The week had been way too exhausting and frustrating, you could say you cried in your boyfriend's arms at least ten times this week.
While you are sipping from your glass of water at dinner, your eyelids begin to droop until your head drops onto Jude’s shoulders, sliding down a bit until it rests against his arms.
Since when is he this strong?
It wasn't that he wasn't strong before, but he used to be lean, and his muscles weren't as massive as they are now. What did they feed him in Madrid that they didn't in Germany?
"Do I have something on me?" he asked, looking down at himself, pulling at his shirt to adjust it, which only made the fabric hug his biceps even tighter.
"Belli, how many times a week do you do arm day?"
"Where is that question suddenly coming from, my love?" he asked, running a hand down your back, gently stroking the fabric of your t-shirt, trying to comfort you with the same tenderness he had shown over the last few days. Feeling his warm, huge palm covering almost half of your back only served to confirm your theory: he was massive. The lanky boy you remembered from Dortmund had given way to a man. The Spanish climate had definitely done wonders for him.
"Just curiosity," you insisted, setting the glass of water on the table and reaching out a hand to wrap your fingers around his bicep. Your two hands could barely span the entire circumference of the muscle, which felt like a rock even while relaxed. "They're huge," you praised.
Jude looked down, watching your hands on his arm, and a satisfied smirk spread across his lips. "Well, three or four times a week at the club, plus whatever I do at home," he explained, flexing his arm, which caused the bicep to peak and tense beneath your palms. "Why? Don't you like it?"
"On the contrary. It's just... this week has been so fucked up that I hadn't even noticed properly," your tired voice replied, resting your head against his strong arm.
"Awwh, poor baby," Jude cooed, stroking your hair, gently nudging your head toward him, pressing your cheek against his bicep. "You just need some affection."
𝜗𝜚
"Ahh, yes!" you arch your back, rising onto your tiptoes, lifting your ass until it smacks against his pelvis. Your trembling, exhausted hands grip the sheets as you moan against the mattress.
Jude is so big that no matter how many times he fucks you, you will always be as tight as the first day for him. His cock is so large that it fills every single inch of your cunt, brushing against your cervix every time he thrusts to go deeper. "Slow down, I'm not going anywhere," he says, seeing you strain to stay on your tiptoes.
His pelvis slams against your ass at the same time his balls hit your clitoris, making your eyes roll back as you squeeze massively around him, desperately sucking on his member.
"Mhmm," he pants, gripping the skin of your hips. "You get even tighter for me." His hand strokes your shoulder while the other moves to your waist. "I wonder how tight you'll get if I do this..." Before you can process his words, he pulls you toward him, lifting your entire body off the bed to press it against his, letting your head rest on his shoulder.
"J-Jude?" Following your confusion, Jude hooks his right arm around your neck and flexes his elbow, locking your throat perfectly into the crook of his bicep.
Your eyes widened as he began to cut off your air by squeezing your throat with his bicep, your vision blurring as your head became completely trapped against the hot rock of his muscle. Pressing your cheek against his arm, you tried to let out a moan, but the sound died in your throat, turning into a muffled whimper that echoed directly against his bicep.
Belli slowly thrust his hips forward. Because you were lifted, the angle changed completely; his cock, massive and fully veined, slid inside your cunt in a much deeper, more vertical way. You felt every single inch of his girth stretching your inner walls, mercilessly plowing its way through until it hit your cervix dead-on. The impact made you arch your back, but as you tried to move, your own body weight pushed you harder against his bicep, choking you a bit more.
A violent spasm racked your core. The lack of oxygen combined with the brutality of the penetration ignited an uncontrollable fire in your womb. Your cunt became a sinkhole of burning, soaking walls that contracted in desperation.
"My God..." he groaned as he felt the suffocating pressure of your cunt around his cock. "You get so fucking tight when I take your air away."
You wanted to scream, to open your mouth and let out a massive cry of pleasure, but every single time it remained trapped behind your teeth.
Your fluids began to run down his cock. Jude let out a grunt, gritting his teeth as he felt the familiar sensation that you were about to cum. The boy squeezed his bicep hard for one final fraction of a second, suffocating you right at the peak of pleasure while delivering three hard thrusts.
The knot in your stomach begins to unravel at the same time your legs lose all strength. "J-Jud..." you whimper. Tears of pleasure slide down your hot, flushed cheeks. Your mind goes completely blank, unable to think about anything else but the delicious climax washing over you.
You grunt, bringing your hands to his arm for him to let you go, managing to get his grip to loosen just enough to let a small stream of air pass through your nose. "Does it feel good to be choked by a pair of good biceps?"
"Mh-hm..." you could barely make a sound, nodding weakly. You squeezed your legs together, trying to prolong the sensation of the orgasm, unconsciously moving in search of more.
"Oh, I thought you were too tired for a second round, but I see you're not," Jude laughs, leaving a kiss on your jaw, tracing down to your neck. "So... another one?"
You hand him your panties while on a date with him.
Featuring: Frank Langdon; Jack Abbot; John Shen; Michael “Robby” Robinavitch.
Tags: 18+ MDNI; AFAB Reader; Reader wears a dress; Suggestive content; Teasing; Brat Taming.
Credits: PSD colouring by gloomglimmer. Banner template inspired by louestat.
Notes: inspired by this f1 version. lowkey this takes me back to when i was 13 and running sfw scenarios blogs for my favourite anime blorbos and would do short imagines that featured multiple characters. lowkey miss when life was simpler.
It’s a fancy restaurant. You know it’s supposed to be a special date night, but it doesn’t stave off the not-so-harmless curiosity that makes you want to act out.
While he’s distracted, you cast a glance to your surroundings to ensure no one’s around, before inching a little to the side.
Your fingers hook into the sides of your panties. Shimmying it down your legs. You bunch them into your palm.
Waiting.
Frank Langdon
Under the table, you tap the tip of your shoe against his. Persistently, until he turns his attention onto you. He had been considering dessert, even though you told him you wanted to be done with tonight already.
“Yeah?” he asks. Completely unsuspecting.
You wordlessly hold out your fisted hand, upside down.
Frank frowns. “What?”
You shake your hand.
More of your antics, he exasperatedly assumes, as he opens his hand under your impatient fist.
You drop your panties into his waiting palm.
With his brows still pinched in slight confusion, Frank uses his thumb to disturb the bunched up fabric. Until he realises what it is he’s seeing. What he’s touching—what he’s holding.
“You—what the fuck?” His fingers snap shut, arm dropping under the table. Tucking your panties into his pocket.
You watch him, a grin stretching your lips.
“Tell me that’s a spare one you brought along,” Frank says, tight.
You shake your head, crossing your arms atop the table. “Nope,” you say.
He breathes out, patience wearing thin. “Are you serious?” Bright blue eyes travel to where you’ve propped up your chest, then further down. Like he can see through the table and the dress to where you’re bare.
“Wanna get out of here?” you ask, impish and completely pleased with yourself.
“You’re impossible,” Frank says, even as he asks the passing waiter for the check. Jaw fluttering as you both remain on opposite sides of the semicircle seat.
He doesn’t break eye contact, save for when he actually has to pay, tip, and sign. When the table is cleared to leave, Frank helps you up, even if you don’t need it.
Has a hand on your waist, even when he doesn’t need to be touching you.
You both make it to his car before he crowds you against it. He had found side street parking, barely illuminated by the moon.
“You drive me insane,” he huffs.
“You do too.” You tug on his tie, dragging him in to kiss.
His hands are already roaming, bunching up your dress. You’re half-perched on the hood of his car.
“Frank,” you breathe out. It could be admonishing if you weren’t pulling him in closer.
His fingers between the apex of your thighs. To your slit, where you’re already wet. “This is what you wanted, right?”
Frank’s fingers slide in, silencing your moans by kissing you again.
It’s so like you to tease him, then chastise when he gives in. You would never let him find peace, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
Jack Abbot
“Hand?” you request.
Jack’s used to the way you find entertainment in your boredom. The way you restlessly trace the lines of his palm, of his fingers, his knuckles.
He thinks that’s your intention as he lifts his hand to give to you.
But you transfer your panties there. His digits close around them without a second thought.
The fabric makes him frown, attention moving away from the menu, to you, then down to his hand.
Thick fingers unfurl. Then, he stills, as if needing precious seconds to interpret what he’s seeing.
Jack clears his throat, shoving your panties into his pocket as he looks back at you. “Really?”
“What?” you ask. It could’ve passed for innocence.
But he studies you, waiting for that guileless facade to crack as the tip of your tongue wets your bottom lip.
You try to smother a grin but fail at that, too.
“I went through the trouble to plan a nice dinner for us. Had to get a reservation, and everything,” Jack says.
“I’m—showing you my appreciation.” You’re being a brat. You know it. He knows it.
Jack leans in, his arm around your waist. Sliding you right into his space. The curved banquette seats allow you both to sit next to each other.
His arm glued around you, fingers trailing down to where the line of your underwear should have been if you hadn’t given it to him.
You suck in a breath. Refraining from bodily shivering.
Lowering his lips to your ear, he asks, “What’s your plan, sweetheart?”
“We could leave?” Your suggestion comes out more like a question.
He rumbles out a laugh. Pinches the side of your hip. “No,” he tuts. “Like I said, I went through the trouble of planning our date. We’re going to stay and finish dinner.”
“But we could have fun at home.” You’re not above batting your eyelashes, peering at him with that expression that makes him fold every single time.
It’s a close thing. Jack draws in a breath, lips twitching skyward with something dangerous. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll have fun.” His hand moves to your thigh, hidden by the table. Squeezes the inner flesh, skin softer and more sensitive.
You—squirm. Clear your throat to disguise an undignified sound that escapes.
Jack smirks. “Let’s enjoy the food,” he says. His hand travels higher up your thigh. Slow, inching.
It becomes abundantly clear you started a game you were not prepared for.
John Shen
You stand, smoothing down your dress. Sidestep away from the table.
“Bathroom,” you say, when John shoots you an inquisitive look.
He nods in response. “Okay. I’ll try not to eat it all without you.”
You grin. Coordinate your walk past him to drop your panties in his lap.
He gives you another questioning glance, but you continue to walk away.
Towards the bathroom.
It doesn’t take long before he follows you. He locks the door behind him. Meets your gaze with something playful and dark. “Hi,” John says.
“Hi,” you giggle.
“I think you forgot something.” He raises your sheer underwear between his fingers. For someone that prided himself for being the reliable, calm and collected one, he’s pretty sure this act of yours short circuited his brain for a second.
“I left it for you,” you say. “Did you like it?”
“Did I—?” John breaks off with a huffed out chuckle. “Yeah. I did like it. Didn’t think we were giving gifts today.” He makes short strides towards you, and you back away until you hit the vanity.
“Surprise,” you say.
John hums. When he’s stationed right before you, his head lowers to your shoulder, nosing against exposed skin. Down to your neck.
You tip your head back.
He raises to kiss you.
His knee finds its way between your thighs, and you bite down on a groan at the pressure.
“You’re so beautiful,” John murmurs into the infinitesimal space between you.
You’re both shifting, dress gathering at your hips. Your leg hooked around his waist, his hand supporting the weight of your limb.
His other hand between your thighs, fingers swiping into wet folds. Onto your clit. You gasp into his mouth. He kisses you, again and again.
And he brings you so close to the edge, with expert fingers that have internalised how to find pleasure in your body as much as he learned how deep an incision is needed for a tracheotomy.
You grab his shoulder, breaths shuddering as that flutter in your stomach begins to curl. Just a little more.
Of course he knows when to stop.
“John,” you whine as he removes his fingers.
“The food’s getting cold,” he says, nonchalant as ever, as he washes his hands. Like he didn’t just have two fingers buried in your cunt two seconds ago.
“John,” you say.
“I’ll see you out there.” A kiss to your forehead before he leaves.
Michael “Robby” Robinavitch
Robby’s unsuspecting when you wordlessly transfer your panties from your hand to his.
He says something to the sommelier, grinning as they walk away.
“What’s this?” Robby asks, before he registers the balled up thing in his hand as fabric and not a scrunched up piece of paper.
You don’t respond, merely watching as he opens his hand, your lace panties blossoming in his palm.
He recognises it as part of a lingerie set he bought for you last week. To wear today.
Robby shakes his head, letting out a disbelieving chuckle. He thumbs the base of your underwear, feeling the dampness there.
Nose flaring, he scrunches your panties up, stuffing it into his blazer pocket.
Levels you with a look.
Your fingers tapping on the table, waiting.
“You’re wet,” Robby says. He knows the answer.
“Yeah,” you whisper a response anyway.
“Good.”
You swallow, thick. Shuffle. Cross your legs. Uncross them.
He watches you, smirking. With a hand, he beckons you close, fingers curling in the air.
You slide across the curved seat, until you’re next to him.
“You’re going to ruin your dress,” he tuts, voice low now that you’re closer.
You open your mouth, prepared to plead your case. “I—”
“I’m not done,” he chides. Robby’s hand rests on your shoulder, roughened fingers smoothing over your skin. “I just got that for you, remember? You asked for it, and I buy it with my money. Is this how you treat the things I get you?”
“No,” you say.
You feel your stomach flip—the dynamic had changed in a blink of an eye. You thought you had that upper hand when you gave him your underwear. Now it feels like you had served that power to him on a silver platter.
The air feels charged.
He slants his head, looking down at you.
“No, sir,” you correct, meek.
“This dinner’s my money too,” he says slowly, like you don’t understand the concept of fine dining. “So we’re going to sit here and eat, and you’re going to behave. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” you say. Your thighs chafe as you rub them together.
Robby grants you enough grace to not tell you off for it. But he does lower his hand, palm splayed across the top of one of your thighs.
You still, immediate.
“Eat,” he says.
You obey, because you know what awaits you if you don’t is far worse than what he already has in mind for you.
summary: you are a year behind shen. you've always hated his nonchalant behavior and how he treated the ER like his playground for treating people. now he's your attending and you want to blow him up with your mind. and he wants to blow your back out.
wc: 3.3k
tags: smut, ragebait!shen, crashout!reader, medical jargon, piv, doggy style, blowjob, multiple orgasms, clit play, nipple play, no condom used,
˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆
You hated night shift. It felt like a punishment to be awake between the hours of two and five thirty in the morning. It didn't help that you were with the campiest bunch of the emergency department. You didn't mind your coworkers but if you had to pick between the two attendings you would rather camp counselor Abbot than Shen. At least with Abbot he knew to leave you alone from just one look.
However, Shen was just a year ahead of you in his career. He knew exactly how to work your nerve because he had been doing it since you two were residents. Now that that he was your boss, he seemed to be emboldened to make you mad.
You wouldn't consider yourself an angry person, rather a cranky person who hated being awake during the night. You hated dealing with the drunks that threw up on your scrubs. You hated the bar brawlers that still had a taste for blood. And you hated all the other bumps in the road that would come along through the shift. Including Shen.
You had just changed your scrub top for the second time in the night and it wasn't even one in the morning yet. You were at your limit and everyone could tell. As you sit at a computer typing up a chart your hear Shen behind you slurping out of his iced coffee cup. You could hear him gulp after every sip. You snap your head around quickly, "Do you mind?!"
"Sorry…" He gives a polite smile, "I just wanted to check in. How is your ecstasy patient?"
"Recovering smoothly. Trying to cool him down now with O2 and benzos. We will continue to monitor his sodium and follow the management plan." You say as you type.
"Good. Nice save with the intern pushing the benzos instead of haldol."
"He was combative. Talking about hallucinations, without the tox screen we wouldn't have known." You say flatly.
"MDMAs still have a chance of coming up false in screen tests." He smiles, "But you caught it."
"Thanks…" You mutter. You were not one to take a compliment. You just wanted to be left alone. But Shen doesn't leave, he slowly walks in front of you. You glare at him and flare your nostrils, "What. Do. You. Want?"
"Could you cover some patients for me? The intern is a little slow for my taste. I want to make sure they are on top of things."
You grimace, "Fine. Better you than me."
"Great, severe gastroenteritis in five, migraine in one, and burns when he pees in three." He taps the desk, "You're welcome."
"Fuck you." You grumble under your breath.
You think he likes to torture you on purpose. Giving you the worse cases of the day just to make you mad. You take a deep breath before getting back to work. The sooner you deal with the patients the faster they leave. You repeat the mantra in your head.
After you are finished, you go out for a smoke. You wear an oversized sweater in the cold air. You had to change your top for the third time. Your gastroenteritis was in fact not that but instead, pancreatitis. The pancreas had ruptured and was sent to the OR for emergency surgery. Not before the patient vomited on your clothes.
"I fucking hate night shift." You mumble as you take another drag of your cigarette.
"It's not too bad."
You hear the agitating voice of your attending from behind you. You squeeze your eyes shut and purse your lips as you try to keep your composure.
"You look good in green." Shen eyes your mint green scrubs
"What do you want?" You grit your teeth.
