with the picture.
“Craig?” he asked, tone all gravely with an ever too present underlying pain.
Deran shut his eyes and shook his head, silently telling Andrew everything he needed to know.
He all but crumbled back into your arms, thick hands finding a strong hold on your sides as he finally allowed himself to grieve; grieve for the life he had, for the life he lost, for Craig, for J’s betrayal, for Cath, for Julia.
But the tears also healed.
They signified that he was alive, breathing, and in your arms.
His sobs sputtered to a slow stop until he quieted. You stayed still through it all, wanting Andrew to be done only when he was ready. Your hands continued to pet and run through his blood-matted curls while he stayed buried in your front. Your lips gently placed intermittent kisses against his temple, and Andrew lightly hummed at the feeling.
He didn’t know where the two of you were supposed to go from there. You and he would have to flee California while he knew Deran would want to stay, lie low, and find Adrian at some point. Andrew knew that time was ticking down, that it was only a matter of time before the cops started looking for him and Deran. But all he could care about in that moment was the rise and fall of your chest under his ear and the feeling of having his arms wrapped around your middle.
_______________________
For one split second four years ago, you didn’t think the life you always wanted was possible.
But as you stood in front of the small, farmhouse that seemed to glow against the sunset, you took a large inhale of air. Well, as much air as you could with two developing babies currently pressing upward against your lungs and all your other important organs. Your stomach stretched far, and you ran a hand down the swelled bump.
A squeal from the front yard had caught your attention, which was how you found yourself standing on the wrap-around porch, baby bump held between your hands. Your cheeks warmed with a smile as you watched Andrew carry your almost 4-year-old daughter through the tall grass where the lightning bugs were just starting to twinkle.
Your shoulder rested against one of the pillars, and the cool breeze of April settled against your cheeks in soft and fleeting puffs that carried the smell of approaching spring and rainwater. You knew that if you walked down the steps and into the grass, the ground would squish softly between your toes.
“Mama!” Julie yelled from where Andrew was currently holding her out like she was flying. “Do you see! Do you see da glow bugs!”
“I see!” you called out in response, not even trying to fight the smile that pretty much never failed to stretch your face since you found this small part of paradise.
“Daddy! Put down! I wanna see Mama!” she squealed right into Andrew’s ear.
You watched as Andrew contemplated setting her down before he flipped her face up and pretending to bite at her tummy, the sound of his playful growl mixing so wonderfully with the sound of Julie’s giggles. He took large steps in your direction, deciding to just carry his daughter instead of having her walk through the soft and slightly muddy yard; his nicely cleaned and polished floors would thank him later.
The sound of her pitter patters up the steps caused your heart to flutter; it was a noise you’d never get over hearing.
“Be careful,” Andrew warned when he noticed Julie coming at you with a bit more speed than your poor knees could probably handle. “Remember to be gentle with Mama.”
Julie all but screeched to a halt before continuing on at a much slower speed. Her small arms wrapped around your left leg, and your left hand trailed through the mop of auburn curls. She was, in all aspect of her tiny life, Andrew’s twin. And you were more than fine with it, even if you’d grown her for nine months just for her to come out with a frown that matched her daddy’s to a tee.
“Go wash your hands; dinner’s almost ready,” you said, giving her one last pat on the head.
She squeezed your leg one last time before dashing into the house, squealing her entire way in. You couldn’t help chuckle at the noise.
It hadn’t taken long for Julie to be on her way after you and Andrew found this small piece of land. The house had needed fixing, but it was something you could envision your family growing in. And just five weeks into renovations, you’d shown him three tests with double lines so dark they almost looked black. Andrew had cried openly after dropping to his knees in order to rest his forehead against your then flat stomach. For the next nine months, he panicked, prepared, cried some more, and panicked again. But the moment Julie was placed in his arms, you knew exactly then that Andrew Cody was meant to be a father.
His hand sliding across your belly brought you out of your reverie. “They being good?” he asked, leaning down to press a kiss to your bump before straightening to kiss you.
He was answered by a few kicks to his palm that sent flutters thought your body.
“They want out,” you muttered against his lips before pressing back into him. “Can’t believe you called it. First Julie, now A and B. You think you’re gonna be correct with the last?”
Andrew pulled back and smirked. “Definitely. Like I said, sweetheart, all girls.”
Your eyes gently raked across his face, taking in each and every freckle that dotted his face like constellations you could see on a clear summer’s night. You caressed his cheek with your fingers, and his eyes fluttered as he leaned into your hand.
“Thank you,” you whispered. “For staying.”
“Thank you,” he echoed. “For never giving up.”
The two of you stood there, enjoying each other’s company, until Julie called for you deep in the house.
“Duty calls,” Andrew muttered, curling an arm around your waist.
“Yes,” you mused. “Yes, she does.”
The rest of the evening went in warm touches and moments you never wanted to end. And like many nights before, you went to bed surrounded by your small family with a large smile each time Andrew tugged you in a bit tighter in his sleep, knowing that everything would continue to be exactly as it should be.
the sunshine of the night shift, all cookies and lavender, loves to make the grumpy, sassy, silver fox attending smile through attempts at flirting and baked goods. but what happens when he asks a certain replacement attending for drinks and the sunshine dims?
—angst. yearning. fluff ending. reader can be described as plus size but no specified race. age gap (reader is in her late 20s, early 30s, our grumpy man in his late 40s, early 50s). medical inaccuracy.
part one here !
thank you to @cafekitsune for the lovely divider !
There was a sudden lack of confections and savouries in the pitt.
Everybody noticed that it was not a coincidence.
The first time, you faked a gasp and everyone brushed it off as just a slip of your mind. A habit that just slipped past your brain. A reason that didn't need a calculated thought process. Genuinity was believed like it wasn't a calculated gamble and everything moved on normally.
The second time, you yawned and complained about your lack of sleep. The drain of energy due to hellish shifts and mental exhaustion was no new notion to the people of the pitt. Everyone had experienced this personally so no one questioned the lack of sweet treats. You were given empathetic side hugs and understanding nods. However, the treats were still missed.
The third time was when everyone staggered. You didn't even mention or acknowledge the absence of filled boxes of beloved delicacies and moved on with your shift as if this was the normalcy stitched onto every day of the pitt. You received side eyes, casual check ins on your health and suspicion from two mama nurses.
Worst of all, you received something you were too blind for. Something you never expected. Jack Abbot's concern.
After the day you heard Dr. Al and Jack, no Dr. Abbot, you felt as if someone had drained the soul out of you. Their words, his laugh and grin constantly replayed in your mind—finding new angles and new thorns to prick you. That night you cried. You weeped. You sobbed. But you realised that you needed to back off.
Jack was not yours. He didn't owe you anything.
He was a free man, allowed to ask other women out and that he did. Just because your heart was torn due to illusions created by your mind, the feelings that you held for him didn't mean that he was held responsible. He never ever even smiled at you. Wasn't that the whole premise of this? How were you so humiliatingly blind?
The mornings you would wait just for him, so that you could tease him one last time before going home. The smirk that would catch you off guard, the huffs and eye rolls you held dear—why? They were mere reactions, a crumb of what he could have actually given. The afternoons you would spent baking, imagining his face, when he tried it.
If he tried it.
Would he finally smile?
Would he gaze at you with his twinkling eyes?
God, you wanted to dig up a hole and die.
Why did you create this world by yourself? Where he would reciprocate your feelings? Why would he like you?
You with your chubby stomach, your endless rolls down your back, the way your scrubs stuck to them and and tightened around your thick thighs. Your visible pouch and overbearing love handles which poured out that your scrubs tugged at every single day.
He must be entertained by it, you thought.
The way he would be amused by your one liners, your silly attempts which he must've seen as desperation. You know he loved the attention, sensing every time he heard your a little too enthusiastic pitter patter growing as you got near him, he would immediately expect some flirty dig.
How much ever you tried, he never gave in.
It was a reminder—he was your attending. You were his nurse. And he would never go for you. He would never break that professional barrier with you.
But what about that moment on the roof? Samira asked you when you were telling her everything and almost flinched when you scoffed.
Tears almost brimmed your eyes at the thought of that sunrise, his words, that smile. The hope you built in your heart, the sliver of belief that had grown into something wildly inappropriately out of proportion which had been shattered.
"He probably felt responsible. I am a nurse under his authority and he noticed how I was on the verge of fucking losing it. Can't lose another nurse when there's a statewide insufficiency of nurses." You laughed humorlessly, sipping the wine in your hand. She had just stared at you, reading you meticulously, but that's when you realised one thing. This was your workplace. These were the people you worked with.
And you had let yourself get too personal.
The sunshine of the night shift.
Where had you gone wrong?
Like why could Samira read you so well?
"You know, you don't have to make yourself feel dumb over something that wasn't in your hands."
"But wasn't it Mira? I should've stopped myself from...whatever that was."
"What? Stopped yourself from what exactly, hon? Being yourself?" She questioned. You let out a huff. "You don't understand, Mira. It wasn't just that—I–I got way too involved in this whole...thing. Flirting with my attending to make him smile?" You retorted. Samira just rolled her eyes and smiled softly.
"That's who you are, bub. Making others smile and laugh. Spreading joy!"
"Don't make me sound like a Disney character." You had playfully rolled your eyes.
However, she couldn't convince you and after that you had decided that you had to refrain. Refrain yourself from getting too involved, too personal. You mentally reprimanded yourself for sharing that little story with Abbot. You had to pull back. So you did.
You decided no baking. Not for someone who doesn't even have a bite. No flirty comments or digs for someone who doesn't even give a smile. No bonding over past trauma or tragedies. Professional boundaries must be set. For your own sanity.
Now the thing is Jack Abbot doesn't believe in coincidences, so the first time you called him Dr. Abbot in a flat and weirdly un–you way, it bugged him. His mind said its been a hard shift. But instinct said that he knew you, and that this wasn't normal.
He can tolerate the lack of attention and then he'll get used it, you figured. Besides, he has Al Hashimi now. Your chest tightened.
He probably didn't even care about you that much, did he?
So, you pulled back.
Little did you know, Jack Abbot noticed everything immediately.
—
"Hey, sunny,"
Your back tensed. Your attention on the chart in front of you wavered, but you didn't want to show him that. Not him. You had to back off. You had to push the stupid giddy feeling you get at that nickname. Your eyes hardened on the chart.
You hummed in acknowledgement. Jack's eyes furrowed. "You know, while I appreciate you not bringing in treats to distract our pittlings, they are complaining to me about it."
Everyone. Not you, you figured.
You gulped. It was hard to figure out what to say in a way that didn't seem rude or too standoffish. Or too obvious to the fact that you were trying to avoid him.
"Sorry, Dr. Abbot. I didn't realize that, do you want me to tell them to back off?"
You didn't notice the way he flinched. Or maybe you chose not to. Because even if you chose to not let your eyes drift off to the attending, your body didn't stop understanding him. It didn't stop feeling him.
Jack swallowed in the feeling of his heart squeezing. His jaw tightened for a small second, before returning his focus on you. His mouth opened to give a reply before someone called your name. His heart's pace quickened, almost in panic, but all he knew that something was wrong with you. You started moving, didn't even wait for his reply, like you were afraid of what he was going to say. How he was going to react. Your heart was on the line.
But before you could slip past him, he stopped you, his hand on your elbow. Your eyes widened at his touch. His grasp around your elbow, firm yet not harsh, soft and almost careful. His calloused fingers' touch was almost feather-light, yet it burned through your body. Your mind flashed to the roof, to the way he took care of you on the other side of the railing. You let out a shaky exhale.
"Sunny, are you okay? You know if there's anything—"
"Three traumas incoming! Car collison, two adults, females, and a 7 year old boy! ETA is 4 minutes!" Lena yelled over the nurses' station and you immediately snatched your hand from his hand as if it scorched you. You couldn’t even look in his eyes anymore.
But his didn't leave you. "Sunny, are you fine?"
"I'm okay." Jack furrowed his eyebrows at your short tone.
You gulped. "I have to get the...carts ready." You mumbled and sprinted off.
—
You put up a verbal guard, a professional mask, something other people, who didn't know you wouldn't question at all. But Jack wasn't "other" people. He knew you, atleast that's what he thought.
So, he approached you more.
It was like the world was cruel, you thought. Why is he coming after me, now?
You were just trying to protect yourself from the hurt. The pain. The ache of seeing him every time and the reminder, pricking you like needles, that he chose someone else. Maybe you were being unreasonable. Afterall, none of it was his fault. But wasn't this what he wanted? Professional boundaries. So you boarded up walls that you wished he wouldn't break through with his saccharine tone and honey dipped kindness.
But you had to be strong.
So when he came up to you with his concerned yet hopeful eyes, searching your soul for something you didn't want to name, you closed off. He was just a man who was searching for the sunlight which blessed these insufferable nights. "Hey,"
But before he could even say something, he could see the walls go up, your guards that weren't up before. His throat tightened. He didn't understand what was happening.
"Dr. Abbot, do you need something?"
He stared at you for a bit too long. His stare burned on your body, as if it was consuming your entire being, luring you to look at him, give him something. The gaze seemed too critical to you, like he was trying to figure you out, a secret. It was stripping you bare.
"Are you sick?"
You pursed your lips and pretended that your body wasn't begging to just lean into him. "No, not at all." You said, nonchalantly.
"Are you sure? I can check you out—"
The warmth inside your sternum flared up, threatening to redden your whole face. You had to get out of there. "Really, I am good. I appreciate your concern, Dr. Abbot. But its not required."
You walked away.
Jack's throat went dry. Usually, you would throw in a retort at him, a flirty dig or some insinuation he would be too flustered to acknowledge. He imagined it, your wicked grin, a mischievous glimmer in your eyes and he would expect the comment—"You can check me out at dinner, Abbot." or "A little eager are we, Mr. Grumpus."—and now, nothing.
He watched you walk away as if you had burned him with your absence of words.
Why was this affecting him so much?
But he was in denial and he knew that. If he wasn't so obvious, maybe Lena wouldn't have started teasing him about how his gaze lingered on you. The way you smiled, they way your hips would sway in that playful way of yours after getting the slightest of reactions out of him, the way the room would light up due to your laugh.
He gulped and walked away.
But Jack Abbot knew one thing—something was wrong with you. And he couldn't let his the night shift's sunshine dim out.
—
You groaned and hit your head against the locker. This was too difficult. Had you actually fallen for this man so hard that you saw him everywhere now?
Every where you went, he was there. His scent, his gravelly voice, his eyes followed you literally everywhere. Every single patient, you were partnered with him. You had to give your best fake smiles, swallow in every instinct to make him smile and focus on the patient in front of you.
"Hey, I am Nurse—" you introduced yourself, "and this is Dr. Abbot," and him, stopping yourself from glancing at him in his glory. "He will be inspecting your wound, is that okay?"
The 72 year old woman in front of you just nodded, a reassured smile forming on her face as she looked up at the man you tried so hard not to adore. He glanced at you and gave the woman a gentle smile, making your heart skip a beat. Can he not?—
"Sunny, can you please hand me the gloves?" He asks you and you just nod, trying to hide your face from him. Your ears had turned cherry red and the way his fingers brushed against yours was not helping you. He gazed at you for a moment and you had to remind yourself that you had a patient in front of you. Who was noticing everything.
"Now, can you tell me how this happened, Mrs Lowery?"
The woman told her dilemma. How she was trying to make a dish her husband used to love. She was out of practice unfortunately, as her husband died four years ago, but today was their wedding anniversary and she refused to sulk. Rather wanted to celebrate him. While cutting something the knife slipped and cut her.
He listened to her intently, his care burrowing deep into his veins. Ignoring the way his delicate touch or gentle eyes made absurd butterflies erupt deep in your stomach, you handed him everything he needed to clean her wounds and prevent any infections.
"Sunny, can you hand me the—"
"Have you always called her Sunny? That's such a cute nickname!" She gushed at the both of you. Heat crawled up your neck, making your whole face go crimson as she looked expectantly between the two of you.
"You both make such a cute couple!" She beamed.
You couldn't look at Jack, not when everything was making your eyes water.
"I—um, no—we aren't—" You stammered frantically. Your brain was going in a frenzy. Were you still being obvious? How could she insinuate that—
Jack cleared his throat, and you side glanced him. He looked dejected. God, he must've been so embarrassed by this. You felt a sharp sting inside your ribs.
"Ma'am, your wound is clean, I will come back to do some tests though. So, just stay right here, alright? Do you need anything else, like water or some food?"
"No, sweetheart, you're such a doll. You just keep that sweet smile on that face, don't you agree, Dr. Abbot?"
"Um—yeah—" He rasped, the tip of his ears turning pink. "Her smile is," He swallowed, "sweet, makes everything easier." He turned his head towards you, your eyes meeting his, his hazel meeting yours. You could hear your heartbeat in your ears because it was too intense. The way he was looking at you, gazing at you, as if you were worth something in his life, someone he cared so intently about. The soft green specks in his eyes sparkled at you and you had to force yourself to look away. There was a lodge in your throat.
You had to get away.
"Thank you," You mumbled to him or the lovely lady, you didn't particularly know but you had to escape. Escape before your heart decided that he was in love with you, too. Increased your hope by a ridiculous amount which would ultimately crash and you would have to consume an insane amount of ice cream while weeping.
Not happening.
Not over the man who couldn't even smile at you.
So, you almost ran out of there.
"Hey, hon! Can you get some gauze from the supply room for me?" Lena asked Kelly. But you saw your opportunity, and ran before her, "I got it, Lena!" You chimed in, a fake smile creasing your face weirdly. "Listen Kelly, could you take South Eight? She needs some tests done. Don't worry, Dr. Abbot is there, he'll tell you what to do," You pleaded.
"But—"
"Thanks, Kels, I love you—"
__
"So, why did our honeybee just dump her case with you to nurse Kelly just to get some gauze for me?"
"I—I don't know. God, does she seem weird to you lately?" He ran a hand over his face. His forehead held exhausted creases, his muscles sore and he felt like something had been tugging at his chest. Your sudden absence in his life was confusing him to no ends. Why were you acting like—like—
"Oh, you mean the fact that she doesn't try to make you smile anymore?"
He blinked. And again. His eyebrows furrowed. "Can you read minds or something?"
She raised her eyebrows at him and huffed, crossing her arms over her chest, suspiciously. "So, you were thinking the same thing?"
"What? No. That's not—Oh, no."
"Uh huh," She stared at him, "Listen, nobody here knows what's going on with her, but you should at least try to cheer her up."
"Yeah. Yeah, I could do that. Thanks, Mama nurse. I swear this place would go to shit if it wasn't for you." He boasted.
"Don't I know it," She grunted.