"That should be your catch phrase. I'm sorry about the gastroenteritis going full pancreatitis."
"Did you even do a physical exam before passing it off to me?" Your eye twitches.
"The abdomen did not feel tender at the time." He says, "I was waiting on an ultrasound unit."
"You just love to piss me off." You scoff.
"That's not true. I just do things and they end up pissing you off. Things happen sometimes and it's out of our control." He chuckles.
You, however, don't laugh. Instead, you take a long drag of your cigarette before snuffing it out under your foot. You go to walk inside when Shen steps in front of you, "GSW coming in less than five."
"Are you fucking kidding me? You knew I was out here. You came out here to fuck with me."
"Sorry." He pulls out goggles and a gown for you to put on. You huff as you put on the gown. The sound of the ambulance grows closer.
Throughout the trauma you stay hyper-focused on the task at hand. Unfortunately, due to the severity of the wounds there wasn't much you could do. Blood seemed to just be pouring from the poor man's body. Your gown was drenched and blood soaked through the booties. You throw off your mask and goggles and leave the room. You rip off the gown and dump it in a bin before going back outside.
You dig in your pocket pulling out another cigarette and light it. You puff on it a few times while you curse under the breath. When you hit the nicotine buzz you finally slow down. Tears well up in your eyes for a moment before the anger rises from your stomach. Why couldn't he just leave you alone for a second? One second is all you needed. A moment, a pause, some time to catch your breath.
You exhale the smoke from your nostrils before crushing the bud into the ground. You come back inside and clench your jaw when you unintentionally lock eyes with Shen. You are quick to look away and go find a patient.
Shen is quickly after you, "Can we talk?"
"No."
"I think we should have a debrief with the team about the trauma earlier."
"Then you do it. I'm fine."
"You're not fine, you're disconnected. We should debrief so we understand what happened and everyone's role. It was no one's fault so I want to make sure we all know that." He steps in front of you, "So you know that."
You purse your lips, "Why can't you just leave me alone?"
"Because it's my job not to." He pulls you into the break room. "Is everything okay?"
"Everything is fine. It would be better if you'd just take a goddamn hint when I say leave me alone."
"I just said I can't do that. I want to make sure you're alright. Tonight has been rough for you. I want to talk to you and help you look on the bright side of things."
Your eye twitches and grind your teeth together, "Look on the bright side? A man is fucking dead, and you want to me to look at the bright side."
"Now, I didn't mean it like that—"
"Then what the fuck did you mean?! The fucking migraine or the fucking vomit, or the fucking drunks?! What the fuck could you possibly mean?!" You snap, "There is no bright side, Shen. Tonight has been a shit show. I have to change for the 4th time! My shoes are soaked to my socks in blood! And you want me to float above it like you do?! I can't do that! I'm not you! I don't want to be you!" Shen blinks in surprise as you continue to yell, "I do everything you ask of me! I take it up the ass like it's fucking nothing! I don't understand why you won't just leave me alone… It's come to a point where I want to fuck the shit out of you!"
Wait a minute, that came out wrong. You're hot in face, the nicotine buzz and anger was fading fast. You had gotten so mad your mouth was moving faster than your brain was processing thoughts. You didn't mean to say that. You take a breath and step back. Shen is looking at you shocked by all of what you had just said.
"I– I have to go." You rush out of the room and run to the women's restroom to take a breath. You don't know what happened. You started to get light headed. You take another breath. You splash some water into your face to cool down.
"Yo," Ellis enters the bathroom.
"Oh man, not now." You whine.
"Not now?! Girl, I heard you from central. 'I'm gonna fuck the shit out of you?!'"
"I didn't mean to say that. Tension was high." You lean against the wall.
"He's shell shocked. He's probably thinking about whether he should go to HR or not."
"It wouldn't matter what I said, he'd probably have to go."
"What were you trying to say?"
"I'm gonna beat the fucking shit out of you?" You sputter and cover your face, "I'm so humiliated."
"Don't be. It'll be like water off a duck's back to him." She shrugs, "You should still apologize though… Even if it was funny as hell."
"Shut up!" You shove her playfully. You take a few moments more in the bathroom before coming out. Everyone looks at you with knowing glances. Most try not laugh as you walk. You enter the main hub and clear your throat, "Lena, where's Shen?"
"Outside. I think he needed some… air." She smiles cheekily. You bow your head and walk outside to find him.
He stands by the roadside and bounces on the balls of his feet. You walk slowly behind him, "Shen?"
He stills before turning around, "Yeah?"
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to blow up like that. Tonight hasn't been a good night from me."
"Mhm."
"We should have debriefed. I should have aired out my grievances properly. It's just that sometimes…"
"You want to fuck the shit out of me?"
"No! No, I didn't mean to say that." You cover your eyes in embarrassment. You hear him chuckle. You uncover your eyes and see him smiling.
"I mean, I wouldn't mind it."
"Hm?" You blink, "You wouldn't mind what?"
"You fucking the shit out me." His eyes scan your body, "I want you to."
"You want… to have sex with me?" Your eyes move from side to side to make sure this wasn't some sort of prank. Nobody else was outside so it couldn't have been.
"Why not? You're pent up, I'm kind getting there." He shrugs, "Sometimes what people really need is a release."
It has been a while since you've gotten laid and Shen wasn't bad looking. It wasn't too weird either. Sure he was your boss, but you've also known him since your intern year. It was sleeping with a friend more so. You chew your lip as you think, "You know, I was trying to say I want to beat the fuck out you, right?"
"But you didn't. Consider it your subconscious sending you a signal. You're angry and pent up all the time." He smirks then steps closer, "You need to relax."
You narrow your eyes then smirk, "Maybe I do. You're place or mine?"
"Mine. After work, I'll text you the address."
"Good." You step back, "Just so you know, I don't go back on my word when I say it." You then turn on your heels and head back inside. He swallows the spit in his mouth and adjusts his scrubs pants before following after you.
After work, Shen shoots you a text before leaving through the bay doors. You finish your hand-off with the morning residents and head out the door. You head home to freshen up before going to Shen's place.
You knock on his door nervously debating if this was a good idea in your head. You made it this far, so why not go all the way. You chew on your bottom lip as the door swings open and Shen stands in the doorway with sweatpants and a blank t shirt on. "Welcome." He opens the door wider.
It was a large studio apartment. You look around expecting some red flag to turn you off but nothing springs up for you. You turn to face him, "Nice house."
"An apartment, actually." He corrects you.
"You always know every way to piss me off." You say through your teeth. You step closer to him, "Are you sure you want this?"
"Absolutely." He smirks. You hold his neck and kiss him roughly. He moans in surprise against your lips and moves his hands around your waist. His tongue slides into your mouth and you deepen the kiss.
You suck on his bottom lip and gently pull on it with your teeth. Shen pulls back and winces. You pulled some skin off his lip and it was bleeding now. You smirk and swipe the blood from his lip, "I told you, I was going to fuck the shit out of you."
"You said you didn't mean that."
"You're right, I meant I was going to beat you. Why not do both?" You snake your hand down to his chest over his heart. "I'm going to tire you out."
Shen licks his lips before pulling you in for a hungrier kiss. You moan into his mouth as his hands grip over your butt and squeezes your thighs. He holds you taut to his body. You can feel his hard-on against your thigh. You gasp, "Are you not wearing underwear?"
"Don't tell me you think it's gross. I bet you're not wearing either."
It was true, you weren't. Why bother if you were going to just get naked again. You roll your eyes and push him away. You walk over to his bed and pull off your sweatshirt, revealing you weren't wearing anything underneath. Shen's breath hitches as he stares at your breast. You smile and beckon him closer.
He walks to the bed and your push him into the mattress. You straddle his lap and grab one of his hands. His breath shakes as you place it on your breast. You moan as his hand squeezes your nipple.
You grind down in his lap as he does so. You lean down and lick over his neck leaving a mark. As one hand is playing with your nipple, Shen's other hand massages your ass, gripping it to grind back against you. You rake your hands through his hair and down his neck. You slide out of his lap and sit between his legs.
You pull down his pants and watch as his cock springs out. You lick your lips before kissing the head and sliding your tongue along the slit. You kiss down the shaft to his balls then with the flat of your tongue slide it back to the top.
Shen's abdomen tightens as he holds his breath and whimpers. When you put it in your mouth, a drawn out moan falls from his lips. He grips the sheets with one hand and the other finds the back of your head. Your jaw gives slack as you sink further.
"Oh fuck!" He throws his head back when he feels the back of your throat. His hips lift slightly but he stops himself. You let out a laugh through your nostrils before you begin to bob your head, getting his cock wet with your spit. Shen moans as you suck on the head every time you come up.
You liked hearing it. It started in a high tone and then it would fall into the bass of his normal voice in the end. It was strained like he was focused on something else. Like he was trying not to think about cumming. Your hand moves to his thigh then gently you grab his balls. You begin to massage them rubbing and fondling. His moans get higher and his toes curl at the sensation. He thrusts into your mouth, "Shit~ Shit~! I'm gonna cum~" He pants as his eyes squeeze shut.
With one final thrust he cums into your mouth and the back of your throat. He thrusts with the aftershocks and pulls out of your mouth. You swallow it, licking your lips and smile. Shen crawls back on to the bed. "That was amazing." He says breathily.
"It's cute that you think it's over." You remove your pants and uncover that you were not wearing underwear just as Shen thought. He smiles and sits back against his pillows. You straddle his lap and you put his cock on his stomach and rest your pussy lips on top. Slowly, you slide along the shaft causing Shen to hiss. It was clearing still sensitive from his recent orgasm.
"I was thinking I could just eat you out and finger you. Call it a day."
"You're not in charge right now, John."
The sound of his first name falling off your tongue goes straight from his ears to his cock. You feel it throb against you. You continue to move bracing yourself by putting your hand on the center of his chest. He whimpers at the feeling of the tip of his cock brushing against your clit. Your brows furrow as you focus.
Shen's hands move from your waist to your breasts massaging them gently. He can't control the sounds he's making as his cock gets harder. You remove his hands and put them back on your hips. You lean forward so you're face to face. You reach around behind you.
While making eye contact, you slide the head of his cock inside your entrance. You sigh as you push down further on his cock. Shen clenches his hands down around your waist as he pants. "You're so tight~" He says through is teeth, "I'm not gonna last."
"I don't want you to." You start to move.
Shen sinks deeper into the bed as you thrust. "Oh god~! Oh fuck~!" His back arches as he thrusts up into you. You moan with him as you rub your clit. Shen huffs as he watches.
He grabs your hand and stops you. "I want to take you there." He pulls out of you and moves you to the bed. You pout for a moment but you still try to get your way. You roll over and grab one of his pillows and place it under your abdomen. He gets behind you and teases your pussy with his cock before sliding it inside.
He begins to thrust into you, the sound of skin slapping together floods his apartment along with your moans. He hunches over and snakes his hand under you, slipping his fingers between your legs and rubbing your clit. He pants in your ear as your orgasm grows closer.
He slams into you so rough it sends shock waves up your spine. He wraps both arms around your waist as he goes. He moans in your ear and mutters, "I'm gonna cum~ Your pussy is so tight I'm not gonna last much longer. Cum with me~ Please cum with me."
You simply moan in response, you turn to capture his lips in a kiss. "Cum inside me~"
That seems to do the trick, with one final thrust, Shen cums inside you. He groans as he continues to rut. You orgasm soon after just before he pulls out. He lays beside you with his chest heaving.
You get out of his bed and head to his bathroom. Shen catches his breath, "That was nice right?"
"Yeah." You say curtly through the door of the bathroom.
"So, uh, I was thinking maybe some breakfast?"
"I can't." You come back out in different clothes then the ones you came in with, "I had fun but I've got to go."
"Oh, uh okay?" He wilts. You can't fight the smirk growing on your face.
"Maybe we could do this again sometime… Maybe." You collect your clothes and head to the door, "See you at work."
"See you…"
You look back and see the disappointed look on his face. You couldn't help but feel a bit of gratification. The ragebaiter has been successfully ragebaited.
while shen has his sugar fix, you chain smoke because you simply can't handle stupid people during the night shift. they tick you off so bad.
it doesn't help that shen gets on your nerves the entire shift. he says bs like "look on the bright side." or some other glass half full bs. you just stare at him dead in the face imagining the million ways you could kill him in the trauma room.
He teases you and gets on your nerves every chance he gets and you try to explode him with your mind.
it comes to a point where you finally say, "i'm gonna fuck the shit out of you!" he replies, "you promise?"
however what you meant to say was, "i'm going to beat the fucking shit out of you." but you were so angry the words jumbled in your brain.
so now, you are at his apartment and you are fucking the shit out of him.
i've tasted love and it tasted sweet (god's country) • jud duplenticy
pairing: father jud duplenticy x f!housekeeper!reader
series synopsis: after monsignor wicks’ mess, the church gets popular real fast. you assumed this housekeeping job would be easy enough, but nobody thought to tell you about the hot priest on site.
content: nsfw, 18+ minors dni, wake up dead man spoilers, he's in love your honour, religious guilt, jud justifying why he needs to fuck reader nasty style, two freaks obsessed with each other, corruption but he's really okay with it so probably ooc jud, lust in the house of god, making out, jud's a big big kisser, dry humping, oral f!receiving, fingering, unprotected piv, creampie, a hint of cockwarming, religion kink, college grad reader (not mentioned but implied in the series)
notes: hiiii everybody! thanks for being so patient with me, and for the love and support xoxo this is the final part, and i'm honestly blown away by the response. it's been so much fun, and i really enjoyed gettiing to write again even tho i didn't really have a plan for this series. apologies for any mistakes, it's 5am here T-T hope this chapter was worth the wait <3
disclaimer again that i respect all religions and this is entirely a work of fiction and i do apologise if i get anything wrong as i am not religious myself!
word count: 7.8k
read part one, two and three of 《 god’s country 》 here!
masterlist
as always, this is an 18+ blog, minors dni!
there’s a storm brewing in the distance when you pull up to the church for the start of your shift.
the morning starts downcast, and any hopes of the clouds breaking fizzle out by midday when you have to turn on all the lights in the main building just to avoid tripping over your feet, and not because it gets a little spooky when it’s dark.
it’s just as well that the ominous rumbling steadily closing in mirrors your sour mood.
jud’s avoiding you, and you just know it’s because you totally made him uncomfortable by coming on to him in the garage like that. it makes your heart twist in your chest to think that you fucked up so bad he thinks he has to hide.
the worst part is, you wouldn’t even have noticed, because even when he’s trying to avoid you, it’s in such a jud way. still too kind, too sparing of your feelings.
he still asks about your day, and nods periodically to let you know he’s listening, like always — nothing out of the ordinary.
until a lull in the conversation leads to you looking at him for a sustained five seconds. then he’s stammering a half-assed reason on why he has to leave, hightailing it out the door with the tips of his ears bright red.
but you could chalk that up to jud being in a rush yet still making time for you, even with so much on his plate. besides, he’d listened so attentively despite being unable to meet your eyes. surely, he was just busy.
he’s missing at lunch. the kitchen in the rectory is empty when you get inside, even though he’s always made it a point to align his schedule with yours. you find the note he leaves, stuck to the fridge door with a sacred heart magnet — rain check on lunch? duty calls :)
but why would jud lie? he’s never had a reason to, so it’s easy enough to tell yourself it’s fine. the first time, at least.
the next time gives you pause. jud has cleared out from the nave with suspicious efficiency before you can arrive to tidy up. the place is spotless, not even a crumb of communion on the altar. maybe you’re later than you realised, and he’d just cleaned up while waiting? but a glance at the time easily shoots down the flimsy attempt at rationalisation. you spend the rest of the day overanalysing every interaction you’ve had with jud, and it always ends up in the damned garage and your hand on his arm.
it’s really only by the end of today, when you’re on your way out, that these barely-formed suspicions are confirmed and transformed into a full-blown, gut-twisting guilt.
the sky is a grim shade of grey that bleeds into everything else. the rain gets heavier as soon as you step outside, threatening to soak into your socks — the least of your problems.
you’ve just gotten to your car, distracted by another day without jud offering to walk you out. as you stand there, fishing through your bag for your keys, there’s a flash of movement — slow and dark, just out of the corner of your eye.
instinctively, your head tips back to look. raindrops pelt at your cheeks, even with the church-loaned umbrella (jud’s) as you follow the blur all the way up to jud’s attic room. there, in the miniature stained glass window, is the face of none other than the father in question.
it’s dark enough that you need to squint, and the relentless sheet of rain is like static in your vision, but even with only the dim lamplight emitting from his room, jud is unmistakable.
on a good day, just seeing the shape of his back makes your heart stutter in your chest. finally catching a glimpse after two whole days of missing him sends a jolt down your spine, a feeling so palpable it makes you freeze in place as you stare, lips parted on an inhale.
the window obscures half of jud’s face, but what you can see — pinched brows, lips downturned as he worries it between his teeth.
his blue-green eyes look almost black from where you’re standing, and while the shadows cutting across his scruffy jaw make him look more stern than you’ve ever seen him, he doesn’t look angry.
no, you realise as he drags a hand over his mouth. he’s thinking. you know that pensive look, how his eyes tend to narrow and the creases in his forehead deepen as he gets further lost in thought.
that should make you feel better, knowing that jud’s not glaring through his bedroom window as you drive off.
you watch him watch you, and the weight in your chest pulls tight when something in his eyes shifts. the whites of his eyes become visible when they widen, comically large. even though you can’t hear it from the ground, you can make out the beginnings of his startled “oh, shit” just as he stumbles back from the window.
whatever bubble of relief you’d felt pops, right then and there. his silhouette gone entirely. the guilt and shame returns tenfold, making a home in the pit of your belly.
you don’t stay much longer after that.