—
The next shift, Jack walked towards you with the confidence of a man who knew the secret to the most infuriating woman. As if he knew how to break down all your guards successfully with having to move a muscle. And Sunny, he thought pridefully, he can't wait to see the look on your face.
He strutted in, ignoring inconsequential, judgemental looks by Ellis and Shen, with a coquette brown bag in his hand. It had the label of The Moonlight Bakery, written in a sweet font, with bows tied on its handles. Inside it held your most favourite pastry, the one you were yapping about a few weeks ago. Its aroma floated towards you before Jack reached you. You could taste the sweetness of the blueberry compote topped on the sweet tres leches cake that you love so much.
Your eyes drifted from the board in front of you to everyone near you. Why can you smell that? Where is that coming from? Before you could figure out the person who was gatekeeping your favourite pastry, the last man, the last person you would expect such a menial thing about you, stopped beside you.
His fresh cologne hit you, threatening to lure you in a dreamy state. Anxiety coursed through your veins and you frantically looked around, finding a way to avoid conversing with him. But before you could move away, he plopped down a bag next to you. Your eyes widened at the label and the pastry inside.
You cursed.
"For you. Your favourite pastry from that bakery you couldn't stop talking about last week. Gotta admit your taste is not half bad, Sunny." He grinned smugly. What?
He remembered.
Why does he remember?
Why did he even pay attention?
You swallowed, glancing at his satisfied expression and to other peering eyes near you, too eager for your reaction. "Um...Thanks Dr. Abbot."
His grin immediately faltered. "What?"
"Thank you for this, you didn't have to." You said mildly. His face fell. Almost crumpled. Your heart pace increased as you witnessed his eyebrows furrow, his lips form a discouraged pout and his hazel eyes dimmed. Something tugged at his chest. Yours ached.
"Why are you being weird?" He muttered, with a gruff voice but it was disheartened, as if he was taken aback. But you had to pretend there wasn't anything wrong. That this was normal. This is normalcy. That the very weave of every moment you spend with Jack now didn't change the way your heart pumped deep inside your sternum. How all of it isn't inherently unnatural. That it didn't unsettle your bones. Every time you had to create a formal boundary or throw a polite word at him to protect yourself, you felt as if your soul was losing itself, the very sparkle that held you and him. Because as every detached conversation widened this distance between you and the man you loved brilliantly, an ache spread through every muscle, to an extent where your lungs couldn't process the oxygen it inhaled. Or maybe it wasn’t the oxygen that your body needed desperately.
You swallowed that desperation.
"I'm not being weird?" You blinked, cluelessly.
He pursed his lips, his frustration boiling, like a 5 year old who was refused his favourite candy, something he expected so cockily but he didn't show that, no. His face was unreadable.
You almost rolled your eyes. Shocker. No reaction by Jack Abbot.
"Don't do that."
"What do you mean, Dr. Abbot?"
Every instinct in your bone was screaming at you to lean into his body, touch his forearm, give him your sweetest smile or a kiss on his cheek as a thank you.
He looked like his frustration was about to boil over, force him to say it outright. He stopped himself in his own irritating, out–righteous way because half the hospital was shamelessly spying on you. He glanced at the pastry in front of him, untouched. Then at you, whose eyes had returned back to the chart, as if he was unimportant. Disposable.
"Nothing," He muttered.
He walked away.
The next shifts, you didn't come back. Didn't go back to being the Sunny he knew. You had stopped leaning into his space. You stopped calling him old man, stopped haphazardly and inappropriately complimenting his looks, stopped your dramatic winks, your warm waves and soft smiles when his day was going unexceptionally difficult.
It was becoming impossible to ignore. Not by just Jack but by your fellow, lovingly nosy, coworkers.
"Do you think we should do something?" Javadi asked Ellis, who, along with Crus were observing the very entertaining scene in front of them.
You were assisting Jack on a cardiac patient. Your movements were mechanical and detached and your eyes were focused on the patient but they were still vacant. His kept drifting back to you, your face, as if he was seeking something in the way your features expressed, as if they held the answer to all his questions. Yet Jack's eyes had this look in them, something akin to melancholic, because the answers he sought weren't what he was searching for.
Shen—who was also there with you—and the patient were looking between you and the attending back and forth as if this was the best and worst entertainment they had gotten since Sophie's Choice.
Shen side eyed Ellis across the room. "O—kayyy, this is so much worse."
"What even happened between them?"
"Whatever it is, they refuse to talk about it which has amped up the tension."
"Which is simultaneously slaughtering employee morale. Seriously, I will write a formal complaint to Robby." Crus chimed in at which Javadi snickered.
"So, do we get it involved?"
"Nahhh, let them figure this out themselves." Ellis declared as Crus groaned next to her.
"Care to make this interesting?" Princess smirked. Javadi jumped out of her place and Ellis flinched. "Jesus, where did you come from?"
"40$ on 4 more shifts after which they have a huge fight and makeout in the supply room."
Javadi scoffed but Ellis raised her eyebrow. "50$ on 3 shifts, and makeout on the roof."
"You really think they will last that long? Abbot looks like a volcano about to reach its bursting point. 30$ on 2 shifts—"
"Abbot can last longer, the most patient man I've ever seen." Javadi stated, mindlessly playing with her pen while gazing at the two of you.
Crus gave her a deadpan look. "Not for the girl he's so crazy in love with."
Ellis leaned back on the counter.
"Does he even know that?"
—
He still didn't stop his tries, his kindness and compassion pouring its way into every shift as he brought you your lattes he once complained about—how they are not even coffee, just random flavours mixed in milk—he helped you with your charts and made sure that Shen didn't finish that absurdly spicy ramen you like from the vending machine.
But you had stopped seeing it as hope, in order to save your heart and feelings from any more damage, but only seeing it as your attending looking out for you. As he must be with everyone else.
It was only that. Professionalism.
It could be only that.
But you didn't know how hard misery had hit Jack. Every time he looked at you, something made his chest stutter. He tried to deny it, the way he felt at peace whenever you were near him, always smiling. The way he would feel like the universe blessed him with you, the way you would be determined to make him happy. Denying the way he would gladly surrender to your shenanigans, your attempts, your exclusive sparkle if it wasn't for his stubbornness.
It almost scared him.
He didn't expect to care so much for someone, yet find someone who cared so much for him after his wife's death.
He lost someone he loved and then fell to the crutches of loneliness and emotional numbness. He didn't find happiness, scratch that, he didn't believe that he deserved happiness nor care. It was Robby and Dana who took him out, reminded him that there is so much to live for and that there are still people who care about him.
But love? He forgot that. Forgot what it feels to be in love. Forgot what it feels to be loved by someone. He carried his wife deep inside his heart, but the thought of finding another person to love, our rather another person feeling him worthy enough to love was unthinkable.
Then came you.
A blast in his life, you entered with a box full of chocolate chip cookies, the most annoyingly sweet smile on your face, and the biggest heart on your sleeve. It took him less than a second for his brain to decide you were trouble and his heart comprehend you were significant.
And beautiful.
So simply beautiful.
Your wide eyes, to your curvy hips to your thick thighs. Everything had him unnecessarily malfunctioning. The way your scrubs stuck to your back rolls, and your cute pouch which poured out in the front and how the neckline couldn't hold your cleavage, knowing his large hands could hold your body just they way you liked, sent him spiraling. He would've done anything to see you out of the scrubs. He didn't know why he was suddenly acting a 16 year old boy who had discovered women for the first time.
Then there was your pretty smile. It used to send heat waves through his body, a giddiness along with it which he thought he would never experience again. The way you would look at all the patients with kind eyes, always chirpy for the kids who were scared, compassionate with the parents. He didn't know what to do with himself and what he was feeling when you sent him your warm waves every time you saw him and all he could do was purse his lips and nod.
The danger in his mind and heart would grow whenever you brought some of your delicious food to try. Always making sure the kids (doctors in the their mid 20's) were fed, along with everyone else who overworked themselves. This was just a step towards—imminent doom?—he didn't know. But he knew that the way his heart raced with the urge to just be near you and your kindness all the time, make you smile, make you blush and fluster you wasn't exactly normal.
Yet, his body never stopped your ridiculous attempts, his smile and feelings coming slowly to the surface. But he had to put up a wall. Because this sudden lack of inhibitions when it came towards you was dangerous, wasn't it? No, it was scary. Not exactly dangerous. This lack of control was, in a way, good. But he could never admit that. So, he put up a wall and never smiled. Never gave you a reaction.
But never stopped you either.
So, when all of it had stopped all of a sudden, his heart malfunctioned. His brain couldn't process this change. Rather refused to adapt to it.
Denial is a river in Egypt, Ellis had said.
He didn't understand what it meant. Or rather, he didn't want to.
It was when Robby cornered him that he knew he wasn't just being ludicrously unsubtle but he was being moronic as well.
"You know, you're being stupid, right?"
"Excuse me?"
"Sunny."
Jack's eyes hardened.
"That's my nickname for her. Find your own." He scowled at Robby.
But Robby laughed outright, boisterously. "Do you hear yourself? God, do you even understand what you're doing?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about." He claimed.
"You know she made that Afghan food you like. The one you used to yap about in your letters."
"Wait, what?" Jack breathed out. He gulped and reminisced the sunrise on the roof with you. The way you looked in the sun, how your eyes lit up when he smiled for you, the kindness in your eyes when he told you about his times in Afghanistan—his heart lodging in his throat. You actually listened. He felt like he couldn't breathe.
"Look at you, man. You're flushed." Robby gasped out, his eyes unbelieving. Jack's gave was pink, a dreamy look in his eyes, his pulse quickened at an alarming rate. "You're down bad for her, aren't you?"
Jack just let out a shaky breath. His eyes were glassy.
"Listen, I don't know what happened between you both, man. But you gotta get your shit together, Jack. You've met a woman so kind and so loving, someone that you won't find in a million lifetimes. She likes you. You know that? Who spends half their time trying to make you laugh?"
He took a soft pause as Jack let's out a soft, unbelievable chuckle. "She is amazing."
Robby nodded, "The universe is giving you another chance, man. Ridiculously easy one because she's right there. You just gotta do right by her, Jack. I swear to god, if you fuck this up, the whole E.D is not going to forgive you. She might be your Sunny. But she's everyone's sunshine here. No one wants to lose that."
Jack breathed in, trying to process every word Robby just said. He sighed and shook his head. "I'm so fucked."
"That's right."
—
The end of the shift Jack felt like he couldn't breathe. Not with you still looking at him like you didn't know him. You still ignored every single opening he gave you. By this time, you had gotten better at hiding your pain behind a mask of smiles and propriety. The civility you had structured masterfully between you and Jack was meant to be protecting you. You tried to convince yourself shift over shift, yet you knew it was killing you from the inside.
What you didn't know was that it was killing him too.
His own decorum was slipping. It was frustration that was seeking through the crevices of his well maintained reputation as a composed doctor. Not anger though. Never anger.
He felt like he was losing you.
His Sunny was slipping away from his fingers.
"Dr. Abbot? Dr. Park is here for the ortho consult?"
He merely nodded, his head not in the right state. But it worsened when he got to North Four. You were there. Not alone. With Park.
He entered, his footsteps heavy with the storm his heart had been enduring. The fluorescent lights pierced through him, not like they did before, when you were there to warm him up. When your smile would warm the whole place up. You would always look at him first. But as he entered this room, a coldness spread through his veins, because this time he realised you didn't look at him first.
Instead, as his sight settled, he saw you.
Laughing.
With Dr. Park. Your gaze set on him.
A wrenching pain shot across his chest.
No. No. No.
He glanced between you and Park.
Jack's eyes narrowed. You had your hand loosely covering your pretty mouth as you giggled to yourself, but he was not the cause. Dr. Park stood there in all his glory telling the young teenager some hilarious tale of an injury he went through while playing football in his high school years. The teenager seemed more relaxed and comfortable now. You stood there beside him with a suture kit in your hand, your eyes never leaving the ortho attending, with a sparkle in your eyes that Jack never saw.
You didn't notice him.
At least that's what he thought.
You had sensed him entering as you always did. Your body had an instinct when it came to him, as if seeking him out or leaning into him was more of a nature to you. Something you had grown comfortable to. You recognized his presence immediately and somehow, even if you had tried to get in the habit of forgetting him, your body hadn't forgotten him at all. After all, muscle memory is muscle memory.
So, your shoulders had relaxed but your heart raced. You had difficulty focusing on what Dr. Park was saying so you just kept your eyes on him.
"Dr. Park. Took you long enough." A rough voice came from behind. Your eyebrows immediately furrowed. Jack's voice was tight, as if he was holding something back. Some kind of pain or discomfort. You had seen him get shot at, yet his voice had never been like this before. It was new for you.
He saw you turn away from him, almost an inch closer to the other attending. His breathing had become shallow, teeth grinding one another as if he was trying to control himself. The distance between you and him had never been more suffocating. He couldn't breathe in your lavender and vanilla scent, couldn't feel your warmth, hear your silky, cheery and kind voice.
But he thought he witnessed it, an ease in your body, the way it hasn't been with him in past few nights. The laugh he hadn't earned in ages. Something that, apparently, Dr. Park had earned.
His heart was starving. Lungs felt hollow.
But something about the proximity between you and Dr. Park made irritation gnaw at his chest.
"Why? Did the ED miss me, Abbot?"
He let out a huff that sounded much like a scoff, like he couldn't believe the audacity of the man. "Oh, don't worry, ED is doing just fine." He gruffly said. Dr. Park's mouth twitched slightly.
You stood between them, a tension attaching you to him. Yet you felt like there was something going on in his mind, something that was making the veins in his neck pop. The intensity with which he was glancing at you was magnetic, a force you wished you weren't so pulled towards. You resisted and resisted. A string between you both losing its elasticity moment by moment as you not only avoided him but refused to name it.
So, you did what you thought was best.
You deflected. You deflected and turned your attention on Dr. Park in front of you.
"Well, don't worry, Ortho is perfect for me. I was just convincing this lovely nurse to join me up there. I swear—"
"Excuse me?"
Your breath hitched.
Something beneath him, inside his lungs, set on fire. A cold fire. It knocked the air out of him. His brain stuttered. Stopped functioning thoughts except for a tangible reality of you actually going away. A warmth he couldn't hold onto first.
"Sunny? You call her that, right?" He smugly added, unknowing of the fire he was adding fuel to. "Sunny, can you pass me the chart?"
Jack's irritation whitened into something else. Hot anger. Frustration. Panic.
Absolutely fucking not.
"You don't call her that." His eyes had darkened, jaw clenched to an impossible extent. The room had fallen to a deadly silence. The air had escaped, a cold settled around which had nothing to do with the weather. Your throat had gone dry. Face flushed. Heat spread through your body.
You hadn't ever seen Jack with such a dark expression.
He gritted his teeth, eyes narrowed—hazel covered with an envious green—and whatever burned inside him was creeping out, ugly and unseen. "Only I call her Sunny."
"Dr. Abbot—"
He ignored your gasp of voice, unbelieving of his claim. It was scalding and irrational, he knew, but he couldn't stop it.
He could only see what his brain flashed in front of his eyes, undesired. An image of you moving away, another person making you laugh, flustering you the way he used to. You looking at someone else with the same caring eyes. Because he did, now. He looked for you first. He didn't want to lose being the first person you looked for, forever.
He felt something coil and tighten under his sternum.
Especially not because of fucking Dr. Park.
"So what should I call her, Abbot—sweetheart, darling, honey? She looks like a honey." He teased on.
"You call her nothing, Park. She's not your anything."
Park's eyebrows raised in amusement, finally getting a hang of what exactly was going on. He moved his gaze back and forth Jack and you, a tension he didn't know he had stepped into.
"I see, Abbot. Of course. She's yours—"
"I'm not!" You cried, a desperation in your voice that pierced through the tensed air set in the room. "I am nowhere near his. Dr. Park, please continue with the consult." You whispered with a frustration lodging in your throat.
You moved to leave, glaring at Jack before storming out.
—
Jack didn't go after you. Not this time.
Because at this point, he felt like he didn't understand you anymore.
Or rather he felt like he was losing you.
The worst part was that he knew your laugh. It rung in his ears every time he felt like the darkness was going to absorb him again. He knew every version of it, every version that you gave him—with your heart open. It was the way the room used to light up every time your eyes brightened with it, a loud laugh, one that bounced off of every single surface just to get to him and wrap him in its velvety warmth. Then there was the sly giggle or the snort you couldn't help but let out. They gave him a kind of delight that would linger.
Yet when he heard this one, something lurched behind his ribs. Because he didn't expect this. Didn't expect to hear a new one which he hadn't catalogued himself yet. A swirl of ugliness and breathlessness tightened under his sternum because it was not him that was the cause of it.
White frustration surged through the man as he thundered across the ED. A type of storm people had not seen before.
"What happened?" Lena asked, fearlessly. His gaze sharpened as he remembered the foreign sound again. "Fucking Dr. Park. And Sunny."
She raised her eyebrows. "What?
"This man thinks he can just swoop in and try to poach her. Fucking called her Sunny," He ranted. "Everybody here knows I call her that. And then when I told him that, Park had the fucking audacity to ask me whether he should call her 'honey' then."
Lena pursed her lips at him, amusement visible across her face. "Right."
"I mean, can you fucking believe that?"
"I can't fucking believe you, Dr. Abbot." Samira muttered to herself, resentment laced in her words. Her eyes had sharpened as if to cut Jack, but they were still focused on the chart in front of her.
"Excuse me?"
She scoffed and rolled her eyes. "If you seriously don't know what you've done, I can't help you." And tried to walk off. Before she could, Jack caught her. "Mohan, what are you talking about?"
She huffed and crossed her arms. "Dr. Abbot, I have patients to catch up with."
"Seriously? Listen, I care about her. A lot. And I have no idea why she is acting like this and its killing me. If you know something—please tell me." He pleaded.
"You have no right to act all jealous and possessive of her when you asked out Al Hashimi."
"Wait, what?"
"She's been trying to make you smile for months and she bakes for you goddammit! You give her nothing, never! And then the poor girl walks in on you and Dr. Al—"
"I never asked her out."
"Excuse me?"
Jack's heart dropped down in the pit of his stomach. "I never asked out Dr. Hashimi."
"But she—"
"Never. I did ask her to get beer together but that was just because Robby wanted me to get a a clear image on her. It was never meant—Fuck."
Samira pursed her lips and blinked at the man as he went through a plethora of emotions. He swallowed and raised his gaze at her to find her eyebrows shot up, expectantly, as if to say you need to fix this now.
"I need to find Sunny."
—
You needed a breather.
And what better place than the roof?
You breathed in the air, a calm that you wished would stop the storm inside you. The whirlwind of emotions and stupid feelings. All for that one man. One man you couldn't seem to let go of. It was almost humiliating how much you wanted to hold on, hold on to the brittle dream of him loving you back like you did him.
The look you saw on his face. God, did you imagine it? Did he also miss you? No. No. You stopped yourself. You just needed some more time. Away from him. Away from the chaos which was a few floors down. A bit of silence—
The door creaked open, destroyer of your attempts at peace up here. You wished it was Lena or Ellis but you knew who it was.
"What are you doing here?" You asked weakly.
"Sunny—"
"What do you want from me, Jack?" Your voice broke.
"I need to know why out of nowhere you've been acting like you don't fucking know me, Sunny." He confessed, his frustration laced in the words. "I need to know what the hell your problem is, cause'—"
"Jack, please—"
"No, I need to hear it from your mouth, okay? What is it? You hate me all of a sudden—" He kept pacing towards you, as if without the close proximity he won't survive.
"No, you fucking dumbass! I love you! I've been in love with you and you don't—" You hiccuped, turning around, tears finally rolling down your cheeks. "You don't a–and if I stay any longer with you, I'll break my own heart because I will keep falling a–and you won't."
"You're in love with me?" Jack gasped out, disbelief in his breath. You pulled yourself together, your hands wrapping around your cold body, shoulders hunching, trying to hide yourself. Humiliation made your tears well up again, your brain was hurting and you embraced your body, bracing yourself for the inevitable rejection. "Are you serious?"
You nodded slightly before your gaze flickered back to the sky. "Listen, I–I know this is bad, especially since you like Dr. Al Hashimi and you asked her out. I am going to give in my request for a shift to days, or even out of the ED—"
"Like hell you will. Like hell I will let you."
"What?" You whispered.
"I never asked out Al."
There was a heavy pause between, as your heart stopped itself, almost as if because it couldn't hear Jack's words perfectly.
"Excuse me?"
"I never asked her out. Whatever you heard was me doing a favour for Robby."
His gaze pierced through your soul, begging you to understand what his words couldn't convery but you deflected. You didn't let yourself believe. "Still. It doesn't mean you don't want her—She's perfect. She's mature, beautiful, absolutely brilliant—"
"She's not you."
You couldn't have heard the words right. "Excuse me?" You breathed out.
He stepped closer to you, your heart threatening to pump out of your chest. You could see him clearly now, through all of your tears. His perfectly freckled face, gorgeous salt and pepper curls, his eyes filled with so much tenderness and pain it caught your breath.
"She's not you."
He titled his head slightly, gazing at you with so much adoration. He reached out, his hand so careful, feather light touch as he tucked a strand away, as an unfortunate whimper escapes your mouth. Not a moment of weakness. An indication of the longing. Longing for the same touch.
"She's not Sunny. Yes, she is intelligent, mature, brave and pretty too. But she's not you." He let out a shaky exhale before continuing.
"She's not the person who is so determined to make me laugh. She's not the one who makes the room brightened up by just being in it. She's not the one...the one who made me feel worthy of being loved again."
Your gaze flickered up at his eyes again.
"But Jack—you never," you gulped again, stopping the tears to blur up your vision again, "you never even reciprocated it. Never..." You trailed off, mindlessly flashing back to the times you put yourself down while wondering why he never flirted back. "But when—when I saw you with Dr. Al, you smiled—so freely, it hurt. W–Why did you never—"
"I was afraid." Hs cut you off. "Afraid that after I smiled for you, you w–would move on. Stop doing what you're doing. I didn't want you to stop. You were the best part of my day."
There was a pregnant pause before he added.
"Besides you made my brain malfunction."
A chortle left your mouth, a remark of disbelief. "Excuse me?"
A sly lopsided grin touched his face. "I never could give you any reaction because you stopped my brain from giving out any coherent orders to my body. My throat would become concerningly dry and I couldn't even give a reaction without making myself look like a dumbass."
You let out an unwarranted giggle. You shook your head, but behind your eyes, there was still the blinding cover of uncertainty. A cloud of doubt still stopped you. Your body was not letting yourself lean into him completely, but not pushing him back either. Reluctancy had settled over your bones.
"Jack. This is not making sense—"
"You're the first person I look for in a room." Your breath hitched. "And when you stopped looking for me...I felt empty. I was losing my mind and Robby had to knock some sense into me—and I—I was too afraid to lose you, Sunny."
He grabbed the rails around you, his arms framing around your body, his figure radiating a kind of restlessness. His fingers had gripped the metal so hard, his knuckles were turning white in frustration, as if he was holding himself back from...well, you.
A heated flush spread across your cheeks. Your eyes met his, a soul found another, the love and yearning that had been hidden behind fear finally blown out in the open.
"Why did you never tell me?" You whispered.
"I was afraid." There was a pause before he moved his body close to you, the proximity both of your hearts had been starving for. "But I realised the fear of losing you is far more than the fear of...accepting love."
Your hand slowly reached out to his face, cradling it, his stubble grazing your hands, your eyes boring into his. A shy smile broke out on your face, something eternally beautiful, he realised as his heart skipped a beat. You both leaned in, his forehead leaning against yours, as you let yourself finally be pulled into his warmth. Falling into his soul. Never leaving his heart.
"Say it for me. Please."
His gaze flickered to yours, a vulnerability shone in them as he searched your face before realisation dawned on him.
"I'm falling for you, hard."
He took a deep breathe.
"I love you, Sunny."
You opened your eyes and sighed, as if you were holding a breath for the longest time.
"One more time."
Jack's eyes never left you. Instead, they flickered to your lips. The ones he dreamed about. The ones he wanted to—
He tilted his head and went in, a brush of his lips against yours, as if asking for permission, but only a whimper came out. Soft and delicate, something that gave him the courage he needed.
You gasped as his hand grabbed at your waist, gently squeezing your pretty love handles before pulling you into him as he smashed his lips against yours. He swiftly molded his lips against yours, getting drunk on your taste. While you just melted into him, holding onto him like he was your lifeline.
Your hands travelled up from his torso to his chest to his collar, your fingers grabbing them and passionately pulling him impossibly closer. His explored your body in the way it didn't even daydream about. They hoisted you with their bulging strength, sliding from your back to your mane and back to your hips. He groaned in your mouth and you whined softly before he sucked on your lower lips.
The kiss wasn't aggressive nor was it too shy. It was the perfect amount for two lost people finding themselves again. For the two people who had been too afraid to grab the love right in front of them. Two people who were stunningly starved for each other's touch. Two souls who had finally found each other.
You slowly whined as both of you pulled back for air and he smiled against your lips.
"Look, who's smiling now." You teased gently. You played with his curls, reveling in this feeling, the giddiness consumed your body, and the anxious buzz in your muscles had disappeared because he was here. Holding you. Loving you.
He chuckled wholeheartedly. He softly pecked your lips. "Only because of you, Sunny."
—
The elevator dinged open.
The sight could heal all longing hearts. And it did.
"Oh my god." Santos whispered.
Everybody at the nurse station looked at her, puzzled at her widened eyes. That was until they followed her eye sight.
There you were.
Not alone.
Jack and you appeared, fingers intertwined, shy smiles on both faces, but the satisfaction and love glowed on both of you, unsubtly. Plus, your lips were chapped.
Crus crossed his arms over his chest, "Fucking finally."
Robby cheered with Shen. Dana and Lena said something on the lines of 'took you long enough', as Princess and Perlah looked kind of disappointed, but for a different reason.
"I fucking won!" Ellis beamed.
Everyone groaned.
You both just grinned at each other. Jack, finally happy, because he faced his fears, and finally reached for the warmth and love that was always there. Because he got his girl. His Sunny.
And you? Well because you finally realised that the man you loved also looked for you before even entering a room.
That was love.
In a room full of people, I look for you.
—sombr.
AHHHH FINALLY DONE WITH THIS.
I love you guys so much for the love you gave me and sunny <3
⇢ pairing: Jack Abbot x Single Mom!ER Nurse!Reader
⇢ summary: Jack is the man that stepped up for your daughter- but she’s a little confused as to what a dad is when she does a Father’s Day project at school.
⇢ warnings: MDNI 18+, fluff, mild angst, idiots in love, yearning, Jack being Jack
⇢ author’s note: I have a few more Father’s Day ficlets planned for more characters but idk when I’m actually gonna finish- I just had to do this for Jack. More on Jack as the dad who stepped up here.
Her teacher says that a dad is kind, patient, funny, brave, strong- so of course she had a dad!
Kind- Rabbit is kind to her. He always smiles when he sees her running towards him. He lets her hold his hand when she’s getting her shots or a check up and squeezes her eyes tight and his hand as hard as she can. He sneaks her popsicles when she’s waiting for you to get off your shift. He sits with her in the break room- perched on his lap while she colors on old ER charts as he reads case studies aloud for her and stops when she asks what a certain word he said was. He listens to her yap away about her day at school- knelt down even if his leg is killing while she goes into detail about the pb&j she had for lunch. He answers her millions of questions- always in a way she’d understand and smiles when she follows up with “why?” Her dad would get annoyed- her dad says “because” and doesn’t answer her. Her dad says she talks too much.
Funny- Rabbit is so funny in a way that makes her giggle so much that her little stomach and sides hurt. When they argue over the last pudding cup- “I’m older so I should get it.” “I’m cuter,” she’ll retort and when he rolls his eyes and say that’s not fair she’ll laugh. His dry wit and deadpan expressions make her giggle- when he says “this is not a serious medical issue,” as she holds her stuffed rabbit up by the ears because “Mr. Bun is sick.” Or when he tells Shen he needs two cc’s of apple juice for them both stat. Her dad isn’t funny. He’s always serious. He’s always angry around her- his face grumpy but not the way Jack’s is. He tells her to stop laughing when things weren’t funny to him.
Brave- because her Rabbit isn’t scared when she is. When he stayed by her bedside on the peds floor because she was sick- sleeping cramped in that uncomfortable chair so she didn’t wake up alone and scared. When she said she was afraid that she'd have bad dreams while she tried to sleep- “that’s why I’m here kiddo- to fight the bad dreams while you sleep okay?” When she asked about his leg- he told her how he lost it protecting his friend years ago. That means he’s brave right? Because her dad didn’t answer her when she’d cry at night over her bad dreams- when she’d knock on his door late at night and ask him to tuck her back in he’d tell her to leave him alone or would ignore her altogether.
Strong- Rabbit was clearly the strongest. He easily carries her when she throws herself at him. Swings her over his shoulders and holds her upside down while she kicks her legs and giggles. When she’s sleepy after waiting for you to get off your shift and her head is heavy on his big shoulders- he walks to your car with her snoring in his ear like she weighs nothing. She’s seen him hold up a grown man that passed out on the ER floor- and she’s seen him hold you while you cried. After her dad told you he didn’t want to see her this weekend- trying to be quiet but she could see how Jack rubbed your back to calm you down. He’s calm when the entire ER is in chaos. Her dad isn’t strong- he doesn’t try to hold her or pick her up. He can’t even open her water bottle after a long day or even stop her tears.
Patient- this one was hard to understand but her Rabbit sounded patient. When she cried because her drawing didn’t come out the way she wanted or when she couldn’t do her math homework right he didn’t yell or even raise his voice. “That’s okay- let’s try again together alright?” He sounded out the words for her- his big hand holding her finger across the pages of the book to help her read and understand the book. When she needed help tying her shoes he bent down and smiled- narrating what he was doing so she could learn too “you make two bunny ears first.” He never got angry with her. He waited for her to take her time. Her dad sighed- groaned- rolled his eyes and told her to hurry up. Her dad hardly wanted to even see her.
Because Jack Rabbit, she’ll correct you when you say Jack is all of that. For Father’s Day her teacher had the class draw their dad who fits all these categories and clearly that’s all her Rabbit. You should’ve seen her- tongue poking out the side of her mouth and brows knitted up in concentration while she dug through the crayons for what she needed. It was a masterpiece. Her magnum opus. She even signed her name in the glittery sparkle pen that Jack let her have from the nurses station pen cup. She was so excited- digging through her backpack the second the babysitter brought her to the ER after she was picked up from school. You were worried- Father’s Day was this weekend and your baby’s sperm donor wanted nothing to do with the beautiful bright eyed little girl that you gave him.
“Look mama!” Proudly waving the construction paper at you- big letters that say ‘My Father Is:’ that makes your chest ache a little. Because her dad will never care about the love and time she put into it- the detailed drawings and stickers and figure that looks nothing like her dad. And not in the way that’s difficult because she’s four years old but-
“Who’s this baby?” Bending down- pointing at the figure at the bottom of the paper that has grey swirls on its head and angry eyebrows that are scribbled dark- black scrubs on and- only one stick leg and-
“That’s Rabbit!” Like it was obvious- rolling her eyes even because clearly it’s her favorite person in the entire world- how could you mistake it for anyone else? The grey swirls were drawn to depict his hair- curls that have lost their color due to age and probably stress. Angry scribbles of his brows because he’s always so serious when he works sometimes. And then the obvious single leg. That’s her Rabbit. And your heart aches- blinking back a stray tear because she’s right. Everything good about a dad is everything you love about Jack. He’s everything you would’ve picked for your daughter and when you take her hands to explain to her that while the drawing is beautiful- Jack wasn’t her father and- “Rabbit!” She cuts you off- little shriek of excitement and always so quick to escape your grasp. Her favorite person coming into work for his night shift- uneven steps and backpack slung over one of his shoulders and that scowl that immediately softens into a grin when he hears her. “Look! Look! Look!”
“What? What? What?” He lightheartedly mocks her with a smile- kneeling down to her level and carefully taking the colorful paper that she all but shoved into his face while she babbles- going on about how its Father’s Day this Sunday and how her teacher had them draw someone who’s kind and smart and funny and- “this is amazing bunny!” Face lighting up- soft awe because he can see how much better her drawings have gotten. He remembers her scribbles over the old charts and how he’d reply “of course it is” when she’d say it was a shark or a fire truck or-
“It’s you! I made it for you,” looking down at her single unlaced shoe- a little nervous habit she picked up when she realized she was being perceived by someone. For him? Something in Jack cracks- because this little girl that he’s watched grow up understands him as someone she can trust and love and- it’s everything he wanted. He looks up from above her head- making eye contact with you while you smile softly with an apologetic look.
The last thing you wanted was to guilt him into being appreciative- to make him feel forced to accept your child but there’s no one he’d rather accept into his life. No two people he’d rather have. But this isn’t about his feelings- this isn’t about how the hole in his heart has been filled with you and your bright, happy daughter who he’d do anything for. He loves his nights where your daughter sleeps in one of the empty bed in the ER- where he can watch over her while he charts because he needs some peace and quiet and he likes how her little snores silence his mind. He loves the way you laugh at his sarcastic comments- even more so when you throw one back his way because- “$20 says that patient did not slip and fall on the cucumber,” “well it had a condom on so I’ll take that bet.” He loves sitting next to you on the roof when it’s been the shift from hell- leaning back and sitting against the railing and watching the sunrise while you split a pizza “okay your half is the nasty pineapple one,” “just say you have no taste- it’s okay I won’t judge you,” and clink the bottles of your beers together. He misses when you’d doze off in the silence of the city before it starts to wake- your head resting on his shoulder where he can smell your shampoo and feel your warmth against him and the grounding weight of you reminding him that there’s so much more than this hospital.
He misses her because she started school and left the hospital’s child care- because for so long she was a constant in his life. You remember when you’d find him in the hospital’s daycare- laying on the floor while she crawled around him and smacked at his face while he droned on about a patient that was presenting with stroke like symptoms and yet his CT was clear. He would talk his problems out with her and when she’d babble back- “look I get your point but you don’t have to be so rude,” deadpan because she’d giggle and clap and her laugh relaxed him the same way your soft hand on his arm would. He’s so happy she’s making friends at school- but she still says- “Rabbit, you’re my best friend,” softly when he’s in the break room helping her with her math homework.
God- the rage he felt when he found your daughter alone in the break room with her backpack on a few weekends ago- “he promised me,” forcing the tears back because she didn’t want you to see her cry. Because you were arguing on the phone with her dad again- after he spent a week hyping her up about taking her to the park today but he called you last minute because his girlfriend’s son had a baseball game and- “why doesn’t he love me?” lower lip wobbling- voice so broken before she throws herself into Jack’s arms. He hates seeing her cry, wondering how anyone could abandon her when she’s the greatest kid he’s ever met- she’s so funny, smart and energetic and sure she talks a lot but so does he and- “shh, it’s okay- I’m here okay?” Meeting your eyes when you walk back into the break room- a sad little smile on your face because it makes your chest ache when she hurts for a man who didn’t care for her but here Jack was who doesn’t have an ounce of blood shared with her yet he would die for her.
Sure he’s a little obvious about his feelings for you but you’re not too subtle with yours either. Lingering touches when he passes behind you- a warm hand on your lower back or at your hips. Your fingers curling around his when you pass him a patient's lab results. His solid chest at your back when he’s reading a chart off the computer right behind you- cheek pressing into your temple or chin hooked over your shoulder. When he says “you’d be surprised,” when you say that no one wants to date a divorced single mom. “No one wants to date a one legged veteran widower,” with a shrug but- “you’d be surprised,” as you meet his eyes while you sip on the coffee he bought you- soft smile playing on your lips before you walk away and he swears he saw you wink at him.
And it keeps him up at night when he remembers the almost kiss. After you lost a patient who was too close in age to your daughter and he found you hyperventilating in the supply room- panicking because the babysitter wouldn’t answer her phone and you needed to know your daughter was okay and Jack was the one who brought you back down to earth. Strong hands on your face- making you look into those hazel eyes that you dream about- telling you to breathe with him, letting your hands wrap around his wrists but you nod and inhale. Exhale while your faces get closer. Inhale when your eyes drop down to his lips. Exhale when you feel his nose brushing against yours. Inhale when you feel the shaky breath of his lips on yours- exhale when you pull away because the babysitter was calling you back.
He puts the drawing in his locker- carefully taped to the metal where he can see it everyday and smile because this little girl loves him and he doesn’t know how to accept the love you both have for him. Or the love that he has for you both. And neither of you say anything. Not about the bright red holographic heart stickers or the crooked hearts she drew with every crayon in the box. Not about the way she wrote “I love you” on the side- shaky and uncoordinated but he could make those words out and he traces them after a bad day. Not about how he wishes he could come home to you both at the end of a long shift. How he wishes he could crawl into bed with you and have her sneak into the bed and wedge herself between you both with that stuffed rabbit that she can never leave behind. Or how you wish you could kiss him at the end of your shift and say “we’ll see you at home.”
In the spirit of democracy, this summer is going to be a DBF series double-header ;)
On a camping trip celebrating your father's fiftieth birthday party, you cross paths with Jack, his best friend and old military pal. What follows is a seventy-two-hour love affair that ends with his abrupt departure. No note, no calls. You don't even know how to find him - or if you want to.