—
he could’ve asked you to stay.
fuck. he should’ve asked you to stay.
the television in the living room is alive with the ongoing report on the storm landing in the area. jud has to turn up the volume just to hear past the drum of rain.
his cheeks had still been flushed from his blunder upstairs when he made it to the front steps, barely catching your taillights as you pulled off the property into the dark. he had half the mind to chase after you, on his bike and everything, but a window slamming shut somewhere in the house had jolted him back to reality.
he’s still dripping from when he’d rushed through the woods to close up the church, but the small puddle forming on the rug is inconsequential when it really dawns on him that you shouldn’t be driving in this weather.
a pang of frustration flares in jud’s chest — where did this storm even come from, anyway? if not for the torrential downpour, he might’ve been able to stop you before you drove off. then he could’ve apologised for gawking at you through the window like a creep.
but jud knows he’s not really pissed off at the rain. if he were you, he too would drive far, far away from the pervert priest who looks up your skirt and stares at you through windows.
jud buries his face in his hands as a wave of dizziness hits him with how tight his gut twists at the memory of it. he wrenches his mind away from anything relating to you since he’s proven to himself he cannot be trusted with it.
so he decides to keep busy, roaming through the house to triple check the windows and doors, before the paradoxical shame of his lack of it can make him keel over on the spot.
—
he’s only just slipped a dry shirt over his head when the knock comes.
three taps, and then silence. it’s a little eerie, and jud knows better than to let his imagination run wild, but he swears he’s seen a horror movie exactly like this.
the compassionate side of his brain outweighs the caution because what if it’s someone who got turned around in the woods, or someone hurt?
jud’s pulling the door open before he can think to brace himself for an axe-wielding killer.
he should’ve braced a little though, because the sight of you there on his doorstep — soaked to the bone with your wet hair plastered to your face — actually punches the air out of his lungs.
“i’m sorry,” your voice cracks, shoulders caving from the weight of your wet clothes. “i know you’re mad at me and you have every right but my- my car broke down and there’s a tree in the road and i didn’t know where else to go—“
jud can practically hear his heart shatter from the shakiness of your voice. your chin wobbles, and when he looks past your shoulder, he hopes against all hopes that your car will somehow manifest into existence because he can’t bear the thought of you walking through this storm. all the while he’d been safe and in warm shelter, standing there like an idiot debating whether to call you.
“jesus,” jud sucks in a breath through his teeth when you visibly shiver. “c’mere.”
he draws you into his chest with an arm hooked over your shoulder. doesn’t care that his fresh set of clothes are getting wet. his other arm winds around your waist, effectively locking you against him.
the relief is instant, the way you melt into his warmth. your cheek is pressed to his sternum — you can hear his heartbeat like this.
his long fingers stroke over the curve of your shoulder, as he speaks, lips just barely brushing over your hairline. “‘m not mad,” he murmurs, “could never be mad at you, angel.”
jud is almost bewildered by how you’d think that, but he finds himself reduced to the base instinct of needing desperately to make you feel better.
your head lifts, glassy eyes searching his, and when you find no deceit — that he’s not just lying for your benefit — your face crumples, because you simply don’t deserve him.
“hey,” jud’s voice is soft, and he has to try really hard to not smile at how you feel in his arms considering your tears are falling freely now. one hand comes to cradle your cheek, catching the tears in their tracks.
you sniffle, momentarily distracted by how his hand covers the entire side of your face. “are you sure you’re not mad? you’re not just saying that?”
jud can’t stop the soft laugh that escapes his chest. “promise i’m not mad,” he shakes his head, smiling to himself because he’s the farthest thing from it. “we can talk about that later, okay? let’s get you warm first.”
and part of you is still unconvinced, because he’s confirmed there is something to talk about. but he leads you up the stairs with his hand in yours, and he doesn’t let go, even as you come to a stop in front of his room.
you don’t have time to hesitate, nor do you even need to glance up at jud for his assent before he pulls you over the threshold, and there it is.
you don’t even bother trying to hide how you look around, taking in the space entirely his. the coat rack with a single coat, the empty duffle shoved underneath it, the pictures he’s stuck on the wall next to his bed.
you come to a stop in the centre of his room — sitting on his bed feels… overzealous.
jud’s eyes squint when he gives you a reassuring smile before he turns, letting you snoop in peace as he rifles through the small wardrobe.
it hits you then you’ve never actually seen jud in… normal clothes. the all-black is nice — you’d be the last to argue it isn’t — but something about the way his t-shirt sleeves pull tight across shoulders, and how the thin grey fabric does so little to hide the rippling of his back. his sweats hanging low on his hips, drawstring lopsided — it’s the most relaxed you’ve ever seen him.
he turns back to you with a stack of clothes in his hand and a towel in the other.
“i hope you don’t mind,” jud says, and he knows he could probably dig up something better fitting in the church basement, something that doesn’t belong solely to him, but, alas, the rain.
you shake your head, eyes still wide from trying to take everything in, like this is the last time you’ll be in this room. you’re glad he doesn’t know just how much you don’t mind.
“thank you, jud,” you tell him, moving to take the stack of fabric from him. your fingers brush his, and when you look up, his eyes are already on you. the intensity nearly makes you flinch, fingers tightening around the clothes just as he blinks quickly, jerking his hands back.
“sorry- i’ll, uh, i’ll be downstairs,” jud stutters, and nearly bumps into the doorframe in his haste to leave, cheeks dusted in a familiar shade of pink.
you’re left alone in his room with a stack of his clothes in hand, and the thought that maybe you should’ve just stayed in your car. but he’d held you against him so easily, and it had felt so right to be cradled against his chest.
his hand on yours, big and warm as he pulled you through the halls of his home, as if you didn’t know the place inside and out already.
and now you’re about to strip down and put on his clothes, in his room. and you know it’s wrong, so wrong, but you send up a thanks to god for the storm.
—
jud busies himself in the kitchen, working on autopilot as he flicks on the kettle and prepares your tea the way he remembers you like it.
he’s standing there, watching the water boil when the soft padding of footsteps come up behind him. you’re still blotting your hair dry with the towel, but you’re mostly dried and your cheeks have been washed of the mascara tracks.
now that jud knows you’re safe and sound, he should be relieved, but standing there, with a mug in hand, he feels as if he’s walked right into a trap of his own making.
you, in his clothes, nearly fells father jud.
god, and he’d hand-picked the clothes too — his old sleep shirt, worn thin from use and gingham boxers. the sleeves fall nearly to your elbows, and the collar’s long been stretched loose, revealing the dip where your neck meets your shoulder.
he should be better than this. jud curses whatever remnant caveman dna is making his mind go blank at the idea of you wearing him, smelling like him-
“tea?” jud chokes out, holding the mug out in a last-ditch effort of keeping himself from you at arms length.
mercifully, and to his disappointment, you take it from him – this time without your hands touching. he catches the edges of a smile across the steam billowing in front of your face, and when you turn towards the den, he’s following like a dog with a bone.
you settle on one end of the couch, and jud tucks his large frame into the other end, pointedly leaving a respectable gap between his leg and your bare one. jud doesn’t let himself linger on the sight of your soft skin, just curls his fingers into the fabric of his sweats and waits, because by now he knows it’s not a matter of if, but when.
your nail absentmindedly traces the lip of your mug. you pretend to watch the news for a little, trying to remember the words you’d practiced in the car, but with every shift in his seat, your attention flickers over to jud.
he perks up when your throat finally clears, and you set the mug down on the coffee table. he follows your every move, in the hopes he can get a better sense of what you’re thinking.
you twist to face him directly, leg bending as you scoot just the slightest bit closer in the guise of settling in. jud mirrors you, leaning his side into the couch as his arm come up to rest along the back. bridging the distance, yet still so far away.
“jud,” you start, and it feels a little pathetic how he wants to sigh at the sound of his name from your lips.
“i should apologise. i know you’ve been avoiding me–” you shoot him a look when his face scrunches, sheepish as his mouth opens to protest. “– i know you have, and i know why.”
jud’s heart drops to the depths of hell. do you know? did you overhear him in his bedroom that day? his face pales, mortified at the notion that you’ve been forced to work in proximity with your utterly corrupt priest every day since.
“you do?” jud’s voice is weak, dread filling his lungs.
“it was so wrong of me to corner you in the garage like that!” you blurt, hands coming up to cover your face, “-especially after you helped me with the ladder, and said all those kind things about me. i’m so sorry, jud, i was being completely inappropriate.”
jud’s mouth falls open, and the repenting on the tip of his tongue dissolves into thin air. his head tilts, eyes narrowing only slightly as your words sink in.
you’re frowning, hands wrung in your lap as your gaze fixes on his shirt, all too self-conscious to look him square in the face after naming the elephant in the room. all the while you’re none the wiser to the hiccuping delight spreading in jud’s gut because he thinks you might be the sweetest thing he’s ever seen.
this whole time, you’ve been worried you were inappropriate?
if only to assuage your guilt, he has the sudden urge to tell you the reason he’d had to avoid you in the kitchen every day was because all he could think of in there was pressing you against the counter and kissing you stupid. among other things.
like how he couldn’t be in the nave alone with you because it would’ve felt too raw, like picking at a fresh wound for him to be thinking of you in all the ways he shouldn’t under the watchful eye of christ on the cross.
jud worried it would’ve felt more sinful to deny these thoughts in front of him. because if the lord had put you in his path, not as a test, but as a blessing, would it be worse to turn away from the gift, than into it?
jud catches himself before he can lay it all out, even thought he knows he should. the only way out is through, this much he knows. it’s only his luck that his way out is staring up at him with watery eyes and a pink, guilt-ridden pout.
“it’s okay,” jud soothes, low and gentle like approaching a wounded animal.
your head shakes, sniffling as you protest, “it’s not okay. you’re a priest, i should know better, and- and this is your home! if i’m making you uncomfortable you have every right to fire me, or-“
“woah, hey,” jud can’t help it, he shifts closer down the length of the couch, hands coming over yours as they wave frantically through your spiral. “i’m not going to fire you. take a breath with me, c’mon.”
you follow as jud’s chest expands on a deep inhale. on the exhale, the weight of his hands on yours hits you, and your fingers curl tighter into him.
“that’s good,” he smiles, “listen to me for a second, okay?”
when you nod, albeit reluctantly, he sweeps a thumb over your knuckles in reward.
“i’m not mad,” jud tells you, with all the certainty in the world. your shoulders drop a little as relief starts to take hold.
“you didn’t make me… uncomfortable, either.” jud shakes his head. quite the opposite, he thinks, and feels his ears burn in consequence. he tries to conjure the right word for what exactly you made him feel — everything comes up too simple. no single word to explain how he’s been kept up for nights on end because he can’t stop replaying every conversation he’s had with you. how can just one word describe the devout, pathetically hopeful way he scans the pews at every service, hoping to see your face among the rest, even when he knows he won’t?
jud’s always considered himself a man of faith. faith in himself to pull himself out of the ring, all blood and teeth and gore; faith in the lord to embrace him when he least deserves it. and now, with your hand in his, he believes in his very core that the decision he’s making is the right one.
“i should be the one apologising.”
your brows furrow as your expression quickly grows puzzled. you can’t imagine he’s done anything to you to warrant an apology.
“i haven’t been honest,” jud’s voice is uncharacteristically small, and you lean in to hear him better because god forbid you miss a single word. your fingers squeeze his, as though urging him to spill his deepest secrets. if you asked, he would.
“about what?”
the question lands like a punch. jud knows how to take one, but this one feels like there’s no getting back up from it.
your heart is hammering hard and fast in your chest. a hopeful thread begins to unfurl somewhere deep, and the rational part of your brain that screams to not get ahead of yourself, to expect disappointment, is smothered by jud’s thigh bumping into yours. when had you gotten so close?
jud’s chin dips, steeling himself with a breath as the last vestiges of sense lose its grip on him.
“since the day i met you, i’ve been lying through my teeth,” truth pours from him, and he feels himself getting lighter with every word that escapes.
“to you, and to myself. and i’m tired,” jud laughs quietly, because damn, does it feel good to finally breathe his feelings to life.
you’re only slightly concerned, just for a moment, that he could be building to something bad, because it sounds bad. but then—
“i’m tired of pretending i’m not in love with you.”
your ears ring with the confession. love, love, love. jud is in love. jud is in love with you. your head swims as his face softens, lines smoothed in relief. he sits a little taller, filling out his end of the couch as the weight visibly leaves his shoulders.
it’s only when one moment passes into another, and you’re still rooted to your spot, eyes wide and darting all over his face that he begins to feel a little worry.
his hand drags against yours, half like he’s trying to snap you out of it and a little too much like he’s pulling back. both your hands fly to keep him where he is, cradled in your lap.
his eyes flicker up to your face, where you’ve thawed and your mouth is moving with barely-formed sentences.
“you- this whole time? when did- are you-” you stumble over the words, and jud lets you with an perpetual fondness that he’s only now freely letting show.
“are you sure?” you manage, searching for any hesitation in the man sitting before you, knee tucked against yours, letting you take his hand hostage.
jud’s face brightens in a grin, laughing like it’s the easiest question in the world. “yes, i’m sure.”
the corners of your lips droop, unable to stop the doubt from creeping in, even with how quick he’d been to answer. and you really don’t want to ask, afraid to pop the lovesick bubble you’ve found yourself in, but no part of you wants jud to suffer in the face of your actions.
“what about…” your hand waves weakly towards the ceiling.
before he can think better of it, jud’s arm resting on the back of the couch lifts, coming to cup your cheek instead. makes it so you can’t look away when he sighs your name, soft around the edges.
“the lord knows what i feel,” jud tells you, voice hushed but firm with certainty. it reminds you of when he’s up in the pulpit, speaking with gentle conviction. “i’ve asked for signs, for guidance, and every single time, there you are.”
you worry your lip as the possibilities bounce around your head. he could be defrocked, excommunicated, shunned from the community he’s spent so long cultivating. everything he has, put on the line for you.
but he doesn’t seem worried, not the way you are. he looks at you with the peace of a man who’s made up his mind, regardless of the consequences.
like he can read your mind, he lowers his face, all that much closer to yours, and murmurs, “whatever happens to me, it’ll have been worth it.”
nobody could blame you for surrendering. not when the pad of his thumb pulls at your bottom lip, smoothing over the indents left by your teeth. his forehead presses to yours, slow, like you might bolt if he moves any faster.
“i don’t want you to regret this,” you whisper. to regret me.
jud’s head shakes — the barest turn of his face that nudges his nose against yours. you shudder on an inhale as his breath warms your lips.
the last thing you see is jud’s lashes fluttering as his eyes shut, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips before he speaks. “never going to happen.”
your lips quirk on the ghost of a laugh. for a moment, neither of you move. the house is still, and even the rain seems to have calmed, if only to hear the shared breaths in the space between waiting lips.
you’ll never be able to tell who closed the gap, but does it really matter, when jud’s mouth is finally on yours? his lips press into yours softly, as if he’s scared of getting it wrong. just a little self-conscious, because he’s more than a little out of practice.
but you’re moving with him, falling into it — easy as breathing. that’s all he needs. he kisses you like it’s the only thing that makes sense anymore. pulling you in with a hand on the side of your neck, your pulse jumps under his digits with every slot of his lips between yours.
your hands lift from your lap, finding a new home in jud’s hair. fingers curling against his scalp, his mouth opens against you with a groan. to his utter delight, you waste no time in licking into his open mouth, tongue sliding against his as you shuffle closer.
braced on your knee, you lean over jud like this, and he’s quick to grab you by the waist to haul you into his lap. he doesn’t even bother with the pretense of pulling away — not when you’re practically melting into him, lips soft and wet and tasting like a fucking dream. jud’s dignity disintegrated the second he saw you in his clothes, and now he’s greedy, tugging at you like he can’t get enough.
“jud,” you sigh, settling your weight comfortably atop his strong thighs. his lips chase yours, and he manages to sneak two kisses before you’re parting again. blue eyes blink open at the lack of you, but when he’s met with the sight of you atop him, panting and lips swollen, his mind goes blank.