Four years later, you begin your ER residency at PTMC. Your night shift attending? The same man who took your virginity, broke your heart, and then disappeared without a trace. But you're not the same wide-eyed girl he left behind, and you soon prove yourself as an impressive force of nature.
He’s a curse you can’t break. You are the temptation he can’t resist.
Coming soon to a Tumblr near you!
Weekly Updates starting Friday, April 17th. 12:00AM PST.
Ex-Bf’s Dad!Jack Abbot x Reader. Established relationship. Title from “Regret Me” by Daisy Jones & The Six. age gap!!! explicit content, pinv, oral (f. receiving), squirting, creampie, pure filth.
approx. 1600 words. short and sweet, like shawn hatosy :)
☆ crash course (dbf!jack series) ☤ the pitt masterlist⋆˚꩜｡ main masterlist ☕︎༯ tip jar
It was supposed to be the last time six months ago.
Clearly, neither of you is very good at holding the line. Self-restraint is effortless for all other aspects of your life. You didn't graduate at the top of your class in high school, or graduate summa cum laude from Carnegie Mellon, or get into med school at UPitt by partying and indulging every whim. You follow a routine: Pilates in the morning, reading before bed, and maintaining a thousand-day streak on Duolingo.
Jack Abbot is your wild card.
You met his son, Jared, at a party during your junior year. He played hockey for UPitt, and while he wasn't very good at it, he had curly hair and a nice smile. He made you feel like the only girl in the world. Unfortunately, he also had a habit of making other girls feel special, too. He loved having a girlfriend, but he was a terrible boyfriend.
His father, on the other hand? He was reason enough to keep coming around.
You know it's wrong, dating a guy because you have a secret, desperate crush on his father, but Jack is cool, and easy to talk to, and a great listener. He coached you through your MCATs, wrote you a rec letter, and got you a hospital clerk job working night shift part-time so you could pay your way through med school at UPitt. And sure, he also wiped your tears every time his son made you cry, but he never crossed a line.
Not until you broke up with Jared.
He got drafted for an NHL team halfway across the country, and you got into med school. It wasn't love, but it was a habit. Comfortable even. It was easy to call it off, and when you ripped the band-aid off, you were relieved.
The break was clean.
In theory.
It would be less complicated if you didn't work in close proximity to your ex-boyfriend's dad. He's always around, and whenever you run labs for him or drop scans off, he meets you at Central with a smile and far too much eye contact to be decent.
"Thank you, sweetheart," he'll say, with those dimples indenting his scruffy cheeks, his hazel eyes bright.
And oh, does it do things to you. Butterflies in the stomach. Blood rushing in your cheeks. You're a shark in your med school classes and precise during rotations. Yet, whenever Jack is around, you can barely remember your name.
The first time you and Jack slept together was two days after the breakup. You came by the house to pick up your things, and Jack opened the door.
He said your name with that bright, easy smile of his. "What are you doing here?"
"Hi, Dr. Abbot—"
"Jack," he corrected you.
"Jack," you amended. "Jared said I could come by, get my stuff."
"Why?"
"He didn't tell you?"
"Tell me what?"
"We broke up."
"Oh." The disappointment in his eyes was unmistakable. His brows were set, pinched into a line.
The next thing you knew, he was kissing you, and you were tugging his shirt off, and then your ex's dad had you folded over his leather couch while he pounded into you from behind, and you came so hard you saw stars.
When you floated back down to earth, he murmured, "You know it can't happen again, right?"
You nodded. "You're right."
"But god, if I'd met you first." The quiet part, the hidden text at the end of the sentence, made all the difference. He would have made you his from the beginning, and even if he's older and damaged and wrong for you in so many ways, it wouldn't have mattered, because the two of you? Inevitable.
Those words of his were a confession and a brand. From that moment on, the two of you were hopeless. Every ounce of self-control you claimed to have was gone, and all bets were off when it came to Jack.
He shows up at your door at the end of a particularly grueling shift.
The waiting room had been a ghost town for most of it, which meant you spent most of your time at the front intake desk studying for a clinical exam and stressing about the blood vessels of the hands. Someone said the dreaded Q word, and much like the curse of saying "Macbeth" in a Theater, the traumas started to roll in one after another. Teenagers on the night of a sober grad party were caught in a collapsed building. The carnage was widespread, and by the end of the mass casualty incident, you could see the strain it had on the team.
You were already sure you weren't cut out for an emergency department, even before you started working in one, but after tonight, you're certain you can't do it. You're barely certain the doctors of the Pitt can handle it.
Jack knocks once. His fist hits the wood like a broken plea.
You open the door, nice and slow, and he's on you in an instant. His hands come up to cradle your cheeks, tangling in the loose strands of hair framing your face, and then his mouth crashes into yours hard. It's a wet kiss, all desperation and tongue and teeth, but you let him devour you. Sometimes, kissing Jack is like treading water in the open ocean, and you're desperate to drown.
You stumble towards your bedroom out of instinct, and he catches you before scooping you up into his arms. Your legs wrap around his waist, heels curved against his muscular thighs, and his kiss never falters as he carries you to the bedroom. When your back meets the mattress, you scramble to peel off the layers of your clothes in that same, practiced dance. Your shirt, then his, your pants, then his. His leg, your bra, your panties, his boxers. It's a sinner's waltz: a temptation you no longer pretend you can resist.
Jack kneels in front of you, spreading your thighs as he lowers himself to the floor on his knees. His calloused fingers close around your hips in a bruising grip as he hauls you to the edge of the bed and plants his mouth on your weeping pussy. Sometimes, he'll tease you, kissing your thighs, getting you needy and aching before he actually dives in, but this? This is the work of a starving man, a man dying of thirst, taking the first sip of sweet, forbidden wine.
His lips close around your clit, indulgently sucking on the sensitive bundle of nerves, and your hips buck. He pins you down, holding you there as he starts to slide his tongue through your folds, drawing circles where you need him most, fucking you with his mouth as your pussy clenches around nothing, and just when you think you've had enough, he shoves two thick fingers inside your pussy, lets his stubble rasp against the delicate skin of your inner thighs, and writes his name on your clit. You come once, and then he never lets you come down, until you're shaking and deliriously wet and his mouth is gleaming with your release.
No one else has ever made you squirt before. Once Jack discovered he could do it, he made it his mission to make it happen again, every time ever since.
When he comes back up for air, you're boneless and at his mercy, which is exactly where he wants you when the animalistic side of him takes over. You accept his sharp edges, his darkness, and meet him there with your own. He caresses your jaw as he positions his thick cock at your entrance. You hiss a sharp breath, your pussy raw, but desperate for more. The first stretch is a homecoming, a promise. He gives you no warning before he sheathes himself completely inside you, balls against your ass, buried to the hilt. You can feel him kissing your cervix, so deep it almost hurts, and a broken, needy sound falls out of your mouth before you can stop yourself.
"Jack," you cry. Your nails dig crescent moons into his shoulders. "Jack, please."
"I know," he says. "I know, baby. That's it. That's my good girl. Taking me so good."
His hand comes up to the headboard for leverage, and then he starts to fuck you properly, splitting you open on his cock, slamming every inch inside of your needy hole until your mouth is open and your eyes are filling with tears. All you can do is beg, incoherent sounds spilling from you in the vague shape of a plea for release. His free hand moves between you, his thumb stroking your clit, and you come so fast, so easily. He holds you high above the world, in that perfect, euphoric place, for what feels like an eternity, and then, as he shudders and moans, you hear it.
"I love you," he whispers.
And then he comes, painting hot ropes of his seed inside you. He stays there, for a moment, as he starts to soften, and then he withdraws from you, reaching into the nightstand for the wipes he knows you keep on hand for this. He cleans you up, dresses you, and reminds you to pee and get some water.
But this time, he doesn't rush to leave, or remind you this was a mistake, or tell you he can't do this again.
He just stays.
And you know it's doomed, that all you can do is crash and burn, and one day, he'll be your biggest regret, and you'll probably be his, too. But right now, Jack Abbot is the beautiful, broken man in your bed, and he loves you.
Like what you read? Great news! If you're feeling tipsy? You can Buy Me A Coffee ☕️ P.S. Are you reading Crash Course every Friday? You better be there or be square!!
Jack learns that the best way to help you calm down when you're spiralling in a pit of anxiety is to lie on you like a weighted blanket.
Which would be fine, if he wasn't so damn in love with you.
The first time it happens, it’s an accident.
Sort of.
Jack Reacher has spent most of his life learning how to read people fast. It’s survival. Instinct. The tiny details matter—the twitch in someone’s jaw before they swing, the shift of weight before they run, the too-calm voice hiding panic.
So when he looks at you across the cheap motel room and notices your breathing going shallow, he knows immediately something’s wrong.
You’re sitting on the edge of the bed with your elbows on your knees, fingers digging so hard into your sleeves it looks painful.
The TV is on low in the background. Some late-night infomercial buzzing static into the room.
Rain taps against the windows.
And you look like you’re drowning.
Reacher studies you for a second.
“You hurt?”
You shake your head quickly. Too quickly.
“No.”
Lie.
He leans back in the chair near the window, watching carefully. “Somebody threaten you?”
“No.”
Another lie.
Not a dangerous one. Not the kind he usually deals with.
This is different.
You stand abruptly and start pacing the motel room. Three steps one direction. Turn. Three steps back.
Your hands shake.
Reacher’s eyes narrow slightly.
He’s seen panic attacks before. Soldiers. Civilians. Witnesses after bad scenes.
But yours is quieter.
Like you’re trying to suffocate it before anyone notices.
“Hey,” he says evenly.
You stop pacing immediately, like you got caught doing something embarrassing.
“Sit down.”
“I’m fine.”
“Didn’t say you weren’t.”
Your jaw tightens.
Then your breathing hitches sharply enough that even you seem startled by it.
Reacher stands.
At six-foot-five, built like something people should probably fear on instinct alone, he takes up most of the motel room just by moving through it.
Usually that calms you down.
You somehow look more panicked.
“Sorry,” you blurt suddenly, backing toward the bathroom. “I’m sorry, I just need a second—”
Reacher catches your wrist before you can disappear.
Gentle.
Always gentler than people expect him to be.
Your pulse is racing under his fingers.
“Look at me.”
You try. You really do.
But your eyes are glassy now, breaths too fast, shoulders pulled tight enough to snap.
“Can’t—” you whisper.
Reacher makes a decision.
Fast.
Same way he always does.
He guides you backward toward the bed and sits you down before kneeling in front of you.
“Listen carefully,” he says, voice low and steady. “You’re okay.”
You shake your head immediately.
“Yes, you are.”
“I can’t breathe—”
“You are breathing.”
Your chest spasms with another sharp inhale.
Reacher thinks.
Then moves.
Before you can question it, he shifts onto the bed beside you and pulls you sideways with him.
You make a startled noise as he maneuvers you flat against the mattress.
And then—
He lies on top of you.
Not all his weight. He’s careful. Precise even now.
One massive arm wraps around your waist. His chest pins yours against the mattress just enough to ground you.
Solid.
Heavy.
Warm.
You freeze in shock.
Reacher keeps his voice calm near your ear.
“Breathe with me.”
Your brain short-circuits for a moment purely because—
Jack Reacher is lying on top of you.
Fully.
Like some kind of enormous human security blanket.
Objectively, this should not help.
And yet—
The pressure eases something awful clawing at the inside of your ribs.
Your breaths still shake, but they stop coming so fast.
Reacher notices immediately.
“There you go,” he murmurs.
One of his hands slides slowly up and down your back in a steady rhythm.
Your body, traitorous thing that it is, starts unclenching inch by inch.
“Oh my God,” you mumble weakly into the motel pillow.
Reacher tilts his head slightly. “What?”
“This is humiliating.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“You’re literally crushing me.”
“You seem calmer.”
“…I hate that you’re right.”
A pause.
Then, unexpectedly:
“You want me to move?”
The answer should be yes.
Absolutely yes.
Instead, your fingers curl instinctively into the fabric of his t-shirt.
“…Not yet.”
Reacher goes still for half a second.
Then settles more comfortably around you.
“Okay.”
After that, it becomes a thing.
Not intentionally at first.
The second time happens two weeks later in Nebraska after a diner shooting, too many sirens, and one particularly nasty interrogation.
You make it all the way back to the motel bathroom before the panic starts crawling up your throat.
Reacher finds you sitting on the floor beside the tub.
“You spiraling?” he asks plainly.
You glare weakly. “What gave it away?”
He crouches in front of you.
You look exhausted. Eyes rimmed red. Hands trembling.
Reacher considers his options for approximately two seconds.
Then he opens his arms slightly.
“C’mere.”
You stare at him.
“…Seriously?”
“You got a better idea?”
No.
You really, really don’t.
So you let the giant ex-military drifter haul you against his chest and eventually down onto the motel bed where he performs his now apparently patented anxiety-intervention maneuver.
Which is how you end up flat on your back with Jack Reacher stretched over you like a six-foot-five weighted blanket.
Again.
“This is insane,” you mumble.
“You’re breathing better.”
“You’re very smug for someone using himself as emotional support furniture.”
Reacher huffs a quiet laugh against your hair.
The sound surprises both of you.
Because Reacher doesn’t laugh often.
But you’ve started noticing something lately:
He does around you.
The problem is this:
Jack Reacher is dangerous to love.
Not because he’d hurt you.
Never that.
But because he leaves.
Always.
No apartment. No roots. No permanent address.
He drifts through towns like a storm rolling across state lines.
And you know better than to mistake temporary shelter for permanence.
Unfortunately, your heart doesn’t seem to care.
Which becomes a serious issue somewhere around Missouri, when Reacher pins you gently beneath him after another panic spiral and your stupid, hopeless brain suddenly notices things it really shouldn’t.
Like how warm he is.
How careful.
How impossibly safe you feel wrapped beneath all that strength.
How every inch of him seems focused entirely on protecting you from the world—and maybe from yourself.
It’s unbearable.
You’re in trouble.
Real trouble.
Because you’re pretty sure Jack Reacher is starting to feel it too.
It shows in little things first.
The way his hand lingers at your waist after helping you out of cars.
How his gaze tracks you across every room automatically.
How he sleeps lighter when you’re nearby.
How violent he becomes when someone scares you.
That last one is particularly telling.
A man in Oklahoma grabs your wrist outside a gas station.
Reacher breaks his nose before you even fully process what’s happening.
The guy hits the pavement hard, shouting curses through blood.
Reacher steps between you and the man instantly.
Murderously calm.
“Bad decision,” he says.
You touch Reacher’s arm carefully.
“It’s okay.”
“No,” he says flatly. “It isn’t.”
The terrifying thing?
He means it.
Entirely.
Later that night, you sit on the motel bed while Reacher paces near the window.
Restless.
You know him well enough now to recognize agitation.
“You gonna wear a hole in the floor?” you ask softly.
“No.”
“You seem upset.”
“I’m thinking.”
“Dangerous pastime.”
Normally that earns at least the ghost of a smirk.
Not tonight.
Reacher stops pacing.
Looks at you.
“You didn’t pull away.”
You blink. “From what?”
“That guy grabbed you. You froze.” His jaw tightens. “Then you apologized to me afterward.”
Oh.
Oh.
You stare down at your hands.
“It’s a reflex.”
Reacher’s expression darkens in a way that would terrify most people alive.
“Somebody hurt you.”
Not a question.
You swallow hard.
“Not anymore.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Then Reacher crosses the room in three strides and kneels in front of you.
Massive hands settle lightly on your knees.
“Look at me.”
You do.
And God, that’s your first mistake.
Because Jack Reacher looks at you like you matter.
Like you’re precious.
Like he’d tear apart the world with his bare hands if it kept you safe.
“You never have to apologize to me for being scared,” he says quietly.
Emotion climbs abruptly into your throat.
Dangerous. Sharp.
You try to look away.
Reacher doesn’t let you.
One large hand cups your jaw carefully.
“You hear me?”
Your eyes burn.
“Yeah.”
He studies your face for a long moment.
Then his thumb brushes under one eye.
So gentle it nearly wrecks you.
“You spiraling now?” he asks softly.
A watery laugh escapes you. “Maybe a little.”
“Okay.”
And then—like this is the most natural thing in the world—he stands, guides you backward onto the bed, and lies over you again.
Heavy. Warm. Safe.
Your face presses into the hollow of his throat this time.
Reacher’s arms tighten around you immediately.
Like instinct.
You breathe.
Slowly.
Steadily.
His hand moves up and down your spine.
And suddenly the words slip out before you can stop them.
“I think I’m in love with you.”
Everything stops.
Even your breathing.
Reacher goes completely motionless above you.
You close your eyes immediately.
Great. Fantastic. Wonderful. You’ve confessed feelings to a human weighted blanket.
Humiliation. Death. Oblivion.
“Forget I said that,” you mumble into his shirt.
Reacher does not move.
Does not speak.
Your stomach drops straight to hell.
Then—
One enormous hand cradles the back of your head carefully.
Reacher exhales slowly against your hair.
“That’s a problem,” he says quietly.
Pain slices through your chest.
You nod once. Tiny.
“Yeah. I know.”
“Not the way you think.”
You frown slightly.
Reacher shifts just enough to look down at you.
His expression is unreadable to most people.
Not to you anymore.
You see it instantly.
Fear.
Not of you.
For you.
“I leave,” he says simply.
There it is.
The truth of him.
Roads and bus stations and motel rooms and no staying anywhere long enough to become part of it.
Your chest aches.
“I know.”
Reacher studies your face like he’s searching for damage.
“And I’m in love with you too.”
Your breath catches.
Completely catches.
“What?”
His mouth twitches faintly, almost frustrated with himself.
“You heard me.”
You stare at him in stunned silence.
Jack Reacher—who speaks in short sentences and guarded looks and brutal efficiency—just handed you the softest part of himself with bare hands.
Carefully.
Like he doesn’t know how to do this without breaking something.
“You’re terrible at timing,” you whisper.
Something warm flickers in his eyes.
“Probably.”
You smile shakily.
Then his forehead lowers against yours.
And for the first time since you met him, Jack Reacher sounds uncertain.
“I don’t know how to stay,” he admits.
Your heart nearly breaks for him.
So you slide one hand up into his hair and hold him there gently.
“You could learn.”
Reacher looks at you for a very long moment.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he settles his full weight more securely around you.
Not trapping.
Not restraining.
Choosing.
Staying.
“For tonight,” he says quietly.
It isn’t forever.
Not yet.
But later—months later—it becomes apartments with badly brewed coffee and his boots by the door.
It becomes toothbrushes left beside each other and his hand automatically finding yours in crowded places.
It becomes soft mornings and hard kisses and the astonishing realization that Jack Reacher, eternal drifter, keeps coming back.