“say it again,” your request follows your fingers lacing at the nape of his neck. jud looks up at you, eyes glazed and blinking slow. his answering smile is content, and just a little too pleased.
“‘m in love with you.” jud murmurs, and before he can finish his sentence, you’re descending upon him again.
his own hands draw a lazy path up and down your sides, less frantic than he had been just moments ago. he wonders briefly if this is a dream, because it wouldn’t be the first time. he kisses you slow and deep, memorising the taste of you just in case it is. jud thinks he could do this forever.
your hips shift just so, and the flimsy boxers do little to disguise the growing hardness beneath you. you feel more than hear jud’s sharp inhale, the sound adding to the heat stirring in your core. his fingers grip at your hips, locking you firmly in place so he can grind up. his head is thrown back, a shameful moan tearing from his throat as his semi nudges at you through the layers of fabric.
“shit-” jud’s voice cracks when you offer one in return, hips drawing slow circles if only to coax more of those sounds out of him. the seam of your boxers nudges at your clit when you drag yourself along his length just right, and you’re whimpering into his ear as you lower your chest to his.
“jud,” you pant, unabashedly riding your priest through his clothes. he chokes back a sigh at the breathy sigh of his name, and slips his fingers up the back of your shirt.
“you’re sure about this?” you ask again, dizzy with the effort it takes to form a coherent sentence as your inner thighs grow sticky.
jud nearly whines, a huff of exasperation as his hardened cock juts into your thigh. “yes,” his big hands span the length of your spine, and you actually feel him twitch when he realises you’re not wearing a bra under his shirt. “you don’t feel how sure i am?”
your eyes roll, capturing his lips with yours once more. when you part, jud’s eyes sober for a moment as he catches your chin, and asks earnestly, “do you want this?”
your fingers play with his hair at the nape of his neck as you pretend to mull it over. jud’s face scrunches at your exaggerated expressions, because if he still can’t tell, then you’ll just have to show him. you tell him as much, pecking him once. “i want you, jud.”
the smile that breaks across jud’s face is like the sun. he carries you up the stairs, and you have to hide the way the easy display of strength has your cheeks heating.
jud’s bedroom door is kicked open, just as your lips latch onto his neck, tracing the tattoo with your tongue the way you’ve always wanted. his grip on you tightens, digging into the backs of your thighs when he feels the light drag of teeth against the sensitive skin.
you finally get to see the tattoo in its entirety, now that jud’s out of his clerical collar. the cherub and its devil counterpart, serendipity inked underneath. jud shivers when you make a happy sort of hum, because serendipity is exactly it. moving back home, taking the job nobody else wanted — it all led you here, straight through those church doors and into jud’s arms.
something possessive swirls in your heart when you’re struck by the desire to leave your mark alongside the permanent. lips sealing just under the angel, you suck at his neck until he whines, or bruises — whichever happens first.
you hadn’t noticed when jud lowered you onto his bed. it smells like him, clean and soft with the mingling of his soap and the old spice deodorant sitting on the nightstand. you shuffle back to give jud space, but the man lowers onto his knees. you’re rendered speechless at the sight of him knelt between your thighs.
“will you let me make you feel good?” jud all but whispers, cheek pressed to the inside of your knee. his pupils have taken over the pretty blue-greens you so love, reverent gaze entirely darkened as he peers up, faltering at your covered core. it makes you clench around nothing, watching him try to drag his eyes up to yours only to flicker back down.
“please.” it comes out a little desperate, and when jud doesn’t move, you think for a split second to be embarrassed. until his entire chest heaves with a deep moan, and presses his face into the inside of your thigh. he leaves a lingering kiss there, murmuring under his breath — thank you, thank you, thank you.
his hands slide up your legs, smiling at the gooseflesh that follows. he finds your eyes, glassy and hopeful, when his fingers tug at the leg of your boxers. “can i take these off?”
your hips lift in response, and he muffles a grateful chuckle that sends heat to your face. “always so helpful,” he hums. the fabric is tossed somewhere behind him, and your head goes fuzzy with anticipation. jud’s warm breaths fan over your core, entranced.
his head dips, and then his mouth is on you. glides his tongue up your folds, and jud thinks he’s died and gone to heaven because you taste better than he ever dreamed. tells you exactly that with his brows pulled tight, muffled by how he can’t seem to drag himself away from your weeping pussy.
he suckles at your clit, and smiles to himself when your hips lift off the bed. any worries of his inexperience quashed as your heavy breaths delve into drawn-out keening. jud eats at you like a man starved, drawing out more of your slick and those pretty moans.
“s’fucking sweet,” he’s practically purring into your pussy, vibrations shooting up your spine when he groans at the feel of your fingers winding through his hair and tugging.
“fuck,” you choke on a moan when that familiar heat begins to stir in your tummy. your head lifts to say something, anything to warn him, but whatever words on the tip of your tug die on a gasp when the tip of jud’s finger sinks inside and curls.
the cry of his name is cracked and utterly broken.
“there?”
you can practically hear the cheeky smirk in his voice and nudge him admonishingly with your knee. he does it again, and your walls clamping down around him is answer enough.
jud doesn’t even need to look to know there’s a growing wet patch on the front of his sweats. it feels so fucking right to be exactly on his knees for you, drinking you in — not even god could drag him away now.
“jud, i think ‘m gonna-”
he pulls away only long enough to say, “let me have it, honey.” he leaves a sweet kiss at your hipbone, mouth shining in the dim lamplight. “please cum for me.”
when you do, you can barely tell apart the rain outside from the rushing in your ears. jud clutches at your hips when your back arches, instinctively trying to move away from the source of your blinding pleasure but he doesn’t let up. lapping at your release with a grateful sigh, he rides you through your high until you’re tugging his head away with your nails in his scalp.
jud looks entirely pussydrunk — dazed eyes, hair mussed, mouth and chin glistening with you and those signature red-tipped ears. his tongue darts out, tasting the remnants of you and wanting more.
“was that- did i do okay?”
you watch, bewildered, as jud rubs at the back of his neck — the same man that had you clawing at his sheets. your hands cover your face, because you can’t stop the giggle bubbling in your chest.
“i’ll take that as a compliment,” jud pulls your hands away with a grin, and face-to-face again, suddenly you’re shy. cheeks blazing, you pull his face to yours and kiss him hard, if only so he doesn’t get the chance to tease you.
you can taste yourself on him, licking into his mouth for more. jud sighs, content to just lay atop you like this and kiss you for hours.
his mind is quickly changed when your hand starts a path down, palming at his cock through his sweats. jud’s mouth drops open, physically unable to keep up with kissing as you loosen the drawstrings and slide under the waistband.
jud pulses in your grip, skin so feverish and soft as you give him an experimental squeeze. his breath stutters as his body draws tight, like he’s bracing for a hit.
your thumb glides over his tip, and the reaction is instant. jud flinches with a surprised groan, head falling into the crook of your neck to hide the way his face tightens at the building pleasure, all from your hand alone. his stubble tickles, but the wet breaths he’s gasping against your jugular is worth it.
you stroke him slow and long with one hand, the other coming up to card through his messy locks. “what do you want, jud?” you whisper, lips brushing his ear while his hips twitch with little thrusts. “-hm? we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”
maybe it’s something about the tone of your voice. how you’re cooing at him as you cradle his head to your neck, so tender and patient even as he fucks into your hand. jud’s brain goes static, images of everything he does want to do flashing before his eyes. but he knows he doesn’t want to cum like this, with only your hand and layers of clothes separating you.
so he lifts his head, kisses you once and presses his forehead to yours. “i want all of you.”
“you have me.”
something in the air shifts. jud moves against you, still hungry but lacking the hurry, the greed. hearing you say it out loud makes something click in his brain, slows him down. like this, with you in his bed and the storm outside, he can fool himself into thinking he has all the time in the world.
his shirt comes off, and he lets you trace the tattoo across his chest, run your fingers down the planes of his abdomen. in turn, your hands raise for jud to drag the shirt up and over your head.
“you’re so beautiful,” he breathes, lowering his lips to your sternum and kisses his path down. savours the low mewl he earns when he drags a nipple into his wet mouth, and another when he flicks the other between calloused fingertips.
“jud,” now you’re the impatient one, shoving at the band of his sweats as he stays blissfully lost in your chest, sucking lovebites into the tops of your tits. mumbling more to himself, “been dreaming ‘bout this.”
jud hums placatingly at the call of his name, distracted, oblivious to your struggle to not flip him over and have your way. you push up on your heels in search of friction. trying again, this time lacing your plea with a needy whine. “jud.”
“yeah, baby?”
“are you going to fuck me or not?”
it’s bratty enough for jud to pinch your side — not hard, just enough to make you arch even further into him with a surprised yelp,
“i was getting to that,” he tells you with a soft laugh, and finally kicks off his sweats. his cock, flushed an angry red hangs heavy against his thigh. on top of everything else, jud is big.
the sight of all of him bare steals your breath. his body tells a story, scars and ink and lithe muscles coming together to form the man kneeling over you now — your jud. kind, sweet, good jud duplenticy.
he tries his best not to blush, but it’s hard not to when your eyes are roaming over every exposed inch of him. nobody’s looked at him like this in years, and he’d wholly believed nobody would again.
“you’re perfect, jud,” you say it like it’s a fact. he shakes his head, smiling as he looks away, like you’ve just told him something funny. that only strengthens your resolve.
“hey, i mean it,” frowning slightly at his albeit gorgeous side profile, “look at me.”
jud follows obediently, fondly. leans into it when your palm comes up to cup his cheek, your thumb stroking under his eye.
“i love you,” you say, because you want him to know. if within these walls, now, is the only time you get to be with jud, you need him to know.
jud’s head lowers in the softest kiss you’ve shared so far. it’s chaste, and somehow feels like the first ever. jud pours all his heart into it — he’s always been better with action than with words. he thinks about every time his heart’s stuttered because of you, the hours he’d counted until he could see you again, and seals each silent confession with a kiss.
the weight of jud’s body above yours is grounding, because with the way he’s parting your lips with his tongue, you feel like you might actually float. the tension in the room thickens, the sloppy sounds of his kisses reaching your ears.
you’re all too aware of his length between your bodies, slotted by the seam of your inner thigh. he’s so warm, and coats your skin in slick — you don’t think he even realises how he’s rutting against your leg, too engrossed in tasting your spit.
“want you inside,” you pull away for breath, murmuring against his open mouth. his cock twitches on your thigh, and you can see the moment it all hits jud. he thinks there’s something magic about your lips, because the throbbing between his legs returns tenfold the second he’s separated from you.
“mmph- shit,” jud bites his lip to muffle the surprised moan when your leg shifts and his length comes to rest atop your mound. his tip nudges at your clit, and just the slightest contact reduces you to near tears. you’re so wet it hurts, and the sight of his leaking cock so close to where you need him has you clenching around nothing in anticipation.
“please, oh my god, jud,” you cry, chasing the sensation with your hips, “need you– pleasepleaseplease.”
jud’s head clears, tunnel-visioned on how you need him, and how he can make it better. driven by the primal need to take care of you. he nods soothingly, smoothing the sweaty strands of hair out of your face and parting your thighs to slot himself between them.
“don’t have to beg, angel, i got you,” he hums, taking his length in hand and notching it at your entrance. he watches you for any hesitation, and when you call out for him again, he pushes in — slow, for both your benefit.
the stretch is intense, even with your first orgasm. but jud is moaning, loud and unabashed in your ear, and you can feel yourself getting wetter — with each broken whimper, the deeper he sinks.
“oh, god,” jud’s voice trembles when his gaze lowers to where you end and he begins. eyes the way your lips stretch to take him, and the next thrust is involuntary, driving himself almost all the way to the hilt. “you feel so good-”
your fingers fly to his biceps, digging your nails in as he carves a space for himself within you. he’s so big, you feel his blunt cockhead nudging at the spot inside that you’ve always struggled to reach yourself. he watches you go speechless, eyes rolled back into your head.
“taking me so well, honey,” jud whispers, head falling to your collarbone with a guttural groan when he bottoms out. he can feel you pulsing around him, and the gripping wet heat makes him falter before he can even begin to move.
“i’m sorry, i- it’s been a while. don’t think i’ll last long,” jud whines, breathing hard as your nails trail down his shoulder blades. he shudders, and his hips roll experimentally. the drag out makes him see stars, the way your pussy clings to him like you don’t want him to go.
“it’s okay,” you reassure him. a gush of wetness soaks his cock at the image, and jud thinks you really are an angel.
his thrusts start slow, shallow thrusts that give him a fighting chance. when your thighs twitch, he lifts them to his waist. it pulls him in further, and as each thrust grows quicker, harder, your breathing grows more ragged.
jud swears freely under his breath, drawing you up in his arms as he locks you against his chest.
“mhmm- like that,” you whimper, face smushed against his shoulder. he hits that spot with every push inside, and the sticky sounds of his balls hitting your ass makes your ears burn.
“shit- i’m close, so close- i’m sorry,” jud whimpers, sniffling as he actually goes a little misty-eyed from how good it feels. he’s trying so fucking hard not to cum before he can get you there again, but you’re not making it easy with how you keep panting his name like it’s the only thing you can think of.
his fingers drop to your clit, rubbing tight circles in a last-ditch attempt as he feels his orgasm closing in on him. you’re drooling on his shoulder as you jolt, bucking in time with his staccato thrusts.
jud moves to pull out, but your legs stay locked tight around his waist. his brows pinch in panic, but he doesn’t stop. “baby, i have to- need to pull out-”
your head shakes, a hair away from tipping over the edge yourself. staring up at him with tears in your eyes, so, so close. “inside,” you whimper, “‘m safe. want to feel you fill me up.”
jud’s vision goes white, burying himself as deep as he can go when he cums, releasing rope after rope into you. you’re all too happy to soak it all up, milking it out of him as your orgasm hits in quick succession. your back arches, nails cutting into his shoulders as you cling onto him for dear life.
he moans sharp and raw, riding out the aftershocks with gentle thrusts, pushing his release deeper inside your womb as you shudder below him. it all gets too much, and his arms give out, bringing his chest to yours.
the remaining air in your lung whooshes out of you, because jud is heavier than he looks. he laughs, equally breathless. he rolls off of you, still nestled in your heat as he drags you atop him.
“hi,” you grin, leaning in to kiss him, relaxed and familiar. he smiles into it, running a soothing hand up and down your back.
“hello,” jud chuckles. you’re both sweaty, and more than a little sticky, but neither of you can even fathom moving right now.
“that was fun,” you hum, tucking your chin under his as his arms curl around your waist. jud huffs in amusement, lips pressed to your hair.
“that’s one way to put it,” jud’s chest rumbles, and it’s so comfortable like this, curled under the covers, you feel your eyelids drooping against your will.
he thinks you’ve fallen asleep, and lets himself blatantly stare. he still can’t believe this is real, a little scared to fall asleep in case it really is all just a dream. he wonders if he could go back to before, when having you like this was nothing but a doomed, sinful fantasy.
jud gets his answer when you mumble, “have to get my car.” words jumbled together as you fight the edges of sleep, he knows there’s no going back.
“i’ll take care of it,” he promises.
jud must drift off too, because the next time he wakes, the room is cloaked in darkness. you’re still clinging to him, out cold and snoring softly. it’s still raining, and the world is still turning. he thanks god for the path created for him, and with an angel holding his heart in her hands, jud thinks he’s where he was always meant to be.
don't sink in me with your dog teeth (god’s country) • jud duplenticy
pairing: father jud duplenticy x f!housekeeper!reader
series synopsis: after monsignor wicks’ mess, the church gets popular real fast. you assumed this housekeeping job would be easy enough, but nobody thought to tell you about the hot priest on site.
content: nsfw, 18+ minors dni, wake up dead man spoilers, falling in love type shit, a lot of this is in jud’s pov, religious guilt, corruption but he's okay with it (kind of), lust in the house of god, accidental upskirt moment, teasing, m!masturbation, ruhroh a priest jerks off in this one, religion kink, college grad reader (not mentioned but implied in the series)
notes: UM did i rewatch the epilogue and realise the timing in this fic is totally off? why yes! pretend u don’t notice! i'm so so so grateful for all the comments on the previous chapters, and i hope you like this one too! apologies as i edge reader and jud for yet another chapter - i was going to fit the last chapter into this one, but with everything going on ik i probably won't be able to work on the next for a while. disclaimer again that i respect all religions and this is entirely a work of fiction and i do apologise if i get anything wrong as i am not religious myself!
word count: 4.6k
read part one and two of 《 god’s country 》 here!
masterlist
as always, this is an 18+ blog, minors dni!
people start talking by your second month at the church – the mystery young woman loitering into the late hours, particularly friendly with the priest and worst of all, never in attendance at sunday mass.
for all their talk of attendance, you’ve probably spent more time than any of the congregation listening to father jud. you’ve seen him, shoulders hunched and head dipped low as he drafts notes for the week’s sermons.
sometimes he asks if you’ll listen, give him a few pointers — he says it’s good to get an ‘unbiased third opinion’. tries to convince himself, all the while, that the jump in his pulse when you readily agree is entirely unrelated to getting to spend uninterrupted time with you.
(“you don’t think it sounds too… preachy?”)
(“just the right amount, actually.”)
jud doesn’t ask why you’re never among the faces lining the pews, and he doesn’t expect you to tell him. he extends the invitation, anyway.
“well, you’re always welcome,” he reminds you, and because he already knows your answer, he’ll quickly add, “if you ever feel like it.”
he never pushed, but with him sitting you down almost every sunday to go over his pile of talking points, two mugs of steaming coffee between you as you watch him come alive rehearsing the important bits in the warm evening light, you think you’re starting to get the appeal.
—
the congregation is nothing if not nosy, and when he has to reassure yet another elderly couple that no, that is not an unholy spirit disappearing into the supply closet, he decides enough is enough.
the first sunday mass of summer is a busy one. for a lot of people, it’ll be their first with jud, and he really, really wants to make a good impression. he spends the night before pacing in his attic room (he has his choice of rooms in the rectory now, but something about the simple, unassuming space feels right), muttering quotes and openings and closings under his breath.
it feels like half the town is packed into the pews — more than he’d anticipated. up in the pulpit, jud’s hands clench tight around the pages of his worn bible as he looks out at all the faces — some familiar, some new — and then down at the single cue card he’d prepared.
a smiley face drawn in the top left corner, and squished in the margins is your handwriting — you’re gonna nail it!
he runs a finger over the ink, tracing over the ridges left by the pen, by your hand. he can practically hear the way you would’ve laughed at your own joke as you put it to paper.
it crosses his mind a second too late that he’s grinning to himself, up in plain view of the congregation. jud quickly schools his face into something more poised, serene even though his heart is galloping in his chest. he clears his throat, leans into the mic, and begins.
—
towards the end of the hour, when jud would typically bid the congregation a good day, he clears his throat into the mic, breaking the hum of politely hushed chatter.
“before you all go,” he begins, rushing his words, for his sake or theirs — he’s not entirely sure, “as some of you may have noticed, we have a new member of staff here at the church who is very much real and allowed to be on church grounds after hours–”
he falters only a second, debating whether to give your name to the masses. his logical brain, the jud who knows better, says why shouldn’t they know your name? it would even do some good to take away the mystery from what he knows first-hand to be an imaginative crowd. it’s not like you’re a secret, and yet…
jud doesn’t want to share. the worst part is he knows it’s completely wrong and downright possessive, which he’s not supposed to be — he’s not, anymore. but something inside that he believed to be dormant says once they have this piece of you, it’ll be one less for himself — and that’s ridiculous, because he doesn’t get to have you, at all.
your name ends up coming out hoarse, barely audible over the growing buzz in the nave. he can hear the questions bubbling up, and one particularly sharp voice stands out among the rest–
“is she part of the congregation?”
the murmurs die down as the hall waits for jud’s answer. his eyes narrow, only for a second.
“that’s not exactly for me to share–"
“so, you’re saying she’s not? she can work in a church but not attend?” another voice pipes up, pitched self-righteously high.
jud can hear the blood rushing in his ears and wills himself to take a breath. “i understand your concerns, i really do,” his hands raise earnestly, “but everyone is welcome here. when you walk through those doors every weekend, you make the choice to be here, in god’s presence, right?”
the protesting voices blend back into the blur as jud spots heads in the front rows nodding.
“she’s in here almost every day, much earlier than anybody, myself included, keeping this place in the best condition it can be for you, me and the person sitting next to you to come back to. she cares, and i think that matters, above everything else.”
jud’s leans back from the mic with a soft exhale, chest tight as the nave fills with the sounds of hushed agreements and resolution.
“just… try saying ‘hi’, okay? i promise she’s very nice.”
and with that, jud knows it’s time to shut up before he says something embarrassing or worse, incriminating. the congregation files out into the courtyard, and after the few people who stay behind have spoken their fill with father jud, he’s the only one left in the nave, and the only one to see him groan into his hands.
‘very nice’? really? of all the words he could use to describe you, he lands on nice.
‘nice’ doesn’t even begin to cover it. you bring baked goods into the office, claiming you overestimated the measurements and ended up with too much, but it happens often enough that there’s no way it’s an accident every time, right?
you also stay much later than you need to. for all intents and purposes, you should be long gone by the time he returns to the rectory for dinner, but somehow you’re always conveniently tidying up in the kitchen, and whatever leftovers jud had saved the night before are being warmed up in the shoddy microwave.
some days you’ll linger, distracted by how jud asks about your day and how his food goes cold with how intently he’s listening. you watch him lean on his elbows, and you wonder if he even realises he’s inching closer to where your own hands lay on the table.
and then there’s the time you find him asleep at his desk in the office. it’s already dark out, and you’re ready to head home after a long day, but his neck is craned far too low and it looks wildly uncomfortable.
you can already imagine the crick developing in his neck. it’s all too easy, sickeningly natural to move across the room, debating whether it’d be better to wake him or leave him a pillow when he stirs, brows furrowing as he blinks back into consciousness.
“wha– hey,” jud groans softly, tinged with confusion as he sees you watching him with bated breath. “what time is it?”
“just past nine,” you reply quietly, still wondering if you should get him that pillow. his head still hovers over the desk, eyes squinted in a full-face scrunch as he adjusts to the lamplight.
“go to bed, jud.” it comes out gentle, and you may as well be singing a lullaby the way his eyes are drooping again. he presses his forehead flat to the desk and shakes his head, stubborn and sleepy.
“mm– ‘s too far,” he mumbles, muffled by the crook of his arm, “don’ worry ‘bout me.”
but you do, and you don’t think he even notices how much you do, how often you think of the lone priest, left to keep the church running in the aftermath of such a mess. running on fumes, to the point where even sleeping on solid wood is better than making the two-minute journey to his bed.
you almost believe he’s fallen asleep again, when his head shoots up. he’s so exhausted the first place his eyes land is way off to your left.
“are you heading out? i can walk you–”
“will you at least move to the couch?” you cut him off with a fond shake of your head.
he grunts into his arms in agreement, and you take that as a win. you only get a second longer to admire his sleepy form, curled up in a chair a size too small for his long limbs.
jud drags himself over to the far corner of the office where a rickety, worn-down couch awaits and plops himself down on it unceremoniously. it creaks in protest under his weight, but he curls into the cushions and he’s out like a light within seconds.
when jud wakes the next day, he’s covered with a blanket and all the lights are off — not the way he remembers leaving it.
it’s then he registers with a rush that he hadn’t dreamed of you returning last night, and the feeling of you draping the blanket up to his chin wasn’t conjured up by his sleep-addled brain.
it becomes mortifying, when he recalls how he’d reached out groggily, catching your hand in his as he mumbled something that had made perfect sense in the half-asleep, half-awake haze.
(if he ever asks, he’ll find out he spoke all of two words of gibberish, and your name, while his thumb swept circles over the back of your hand.)
—
jud realises, belatedly, all alone in the nave, that you’re taking care of him. the notion punches a breath out of his chest. he turns his face up towards the cross, hand-carved and staring back at him as his features crumple in anguish.
it shouldn’t feel this good. to be looked after, to have the weight lifted from his shoulders by the hands of another. the warmth sours in his chest, because he shouldn’t want for this. he hasn’t needed to in a long, long time. jud knows he is taken care of, by hands he can’t see, the same way he knows the familiar weight of prayer spilling from his lips should be enough.
an icy streak of terror hits him, just as guilt settles heavy in his stomach when he realises he doesn’t know if it’s enough anymore.
jud’s breath comes fast, and he doesn’t know if this counts as a crisis of faith but it feels like one, and maybe he should just get struck down on the spot—
be it a divine signal or the world’s best timed coincidence — a muffled, sustained wail travels through the walls.
jud, still in his vestments, wastes no time in following the sound. his own panic is muted now, temporarily overtaken by the concern for whatever helpless creature was emitting the noise.
by the time he gets to the back of the building, the sound has faded, and to his bewilderment, is replaced by… giggling?
jud rounds the corner with a rush of breath, and he’s met with the sight of you, smack dab in the middle of the hall door with a four year-old glued to your side.
“oh– hi, father jud!” you grin when the pair of you take notice of him, only slightly winded. jud’s eyes rove over your frame, giving you a onceover to make sure you’re okay–
“this is aiden.” you say to jud, before you lean down, whispering to the kid, comically loud,
“that’s who i was telling you about.”
the boy has your hand clutched in his tiny grasp, cheeks blotchy as both of you look up at him expectantly.
jud blinks, blue eyes flickering between you and the boy, then back again with a questioning tilt of his head. “hey there, aiden,” he says, smiling kindly down at the kid, still wondering how he’d even gotten all the way back here in the first place.
“we seem to have an explorer on our hands,” you say, voice warm while shooting jud a look over the kid’s head as you mouth, “looking for mom.”
“ah,” jud nods, crouching so he’s eye-level with the boy, “let’s get you back to your mom. how’s that sound, bud?”
the boy’s head turns to you with a dubious frown inherent to a four year-old, but when you nod encouragingly, he mirrors the motion to jud, who grins and leads the way out to the nave.
the short walk there, you’re talking aiden’s ear off about the cool things you’ve found while exploring the church yourself. jud finds himself grinning lopsidedly amidst aiden’s ooh’s and ahh’s, eyes meeting yours over his shoulder with a wink when you mention getting locked in the supply closet once and waiting a whole hour to be rescued by the same man rescuing you and aiden now.
sure enough, when you make it back to the nave, there’s a woman rushing down the aisle calling out for her son. she thanks you and jud fervently, eyes glassy when she sweeps the boy into her arms.
jud watches you wave to aiden as he goes, until he’s carried past the doors, and then you turn back to him with a wistful smile.
“cute kid,” is all you say, “we should probably think about getting child locks, though.”
jud hums in agreement, but his mind is elsewhere. far, far away, refusing to entertain the possibility that he’s already fallen too deep.
—
the sun’s almost at its peak when jud finds you the next day. he’s starting to think you might have taken the day off, but there you are — in the garage, no less.
it’s hot out, stifling to an almost unbearable degree. jud’s sleeves are rolled up and he already feels his shirt sticking to his back within minutes of stepping out into the sun.
he’s relieved to have found you so quickly, and in the shade, but then he clocks that you’re way higher up than you normally are, and just about has a heart attack on the spot.
you’re on a ladder — the wobbly one with a loose rung — perched precariously as your arms stretch, deft fingers twisting a lightbulb loose. you’re teetering (to him, you are), or maybe you’re only shifting your weight — either way, it kicks him into gear.
“jesus,” he hisses as he rushes over to the open garage door, closing the distance with large strides. “what are you–”
you glance down when the ladder suddenly seems much more firmly rooted to the ground. your brows raise, hands still raised above your head as you find jud with his own hands wrapped around the ladder legs, bracing his weight against it.
“oh! hi, jud,” you grin, turning your attention back to the bulb, “what’s up?”
“this thing is so old, ‘s not safe– you should’ve told me if you needed help,” he admonishes, breathless as his fingers curl tighter around the wood. his focus is cast low, making sure all four legs stay planted.
“i don’t,” you chirp, huffing in victory when the old bulb finally gives. you tilt your head down, finding jud with a triumphant grin that turns teasing, “but you’re welcome to stay, if it makes you feel better.”
it would, actually. and he raises his gaze to tell you exactly that, but you’ve turned away again to fit in the new bulb. it’s in that split second that it all goes to shit.
it’s a hot day, and that’s probably why you’re wearing a dress. no ulterior motive, and you’re always telling him they’re more practical than you’d think, especially in this heat, but he distantly suspects it’s a new method of torture, and a highly effective one at that.
it’s a hot day, and the garage door is lifted to let in the odd gust of cool air. jud questions the ‘practicality’ of your dress, and his own sanity when the hem flutters up with the breeze, and he catches an eyeful of lace and soft, pillowy flesh curving up from the back of your thighs.
the man chokes on a breath, blinking hard and fast to try and erase what he’s just seen. but it’s hopeless — he’s hopeless — jud doesn’t think he’ll ever forget it (nor will he let himself).
he feels dirty, and it’s probably a complete violation of your trust, because this is the one place of all places you should be safe from wandering eyes and he’s just gone and become exactly that–
and god, it’s pathetic, but that one look shakes his very core. he’s been good, holding it together. refusing to let you see just how bad the cracks have spread in his resolve, all from the mere weight of the depth of his feelings for you.
he wants so desperately to be good, but he’s already replaying the moment on loop, and his stomach plummets when he realises he’s actually getting hard, out here in the open, all from getting a two-second glimpse at your fucking panties.
“you doing okay down there?” your voice calls out, and he wonders if you know. would it be better, or worse if you did? if this was intentional, and you’re happy to let him look – would that somehow wash away his sin?
jud hums, but his voice cracks and he coughs into his shoulder before you can question him. he needs to get it together, and he absolutely cannot look at you right now. not just because he can feel how his face is blazing and beet red, he also worries that if you look hard enough you’ll see right through him.
but it’s impossible. his eyes dart all over the garage, only to end up where he started. there are grass stains on the hem of your dress, and he can see up close the soil that’s smeared over your knees.
he pictures you in the garden, on your knees in the dirt, darkened eyes staring up at him straight into his soul, and he has to bite his cheek to stop the ragged gasp clawing up his throat when it hits him that he’s been pressing his hips into the ladder.
he can feel himself throbbing, and he’s so fucking hot under his collar he thinks he might actually pass out. how long does it take to change a lightbulb? have you been done with it this whole time?
he’s both relieved and a little disappointed when you ask him to try the light switch. it offers reprieve, if only for a moment, where he’s not actively caught in your orbit and plummeting faster than he can catch himself.
he conjures up images of literally anything, runs through his to-do list for the day, forcing it to the forefront of his mind so he doesn’t turn back around with an obvious tent in his slacks.
the garage light flickers on with a low buzz when his hand reaches the panel. across the room, you shoot him a satisfied grin, and when you actually do wobble this time, he’s approaching you again without a second thought.
“let me do it next time, okay?” jud says, a healthy distance away from where he wants to be. “don’t want you falling and cracking your head open.”
he really can’t help it when he offers his arm for you to hold onto as you make your way down the ladder. your fingers close around his forearm, and his whole body tenses like he’s been shocked.
a muscle jumps in his forearm, mirroring the clench of his jaw when your nails press lightly into his skin. like he’s watching from outside his body, his other hand hovers over your lower back, close enough to feel your heat as he guides you back to the ground.
he’s already making an escape plan — to hide away in the dark somewhere and have a stern talking to with himself. but your feet come to a stop almost between his, and you’re closer than you’ve ever been. your hand still on his arm.
jud’s chest heaves with the effort it takes to slow his heartbeat.
“thanks,” you say on an exhale, brushing away your hair as it sticks to the back of your neck. jud nods stiffly, thinking you’ll move on to your next task and he can scramble off to wherever he can be alone with his sick mind and that will be that.
but you stay firmly rooted to your spot, going way off script when your gaze drifts over his face. how he’s chewing on the inside of his cheek and it makes his lips twitch, eyes pointedly avoiding yours.
“say…” you begin, releasing your hold on him as your voice takes on a syrupy edge. “you wouldn’t happen to know why three separate people have come up to me today to chat, would you?”
and maybe it’s a little mean to watch jud flounder for a response, the tips of his ears burning red, when you know the answer to your own question. he feels like a mouse caught in the claws of a cat who plays with its food before devouring. that twisted voice in his head hopes for the same treatment.
“i don’t–” he stammers, but then like clouds breaking, his lips spread into a surprised, borderline disbelieving smile, “wait, really?”
you nod, all business-like. “oh, yeah. something about wanting to get to know the new housekeeper and the person keeping their priest fed, and making sure the brand of communion wafer doesn’t change with the leadership–”
jud snorts, shaking his head as he realises you’re messing with him. and damn, he likes it. he relaxes, shoulders falling from where they’d practically been up to his ears. “alright, alright.”
“i’m serious! and i can’t believe you never told me we had a ghost living in the supply closet.”
he breaks into a real laugh at that, bright and melodic as you feign indignance. “i figured any ghost would be more scared of you than you are of it.”
your lips part, eyes twinkling when he plays along, finally meeting yours once more. your brows raise, and up close like this, jud can see the moment you decide what to say next — your lips twitch with the ghost of a smirk.
“is that so?” you lean in, and it’s much too close. if anyone were to walk by now, there’d be no good explanation. but jud doesn’t move away — he lets it happen, wants you close. he can think of an excuse later when he’s on his knees in prayer.
“-because i thought i was nice,” you hum, and when he doesn’t shy from your proximity, your fingers find their place on his arm again, this time tracing the tattoo near the crook of his elbow.
jud visibly shudders, and you bite your lip to hide a pleased grin. you apply more pressure, dragging down the length of his forearm, along the path of raised veins.