Eventually, he stops leaving altogether.
And sometimes, on the bad nights when anxiety still claws its way into your chest, he pulls you against him without a word and sprawls over you with that same careful pressure.
Your giant, terrifying, hopelessly beloved weighted blanket.
tags: brett richards, jack abbot, grant riley, andrew "pope" cody, titus danforth, charlie reid, terry mccandless, sammy bryant, reader is their significant other, pet names, fem!reader, this one is significantly more mature than my other ones so 18+ MDNI
notes: another expansion of my hatosyverse! my other works for this are in my pitt masterlist, so please check those out if you enjoyed this! if you'd like to join my permanent master list, please comment here! enjoy!
Brett Richards
The idea of roughhousing with Brett came from way too many hours scrolling through TikTok and way too many hours of staring at his biceps and wishing he'd put one of them around your neck. However, you'd also grown up with brothers, and the itch to just tackle someone was getting too much to ignore for long.
You knew Brett could take it; he had carried men twice his side before over his shoulder. He could definitely handle you pushing him around with hopes he'd give it back.
Your chance came two days later. Brett, the un-expecting victim, was lazily watching a football game on the TV while simultaneously running a hand up and down your stretched out legs. Your back pressed into the harder part of the couch arm wrest.
Brett had been so focus that the first time the tip of your foot dug into his side, he didn't even flinch, eyes unwavering from the screen. But when you did it again, and then a third time, and then a fourth, his eyes flickered over to where you were currently acting innocent, phone in front of your face.
On your fifth try, Brett's hand gripped around your ankle firmly enough to halt your action.
"You gonna quit it?" he muttered.
"Quit what?" you asked, finally looking over your device. "I'm not doing anything."
His hazel eyes narrowed, but he stayed silent before letting go of your ankle.
You waited a few moments before your toes found that plush spot at his ribs again. Brett's hand shot out again, catching your ankle more firmly. He shifted until he was more turned toward you.
"Do you want to change your answer, sweetheart?"
You shook your head, eyes alight with mischief. "Nope. Cause I'm not doing anything. You're feeling things, old man."
"Old man?" Brett echoed. "You're playing with fire, kid."
"Good thing you're a fire captain, Pee Paw."
That did it. One moment you were still against the couch, and the next Brett had yanked hard enough on your foot that your butt slid across the couch. Yet, years of training had you twisting and rolling off the couch in attempts to get away. A loud giggle left your lips when Brett's hand let go of you, giving you the perfect opportunity to scramble across the rug.
However, what you didn't expect was for Brett to follow right behind you. He leapt off the couch, arms winding around your waist, body weight coming crashing down on you enough that a rather loud oomf pushed from deep in your chest.
Brett fought the grin on his face as you struggled in his grasp. For a moment, he thought he might have gone too far, but the squirms and squeals and laughs that followed had him holding onto you tighter.
You only froze when his lips grazed across your ear.
"This Pee Paw took you down in five seconds, sweetheart." His breath was hot across the side of your face. "Thought you might have done better, but by the way you were squirming under me, I think that you wanted this."
You raised your chin, back of your head pressing into his shoulder. "This went better in my head."
He pressed a chaste kiss to your temple and hummed. "I'm sure it did. Now, are you going to behave and watch the game with me, or do I need to teach you a lesson?"
His voice had dipped into that timber that always brought a shudder to your body. You tried shifting one more time, plotting that if you got an inch you could get away, but Brett was one step ahead. He ground his hips into the back of yours, right arm slithering from your waist to rest around your neck. The breathy moan he pulled out of you had him devilishly grinning.
"Lesson it is."
Jack Abbot
You should have known better to mess with Jack on his first day off in weeks.
But you were antsy, wanting, and struck with the bug to do something.
Now, you were rarely a brat for him, always wanting to please especially since his job was already filled with people who just didn't listen. However, that didn't mean you had the urges to act out. Most of the time it was all harmless fun, harmless teasing that ended well for the both of you. Other times, when Jack was more prepared, you pushed his buttons and danced on the line.
Today though, you erred on the side of caution, already planning not to take things too far.
You were sitting up against the headboard while Jack was sprawled across his side, tummy down and face smooshed into his pillow. You already knew he was awake, his breathing had told you that much.
"What the fuck," you whispered, eyes pretending to trail the screen of your phone. "Huh?"
Jack moved his hand to rest on the top of your thigh. "What?" he sleepily murmured, the word muffled slightly.
Blatantly, you ignored him, choosing instead to mutter something else. "There's seriously no way."
From the corner of your eye, you noticed that he had finally opened his eyes. The hazel hues were still glossed over with sleep as he looked up at you. His fingers squeezed the budge of skin.
"What?" he repeated, voice a bit more awake than the first time.
You waved him off. "Nothing."
That earned you a scoff. "You're acting like it's not nothing. Lemme see."
Your following silence irked him, you could tell. Jack used one hand to push him up so that he could lie on his side and craned his neck slightly as to possibly see what was getting you so "worked up."
Yet, the moment you caught him, you pulled your phone to your chest, the screen going dark.
Jack raised an eyebrow. "What are you hiding?"
"I told you it's nothing," you snarked with a roll of your eyes.
Strike One.
He didn't believe that one bit. He pushed himself up a bit more, torso bent to the point he was already semi-hovering over your side. His free hand reached out to grab the device, but you were quicker, and the phone was jerked out of his reach.
Strike Two.
His head tilted. "Baby, I paid for that phone. Give it here."
"Nope," you responded, lightly popping the p at the end.
"I'm not playing around."
"Fuck off."
Strike Three.
In an instant, Jack was over you with his left knee pressing into the meat of your thigh while his left forearm pressed into your upper chest. You tried your best to keep the phone out of his reach, but he easily wrangled it out of your fingers with one hand.
When Jack finally opened yours phone, his face morphed from annoyance to confusion when he saw that no tabs had actually been opened. He looked past the screen and noticed the small smirk you had splashed across your face and the rapid rise and fall of your chest below his arm. You watched a lightbulb go off in his head.
You were enjoying this.
"Aw, did my baby want attention?" he mocked, lips pushing into a pout and eyes glossing with something unreadable. "Is that's why you're being a brat?"
Jack threw the phone haphazardly behind him, and you winced at the sound it made when it hit the floor. His head then dipped to the point that not even an inch separated yours and his face.
"Well, even if you didn't want it, now you have it." He licked a hot stripe up the side of your neck. "But I don't know if you'll like the outcome."
Grant Reilly
Grant and you had your places in his house. The kitchen was and always would remain his while your office-turned-home library quickly became your small paradise. However, there were times that you ventured into the kitchen for a small snack whenever you got hungry.
You couldn't help but eye the high-grade kitchen appliances as you walked toward the fridge. Each one had been perfectly curated by Grant throughout the years. You knew better than to touch any of it, but when the fridge failed to give you a snack, and the ingredients for cookies just happened to be stocked, you quickly broke rule number one.
No using the kitchen unless Grant was present.
That rule had been instated the moment you accidentally almost set fire to the whole house. But honestly, how were you supposed to know olive oil didn't have the correct "heat tolerance" while avocado oil did.
But the cookies were calling, and suddenly, you were elbow deep in flour and butter and sugar. You knew Grant would be coming home soon from the store, but cookies took time, effort, and love, and you wanted these done before he got home.
Which is why your stomach dropped down to your toes at the sound of the front door unlocking.
"Honey! I'm home!" Grant sang as he stepped through the threshold. When you failed to answer, his brows pinched tightly. "Honey!"
His footsteps echoed, each one sending a wave of worry through you. Your body froze with your hands all covered in batter when he paused right as he walked into the place between the entryway and the kitchen. You swallowed thickly when his eyes widened with shock.
"I can explain," you said.
He crossed his arms, shoulder coming to rest against the wall. "Can you?"
You bit your lip. "The fridge was empty."
"No it's not. Try again."
"There weren't any snacks."
"Nuh-uh."
You winced. "There weren't any snacks that I wanted?"
Grant sighed loudly, pushing off the wall to stalk toward you. Feeling like a prey animal, you took a small step backward. Yet, he kept going until your back pressed against the chill metal of the fridge. He was slowly getting closer, and with nowhere else to go, you darted fast to th right with a squeal.
But Grant was faster.
In one liquid motion, his arm caught your middle, pulled you to his chest with your feet kicking in the air.
"Grant!" you yelled. "Put me down!"
"Nuh-uh," he replied, already walking back over to the kitchen counter where your mess seemed to be the worst. "We have rules for a reason, honey."
You stayed airborne until he pressed you up against the counter, the marble digging into your pelvis, your feet swinging between his legs. Grant pushed his chest into your back, effectively folding you down until your cheek was resting against the cold stone. His large hand gently held you down by your hair.
"And," he continued, "you deliberately disobeyed them, yes?"
"I just wanted cookies," you whined, but a firm slap to your butt had you jolting into silence.
"I don't care if you just wanted cookies," he said right into your ear. "So, what you're going to do is start counting, and then maybe I'll let you finish making your snack."
Andrew "Pope" Cody
Your eyes raked across Andrew's large freckled arms each time they extended in order for his fist to dive deep into the punching bag.
His biceps bulged with each hit, and the grunts that followed had your thighs pressing together as you stretched out on the pool chair.
The sun was at a high UV, and summer in Oceanside was just beginning. Needing to at least get a start on your tan, you had quietly asked Andrew if you could come over to Smurf's to make good use of their pool. It had only taken a small pout and soft whine from your lips before he was agreeing, but only if he could be outside with you while you slowly cooked under the bright rays.
However, you thought that Andrew would take the hint that you wanted him next to you, also suntanning. But a few moment after getting you settled, he waltzed right over to the punching bag and started the rhythmic workout, leaving you alone and now pent up from all his noises.
You needed him over by you.
A thought quickly took over before you could think of anything else. Your feet swung over the side of the chair while your hands pushed you up into a vertical position. Your movement made the chair squeak, and Andrew's attention quickly shifted from the bag and over to your direction. .
"Where you going?" he gruffed when you stood.
Your brows picked. "I'm getting in the pool?" you said like he should have known. "I'm hot."
He almost glared at you. "Put on more sunscreen and wait before you do."
"No. I want to get in the pool now."
Andrew turned fully towards you. "You've been sitting there for almost an hour and a half. You need more sunscreen or you're going to burn. Put it on."
"I'll be fine," you reassured. "It's going to turn into a nice tan."
That didn't settle him one bit. He all but ripped the gloves off. "The risk of skin cancer rises if you don't use proper sun protection. So, put the fucking sunscreen on or—"
"Or what, Andy?" you shot back, crossing your arms. "You going to make me?"
His left eye twitched at your attitude.
Fine.
He could play this game.
Instead of answering, he started to stalk towards you with heat in his eyes. You didn't shy under his advantage, knowing that whatever he was going to do wouldn't end with you hurting. But what you didn't expect was for him to walk right past you, wrap his arms around your middle, lift you up, and place you back belly down on the chair.
"What are you doing?" you questioned, arms pushing you back up, only for Andrew to push you right back down.
Without care for the weight limit of the chair, he swung a leg over your hips and quite literally sat on your backside, meaty thighs caging you in.
You stayed put, and Andrew quickly popped the cap of your sunscreen. The scent of coconut filled his nose as he lathered the cream between his palms. Once they were white-coated, he leaned over and massaged it into your shoulders.
The need for him was gone in an instant while his fingers pressed into your soft skin. He was going to get you sunscreened up if it was the last thing he did. Yet, he didn't expect the moan that pushed through your lips once his reached your lower back. He cocked his head at the noise.
"You like this, hm?" he asked softly while his palms grabbed at your ass. "Getting all hot and bothered? It's just sunscreen."
You squeaked when he squeezed hard, and it was absolute music to his ears.
Once your back was completely done, Andrew stood just enough to flip you over before he was settling back down. He knew his swim shorts did little to hide what your noises had done to him, but getting you covered and safe was more important.
He squirted more sunscreen on his hands and went back to work. Yet, you seemed to grow louder under his mitigations, especially when his hands lingered on the sides of your breasts next to the small bikini that did little for his imagination.
"Andy," you whimpered with an upward thrust of your hips. "Want you."
Andrew leaned forward, chest pressing against yours, and smirked. He scanned your face, as though committing your pitiful and wanting expression to memory, before straightening and standing. He stepped over the chair and started to walk back to the punching bag.
"Thirty minutes!"
Titus Danforth
The words on the page blurred the longer you stared at them.
Fifteen minutes ago, you'd been blissfully reading in a small corner of Titus's study, legs bent underneath you while you sat in a sage green glider. The chair had been a present, something Titus bought to give you a place in his life. You'd sat through numerous calls and even a few meetings while patiently waiting for him to finish up.
Today, you had thought he'd be out longer; you'd seen a special block for a game of golf for the afternoon. But just as you'd turned to page 179, the doors opened to reveal a rather agitated-looking Titus with his phone pressed against his ear and face nearly red with frustration.
"No, I'm not talking about the Latvian exchange, I'm talking about the Columbian one, you insolent fool," he raged into the device.
Normally, you could have blocked him out and kept reading. Yet, every time you tried to go back to the characters, Titus's voice would cut through like a hunting knife.
"You should have known the fucking difference."
"This is why we didn't choose to go with the first contract, because obviously you can't do anything fucking right you piece of shit."
"I'm not asking you; I'm telling you that I needed the papers on my desk by tomorrow."
Normally, Titus would have thrown you an apologetic glance for the shouting, but as he continued on, he didn't even give you once look.
And somehow this irked you greatly to the point that you slammed your book closed and haphazardly threw it onto the side table with a thunk.
The noise finally caught Titus's attention, and his hazel eyes ripped from his desk and over to your corner. You sat back, arms crossing, waiting for him to mouth a sorry or roll his eyes at the voice on the phone. But all he did was look back down without a second glance.
That had you rising from the glider, and your heals clicked with every step you took over to his desk. Your hands splayed across the dark wood, nails scratching lighting against the grain. When he didn't even look at you, you continued on and around the desk.
"Absolutely not!" Titus shouted. "I'm a Danforth for fuck's sake and—" he paused at the feeling of your hands on his shoulders.
Yet, instead of being grateful for an opportunity to just hang up, he shrugged his shoulders up harshly in an attempt to get you to remove your hands.
A simmer of your own irritation bubbled beneath your skin. You were his wife, damn it, and you would not have your husband brushing off your advances. So, you did what any sane woman would do next: you put your hands back on his shoulders and slowly ran them down his chest.
This time, Titus actually stuttered out his next sentence. "N-no, that-that's not what I w-want."
He reached out and gripped one of your wrists; a silent quit it hanging between you. But you kept on going, palms running the length of his torso, and chest lowering the farther your hands went down to the point your chest dangled above his shoulders.
He glared up at you, phone still next to his ear. "Do you even know who you're talking to? Our name is on the fucking building—oh." He quickly covered the deep moan with a cough when you squeezed between his legs.
Your breath was hot against the unoccupied side of his face. You only stopped when his hand grabbed both your wrists and held them a few inches away from his body.
"We'll have to continue discussing this later," he finally said. "I have something to deal with."
Titus hung up the phone without an answer from the line and placed it screen down on the desk. His chest was now heaving with left over anger and something hotter.
"You have ten seconds before I catch you, little dove."
When your hands were free, you took off running. But even you should have known that Titus Danforth would never play by the rules. Not even five seconds later, he was bursting from his chair and taking heavy thuds after you. He gained on what little ground you'd been able to find in a matter of moments.
Titus said nothing when he caught you, not even taking the time to carry you to his bedroom. He swiftly pinned you to one of the walls, both your hands trapped in only one of his.
"You know I don't like it when you interrupt me, little dove," he panted into your ear. "You should have just stayed put in your chair, because now, I need something to take my frustration out on, and you've just volunteered yourself."
Charlie Reid
"Deputy Chief?" you asked with a small knock on Charlie's open office door. "Can I ask you a quick question?"
Charlie's hazel eyes behind the black frames lifted from the report in his hand to you almost bashfully standing in the doorway. He waved one hand in a come-forward motion. "Sure. Just close the door behind you, sweetheart."
You swiftly walked through the threshold, the door clicking shut behind you.
The bullpen behind the door had been long emptied with each detective and officer leaving after a long day. However, you'd accidentally had fallen behind with a report and found yourself staying after hours to get it done. Yet, right as you were about to complete it, something wrong had jumped out at you, hence the reason you were now sitting across from your deputy chief.
Charlie could tell that you were already nervous in his presence, and it almost made him smile at how mousy you looked with your bottom lip caught between your teeth and your fingers fidgeting with the edge of the paper you held and the light blush dancing across your face, probably a result from the pet name he let slip.
Your eyes were wide as you stared at him, brain running a million miles an hour, trying to come up with a respectful way to ask your question. You guessed Charlie must have picked up on your hesitation, because in the next moment, he took off his glasses and placed his own report down.
"What can I do for you, sweetheart?"
"Um," you began. "I know it's late, b-but I was trying to finish this report, and something isn't adding up?"
The way you ending on an uplift like a question had something wicked stirring in Charlie's gut.
"Oh? Want me to take a look?" he offered, hand already outstretched.
You nodded and gave him the paper while you talked about what exactly was wrong. "Well, you see, the report states that the victim in this shooting was killed as a result of a .40 S&W."
Charlie nodded along. "I see that. What's the issue here then?"
You sucked in a deep breath. "Sir. I was one of the first ones on sight, and the injury looked more like a 9mm; probably a semi-automatic, exactly what our department uses."
Again, that awful, tight feeling clenched in Charlie's gut. Not because you were wrong; quite the opposite. He had personally paid one of his men to take out the victim you were discussing. Charlie personally ripped him a new one and taken him out of the equation when he realized he'd used his personal state-issued weapon.
Charlie thought he'd covered everything. Yet, here you were with a report that could damn his entire operation. He had to do something.
He placed the report down. "Great catch, sweetheart," he muttered, eyes boring into yours.
"Really?" you squeaked out.
Charlie smirked. "Really. This could have been missed; and that would have been detrimental to our crew here."
He pushed back from his desk, leather chair shifting as he stood up. His leather shoes clicked against the tile until he stopped right in front of your chair, body casting a towering shadow across your face. His hands rose slightly to grip onto the armrests, and his face lowered until it was just a few inches away from your face.
Charlie reveled in the slight hitch of your breath at the sudden closeness.
"Here's what we're going to do, sweetheart," he started, tongue running across his lips. "I'm going to finish up your report for you. You're going to go home, relax, sleep the night away, and when you come back tomorrow, you're not going to speak to anyone about this little error. This stays between me and you." He sent you a small wink. "It'll be our little secret, yeah?"