“you–” jud’s voice trembles, eyes widening as it hits him that you’re real. your hands are really on him, touching him. “you are nice.”
“very nice?” you murmur, lashes fluttering as you watch his crumbling composure. you can’t tear your eyes away — you wouldn’t dare.
“mmhm.” jud hums, not trusting his voice as his eyes squeeze shut. he’s so lightheaded. maybe the heat will get to him first, but at the rate this is going, you’ll be the death of him.
his pretty eyes are clenched tight, dark brows furrowed as he pants through his nose. he’s oblivious to the way you drink him in, licking your lips at the way sweat beads along his hairline, his pulse jumping in his throat, just shy of the devil cherub tattoo.
your gaze trails lower, hungry and greedy, like this may very well be the only time you get to see him like this.
the hand not preoccupied with yours is clenched by his side. lower, down to where his very obvious problem strains against the stiff fabric of his pants.
your breath hitches audibly, and you might actually hear angels singing. heat coils tight behind your hips, and you feel sticky between your thighs. everything you want is standing right in front of you but–
jud looks in pain, physically and mentally, and if he holds his breath any longer he might actually explode. so you take pity on the poor man, even though it burns you to do it.
“jud,” you murmur, withdrawing your hand. his eyes open wide and uncertain, glassy as he follows your every move as if missing even a second would wound him. “i heard what you said to them. thank you for standing up for me.”
you leave him there before he can think of something to say, brain totally and utterly short-circuited from the barest touch of your skin on his.
—
jud stumbles up to his room, blinking hard to shake the fog heavy in his head. he feels almost drunk, clinging to the bannister. his abdomen clenches with every step he takes, the friction of his starchy uniform rubbing against his cock in a way that forces him to grit his teeth.
he doesn’t even lock the door behind him. just falls to his knees on the wooden floor, forehead pressed to the foot of his bed as a strained groan escapes his bite-swollen lips.
“god,” he groans, hands clamped above his head, “i’m sorry, ‘m sorry–”
maybe there is an unholy spirit. maybe it’s possessed him and that’s why his hands are flying to his belt. the clink of the buckle shoots shame straight at his heart, but it’s not enough to make him stop — not with how his cock pulses within its confines, and it’s becoming uncomfortable and sticky with how he’s leaking like a fucking faucet.
it’s been a while, and when he pulls his length out, jud has to bite on his knuckles with a bruising force to keep his whimpering from echoing down the hall.
he’s not patient. he can’t be when all he can see, even with his eyes wide open are your thighs, the curve of your ass and the dip between your legs where the fabric had darkened slightly–
jud whines helplessly, and with every fevered pass of his thumb over his swollen head, he can feel himself hurtling closer to the edge. he presses his forehead harder against the mattress when he pictures your fluttering lashes, the curve of your lips when you smile.
his hips buck sharply as he thinks of your fingers on his wrist, how they’d feel in his hair, in his mouth, replacing his own around his cock–
it happens too fast, yet not fast enough. the cord snaps, and with it, his resolve. jud cums with a pained cry, teeth catching at his knuckles, at his shoulder when he turns his head to muffle the pathetic sounds seeping out of him. his back bows, hot ropes spilling over his fingers. he pants, open-mouthed into his quilt.
jud stays that way, knelt by the foot of his bed. pandora’s box has been wrenched opened, and he knows the ache will come back, just as he accepts he’s powerless in the face of it — of you.
Clueless!John (also jealous!John) doesn't realise that he's your boyfriend
You weren't sure how exactly it had started. One day you were just hanging out with the ER attending who could always crack a joke when you needed it, the next you were waking up in his bed, tangled with his limbs, his body pressed closely to yours as his warmth kept you company. It's Wednesday night so you two had gone to your favorite dive bar during their usual matchmaking event where they tried to form new couples amongst their clientele, an event with the cheapest beer prices in all of Pittsburgh.
John always seemed to press himself to your left side when people circled around. By the end of the night, tired, tipsy and horny, you had ended up back at his place as usual, riding him until the sunlight started pouring, his strong hands grasping your hips like his life depended on it. And when the morning light hit your glistening body, John could not tear his eyes away, not when you looked like the sun itself.
He had known since the second time you two hung out that he wanted more than whatever was between you. You slid in perfectly within his life.
Also a night crawler, though in the paeds department, you'd first met during a consult, and he had noticed your smile, the way you brought energy and positivity when you arrived. You then had met again at Dunkin the very same day, both wanting your sugary coffees. What were two meetings in one day turned into meeting every day as you'd meet up for some food before your shifts started.
"Turn it off...." You grumbled as the strident alarm of John's phone went off. It was time to get up, time to get ready for the day, actually night ahead. The sun had started leaving, plunging the room into purples and blues, but you were both used to it by now.
John let out an exaggerated groan, detangling himself from you just tough to turn his alarm off before pushing himself back in his previous position.
"Hello, gorgeous."
Lips ghosted your neck and your shoulders as you sighed in content. What a great way to wake up.
By now the routine was organised to the very second. You'd take your shower first, sometimes with John, while he usually made boring black coffee and whatever breakfast foods he had laying around. This time it was yogurt and bananas. Then it was his turn to take a shower and you ran his laundry and dryer before you both headed to work, usually with John driving as he knew which backroads to take to get to the Dunkin closes to work the fastest.
And then you'd both hug, lingering for a few seconds until you each went to your respective floors, him in the depths of the Pitt, you to the children's level. Really, it was two worlds apart.
Which is why John couldn't understand why today you were leaning against the nurse station, smiling up at Jack Abbot who seemed to go on and on about a story that the younger ER attending couldn't hear. Jack's movements were large, energetic, and you were laughing. Not the polite laughter you reserved for everyone, but the genuine one, the one that made your shoulders shake and eyes tear up. The one only he could usually get out of you.
And then your hand went to Jack's arm, gripping him for stability as you threw your head back for more giggles to escape. And John couldn't have that. So of course he stalked up, unintentionally but with intention, pushing you a bit back as he took his place between you and Robby.
"What are you two laughing about?" It took John all his self control to not let some sourness spill into his tone.
"Dr. Abbot was just telling me about his travels when he had been younger, apparently he had been chased off a field by an angry cow in Scotland." Your tone was light and warm which slightly calmed John's overthinking, but it still wasn't enough.
"I guess you'll have to be careful when you go there with your boyfriend." Jack's tone was teasing. And John couldn't breathe. Because really... he was dumb.
He didn't notice the way Jack's eyes flickered lightly towards him, or the way you had stepped closer to him, seeking his presence. He only heard the sentence, and felt his heart shatter. And clearly he did not manage to hide his emotions as your eyebrows furrowed, arms wrapping around him as he stumbled lightly. He broke free of your embrace, pretexting the need to check up on a patient just to actually take a break outside, breath shortened, head swirling with thoughts.
He hadn't known you had a boyfriend, what did that make him? Your side guy? Were you cheating on your boyfriend with him? Maybe you were in one of those open relationships. He couldn't understand how you had gotten a boyfriend when you spent almost everyday together.
In all the time you two knew each other radio silence had not happened. Not even when John was hiking the Everest base camp, he'd still manage to find some internet to send you his pictures and a little email. But as you were waiting in the hospital lobby, ready to leave for some well deserved rest, John was not answering any of your messages. Not through SMS, not through insta, not even on snapchat. And that meant that something was wrong, especially so when once you went back down to the Pitt, the day crew had let you know that John had already left an hour ago.
So of course, you drove to John's apartment, using his spare keys that he'd given to you to open his door after knocking and receiving no answer in return.
"John?" Your voice rang out until you heard the shower running. You grabbed his laundry basket also filled with some of your things as you started folding everything, a habit you had developed as you hated doing the dishes but loved laundry while John hated the complete opposite.
Looking around the apartment it was clear that you spent a lot of time here, your clothes were in his hamper, your vitamins littered his cabinets, he even had a fridge magnet picturing your last year's family reunion with your aunts, uncles, cousins, and he wasn't even there. It was the same at your place, his extra switch was connected to your T.V, he had his own little section of your wardrobe, and for some reason his mom's workout equipment was in your extra bedroom since his downstairs neighbours had complained once about Mrs. Shen dropping a weight when she had come to visit.
You were snuggling into his couch, an episode of B99 playing when John appeared, sculpted chest and bottoms wrapped in one of your fluffy white towels he had stolen a few months ago. You wanted to run your hands on his wet body, feel his pale skin on you but his face clearly showed that something was on his mind. And unfortunately for you, John wasn't one to talk about his emotions much.
"What are you doing here?" He spoke out, eyes barely stopping on your figure before he made his way to the kitchen to make himself a smoothie.
"What do you mean what am I doing here? You didn't reply to my texts, didn't even come to see me after our shifts. Is everything okay?" His pace stuttered before he continued what he set up to do.
"Everything is perfectly fine." You got up from your spot, following the man as you leaned against the doorway to the kitchen, watching him throw blueberries into the blender alongside his usual protein shake ingredients.
"Don't lie." His eyes flickered to your face. "John tell me what's wrong." He looked straight at you before turning the blender on, the loud noise drowning out your demand. "John." He mimed not hearing anything and that's when you lost your cool.
Stalking to the kitchen island you pushed him aside as you unplugged the blender. You turned around quickly and gulped as he was now cornering you against the counter, looking down with his deep brown eyes staring into yours.
"I don't think your boyfriend would accept you spending so much time with me... and my bed." He wanted to sound teasing, but John just ended up sounding completely and utterly bitter. "What were you planning on doing? Just using me until your boyfriend realised it? I don't want to help someone cheat on their boyfriend, I'm not that type of gu-"
Your lips were on his in an instant as your arched into his body, droplets of his shower transferred onto you as one of your hands pulled his head down to meet you, the other going down to settle on his abs. He hated himself for it but he simply could not deny you, not when you smelled so good, felt so good against him. So with a groan he pulled you onto the counter top, slotting himself between your two legs.
"I-I can't, not when you're not mine." He groaned, turning his head away though you left little kisses on his cheeks, his jawline, his neck. Light feathery pecks that made him sigh from relaxation.
"John Shen, you are a very stupid man." His eyebrows furrowed as he turned his face back to you. "You might be the stupidest man I know."
"What-"
"You're my boyfriend you idiot."
You wished you could have recorded his reaction because it truly gave you whiplash. His confusion had turned to questioning, to realisation, to the sheepish expression he now bore, pale face flushed, eyes flickering from your face to somewhere else as he realised that he was indeed, quite stupid.
"B-But, you told Jack-"
"We were literally talking about going on vacation to Europe together last week John. You even said that you wanted to see cute highland cows."
"Ah... yes, yes I did..." John wanted to slap himself, so of course he did it earning an amused eyeroll from you. "I just... we never had a talk about us."
You circled your legs around his waist pulling him closer as his breath hitched from the closeness.
"John Shen, will you be my boyfriend?"
He replied by smashing his lips on yours, grounding his hips into your core until you were a moaning mess from needing friction, needing love, needing him.
Jack jerking off to a voicemail you left him while he was on shift. It's something that's not even dirty, which he knows you can be. God, you can be. But you leave him something domestic. Sweet. Nothing that should be used for aggressive masturbation material. But your pretty voice, the deathly shift you gave it in...Jack's never claimed to be a better man. Only that he's tried to be with you and failed.
"Hi, Jackie. I know you’re probably pretending the coffee you're drinking is a meal, so I have something for you when you get home. I love you. I’ll see you after shift. Mwah!"
So he listens to the voicemail more times than he can count and pumps his cock in harsh strokes with the spit he's been smearing down the veined shaft.
"I know you're probably pretending the coffee you're drinking is a meal..."
Jack grunts quietly, hips bucking up into his grip. "Like you're any better."
The voicemail, ghost of your sweetness moving through him, is only twelve seconds. So, he needs a lot of playback to get through what he started with his cock.
"So I have something for you when you get when you get home."
His cock throbs in his palm, and he's dripping all over his thighs. He switches hands, using the stickier one to twist at the base. You do that to fuck him up. You're awful sometimes, kiddo.
"...Thank you, baby."
"I love you."
Hopefully, you're awake by the time he gets home. Not that you at peace in your dreams has ever stopped him before. But considering he's thinking of splitting you open by flooding your ass right now, he has to wonder how much of a wake-up call that would be.
Feminism isn't about doing whatever feels good and fuels your specific personal interests btw sometimes you do in fact have to change how you think and behave
Notes: Can I interest you in parentified eldest daughter falling in love with a man with some fucking whimsy
Warnings: Exes to lovers; Whump. Lots of whump; descriptions of Reader being sick multiple times (not super explicit); mentions of pregnancy (but no actual pregnancy); reader is a workaholic; cursing; flashbacks; complicated family dynamics; reader has named sisters - no physical descriptions; canon-typical medical situations; reader's age is unspecified, but she and her sisters are all adults
Summary: John’s hands hook onto the railing of the gurney, his eyes darting to your face every few seconds as your entourage of medical professionals steers you down the hall.
“So,” He offers, “Fancy seeing you here.”
And you so don’t want to let him make you smile, but you can’t help yourself.
“This is a bit much,” He adds as you’re wheeled onto the elevator, “I mean, I told you you could call and you show up at my job instead? I appreciate the effort, but you're coming off a little desperate.”
When you propel yourself out of bed, you’re blindly guided by two things: your instinctual knowledge of where your en suite bathroom is, and your stomach violently rejecting its contents.
You drop to the floor, knees roughly smacking the cold tile as you fumble with the lid of your toilet. Your body shudders as you heave, fingers gripping the cool porcelain desperately. When the sickness finally lets up, you lean back, blinking the tears from your eyes. You swallow thickly, drawing in a deep breath, then wincing as your stomach threatens to revolt again. You lean back, closing the lid and flushing the toilet as you fight to steady your breathing.
The knocking on your door makes you jump, and you raise a shaking hand to your chest, croaking,
“Yeah?”
“You okay in there?”
You nod, though your youngest sister can’t see you, then manage,
“‘M fine.”
“Can I open the door?”
“...Yeah.”
It’s a moment before Lisa’s opening the door and peering inside, her brow furrowed at the sight of you where you’re still sitting on the floor.
“Are you okay?”
“You already asked me that.”
“Yeah, but that was before I saw you looking like…Well, this.”
“Who taught you to be so sweet?”
“You did.”
You offer a wobbly smile, huffing softly as you push yourself up. “Asshole.”
“Uh-huh.” Lisa folds her arms across her chest. “What the hell, by the way?”
“I don’t know,” You grumble, pumping soap into your hands and scrubbing up along your arms where you were leaning against the toilet. “Probably something I ate last night.”
“Could always call your doctor friend and make sure.”
The mention of him has your stomach churning again. “Ha-ha.”
“He should be getting off-shift soon,” Lisa adds as you rinse with mouth wash, “Could invite him over for a check-up.”
You swish, spit, and shoot Lisa a glare couched in a sickly sweet smile.
“Thanks for all of your help, Li.”
Lisa snorts, pushing off of the door frame as she drawls, “Fiiine. I’m gonna get ready for class.”
“You need a ride?”
“No, Joey’s gonna come pick me up—don’t.”
“Hm.”
“Don’t start.”
“I wouldn’t have to start if you weren’t making bad choices.”
“You never like my boyfriends.”
“That’s because all of your boyfriends—” You cut yourself off, raising a hand to staunch a nauseating belch, “Suck.”
When Lisa doesn’t answer right away, you figure that she’s left—but as you straighten back up, you find her watching you in the mirror with a narrowed gaze.
“Are you sure you’re gonna be okay?”
“Yeah,” You nod, turning to face her. “I’m working from home today, anyway. We’ve got rice, we’ve got broth, we’ve got saltines. Honestly, that was probably it, nothing left in the tank. I’m fine.”
Lisa hesitates before she closes the space between the two of you, raising her hand and pressing the back to your forehead. You force a poker face, doing your best not to lean into the coolness of her fingers. Her brow wrinkles, lips screwing to the side, then—
“I have no idea what your forehead is supposed to feel like.”
“Go to class and learn.”
Lisa scoffs, finally turning away and slouching back to her room. You wait until her footsteps have faded completely before reaching out, quietly pushing the bathroom door closed again. You swallow, wincing at the slight ache in your throat.
You don’t feel like you’re going to throw up again, but there’s an pain in your side, one that you hadn’t noticed when you were stumbling your way to bed. You raise your hand, rubbing slightly over a spot on your right and wincing again. Christ, that hurts. Did you bang it when you were getting down to get to the toilet? That must be it.
Of course, it couldn’t hurt to ask a professional. You didn’t block him, he said the door was still open if you ever wanted to talk, so maybe you could just send a quick little question—
No. No.
You have broth, you have rice, you have Google. You can figure this out. Besides, it probably really was just something you ate.
--
“This is John, the guy I’ve been telling you about!”