His words should have set off alarms in your mind, but the sheer closeness had you spinning to the point that all you could manage was a nod. Charlie clicked his tongue, and his right hand trailed up until it rested right against your neck.
"I need your words, sweetheart," he whispered. "Tell your chief exactly how you're going to be a good girl who knows how to follow my commands."
Terry McCandless
Blinding blue and red lights that danced with the distinct wail of a police car had you huffing and putting on your hazards.
The car behind you had nothing familiar to the cop cars that flew down the highways, so it must have either belonged to an undercover or a detective. You truly hoped for the latter since you knew most of them through your boyfriend.
Once your car was safely off the empty road, you placed your hands on the steering wheel. A wave of guilt rushed over you, but it also tangled with one of annoyance; you were barely going over the speed limit, and yet this one guy decided to pull you over.
Your finger tapped rhythmically against the wheel while you waited, mentally going over where exactly your license and registration was in your purse. You were so focused on not messing that part up that the two knocks against your window had you jumping with a small squeal. Your window quickly rolled down, and the face grinning back at you had you sighing in relief.
"Terry, thank God it's you," you puffed. "But why the hell are you pulling me over?"
Terry just kept grinning. "License and registration, ma'am," he sang with that southern salt.
Your brows pinched. "You're seriously doing this? You're not even a patrol officer."
"Ma'am if you're not going to comply, I'm going to need you to step out of the vehicle," he replied with a shrug, his hand resting against the place his gun sat.
"You've got to be kidding me," you shot back.
"Fraid not, ma'am." He reached through your window and unlocked your car before yanking the driver's door open. "I'm going to need you to get out."
You crossed your arms, refusing to move. "Fuck you, Terry."
Terry watched for a moment with a cocked eyebrow before he sighed. "If this is how you want to be."
He leaned in over you and unbuckled your seatbelt. His hand tightly gripped your upper arm and yanked hard, your body slipping from the seat in no time. The South Carolina sun beat down on the two of you as Terry maneuvered you until he had you pressed against the hood of your car.
"This would have been much easier if you complied, ma'am'," he muttered.
"What's next? You gonna read me my rights?" you spat with a hollow chuckle.
Your eyes widened when the cold feeling of metal tightened around your wrists and the sound of cuffs sliding into its teeth filled the air.
"Terry!" you sputtered. "What are you doing?"
He hushed you gently. "All you had to do was listen. Now, spread your legs."
In another act of defiance, you failed to follow his words. He sighed even loudly and kicked at your feet until they were spread to his likeness. You tried to lift off the car, but his large hand just pushed you right back down.
Following order, Terry started patting at your shoulders, hands trailing down in smaller pats at your sides. "Am I going to find any weapons on you?"
You rolled your eyes. "You're the one with the weapon, or are you just that excited to see me?"
"Quiet!" he ordered. "I've had enough of you mouthing off." His left hand went back up and swiftly covered the entirety of your mouth while his right hand dipped below the waistband of your pants. "Seems like I'm not the only one excited to see me, ma'am. Now hold still; I'm trying to find your license and registration."
Sammy Bryant
"Do suspects normally get caught? Or do they sometimes manage to outrun you?" you asked between bites of dinner.
The thought had been boiling in your curiosity since you happened to see Sammy running down the street, chasing who you could only guess to be a local gang member once you spotted the multiple tattoos. Sammy had actually managed to tackle the guy down to the concrete before swiftly cuffing him. However, from the multiple stories he's told you, sometimes the suspects trip or get caught by a partner in a car; none of them ended with the suspect getting away though. You wondered if it never happened or if Sammy was too embarrassed to admit it.
But now that it had been almost a week since that takedown, you couldn't keep the question in any longer. So, you decided to spring it on him during spaghetti night.
Sammy paused with a full fork hovering right in front of his mouth. "What brought this on, baby?"
"I saw you tackle that guy in front of Walgreens last week. Made me wonder."
He put the bite into his mouth. "I mean . . . sure, some of them do. Ben's had lots."
"Have you ever lost someone?" you quizzed with a smile.
Sammy shook his head. "No. Cause that's embarrassing."
You hummed, and the table went back to being quiet. Sammy's fork scraped across his plate for the last bite, his hazel eyes looking across at you.
"I know that face," he muttered.
"I don't have a face," you argued. "There's no face."
Sammy smirked. "You totally have a face. Common. Just tell me what you're thinking."
You cocked your head. "I think I could do it."
"Do what?"
"Outrun you."
That earned a disbelieving laugh. "Sure, baby."
Your fork clinked against your plate as you set it down. "Listen; with all your gear holding you back, I feel like I have a good shot. You know I did track in high school."
"Still doesn't mean you can outrun me, baby." He paused before adding, "But you could always try."
So, that's how you found yourself outside with Sammy, in all his police gear glory, standing behind you waiting for you to dash down the street.
"Do I get a head start?" you asked while stretching.
"Sure, baby. Three seconds."
You didn't even wait for him to count down for you to go before you were dashing, feet eating the concrete. Mentally, you counted down to three, but the sound of Sammy's gear clinking behind you had you pushing to go faster.
Your legs pumped and burned the longer you managed to keep pace, but as the end of the street came into view, you could tell that Sammy was gaining. However, not wanting the fun to end, you quickly changed direction right as he was about to reach you, and you took off back toward the house.
"Fuck!" you heard Sammy curse, to which you responded with a loud laugh.
The house quickly came back into view, and you slowed, thinking that Sammy was further back. But the moment your feet his the start of the walkway up towards the door, you were lifted off the ground with a firm chest against your back.
"Caught ya!" Sammy grunted.
Your chest heaved under his arms as he carried you up the porch, foot kicking the door in.
"Almost had you," you panted.
"Keep telling yourself that," he responded, still not letting you down.
The cool of your bedroom blasted against your face, and the next thing you knew you were thrown down onto the bed with Sammy climbing over you. His thick hands gripped your wrists and pulled them behind your back, pinning you in place against the comforter you picked out months ago.
"Sammy," you whined over the click of his cuffs. "Lemme go."
"Nuh-uh," he tutted. "I caught you. Think it's only fair I get to have a reward for it."
Hi! I love your writing and would like to make a request if that’s okay? Fem!Reader who sees the best in everyone- gets back in touch with her narcissistic dad after not talking to him for a while. BF!Jack has to help her pick up the pieces (and possibly stand up for her) when she gets let down once again.
Thank you! 😊
💞Tags/Warnings💞: hurt/comfort, slight age gap relationship, mentions of absent father ( “Deadbeat Dad” if you will.. ), Husband!Jack Abbot, some much needed fluff after tears
💞Plot💞: Y/N will always see the good in people. Jack Abbot will always try and protect her..
💞Characters💞: Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader
💞Title💞: My Girl..
💞A/N💞: Not this being posted on Father’s Day weekend…🫢🙃 be safe out there lol. Love you all and I hope you like it!
((Requests are ALWAYS open))
Masterlist
“Jack. Jack…”
The man grumbles quietly in his sleep, never a morning person to begin with.
But that damn voice was one of a siren, luring him into the world of the living.
One eye slowly opens just as lips meet his jawline. It makes him hum, a bit more tempted to wake up now..
“Baby. I need you.” Y/N whispers, making him breathe in her scent more.
“Mm… Go ahead, baby. I’ll just lay here. You have my permission..” Jack mutters shamelessly. Y/N squeals at that, swatting his chest lightly. That jolts him awake.
“Ew! Not like that..” She fusses, making him smirk as he takes her in now. He pauses as he sees her outfit.
“What does this say about me? Does it say.. ‘successful doctor who’s got her life together’?” Y/N asks now as she steps back to give her boyfriend of almost four years a complete 360 of her outfit.
“Anything you wear says ‘successful doctor’, baby..” Jack assures gently as he leans on his elbow.
“Yeah, but… This outfit in particular..” Y/N says nervously as she motions towards it.
“Really nice.” He nods, still fighting off the sleep but trying to assure her. Y/N could spiral so quickly if not careful. His wife was a ball of nerves and panic. Running off of worst case scenarios and coffee.
And he loved her all the more for it…
“Yeah?” She whispers as she fidgets a bit with the hem of her blouse. Jack nods.
“Why are you dressed so nice?” He asks finally, deciding sleep could wait. He sits up more in the bed, watching as Y/N moves to their vanity to check her makeup.
“Well…” She begins nervously before turning to face Jack, a bright smile on her face. “My dad reached out..” She says. Jack’s soft grin instantly falls.
“What?” Y/N asks gently at the look on his face. “Oh, come on, Jack..” She sighs as she realizes what soured his mood..
“Y/N, that man..” Jack begins.
“Is my father.” Y/N finishes for him. “And he reached out last night to congratulate me finishing my residency..” She says bashfully. “He wants to take me out to breakfast, and I agreed..” She continues with a tone that showed she wanted to be mature about this. She wanted to be the bigger person.
It hurt Jack’s heart because Y/N was always being the bigger person. Always allowing people in and out of her life with a smile on her face. She had a bleeding heart, and Jack was always the one to clean up said blood when she was let down. He didn’t forget the last time he’d seen what mess her dad had left.
It was her first week at the Pitt when he’d walked into the break room and found Y/N sitting upset at the table, poking at a cold meatloaf from the cafeteria. Her dad had promised to take her out for dinner to celebrate her first week of work but the night of, claimed he had no money to do so and so he wouldn’t be going to see her. Even after Y/N claimed she could pay for it all, he still hesitated.
That night was terrible, yet.. It would count as more ‘bittersweet’. Because that was the night Jack took Y/N to his favorite pizza shop around the corner so he could celebrate with her.
And that’s the night the little crush between them began.
That night was four years ago.
Four years of building a life together and even getting hitched. It was a beautiful lakehouse wedding that was small enough to be intimate yet big enough to show they were loved by a bunch of friends and family alike. All but Y/N’s dad were in attendance.
They had not spoken to each other in all of that time, and suddenly he was back in her life to celebrate her becoming an attending at the ER? Jack called bullshit.
“Y/N..” Jack says softly with a sigh.
She turns to face him and he pauses to look at her. Really look at her. So much wants to leave his mouth. Warnings, logic, theories as to why her dad is popping up now. But his shoulders slump a bit when he sees her eyes.
Bright and big and happy.
He loved how she saw the world. Loved how she managed to keep herself open even with all she’s been through.
It’s what made her a damn good doctor and it’s what made him fall for her in the first place.
“Have fun.” He decides on finally.
He’ll be there.
The second she needs him, he’ll make sure he’s present. She smiles and moves closer to the bed to softly kiss his cheek.
“Go back to bed…” She smiles warmly. “I’ll see you at work later!” She adds as she grabs her jacket and rushes out of the bedroom. Jack sighs deeply, but stays awake.
Just in case she calls, needing him…
*
*
*
Jack had spent these four years trying to unteach the lessons Y/N had taught herself her entire life.
Like… If he said he was gonna do something, he’d do it. And if he forgot, she didn’t have to be scared to remind him. His word meant something. That took a good year and a half for her to fully learn.
Another thing was compliments. She didn’t owe him anything back for a compliment. He loved being able to make her blush with just a little phrase or two.
Flirting was an art to Jack.
And he did it well.
It was tricky with Y/N though because she never knew how to fully take it. She’d thank him, or try to deny it. Sometimes she’d try to turn it sexual just to feel like she’s repaying him. That took an entire two and a half years for her to stop doing.
A third thing was him assuring her that he’d always be proud of her. Jack knew what that sounded like. The age gap in their relationship, her family issues, the fact that she’d melt at any praise from him. It was the cliché ‘Daddy Issues’ trope, but they were so much more than that.
Jack likes to believe that even with a different upbringing, he and Y/N would always be a thing. One of life’s many common pairings, up there with peanut butter and jelly or bees and honey.
With a heavy sigh, Jack walks over to the nurse’s station. He was running on three hours of sleep. He’d stayed up on the off chance Y/N would need him during breakfast with her dad, but it was now 5pm, and he made up his mind that he’d just head into work now. Find an empty room and steal some hours of shut eye..
Maybe he could find Y/N too and ask how breakfast had went. Robby looks up from his iPad, raising an eyebrow from beyond his tilted down reading glasses. “You look questionable at best..” He notes.
“Be nice.” Jack snorts.
“That was me being nice.” Robby jokes back as he sets down his iPad before moving closer to pat Jack’s back. “What’s up?” He asks.
“Eh.. Long morning. Y/N’s dad reached out today. Just.. I’m on guard.” He shakes his head a bit.
“He’s that bad?” Robby asks curiously as Jack only shakes his head, not wanting to get into it..
“How’s the planning?” He asks to change the subject.
“Going good. Food’s gonna start being delivered at around 9pm. Gives us time to set everything up in the break room..” Robby nods as Jack sighs happily. At least the surprise party he was throwing for Y/N was still on track.
The two men begin walking down the hallway together as Jack goes through the list one more time. Drinks, food, a cake. “The banner!” Jack says as if just remembering.
“Dana’s picking it up with the cake. You’re worrying too much, man. It’s gonna go great..” Robby assures as they walk past a room. Jack hears Y/N’s giggle.
He stops instantly, looking into the room to see Y/N doing work on the computer while her dad sits happily in the bed.
“Y/N..” Jack says as she looks over. She smiles brightly at him.
“Jack. You’re here early.” She notes with a soft tease in her eyes. He moves closer to give her a side hug. PDA was kept to a minimum at work. At the request of Gloria. But the two would sneak little touches where they could.
“Dr. Y/N.” Robby greets, smiling as he uses her official title. “Congratulations..” He says softly. She blushes shyly at the title change.
“Thank you, Dr. Robby.” She says gently with a polite nod.
“What happened here?” Jack asks, eyeing Y/N’s father.
Terrance. ‘Terry’ for short.
The man gives Jack a curt smile. Jack doesn’t even attempt to return it..
“My dad told me at breakfast that he’s been feeling off lately. I made him come in here so I can take care of him..” Y/N smiles at her dad. Jack clenches his jaw a bit.
There it was.
The reason for his call.
A quick, cut in line, check up by his newly appointed doctor daughter.
“She insisted. I think I’m in good hands, right?” Terry tries joking.
“The very best..” Robby nods certainly.
“Y/N? Can I talk to you?” Jack asks softly, nodding for her to follow him out of the room.
Y/N pauses in confusion before smiling softly at her dad, mouthing a soft ‘one second’ while lifting her index finger up before following Jack outside.
“What exactly is he here for?” Jack asks finally once they’re far away from the room.
“Just a full check up. He hasn’t had one in a while because of his job. It’s.. All over the place.” Y/N waves a hand as if not wanting to get into that.
“So is he going to work out a payment plan? Has he met with Hastings?” Jack asks, arms crossing as he eyes a now sheepish looking Y/N.
“He’s gonna pay for this, right?” He asks slowly.
“Jack, he’s my dad. And he’s going through a lot right now. I told him I’ll cover it.” Y/N says finally. “It’s the least I can do. You know, he said it hurt him that I didn’t call. I.. That was such a bad thing to do as a daughter. His only daughter, mind you.” She says softly.
Jack shuts his eyes to keep his anger in. He wasn’t mad at Y/N. Of course not. He was mad that she had once again turned setting a boundary into a bad thing. “What about him?” Jack asks simply. Y/N pauses in confusion.
“What about him?” She asks back.
“He didn’t call either.” Jack points out.
“Jack..” Y/N tries.
“We invited him to the wedding, heard nothing back.” Jack continues unapologetically.
“He said he didn’t know if I really wanted to see him.” She mutters, but he knows that tone. She doesn’t wanna think about that part of it. “And.. The phone works both ways..” She adds quickly.
Those words aren’t hers. He can tell.
“Plus..” She continues after a moment. “He explained it all during breakfast. He said that he was waiting for me to cool off and reach out to him..” She shrugs.
“Why is that your job?” Jack asks.
“I’m an adult now, Jack. Just like him.” She defends.
“You’re still his child. You’re never supposed to be more adult than him.” Jack says firmly, letting some of his anger slip now.
Y/N frowns deeply at that, slowly crossing her arms as she fidgets with her footing now. Jack sighs as he realizes his statement. But he stands by it. So the automatic urge to apologize is pushed down.
“After all his tests are done, he’s taking me out for dinner. And I’d love for you to join us..” Is all she whispers before walking away again, leaving Jack pissed and regretful..
*
*
*
Jack makes it clear to everyone in the ED that if Terry makes any move, he should be first to know about it.
He stays alert, running only on coffee and the intense duty to protect Y/N at all cost. Hours pass of no reports back and from his quick glances at Y/N as she maneuvers through the halls, he assume Terry is on his best behavior.
Then it happens.
It’s been a busy day, so tests and labs were running behind, but it’s reaching the 9pm mark when Y/N officially discharges Terry with nothing of concern to report. She promises to be fast grabbing her things and then they could go out to eat.
It’s Dana who notices how Terry goes to grab his jacket the minute Y/N leaves.
It’s Robby who stands in the doorway so he can’t go.
And it’s Jack who steps inside the room when he finishes with a prior patient.
“Doing better?” Jack asks, voice tense. Terry pauses at the sudden break in his silence. He hadn’t noticed Robby and Dana camping outside the door because he’d been busy on his phone, texting someone.
He looks up fast and realizes it’s Jack standing there. He chuckles a bit and pockets his phone. “Oh! Jake!” He greets softly with a polite nod.
“Jack.” Jack corrects, arms crossing.
“Right.” Terry mutters. “All the results are perfect, so.. Imma head out now.” He says simply.
“What about dinner?” Jack asks, raising an eyebrow.
“What?” Terry asks as if trying to play dumb. Jack stares him down. “Oh. Oh, right. Dinner.” He says, realizing Jack won’t be backtracking.
“Yeah, I uh.. Work. Came up. I can’t do it tonight.” Terry says. “Y/N understands.” He nods.
“So you told her?” Jack asks.
“Eh.. No, but she gets it. I’m a busy man. I’m sure you know a thing or two about that. Y/N says you roll with SWAT.” Terry chuckles, trying to come off friendly.
“Why don’t you stay and tell her.” Is all Jack says. It’s phrased like a suggest.
It’s not.
“Oh. No. No, Y/N’s a good girl, but she can get… Real sensitive. I’m sure you know. Always putting on a big show..” He tries to laugh it off, but it’s clear on Jack’s face that he’s not entertaining in the slightest.
Terry clears his throat a bit. “Yeah..” He sighs. “She’s uh.. She’s always been like that. It’s best to just.. Go quietly.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal.
Jack nods slowly. “Okay.” He says. Terry smiles warmly at him and grabs his jacket. Jack steps in his way before he can make it to the door though.
“But you aren’t coming back.” Jack says, voice quiet and tense. Terry pauses at the statement.
“Excuse me?” He asks.
“You leave her life tonight.. You stay out of it. Forever.” Jack repeats.
Terry stares at him as if stunned. “That is my daughter. I’ll come in and out as I damn well please. I clothed her, fed her, put a roof over her head. I was a damn good father.” He defends.
“You’re a shit excuse for a father.” Jack says with no hesitation. “And a worse one for a man.” He snarls a bit.
Terry blinks in shock at that, opening his mouth to argue back, but Jack continues. “Clothes, food, and shelter? You did the basic shit, and what? You think she owes you an open door for life? You ruin her every time you choose to come around again. And that ends today. You leave, you fucking stay out. This isn’t about your daughter anymore. This is about my fucking wife, and if I see you around her again, I’ll break your jaw and happily fix it just to break it again. Do you understand?” He asks darkly, staring the man down.
Terry shakes his head that. “She sure knows how to pick em..” He mutters as he goes to walk past Jack.
“Fucking lying bitch..” Jack hears the man mutter under his breath and that breaks him.
“Terry?” Jack calls, turning. Terry turns to face him only to be met with a right hook.
The force knocks the man to the floor and Dana and Robby quickly rush in to the room at the thud. “Call the cops! Call security!” Terry shouts to Dana and Robby as he holds his jaw while laying on the ground.
Jack flexes his hand. His knuckles were definitely gonna show that hit soon..
“Why?” Dana asks.
“Why?! He hit me!” Terry says as he gets himself up.
“He did?” Dans asks.
“Or did you attack him?” Robby continues, making it very clear how this could go down.
“I don’t think you wanna be sedated, Mr. Y/L/N…” Dana says softly. Terry stares in shock at all three of them before shaking his head in disbelief and storming out of the room.
With him gone, Dana goes back to setting up the break room and Robby asks if he’ll he needed. When Jack assures him that he’s got it from here, he leaves too.
Jack rolls his shoulders, preparing himself…
“Okay, so I have a huge craving for…” Y/N pauses as she walks into the hospital room, smile slowly fading as she sees the empty hospital bed and Jack standing there..
“Where… Where’d my dad go?” She asks softly as Jack shifts a bit on his feet, hands slowly and nonchalantly sliding into his front pockets to hide his hand which he knew was starting to bruise now..
“He uh..” Jack rocks back and forth on his feet. “Business call.” He finally lands on softly. “He had to go. I’m sorry, honey..”
Y/N watches his face closely, slowly moving to wrap her arms around herself as she lets his words sink in. She nods slowly, as if understanding what’s not spoken. “Why do you all make that face?” She finally whispers after a good moment or so of just.. Standing in the tense silence.
“What face-“ Y/N cuts Jack off.
“My mom used to make that face.” She says softly as she ignores the feeling of her stomach dropping. “Like.. When I was 6 and waiting for him to pick me up for the father/daughter dance. Or.. After my high school graduation. Hell, even during my sweet 16..” She tries to chuckle but her eyes are already welling up.
Jack frowns deeply.
“You all make that.. Grimace. Like.. I’m a kid finding out Santa’s not real by accident.” She teases quietly as the tears finally spill over.
Jack approaches instantly.
“I’m a big girl..” She mutters through the tears. Jack only nods along as he finally wraps his arms around her. “I can handle it..” She mutters, still trying to maintain a casual attitude even as she lets the tears fully overtake her, allowing Jack to yank her close so she can cry into his shoulder..
He silently kisses the top of her head, holding her while she lets it out..
*
*
*
“Jack.. Where are you taking me?”
He moves her through the streets of Pittsburgh, smirking as he holds her by the waist, wanting to move fast while she still has on the blindfold.
“You’ll see..” He assures gently.
“Baby, if this is the party, I.. I’m not in a party mood.” She tries.
“It’s not..” He chuckles before pausing. “How did you even know about that?” He asks.
“You’re really not good at keeping things a secret..” She chuckles a bit despite her sensitive state.
Jack playfully rolls his eyes at that and ushers Y/N into the establishment. She pauses at the scent that hits her nose. She opens her mouth but he’s already taking off her blindfold. She pauses as she sees their standing in the pizza shop. Their usual booth is set up as a candle light dinner with rose petals along the table top.
“Wha-“ Jack cuts her off.
“Still not good at keeping secrets?” He jokes gently as she turns to face him.
“I thought it was a party in the break room?” She whispers.
“It was. Still is. But… You deserve something a bit more quiet tonight.” He states gently as she sheepishly eyes him. He was right. She’d cried herself into this state of exhaustion. One that he practically held her up throughout, whispering that he had her. That he loved her. When she was back to normal breathing, he’d encouraged her to put on a blindfold and let him lead the way.
But he hadn’t taken her to the break room. Their coworkers could enjoy the cake and food. No, he wanted to take Y/N to the place where they had their first date. Their first kiss, the place he’d proposed to her at.
“Texted Franky. He agreed to get it done in five minutes, tops..” Jack begins as the owner smiles from behind the counter.
“Congrats, Y/N!” He calls over. Y/N chuckles bashfully, mumbling a shy thank you back. The two sit down in the booth together.
“Thank you…” Y/N whispers tenderly.
“Y/N..-“ She shakes her head.
“You’re always in my corner. You make it… Look so easy..” She mutters. Being loved by Jack felt so good. But it also hurt. Because he made it look effortless. Like it wasn’t hard to adore her. Why did her father find it so tricky?
“Because it is. Loving you.. Y/N, it’s the best part of my life..” He states simply.
“Why can’t my dad…” Her voice breaks a bit as she pouts slightly, looking down at the table.
“That’s not you.” Jack says simply. “Baby. Look at me.” He states. She slowly does, eyes watery again as he watches her with warm and tender eyes.
“That’s not.. You.” He states slower. “Something is obviously wrong with him.” He declares.
“Jack..” Y/N tries, thinking he’s just saying that.
“No. Because.. Anyone who can go.. Even a day without talking to you? And feel fine? That.. That’s not a sane person.” Jack states simply.
Y/N sheepishly wipes her tears away as she chuckles despite herself.
“I go an hour and I.. I think I’m going crazy..” He adds simply as she grabs his face with both hands.
contains: descriptions of birth, fluff, tiny touch of angst, lil bit of smut, daddy / husband andrew :,)
word count: 6.1k
author's note: feeling inspired by fathers day to return to our fav guy, andrew cody, and check in on his little family with you.
Andrew is elbow deep in the engine of a Chevy when Matt, one of the other guys from the shop, taps the hood of the car to get his attention.
“Hey man,” he says, “you left your phone in the office, shit won’t stop ringing,”
Andrew jolts upright, hitting his head on the hood of the car, feeling slightly panicked.
“Shit,” he mutters, grabbing the phone out of Matt’s hand, seeing ten missed calls from you and about thirty texts. Shit.
“I gotta go,” Andrew turns out of the garage and runs to his truck, calling you back immediately.
“Andrew,” you groan after picking up on the first ring, “where the fuck are you? Why didn’t you answer?”
“Where are you?” he skids onto the road, “are you at the hospital?”
“Yes, no, I’m almost there,” you stifle a cry as another contraction washes over you.
“You’re driving?!” Andrew exclaims into the phone.
“Do not yell at me right now!” You huff, “You didn’t pick up!”
“I’m- no- I’m not yelling my love,” Andrew runs his hand over his face, “where’s Gwen? Is she with you?”
“Fuck no,” you say, “she’s at the neighbors, she’s with Virginia and Ernest,”
“Good ok, good,” Andrew says, trying to stay calm. “How close are you?”
“I’m pulling into the hospital now,” your breath sounding labored, “fuck, I need you to be here,” you whine.
“I’m almost there,” Andrew says, pushing the gas a little harder, “ten minutes,”
“Ok,” you groan, “I’m gonna go find a doctor or fucking someone to give me a fucking epidural,”
“I’ll be right there, ok? I love you, I love you so much,” Andrew chews on the inside of his cheek.
“Ok, I love you,” you sigh, trying to regulate your breathing, "get here!"
Fuck. He can’t believe he left his phone in the office this close to your due date. He can’t believe you had to drive yourself to the hospital. He’s trying to stay calm but he’s feeling a slow boiling rage building inside. He’s so angry with himself that this is how it’s starting. The two of you had been so overly anxious with Gwen and you had repeated over and over how you didn’t want to stress so much this time around, but now he wishes he had. He wishes he kept the same eagle-eyed watch on you so that this dumb mistake would have never happened. He skids into the parking lot, running through the emergency department, not sure if you're there or in obstetrics, pushing past the line of people up to the front desk.
“My wife,” he huffs, giving the startled nurse your name, “she’s in labor,”
“Oh, yes,” the nurse says, typing your name into the computer, “she just came in, she’s on the third floor with OB, you can take-”
Andrew peels away from the counter knowing exactly where to go. He had been at every appointment with you, every blood test, every ultrasound, he can remember sitting in the small room where you got the first sonogram for your second pregnancy, clutching onto each other's hands in anticipation.
You had felt a little different than your last pregnancy and were therefore certain it was a boy. Andrew agreed with your prediction because he essentially agreed with everything you said, it had never steered him wrong... but he couldn’t help but wish for another girl.
“Alright,” the ultrasound technician said, turning the screen to you, “there is your baby, we got our little hands, little feet, heart beat sounds great… Do you want to know the gender?”
“Yes,” you squeezed Andrew’s hand, both of your eyes locked on the screen.
“It’s a girl,” she smiled at you. Your head whipped to Andrew and he’d bent forward, took your face in his hands, and placed a sweet kiss on your lips.
“A girl,” you whispered to him, as tears form in both your eyes and his, “another girl,”
“I love you,” he said, kissing your cheeks, “I love her,”
The tech started moving the wand across your belly again, which made Andrew sit straight up.
“Is something wrong?” He asked, hand clamped down on yours.
“No,” the tech said, but she was squinting at the screen, “I hope you like surprises,”
“What?” you leaned forward slightly, trying to see what she saw.
“Here are… the other ones little hands, and feet,” she pointed on the screen.
“Twins?” you gasped, turning, looking at Andrew. His mouth hung open. He was entirely shocked. Your heart started to ache. He was a twin, emphasis on ‘was’…
“Andrew,” you said softly, reaching up to him, cupping his cheek in your hand. “Are you ok?”
Slowly he turned to you. He was fully crying.
“Twins,” he whispered, bringing your hand to his, kissing each knuckle.
“Is it- what is it?” you turned back to the tech.
“Another girl,” she smiled.
“Oh my god,” you smiled, turning to him. He’d just been staring at you with pure adoration.
“I’ll give you two a minute,” the tech said, standing and leaving the room.
“You’re fully a girl dad now,” you giggled as he stood bending forward and kissing you again.
“Is that ok?” you mumbled against his lips.
“Are you kidding?” he said, resting his forehead against yours, “it’s perfect,” he kissed you again, “you’re perfect,” kiss, “Gwen’s perfect,” kiss, “the girls will be perfect,” kiss, “I love you so fucking much,” kiss. You giggled against his lips.
“I love you so fucking much,” you sighed.
Andrew hears you before he sees you.
“No,” you says, sounding pissed, “I need my husband, I can’t- I can’t do it without him-”
Andrew pushes into the hospital room the nurse had directed him to and finds you sitting on the bed in a hospital gown. The anesthesiologist is looking down at you sympathetically as you stare at her defiantly with tears in your eyes, you both turn as he enters the room.
“I hope you’re the husband,” the doctor looks at Andrew pleadingly.
“Yeah,” he says, rounding the bed, wrapping his arms around you as you reach out to him with tears in your eyes.
“Andrew,” you cry.
“Hey, hey, you’re ok,” he kisses you temple, taking your face in his hands, “I’m here, it’s ok.”
“Ok,” you whimper, holding onto him like your life depends on it.
“We have to let the doctor put in the epidural and you’ll feel much better, ok?” he says, voice gentle, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. You nod at him as he swipes a tear from under your eye.
“Ok,” the anesthesiologist says, “you’re going to sit facing your husband, you can hold onto him if you’d like, but I need you to stay very still alright?”
“Mhm,” you say. Andrew helps you shift facing away from her, your legs dangling over the edge of the bed, you curve over, resting your head on Andrew’s chest, locking your hands in his.
“Alright let’s get started,” she says, “first we’re gonna do a numbing shot, it’ll feel like a pin-prick then some burning,”
“Ok,” you say in a small voice. Andrew squeezes on your hands, whispering sweet nothings to you: how much he loves you, how resilliant you are, how you're the best mom in the world. He knows the epidural is the part you were the most scared for with Gwen, even though you know it will make you feel better the whole needle-in-the-spine thing really freaks you out.
“Alright,” the doctor says, lightly tapping on your back, “we’re gonna place the epidural needle now-”
“Wait, wait,” you yell, pushing yourself away from her and against Andrew, gripping onto his shirt, burying your face in his chest, “I can’t do this- I can’t do two babies it’s- I don’t know how-” you cry against him. He says your name, softly, tenderly, crouching before you, taking your face in his hands.
“You can do this,” he gazes into your bloodshot eyes, “I know you can do it, you’re the strongest person I know.” He gives you a knowing look. “What are you?” You let out a sad, wet laugh, immediately knowing what he’s alluding to, thinking back to all those years ago when you were all cut up after you fell off your bike picking up Lena from school, to the night after that horrible job that went wrong when you had pulled glass shards from his stomach.
“I’m a tough cookie,” you mumble.
“The toughest,” he says, placing a soft kiss on your lips. “You can do this.”
“Ok,” you whisper. He stands up again, taking your hands in his and you bend forward, resting against his chest.
“Here we go,” says the doctor, slowly pushing the needle in, you squeeze on Andrew’s hands staying entirely still. You feel an intense pressure in your lower back, followed by a brief tingling sensation, a zing shooting down one of your legs. The insertion lasts a total of ten minutes and it takes another ten for the full numbing effect to kick in.
Andrew helps you shift back on the bed, kissing your forehead, whispering that you did such a good job, and telling you how much he loves you. While you wait for active labor to start you suck on ice chips while Andrew tells you stories to try and distract you. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, brushing your hair back, telling cute anecdotes about Gwen when a wave of nausea passes over you.
“Are you ok?” Andrew shifts, taking your face in his hands, “you just got white as a sheet,”
“I think we need the doctor,” you mumble, stomach aching in rolling waves.
“Ok,” he says, pushing the call button over and over. A nurse pops her head in the room.
“Hi Mom and Dad,” she smiles, “how are we doing?”
“You need to get Dr. Ganesh,” you groan.
“Alrighty, let me just take a quick peak,” she says, snapping on a pair of gloves, gently pushing your knees apart, she barely opens your legs a few inches before standing, “yup!” she agrees, sticking her head out into the hallway.
“We need Dr. Ganesh in 402,” she calls into the hallway before picking up the phone for the intercom, “Dr. Ganesh to room 402, Dr. Ganesh to room 402,”
“Alright, let’s get you a little more comfortable while she gets here,” the nurse says, helping you set your legs in the stirrups. “Twins today, huh? How exciting,”
“Easy for you to say it’s not your vagina,” you groan, feeling the pressure build in your back, “sorry, I’m sorry,”
“You’re fine,” the nurse says as Dr. Ganesh walks into the room, greeting you warmly.
“Are we ready to do this thing?” Dr. Ganesh says, positioning herself between your legs.
“I fuckin’ guess,” you sigh, grabbing onto Andrews hands.
“Alright, everything looks great,” she says, calm and supportive, “let’s start with one big push,”
“You got this,” Andrew says, bending down to your level, giving a firm nod. You nod back and then bare down and push with all your might, the pressure building in your pelvis.
“Good, good,” Dr. Ganesh says. You continue like for about thirty minutes before she speaks again, “alright, head is in view, let’s have one more big push,”
You clamp down on Andrew’s hand, groaning, digging your nails into his skin, pushing as hard as you can.
“And baby girl A is out!” Dr. Ganesh says, but aside from the beeping of the machines and your heavy breathing the room is quiet.
“She’s not crying,” you say, looking at Andrew entirely panicked, before turning back to Dr. Ganesh, “why isn’t she crying?”
“It’s ok,” Dr. Ganesh says, clamping the umbilical cord, “she just needs a little assist, it's her first time being born,"
You try to smile at the light-hearted joke, knowing that if it was serious Dr. Ganesh wouldn't make light of the situation. The nurses in the room move the tiny baby to a little warming table, suctioning out a little fluid from her mouth before a loud cry breaks through the room.
“Oh my god,” you say, tears falling down your cheeks.
“There we go,” one of the nurses says, carrying the crying baby over to you, pulling the front of your gown down slightly, placing her on your chest.
“Oh my god,” you say again tears tracing down your cheeks, “welcome to the world sweet girl,”
“She’s perfect,” Andrew whispers with tears in his eyes, resting his hand on her little back. He looks at you and loses all control he had, tears falling down his freckled cheeks, “you did so amazing,” he presses little kisses to your forehead, "I love you," he whispers against your skin.
“Alright Mama, ready for baby girl B?” Dr. Ganesh says sweetly, “Cause she is ready for you.”
“Can I keep holding her?” you sniff.
“Of course,” Dr. Ganesh smiles, “Dad, you’re in charge of keeping an eye on them,”
Andrew beams down at you, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear, before resting his hand on the baby’s back once more. The delivery of the second baby is much smoother, you only push for a few minutes before she comes “shooting out like a bar of soap,” Dr. Ganesh says.
“Dad, can you help cut the cord?” she says, handing Andrew a pair of scissors.
“Yeah,” he stands, wiping away his tears, before grasping the scissors and cutting down on the cord.
“Beuatiful,” Dr. Ganesh smiles, “Dad, you ready for some skin to skin? Let’s have baby girl B and dad on the chair,” she motions for Andrew to sit before he can even respond. He follows her directions immediately pulling his shirt off as the nurse hands the second tiny, crying baby girl to him. She’s so tiny Andrew can hardly believe it, she’s much smaller than Gwen was but not quieter, not by one bit. He could practically hold her with one hand but he cradles her tiny body to his chest with the utmost care. His eyes flick up to you and you’re watching him with reverence, mouthing I love you to him which he repeats back to you.
After about fifty minutes your birthing team has cleaned you up and left you, Andrew, and the girls alone. He places the second baby girl on your chest, squeezing in the hospital bed beside you, not letting you move an inch despite you telling him you can. He wraps his arm around you, tucking you into his side, kissing your forehead over and over.
“You did so good,” he murmurs, “you’re so amazing,”
“I love you,” you sigh, a small tear rolling down your cheek. Andrew kisses it away before placing a sweet kiss on your lips.
“I love you so much,” he whispers against your mouth.
“I’m so tired,” you sigh, running your hand over the soft blanket on top of your girls.