The words were half-lost on the music being pumped through your best friend’s place, and the chatter of the other people crammed into her shared 450 square foot two-bedroom apartment. You had been tempted to dip out of the party nearly an hour ago, but your friend had sworn that not only was the guy she was setting you up with going to eventually be there (even though he was running late), but he was well worth waiting for.
You turned to face the mystery man, and you were, admittedly, caught off-guard. It was a combination of things: the scrubs he was wearing, the Dunkin cup in hand, and the fact that the guy was really, really cute.
“Hi,” You said, offering your hand and your name in tandem. He took hold of your hand, dipping closer and requesting:
“One more time?”
You hesitated before leaning in and giving him your name again.
“Nice to meet you!” He smiled before glancing around. “It’s a little loud in here. You wanna get some air?”
It was cooler on your friend’s fire escape, and so much quieter. You curled your arms around yourself, toying with your little plastic cup of wine before glancing over at John.
“Can I ask,” You nodded toward the Dunkin.
“Oh—You want a sip?”
“No, no,” You shook your head. “I was wondering why you brought a…Frankly massive Dunkin iced coffee to a housewarming. Seems like an odd choice.”
“I could only stop by for a bit before I have to go to work.”
“Jeez, what time do you start work?”
“Shift starts at seven. Twelve hours.”
“Explains how big the coffee is.”
“Sure does.” He raised it again, giving it a little shake, the ice rattling against the plastic. “You sure you don’t want a sip?”
“Uh—No. Thanks.”
John just shrugged, raising the orange straw to his lips and taking a deep pull.
“You know, I was curious about you,” He offered once he’d swallowed.
“Oh?”
“Mhm. Heard a lot.”
“Good or bad?”
“Good, I think.”
“Like what?”
“Like…You’re the oldest of three sisters, really family oriented. Have your life together, have very high expectations for yourself…And that you’re a stickler for punctuality.” His teasing smile made your belly flutter. “Even more surprised that you’re still here, considering I’m late for our little set-up.”
And you could have told him that your friend had to talk you out of leaving twice, that you had nearly called it when her roommate’s sleazeball of a boyfriend tried to hit on you. All of that was true. But—
“Maybe I was curious about you, too.”
John’s bright smile made staying all the more worth it.
--
According to Google, you have food poisoning, stage 4 stomach cancer, and your period all at once.
And while you could waste your time speculating about something that’ll probably just pass, you choose instead to focus on your job. All you know for certain is that you have two reports due, three RFPs, and a presentation draft due by EoD, as well as a meeting with your manager for your annual review. All of that means only one thing:
You do not have time to spend fucking around, half-asleep in bed, or throwing up the little bit of room-temperature water that you’ve been able to get down.
But that doesn’t stop your body from revolting against you.
You manage to get bits and pieces of your work done in five to ten minute intervals, with your belly betraying any little bit of liquid, nutrients, or hope that you manage to take in. You go through your recipes, your fridge—you just manage to stop yourself from going through your trash to double check the dates on the ingredients that you used to make dinner last night. But it couldn’t really be that, could it? You’d checked all of the dates before you’d cooked, even thrown out a couple of ingredients because they were just a day past their best-by.
It’s your period, it has to be. This doesn’t feel anything like the last time you had food poisoning—at least, what you’re pretty sure was food poisoning.
--
“How ya doin’ over there, champ?”
You glared down at your phone, lips twisted into a pout. “I feel like death.”
“You’re answering me, so definitely not death.”
“I said I feel like death, not that I’m dying—ugh,” You groaned as your lower belly gurgled, shifting where you’d been sitting on your toilet for nearly ten minutes, “God.”
“What are your symptoms?”
“I really don’t want to disclose that to you.”
“Oh, c’mon,” John chuckled, “I’m a professional.”
“No!”
“Why not?”
“It’s embarrassing.”
“It can’t be anywhere near what I see in the ED on the nightly.”
“What’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever seen?”
“Honestly? Couple’a days ago, we had a guy came in with a Darth Vader figurine stuck up where it shouldn’t have been.”
Your jaw dropped with a stunned laugh. “Are you serious?”
“Oh yeah. He thought he’d be able to keep it from slipping in completely because the cape was triangular, but it went a little too far. He came in when he gave up reaching for the feet.”
“...Okay, this is one step below that.”
“Just one?”
The slight smile in John’s tone had a grudging one pulling at your lips. “Maybe a couple.”
“Uh-huh. Tell you what, I get off shift in twenty. I’ll swing by with a goodie bag.”
“I can’t handle goodies right now, John.”
“Not even if those goodies include animal crackers, broth, electrolytes, and pepto bismol?”
“I’m not going to be much of a conversationalist.”
“It’ll be a drive by. You buzz me up, I hand you the bag, I steal a couple of kisses, you go back inside.”
“You have a suspicious amount of this interaction planned out.”
“Well, this girl I’m dating has told me that she likes a man with a plan.”
Your smile stretched into a full-blown, lovesick grin, and you raised your hand to scrub across your eyes.
“Fine. Just…give me a five minute warning before you get here?”
“Sure. Hey, you might even find a surprise Darth Vader figurine among your goodies—”
“John!”
--
By noon, you’ve managed to polish off your notes on the RFP, but the presentation and reports have barely been touched. You message your manager reluctantly, warning that you’re a little under the weather, but still in a good place to finish everything on your plate by EoD.
And you do have every intention of finishing things off. You decide to take a half-hour nap, just give your body a little bit of a rest before getting back on the horse.
It’s a good plan in theory—but your head hasn’t been down for two minutes before you’re clambering out of bed, hardly making it to the sink before the singular sip of gatorade you’d taken twenty minutes ago is making a bid for freedom.
You groan, resting your forehead against the sink—and then whine when you hear your cell phone ringing. You straighten slowly, bracing your hand back against the wall and stepping back into your room, taking up the phone from your bedside table. Oh—god. Do you have the patience for this call right now?
You lower yourself to your bed, swiping the call acceptance and sticking it on speaker.
“What’s up, Lilah?”
“Holy fuck, Lisa wasn’t kidding. You sound like shit.”
You muster a weak smile, drawing your legs into the bed and pulling your blankets around your lap.
“Mom and dad did a hell of a job curating your manners.”
“Mm, but you’re the one who really honed them, generalissimo.”
You roll your eyes, resting your pounding head back against the wall of decorative pillows that you’ve piled up, and have been using to keep yourself upright for the last few hours. Growing up as the middle child, Lilah had always been the one raging against your de facto parental machine, where Lisa tended to push back a touch, but ultimately fell in line.
You pull in a steadying breath, catching on the sounds of school kids in the background on the other end of the phone. Must be recess.
“Whaddaya want, bean?”
“I can’t just wanna talk to my big sister?”
“Willingly? It would be a first.”
“Are you pregnant?”
The thought nearly triggers another heave.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” You snap. “Did Lisa tell you that?”
“No, but—”
“I’m on birth control, I have always used protection—”
“Those things aren’t always 100%, accidents happen—”
“And it’s been a while.”
“...If you’re sure.”
“John and I broke up months ago,” You remind her, “And even before that, we hadn’t been…” You wince. “Intimate.”
“Blegh, okay, we get it.”
“I’m just saying—”
“God forbid the two of you pushed the beds together.”
“Lilah, for godssake—”
“I still don’t understand why you broke up with that man.”
The comment stops you in your tracks, eyes unfocused on your dimming laptop screen. You’ve done your best not to think about John—your ‘how’s and ‘why’s and ‘what might’ve been’s. The closest you’ve gotten in the last few weeks is the brief flirtation with his contact in your phone that morning.
“...Okay,” Lilah finally concedes, seeming to take your silence in the spirit with which it’s meant. “Not pregnant.”
“It’s probably actually my period, anyway. You know I get queasy when I’m PMSing—and my cramps suck right now. I’ll be spotting by, like, 3pm at the latest.”
“And if you’re not, your uterus will hear about it.”
“Exactly.”
A moment of slightly tense silence, punctuated only by the odd giggle and screech of children from her end.
“Alright,” Lilah sighs, “The principal is giving me the stink eye, I should probably pay attention to the kids.”
“Lilah—!”
“Kidding! Jesus. Feel better.”
“Thanks.”
Lilah’s grunt is her only sign off before the call cuts. You reach out, drawing your laptop close and squirting at the screen for a moment before squeezing your eyes shut at the throbbing of your headache. Christ.
It isn’t as if you haven’t explained your break up to Lilah, because you have—at least twice. But you’ll tolerate her needling, her willful ignorance, it doesn’t matter. It’s not her relationship, it’s yours—was yours.
--
“I don’t think I’m gonna get Christmas off.”
“Aw, really?” You frowned, setting your planner down on the kitchen table and watching John reach for one of the two remaining Munchkins in the carton he brought over. “I thought you asked.”
“I mean, I did, but it was a little slammed when it came up—more of an informal request.” He raised his fingers to suck the powder off of them, adding through a full mouth: “I put in for it, but it’s up in the air.”
“Hmm. Well if you can’t, that’s alright. It’s just gonna be me and the girls.”
“What about your parents?”
You waved John off, shaking your head. “They’re going to be on a cruise.”
“Oof,” John sighed, slouching back in his seat, “You think you felt bad when you had food poisoning—”
“Okay.”
“Those floating buffet-laden crap shows.”
“Okay!”
“Nice scenery, though.”
You rolled your eyes, propping your chin up on your hand as you considered him.
“What’s your mom gonna do if you can’t get Christmas off?”
John’s lips pressed into a thin line, and your eyes caught on the bob of his Adam’s apple, the fidget of his fingers toying with the strings on his hoodie.
“...John?”
Another moment before he shrugged. “What she does when I usually can’t get the holidays off, I guess.”
You opened your mouth to ask, but he was sitting up before you could, shuffling his chair closer. “So what’d you get me?”
Your confusion melted to fondness, mind flashing to the smart watch you’d spent weeks researching and comparison shopping for, and you scoffed, “As if I’d tell you.”
“C’mon, gimme a hint. Is it black? Red? Lacey?”
--
Your manager only gets two minutes into your performance review before she ultimately cuts it short.
“You know what, why don’t we reschedule?”
You try to tell her that you’re fine to go through with it, but she waves you off: “I’ll throw some time on for tomorrow. Take a break.”
You manage a weak smile, an, “Okay,” and a, “Ping me if you need anything,” before you close out of the meeting. You lower the laptop lid with a sense of defeat, tears crowding your dry, tired eyes. When the urge to puke pops up again, you can’t make it all the way to the bathroom, instead lowering yourself to the floor and hunching over the trash bin by your bed.
It’s nothing but bile that devolves into dry heaves, and by the time you’re through, your pounding head is spinning. You brace your hand on the floor, trying to ground yourself, but it doesn’t hold, and there’s nothing more you can do as your world tilts.
--
The hand on your cheek, then your forehead, is so cold, and a distant, “Holy shit,” sounds so familiar. It’s chased by, “How long has she been like this,” and a frantic, “She wasn’t this bad this morning!”
You groan as you’re turned onto your back, wincing at the onslaught of bright light. It takes a moment, but the face that swims into view is comforting.
“Li-Li,” You smile, raising a hand to cup Lisa’s cheek. “How was school?”
“How long have you been on the floor?”
“Did that boy drive you?”
You hear a scoff, a grumble of, “On death’s fucking doorstep and still the captain of the morality police.”
“Lilah, shut up—”
“Bean,” You struggle to crane your neck as you look for Lilah. “Lilah, what are you—” You try to sit up, flounder, flop back and whack your head roughly on the nightstand, “What’re—”
“Christ, Lilah, call a fucking ambulance!” Lisa snaps.
“Where’s—” You raise your hand, patting along as much of your sheets as you can reach, “Where’s my work laptop?”
“Okay,” Lisa soothes, easing you to lie down fully, “Just relax, okay? We’re gonna get you help.”
Even in your confusion and fog, you can hear her panic, and you tut softly. “I’m okay, Li. Tell bean.”
“Lilah—”
“I’m on with the fucking operator—No, I won’t watch my language, we need a fucking ambulance here, like ten minutes ago!”
--
You do your best to answer the EMTs, but they’re only a few questions in before they’re loading you onto a stretcher, telling your sisters that you’re being taken to Pittsburgh General.
Lisa’s climbing into the back of the ambulance with you, and you only manage to request that someone grab your work laptop before the doors are being slammed shut and Lilah is out of sight.
The ride is hellish, bumpy and painful, and far longer than it should be when you wind up rerouted to PTMC.
--
“Can we talk about Thanksgiving?”
“Sure. Are we rankin’ sides?”
You shot a sidelong glance in John’s direction, eyes narrowed slightly.
“Trying to make plans, actually.”
“Ah,” He nodded. “Yeah, we can try.”
“My parents are probably going to be in town for it this year,” You shifted in your seat, trying to settle your nerves. This was normal, this was something that couples dealt with all the time. So why were you bracing yourself? “And…I mean, we’ve been together for a while, almost a year now, so I wondered if you wanted to…Meet them, finally.”
“You really think they’ll hold still long enough for me to make their acquaintance?”
And it was a fair question, but stacking that on top of your mounting nerves was nearly enough to send you over the edge.
“It’s a yes or no question, J. I mean, I know some of it will hinge on whether you can get work off or not, but—”
“If they’re the deep fried turkey type and I’m on shift, maybe you can bring them in. They can see me in action.”
You closed your eyes, taking a steadying breath in and shaking your head. “Forget it.”
“I’m kidding—”
“Not everything is a joke, John.”
--
There’s so much input at once. The ambulance was its own array of sound, but now you have doctors, nurses, EMTs chatting over you, underscored by the chatter and yelling of fellow patients—and somewhere, not far off, your sister’s panicked voice as you’re wheeled into a room.
“I'm gonna be okay, Lisa,” You mumble, but your promise is cut off by a surge of pain. You can’t help but cry out, trying to squirm away from the pressure that’s been applied to your right side.
“We’ve got rebound tenderness.”
“What’s that mean?” You hiss.
“That means,” A new voice in the room, but not a new voice to you, “That we’re looking at—”
You lift your tearing eyes to that all-too familiar face as he finally registers that it’s you in the bed, as it stops him in his tracks.
“Shen?” Someone urges, but he’s breathing out, “Shit,” eyes flitting to where Lisa is huddled nearby.
“You know each other?” That same voice presses, and John manages,
“I was—She’s my—”
“Okay,” Someone else steps up to the bed, leaning over you, “Ma’am, I’m Dr. Abbot—”
And you’re trying to listen, you are, but you’re also tracking where John is rounding over to Lisa, leaning in to ask questions, to talk, to reassure, you can’t tell—
“Do you understand?” Abbot tacks on, but no, you don’t. You didn’t catch a word, he said, so you shake your head. “Your appendix is on the verge of bursting, we need to get you up to surgery.”
“Surgery?” Lisa pipes up, “Like, now?”
“As soon as possible.”
“Where’s Lilah?” You whimper.
“Oh—Shit, she’s going to the wrong hospital!” Lisa’s out the door without a second glance, drawing her phone out of her pocket.
“Listen,” Abbot leans closer to hold your attention, “If we don’t get your appendix out, it could cause some serious problems. It’s still intact, but we need to remove it before it can rupture and cause you any more problems.”
“OR’s prepped,” Is mentioned somewhere behind you, and suddenly the bed is moving again.
“I’ll go up with her.” John’s at your side in a second, and he and Abbot are sharing a look that you don’t understand over your gurney before Abbot drops away completely. John’s hands hook onto the railing of the gurney, his eyes darting to your face every few seconds as your entourage of medical professionals steers you down the hall.
“So,” He offers, “Fancy seeing you here.”
And you so don’t want to let him make you smile, but you can’t help yourself.
“This is a bit much,” He adds as you’re wheeled onto the elevator, “I mean, I told you you could call and you show up at my job instead? I appreciate the effort, but you're coming off a little desperate.”
“John.”
“Appendix, too, you overachiever. Couldn’t you have broken your wrist, gotten a concussion, something easier?”
Your mental fog is melting to clarity, mingling with your panicked nerves, and the little laugh that leaves you makes the ache in your side twinge.
“I mean, come on,” He’s leaning against the railing now, seemingly unaware or uncaring of the looks that the nurses are giving him, “All of this, just to get my attention?”
“You’re so full of yourself.”
“And you know what you’re gonna be full of if we don’t get that appendix out? Pus.”
“Ugh,” You wrinkle your nose, closing your eyes, “Stop.”
“Better pus than Darth Vader, though.”
You laugh again, and the pain swells, worse.
“Please stop making me laugh, it hurts,” You whimper, and he mutters, “Alright, alright,” as the elevator chimes. You pull in as deep a breath as you can, the full weight of panic weighing down your chest. You swallow roughly, mumble, “John?”
“Yeah?”
“Make sure they give me the good stuff.” When you open your eyes, take in the sweep of lights haloing him as you’re guided down another hall, you find him smiling softly.