“You wanna put them down? Try to sleep a little?” Andrew says softly.
“No,” you murmur, looking down at them, “I don’t want to miss anything,”
Andrew breathes out a laugh, resting his big hand across the tiny girls.
“I wish Gwen was here,” you say quietly.
“Let’s get her here,” he pulls back slightly to look down at you, “I can go get her, or Virginia and Ernest can bring her here, you know they would if we asked,”
“I want you to stay with me,” you say, seeming almost bashful at your request.
“Then that’s what I’ll do,” he smiles, pressing a kiss to your cheek.
Andrew calls Virginia who is more than happy to drive Gwen to the hospital. Virginia and Ernest never have children themselves but have been like grandparents to Gwen, and Gwen absolutely adores them. Virginia herself is dying to see the babies as well. It takes them about thirty minutes to get to the hospital and Gwen runs into the room with a small bunch of marigolds in her little fist, wearing a little green t-shirt adorned with small daisies that reads ‘Big Sister,’ under her small denim overalls.
“Mommy! Flowers!” Gwen squeaks, proudly holding them out towards you.
“She insisted that we had to bring some from the garden,” Ernest says, almost sheepish.
“So beautiful Gwenny,” you say as she tries to climb up onto the bed, Andrew scooping her up and placing her beside you.
“Babies in mommy tummy?” Gwen asks, putting her hand very carefully on your stomach. She had become very serious about using ‘gentle hands,’ as Andrew calls it, while you were pregnant.
“No, my love the babies are here,” you push a curl back from her forehead, “you wanna meet them?”
Gwen gasps and then claps her hands together.
“Yes! Sisters!” She grins. Gwen had asked almost every day since you and Andrew told her she was going to have sisters if they were ready yet. Andrew beams at the two of you before turning and picking up one of the babies from her cradle.
“Ok, gentle hands Gwenny,” Andrew says softly as he places the baby in her tiny arms, your arms wrapping around her for support, “this is your sister, Rosalie,”
Gwen’s eyes get wide at the little baby in her arms.
“She small,” Gwen looks up at you, before looking back down at Rosalie.
“She is small,” you say, tears slipping down your face.
“Ro,” Gwen says, leaning forward and placing a little kiss on her soft head.
“Is that what you’re gonna call her?” You smile.
“Mmm, yeah,” Gwen says, resting her head on Rosalie's. Gwen moves her arms, reaching towards the other bassinet as you scoop up Rosalie from her, “more baby,”
“Virginia,” you turn to your sweet neighbor, “do you want to hold her?”
“Oh,” Virginia clasps her hands together, taking slow steps towards you, she takes in a small gasp, lifting Rosalie from your arms, “she’s so beautiful,”
Andrew lifts the other baby from the cradle and Gwen reaches out of her eagerly. You wrap your arms around Gwen and take the baby from Andrew.
“This is your sister, Blythe,” Andrew says softly.
“Wow,” Gwen says, placing a gentle kiss on Blythe’s cheek. Blythe squirms and makes a tiny noise, “she say hi!” Gwen looks up at Andrew with a huge smile on her face.
“Yeah, she loves you,” Andrew says, sitting on the corner of the hospital bed.
“Love you BB,” Gwen says, resting her hand on Blythe’s little body.
“That’s a good nickname,” you smile at Gwen.
“Oh, we need to take this picture,” Ernest says, pulling out his phone, clicking through the massive sized apps. Virginia places Rosalie back in Andrew’s arms while Ernest tries to navigate to the camera app.
“Oh, Ernie give it to me,” Virginia takes the phone from his hand, swiping through the screens.
“That’s gonna be us when we’re old,” Andrew whispers to you, placing a kiss on your jaw.
“That’s us now, my love,” you smirk at him.
“Rude,” he smiles at you.
“Here we are,” Virginia says, holding the phone up, “say cheese!”
“Cheese!” Gwen beams, leaning into you.
“Oh, that’s lovely,” Virginia turns the phone for you to see. Gwen sits snugly between you and Andrew, her head resting on your chest, her little hand resting on Blythe, Andrew leaning into you with Rosalie in his arms.
“Thank you, Virginia,” you smile sweetly at her.
“We should probably leave them to have some family time,” Ernest clears his throat, gently nudging his over eager wife, “of course if you need a hand you just holler,” he smiles warmly at your little family.
“Thank you Ernest,” you say as the pair of them walk out of the hospital room.
“Babies!” Gwen claps her hands, looking back and forth between Rosalie and Blythe.
“What do you think? You ready to be a big sister?” Andrew smiles at Gwen.
“I ready Daddy,” Gwen says, placing another kiss on the crown on both Rosalie’s and Blythe's heads.
Andrew melts your heart. Even though you now have three under three he still insists on taking on the brunt work at home. He cooks, cleans, gets up in the night to give the girls bottles and if they won’t take a bottle he insists on staying up with you while you breast feed. He rubs your back before you go to sleep. He takes all three girls out of the house once a week so you can have some alone time. He showers you with love and adoration, always telling you what an amazing mom you are, how lucky the girls are to have you, how lucky he is to have you.
Andrew makes sure to do special little dates with Gwen, which she affectionately calls, “Gwen-Daddy time,” so she doesn’t feel any less loved with the new babies taking up so much time and attention. He gets you all the foods you couldn’t eat while you were pregnant: sushi, deli meats, soft cheese… anything you can think of. He buys you a set of sapphire rings, the September birthstone, as push presents for Rosalie and Blythe that sit on either side of the diamond ring he gave you when you had Gwen two April's ago. The ring for Rosalie ripples out like a wave and the ring for Blythe beams out like a sunburst, nestled around the diamond ring for Gwen on your right middle finger.
After your postpartum check up six weeks after giving birth what you want most of all is to be intimate with him again. He had done an amazing job making you feel beautiful and desirable the entire time you were pregnant and ever since you had the twins but he was reluctant to touch you, terrified that he might hurt you in any way. Even after you get cleared by the doctor he still seems a little anxious. He organizes time for the girls to go to Virginia and Ernest’s house, packing bags for each girl: Gwen’s filled with toys, books, and snacks, and the twins filled with diapers, bottles, and baby blankets. When the girls are at the neighbors the two of you get to just be together, sitting in the garden, napping on the couch, taking a bath together in your huge bathtub.
“We don’t have to do anything if you don’t feel ready,” you say, laying on your bed in your robe as he rubs lotions on your legs, massaging your tired flesh after the two of you get out of the bath.
“No- I-” Andrew sigh, squeezing his eyes shut, “I want to, so bad, but I don’t want to hurt you,”
You sit up, taking his face in your hands, pressing a soft kiss to his lips.
“You could never hurt me,” you whisper, resting your forehead against his.
“Ok,” he breathes, “I’m gonna wash my hands first so there’s no lotion on- yeah-”
He stands from the bed walking quickly to the bathroom and you hear the water running. You giggle to yourself at your husband, you sweet Andrew, who is so incredibly soft towards you. He comes back out from the bathroom with a determined look on his face.
“All scrubbed in?” you crinkle your nose at him.
“Ha ha,” he says dryly, climbing onto the bed, laying next to you, “if you wanna stop you have to say, ok?”
“Ok,” you roll towards him, wrapping your arms around his neck, kissing him tenderly. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you against him as you giggle into his mouth. Your lips move slowly and sweetly on each other, god he missed the way your body felt pressed into his. He’s already hard just from kissing you, slipping his tongue into your mouth as you whimper into him. He rolls you beneath him, tugging on the tie to your robe, letting the fabric fall open. He runs his hand up your side, caressing the soft skin of your breast, continuing up and cupping your face. You sigh, loving the feeling of his hands on you, his weight between your legs, his tongue in your mouth. You twist your fingers into his curls as he starts to kiss down your body, moving down the valley of your full breasts to your stomach, kissing across your stretch marks and soft belly.
“Andrew,” you murmur, noticing a fine line of white milk spilling down between your tits.
“Mmm,” he hums, before looking up at your face.
“I’m leaking,” you blush, cupping your cheek with one hand. His eyes move up to the milk trailing between your breasts. He licks a long, flat line up your sternum all the way to your neck, kissing your jaw sweetly.
“You’re gorgeous,” he breathes against your skin before asking gently, “do you want to stop?”
“No,” you whisper, fingers twisting into his curls again as he starts kissing the column of your neck. He hums against you before sitting back and shifting down between your legs. He holds your legs in his warm hands gently pushing your legs apart. He kisses your inner thighs at a slow, teasing pace, sucking on the supple skin between your legs as you sigh beneath him.
“No teasing,” you whine, slipping your fingers into his hair, pulling him towards your aching core. He smirks and spits down on your clit and you shudder at the sensation. His tongue is soft and flat against you as he licks a long line up your pussy. You whimper at the feel of his breath on you, you’re so sensitive you can already feel the hot coil winding tight in your stomach.
“Fuck,” you squeak. His hot tongue moves at a teasing pace, shaking his head from side to side making your pussy ache. His spit pools against you creating a delicious slickness between your legs as you whimper and reach blindly for his hand, eyes squeezing shut in pleasure. He smiles against you as he takes your hand in his, sucking your clit into his mouth softly. He slips his tongue in and out of his mouth slurping at your clit creating a low, pulsing sensation that makes you tangle your other hand in his hair.
He relishes in the sounds you make. He shifts lower, moving your legs farther apart, gently pushing his tongue inside your hole for an aching moment. Andrew is devouring you, drinking up the sweetness at your core and melting at the sounds you're making that fill his chest with heat. Your legs start to press in around his head and he knows you’re close.
“Andrew,” you moan, as he sucks on your bundle of nerves while pushing your clit with the tip of his tongue like morse code, “I’m gonna come-”
He keeps his pace, dying to have you fall apart underneath him, you grip down on his hand, squeaking, whimpering, and moaning his name over and over as you come all over his face. He laps up everything you give him, moving his tongue with tender intention. As you slowly come down he kisses back up your body and lifts you easily on top of him as you try to catch your breath. You feel his hard length on your bare thigh and you bring your mouth to his neck, moving your hand down his chest. He moves his hand to your wrist, taking it softly in his hand.
“Hey,” he whispers into your hairline, making you tilt your head up to look at him, “making you feel good makes me feel good,”
“But what if making you feel good makes me feel good also?” You smirk at him knowingly.
“It’s so quiet,” he says, voice low and raspy, “don’t you want to close your eyes for a little before we go get the girls?”
“Mmm,” you hum in agreement, your body does feel tired and heavy and his voice is lulling you to sleep. He tucks you into his side, pulling the soft duvet over your bodies, resting his cheek on your forehead. The pair of you fall asleep for a little over two hours, Andrew waking up as the light starts to hang lower in the sky outside. He resolves to go get the girls himself to give you a little more time to rest but as soon as he tries to slip out of the bed your arm tightens around his waist.
“Where do you think you’re going?” You mumble against him, breathing in deeply, letting his smell wash over you.
“I was gonna go get the girls and let you sleep a little before dinner,” he says, kissing the top of your head.
“Mmm, no,” you huff, “I’m coming,”
You squeeze him once more before sliding out of the bed and padding over to your closet and pulling on a chocolate pinstripe maxi dress. The air outside is still warm as you drive towards Virginia and Ernest’s house with the windows of the car down, your fingers laced with Andrews as you trace his knuckles with your thumb.
Gwen squeals in excitement when the two of you walk around to the backyard of your neighbor's house, running to you and jumping into your arms.
“Mommy,” she nuzzles her little face into your neck.
“Hi my little angel,” you kiss her cheeks as you shift her onto your hip, “were you on your best behavior today?”
“Mmm, yes!” She giggles, wrapping her arms around your neck. You and Andrew profusely thank Virginia and Ernest for watching the girls for the afternoon.
“Oh, we’re always happy to have these little chickens over,” Ernest says, passing Blythe to Andrew gently. You get the three girls into their car seats and drive down the winding roads back to your house.
Dinner and bedtime are slightly nightmare-ish. Gwen is very fussy and insists she doesn’t like spaghetti any more despite requesting it for dinner every night this week. She also does not like it when you try to feed the twins, screaming when Andrew pulls her off the couch after she tries to climb into your lap. He carries a sobbing Gwen upstairs as you try and catch your breath.
After you finish feeding your very squirmy twins they are placed in their little bassinets as you finish up the dinner dishes. A very shy looking, freshly bathed Gwen walks downstairs in her froggy PJs, clinging onto Andrew’s hand.
“What do you want to say to Mommy?” Andrew looks down at her, and she looks so tiny standing next to him, reaching up to clasp his hand.
“I sorry Mommy,” Gwen says, wrapping her arms around Andrew’s leg and he laughs a little.
“You’re supposed to hug Mommy, Gwenny,” he mock-whispers to her and she looks up at him with a little “oh!” before running over to you and trying to wrap her little arms around your knees.
“Oh, my little lovebug,” you scoop her up, holding her close, “it’s hard being away from Mommy and Daddy for so long, huh?”
Gwen takes a very cute, very deep breath.
“Yeah,” she says, pressing her little palm against your gold pendant, “I love Mommy,”
“I love Gwenny,” you speckle her little cheek with kisses and she giggles, “what about Daddy, hm? Do we love him?” You turn to face Andrew, squishing your cheek against Gwen’s as he looks at you with utter reverence.
“Yeah,” Gwen squeals, “I love Daddy,”
“Yeah?” Andrew smiles, walking towards the pair of you, wrapping you both in his arms, peppering your faces with tiny kisses. He cups your jaw with his hand and presses a soft kiss to your lips making Gwen giggle.
“More!” Gwen says, making you and Andrew laugh as well.
“Yeah?" Andrew beams at Gwen, “Mommy needs a kiss from Daddy?”
“Yeah!” Gwen claps her little hands together.
“Mwah!” You make a dramatic kissing sound as Andrew kisses you again.
“Mommy, Daddy,” Gwen laughs, using her little hands to push your heads together. You giggle as you kiss Andrew again.
“I think Gwenny needs a kiss,” Andrew says, looking at you with a playful seriousness.
“Oh, definitely,” you nod and both of you kiss her soft, chubby cheeks, squishing them together as Gwen laughs in your arms.
After your little love fest Andrew scoops up Rosalie and Blythe and you all trod up the stairs together. Andrew gets the twins ready for bed in your room where their bassinets sit for the time being while you take Gwen to her room and read her a story until she falls asleep. You tuck the quilt under her chin and kiss her forehead before turning off her lamp and standing.
Andrew is in the doorframe illuminated by her little nightlight. He takes your hand in his before shutting Gwen's door softly, pulling you towards your bedroom. You slip off your dress and put on your yellow pajamas as Andrew comes up behind you, clad only in his boxers, pulling one of the sleeves off your shoulder placing kisses on your skin.
The two of you stand side by side at the bathroom sink brushing your teeth, stealing little glances at one another. You rinse and give each other minty little kisses before he pulls you to bed. The pair of you are exhausted, probably him more than you, and you must be the only woman in the world who can say that. He tucks you under his arm pulling you into him and you just stare at him, twisting his curls around your fingers.
“I’m so lucky,” you whisper.
“Yeah?” He smiles at you, eyes tired.
“Yeah,” you nod, “you’re the best dad in the world,”
“Well, you’re the best mom in the world,” he runs the tips of his nose along yours.
“No,” you huff a little, sitting up and turning to face him, resting one of your legs over his waist. You want him to take this seriously, you want him to understand exactly what he is to you, “you- the way you take care of me, the way you take care of the girls- I- you’re the kindest, sweetest, most generous, special man Andrew,” tears start to slip down your cheek as he sits up taking your face in his hand, wiping away your tears, “I love you so much, I love you in a way I’ve never loved anything or anyone ever and I-” you hiccup and devolve further into soft sobs as Andrew takes you in his arms, moving you into his lap.
“I love you more than anything,” he whispers into your hair, “I love our girls more than anything.”
He pulls back, cupping your jaw in his palm, making you look up at him.
“I was so lost before I met you- you changed me. I was so angry and confused and you- you made every horrible thing I’ve ever endured worth it because it brought me to you- and I would do it a million times over if it meant I got to have you, to have this. It all starts and ends with you.”
You’re a puddle in his lap, wrapping yourself around him as he rubs small circles on your back and kisses your hair. You tilt your head up and place a tender, wet kiss on his lips and he takes your cheek in his hand looking down at you adoringly.
“I think you’re a little tired my love,” he whispers, making you let out a little laugh.
“Maybe,” you smile at him as he runs a tissue under your eyes before placing a soft kiss on your forehead. He rolls you on top of him, flicking off the bedside lamp, slipping his hand beneath your shirt, tracing the line up your spine with loving fingers. Just as you start to slip to sleep you hear Rosalie stir in her crib. Andrew wraps his arms around you, ready to place you onto the mattress and get his little girl himself but you press him down with a gentle palm, rolling out of bed and picking her up out of her bassinet.
“My love,” he says in a gentle voice.
“Mmm?” you hum.
“That’s Blythe,” you can hear the soft smile in his voice.
“What?” You pull back to look at the sleeping baby in your arms and it is definitely Blythe, “oh,” you loll your head back taking a deep breath in as Rosalie continues to squirm in her crib. Andrew is already on his feet as you're placing Blythe down again. You climb back into bed, holding your hands out for Rosalie. Andrew places her gently in your arms, crawling back into bed next to you, wrapping his arm around you both, placing a pillow in your lap for Rosalie to rest on. The moonlight fills your room as you slip your sleeve off your shoulder, letting Rosalie latch. Andrew slips his finger into her tiny little fist and she grips down on him.
“Daddy’s girl,” you murmur, resting your head on his shoulder as he draws little circles on your arms, “she looks like you,” Andrew breathes out a laugh, kissing your temple.
“Gwen looks like me, the twins look like you,” he says softly.
“Mm,” you hum, “but the face she’s making,” you turn to him and purse your lips, furrowing your eyebrows, “that is so Andrew Cody,”
Of course, you’re right. He looks down at Rosalie’s little focused expression and smiles at his perfect daughter. The two of you stare down at her, both fighting the sleep that tugs on your eyelids. Andrew’s never needed much sleep but there is nothing in the world he would rather stay awake for than his girls.
A metaphor for vast physical or emotional distance, used to explore themes of loneliness and longing in an estranged relationship, with the Atlantic Ocean symbolising separation.
Jack Abbot has had a terrible eighteen months. Truly one for the books. Losing his mother, and then you, sometimes he wonders what the point is. If things will ever look up. Until you turn up at the Pitt, with a little girl who looks exactly like him.
warnings: this blog is 18+, mdni! this fic deals with grief, difficult births, depression, anxiety, and canon medical gore. it will also eventually contain explicit sexual content
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prologue.
chapter one.
chapter two.
chapter three.
chapter four.
chapter five.
chapter six.
moodboard.
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