“For you? The best,” He promises. “I’ll tell them to check on your funny bone while they’re in there.”
Your laugh turns to a muted sob, the sound half-stuck in your thickening throat as tears spill over. But he’s reaching out before one can slip to the gurney below, swiping it away.
“I’m scared,” You whisper.
“I know. But it’s gonna be okay.”
--
“I like him.”
It was the last thing you expected to come out of Lilah’s mouth. You’d already known that she was miffed at you for taking so long to introduce you to John, doubly so when she found out that Lisa had met him nearly two weeks before she had (that had been an accident, though—Lisa had come home early from what was meant to be a romantic trip with her latest boyfriend, but had crashed and burned into a fight when she found out she was the other woman).
You didn’t answer, just watched Lilah from your end of the couch as she picked her nails. When she glanced toward you, she scoffed, “What?”
“I’m waiting.”
“For?”
“The punchline.”
Lilah rolled her eyes. “No punchline. I like him.”
Your brows rose at the insistence. “That’s a first.”
“Well,” She sighed, pushing herself up, “All of your other boyfriends sucked. I’m gonna raid your fridge now.”
You watched her go, processing for a moment before you followed. “What do you mean, all of my other boyfriends sucked?”
Lilah shrugged, eyes set on the inside of your fridge, scanning the shelves lazily.
“Just what I said.”
“They were all nice guys.”
“No, they were all assholes.”
You scoffed, “They were not all assholes.”
“Fine. They were mostly dickheads, with one or two of them crossing firmly into asshole territory.”
“They were all accomplished.”
“Yeah,” Lilah laughed derisively, “Especially that dude that got nailed for insider trading. How’s his prison sentence going by the way?”
You folded your arms tightly across your chest. “He was only fined and you know it.”
“Right, right.”
“Would you close the fridge door if you’re not gonna take anything? You’re letting all the cold out.”
Lilah raised her hands in surrender, allowing the door to slowly swing shut before she turned to your cabinet.
“As I was saying,” You added, “They were not all dickheads. I prefer to surround myself with ambitious people, and they can be…Difficult.”
“If by ambitious you mean rich, then yeah, you’re usually all over ‘em.”
“That is not what I mean—”
“Hedge fund managers, healthtech douchebros, morons who insist that they’re practically liquid when their entire net worth is in crypto.”
“That was one guy!”
“You know why I like John?” Lilah leaned back to face you, bag of chips in hand. “Cause it’s like you’re not dating with mom and dad in mind for once.”
It was like a slap. It rendered you completely speechless, sending heat creeping across your face, down your neck. And you couldn’t tell if Lilah knew the effect the comment had, but she pushed on:
“John’s ambitious, sure, he’s a doctor, but he’s also, like, genuinely a nice dude, you know. And you’re not trying to be perfect for him the way that you usually do for your dates, or for mom and dad. You’re not preening or constantly fixing your hair or checking your posture with him. You’re just, like…You. It’s good. Kinda freaky, but good.” She popped a couple of chips in her mouth, chewing slowly as you both mulled that over.
“Anyway,” She shrugged, pushing off of the counter, “Only a matter of time before you fuck it up, so. Enjoy it while it lasts.”
You rolled your eyes, following her back into the living room. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, bean.”
“Anytime, generalissimo.”
--
Coming to is slow, and uncomfortable. You’re propped up in bed, the room is bright, even with your eyes closed, and the beeping monitor beside you is starting to get annoying—but can you really begrudge something that reminds you that you’re alive?
You open your eyes, wincing into the light and allowing your vision to adjust. You can see a duffel bag on the chairs across from you, spot coats laying over the back of those same chairs. And when you let yourself glance around, you find someone at your bedside.
John is seated, folded over your bed with his head pillowed on his arms. His eyes are closed, and he’s breathing steadily. You can’t tell if it’s light outside with the shades closed, so you reach your IV-laden hand out, tapping on the face of the smart watch you got him a couple of Christmases ago. The screen flashes, but not in time for you to get a good look. You’re about to tap again, but—
“Are you snooping through my messages?”
Groggy, soft, warm—there’s that sleep-roughened voice you’ve missed so much. You smile a little.
“No. Trying to see what time it is.”
“Mm,” John pushes himself to sit up and proffers his wrist, scrubbing his free hand across his eyes as you get a better look. Nearly half past eight.
“Maybe a silly question, but is it AM or PM?”
“AM,” He chuckles, lowering his wrist.
“Shouldn’t you be home?” You ask. But before he can answer, the door to your hospital room opens, and Lisa and Lilah are trailing in with cups of coffee in hand.
“You’re up!” Lisa screeches, hurrying forward so quickly that some coffee sloshes over the side of the little paper cup. Lilah’s joining her a moment later, crowding in against you with leans, hugs, and carefully placed hands. You begin to reach for them with both arms, but wince when your IV pulls slightly. Lisa steps back, allowing Lilah to lean into you more closely.
“Did you grab my phone?” You ask, “And did you call…You know?”
“We didn’t,” Lisa winces, “We weren’t sure—”
“No, no. You did the right thing,” You soothe before glancing at Lilah. Her smile is watery, thin, and she seems to be opening her mouth to start to say something, but you have to ask:
“Did you bring my work laptop?”
That watery thin smile is gone in a second, mouth flat. Her eyes seem to glaze over, hands drawing back and curling into fists at her sides.
“I—No.”
“Lilah,” You groan, “That was, like, the one thing I asked you to bring—”
You barely get it out before she’s stomping out of your hospital room, Lisa hot on her heels, swearing, “I’ll get her.”
You close your eyes, sinking back in your bed. “Shit.”
“You shouldn’t be working right now, anyway,” John warns. You peek one eye open, frowning as he rounds the bed, pouring water from a pitcher on the bedside table. “Here.”
You take the cup carefully, though John keeps a loose grasp on it as you take a sip. He sets it aside once you’re finished, offering, “You want some more?”
“Nn-nn,” You shake your head. You perk up as the door opens again, but Lilah’s sweeping in and grabbing her coat without looking at you.
“Bean, I’m sorry—Hey!” You call out as she turns away again, “I’m not mad at you!” But your protests seem to fall on deaf ears as she rounds back into the hall. You close your eyes, tipping your head back against the pillows. “Great.”
“You want me to go get her?”
“No. Lisa’s gonna try to do that, anyway. And when she’s pissed at me, Lilah needs time to just…Decompress. Trust me,” You huff a laugh, “I’ve pissed her off a lot.” You tip your head to the side, wiggling your fingers toward his hand. And you expect him to just take it and hold on, but John is climbing into bed with you, carefully nestling against you. You sigh softly, turning your head and nuzzling against his neck. Neither of you speak for a few moments, the room falling into quiet, save for the beep of the monitor beside your bed.
“...Shouldn’t you be home?” You finally ask again.
“Mm…You want me to go?”
“No.”
“Then I’m right where I should be.”
And it’s so gentle, and firm, and certain. Your eyes well with tears again, and you try to squeeze tight against them, to hold them back, but they’re slipping before you can stop them. John doesn’t tut, tell you that it’s alright, that you’re okay. He just cuddles closer, intertwining your fingers.
“When I’m, um,” You sniffle, “When I’m less of a mess, can you explain what happened? Like, properly?”
“Using all of my big brain and science-y knowledge? Sure I can. Dr. Garcia will probably come to speak with you, too.”
“Did they do the surgery?”
“No, Dr. Walsh did. Case got handed over to the day shift, though.”
“Oh.”
“...So next time you want my attention, I’m thinking a kidney stone could be the way to go.” He keeps on over your quiet giggles—“Getting rid of those is way more fun than an appendix. Hey, when’s the last time you were on a roller coaster?”
--
It’s nearly ten by the time John is leaving your room with a kiss on the forehead and a promise to check in with you over the next couple of days. Lisa is back, but the two of you are speaking little. She won’t tell you where Lilah is, or what she said when she stormed out. You fall asleep around noon.
When you wake up around two, your work laptop is sitting on top of your duffel bag, and Lilah is nowhere to be seen.
--
You can’t remember the last time Lisa played nurse maid to you like this. You try to think of it, but you’re coming up with…Well, never. On the odd occasion you’ve gotten sick, you’ve always managed it yourself—but this isn’t just getting sick.
You can get around on your own, but it’s not the most comfortable. Lisa emails her professors, lets them know what happened, gets a pass to skip a couple of her classes so that she can stay at home and look after you for a couple of days. She helps you clean and change your wound dressing so that you don’t have to twist, or look at the little laparoscopic scars any more than you have to. She even offers to help you inject the prescribed blood thinner, but you insist on doing that yourself. It’s a way of taking back just a little bit of control after you’ve spent so much of the last 72 hours feeling helpless.
Besides, you’re usually the one doing the minding, so being minded makes you feel unbalanced.
Your manager gives you the week off to heal, tells you not to worry about the presentations and reports, commends you for the work that you were able to get done, and insists that if she sees your status active on your laptop, she’s going to have IT lock you out.
You try texting Lilah a few times, and she doesn’t answer, save to react or send lone emojis. You don’t try to call, or FaceTime. You’re not sure where you’d start if you did.
So when Lisa tells you the next day that Lilah’s at the apartment, and that she’s sitting on your unit’s balcony, it’s sort of a relief.
--
You know those things are bad for you.
It sits on your tongue, but you hold it there. The fact that Lilah is there at all is a boon, so you do your best to pointedly ignore the smoke curling from the end of her cigarette.
“I thought you were gonna die, you know?”
It cracks the air open, splits you down the middle, but Lilah doesn’t stop there:
“I’d never seen you like that. My superhero of a sister, on the floor, just…Laid out. When Lisa was getting into the ambulance with you and I stayed to grab some stuff like you asked, I was just like, on autopilot. Clothes, medication, phone, keys. The important shit, you know? And then I got to the wrong hospital and Lisa called, and I was like ‘well, shit. I’m not gonna get to say goodbye.’ And then you were in surgery, and then you were out, and then you woke up,” Her voice lilts with a hysterical little laugh, “And your first question was where your fucking work laptop was, and that was when I remembered that you asked for it. And I was like ‘well fuck. I fucked up again.’” Lilah quiets as she takes another drag from the cigarette, but for all the comments buzzing against your lips, you wait.
“You know what I think?” She exhales, “What this was? God or the universe, or fucking whatever—it’s telling you to slow down.” She turns her head to look at you finally, bloodshot gaze pinning you in place. “Because your first question coming out of major surgery should be what happened, how long was I out, what are the next steps, not where your fucking work laptop is—”
“I know.”
“Like that’s psychotic. And the worst part is you can’t even blame the meds, like, you’re just like that.”
“I know.” You pull in a deep breath, just managing not to wrinkle your nose at the scent of smoke. “I’m sorry, bean. I shouldn’t have said that—and you’re right, I can’t even blame the anesthesia.” You shift your seat a little closer, nudging her knee with yours. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“...Well, you didn’t. Your bitch-ass appendix did.”
You snort, looping your arm around Lilah’s shoulders and drawing her in.
“I love you, bean.”
Lilah sniffles as she huddles closer, tucking her head beneath your chin.
“I love you, too, generalissimo.”
--
“Saw Lilah on the way in.”
“Yeah?” You sit against the mountain of pillows still against your headboard, watch John unpack a few things from his bag onto your bed—gloves, gauze, tape, small scissors, alcohol wipes.
“Everything okay?”
“...Fine,” You concede, “She just has a shitty sister.”
You can feel John glancing toward you as you carefully wriggle out of your loose shirt, leaving you in a sports bra.
“Okay, let’s see what we have here.”
You hold carefully still as John peels back your wound dressing, leaning in to get a better look at the scars.
“How’s the pain been?”
“Fine, I guess. The gas pain in my shoulders sucks, though.”
“Yeah, that’s from the CO2 they use to inflate the abdominal cavity.”
“Hate the use of ‘cavity’ there.”
John’s lips quirk with a smile. “Wounds look good, no irritation or excessive redness.”
“Lisa’s been a very good nurse.”
“Mm.” John opens an alcohol wipe, carefully cleaning your wounds. “Has it been itchy at all?”
“Not really.”
“Good…A heating pad should help with those gas pains, by the way.”
“Okay.”
The two of you go quiet as he rebandages your wounds, then straightens.
“No fever, chills?”
“Nn-nn.”
“Appetite’s back?”
“Mostly.”
“Good.” John sits on the edge of the bed, removing his gloves and dropping the old dressing and alcohol wipe into the (now cleaned) bin by your bed. “When we were in the hospital, Lisa said you were sick all day. Why’d you wait so long to come in?”
“Just…” You shrug. “I thought it was my period.”
“Your cramps are that bad?”
“They can be.”
“Yeesh,” He mutters, tucking a few supplies into his bag. “When are you due back for your check-up, remind me?”
“Friday.”
“Okay.”
The two of you fall into quiet, and when you reach out for John’s hand, he slips it warmly into yours.
“...What’d your parents say?”
You focus on the press of his palm, trace the length of a vein on the back of his hand.
“I haven’t told them yet.” Your eyes flicker to his incredulous frown, and you shake your head. “It’s kinda too late now. I mean—I’ll tell them eventually. At this point they’ll just be upset that they weren’t invited.”
“Invited?” He scoffs. “It wasn’t a birthday party.”
“You know what I mean. I should’ve told them when I was on my way to the hospital, but I didn’t, and neither did the girls, so…Now this gets to be that funny story I tell them on New Year’s Eve in two year’s time, when they’re good and buzzed and less likely to get mad at me for not telling them right when it happened.”
“Sounds like you already have it all planned out.”
“I like a plan, remember?”
John smiles, thumb sweeping across the soft of your wrist. “I remember.” It’s a moment before he hedges: “Remind me, is that why we broke up? Not enough plans?”
You sigh softly, eyes dropping to your hands. “That was some of it. Other times, I just…I felt like you were making jokes of everything, all the time, or not taking things seriously. But honestly, after the whole,” You wave toward your abdomen, “You know, how chaotic it was, how scary…I kinda get it now. Why you’re so level.”
“...Doesn’t mean I should be doing it all the time. I’m sorry if I made you feel like we couldn’t just have a serious conversation.”
You smile. “I’m sorry I was so rigid. I should’ve been more understanding.”
“Hindsight’s 20/20, huh?”
“Famously.”
John gives your hand a little squeeze. “I should let you rest.”
“Okay…Can I selfishly say that I don’t want you to leave yet?”
“Yes,” He chuckles. “Tell you what. I’ll stick around for a bit, keep close. Make sure you don’t roll over in your sleep.”
“Oh yeah? You do that for all your patients, Dr. Shen?”
“Oh, all of them.”
“You really know how to make a girl feel spesh.”
John chuckles, nudging off the house shoes he’d worn inside and climbing into bed beside you, resting his hand on your hip. You tipped your head against him, relaxing into the warmth of his body as you had just a few days ago.
“Would it be selfish of me to say that I missed you a lot?” You mumbled.
“There’s that word again.”
“Hmm?”
“Selfish.” You feel John tip his head toward you. “Wanting things isn’t selfish. Neither is feeling things.”
You gnaw on your lower lip, letting your gaze drop back to his chest. He smoothes his hand over your hair, drawing you carefully closer.
“Tell you what,” He murmurs, “We’re gonna talk about this later—for now, you need your rest.”
“When are we gonna talk about it?”
“This weekend.”
“Oh?”
“Mhm. You’re gonna get clearance from Walsh to resume normal food and activity on Friday, we’re gonna get coffee and go for a nice, easy walk on Saturday—”
“I see—”
“And we’re gonna clear up all this selfish talk.”
“And then what?”
“Oh, just you wait.”
“Do I get a hint?”
John tips his head down toward you, lips brushing your forehead.
“You thought that first go-around was something? I’m gonna date the crap out of you.”
You smile. “I’d rather our dating not have anything to do with crap.”
✃ summary: john shen's first day as an attending goes a little something like this. or, 5 times you believe in him and the 1 time he believes in you.
✃ pairing: john shen x surgeon!f!reader
✃ wc: 6.0k
✃ notes: I AM FOR THE PEOPLE!! THE JOHN SHEN NATION!!! john n reader r the bestest duo ever and idc about anyone else ermmmm also can be read as stand-alone! but makes more sense given in universe context which u can find more of in the series masterlist! anyway this one is mainly for @rayveneyed my john shen girl....
✃ tags: literally just fluff, some angsty touches, set pre-s1 of the pitt! medical inaccuraces sorry babes
read on ao3 || series masterlist
1.
John's barely two minutes into his shift. His first shift as an attending, mind you, when he hears the fall of footsteps and someone leaning in next to him, but his shoulders still rest easy, his heart steady.
He already smells eucalyptus and catches the flash of your scrubcap before he turns, which is the only reason he doesn't incite a panic out of sheer boredom. A stretch of pale green, sprigs of leaves and flowers, pulls across your temple. Daisies, with white petals and golden centres, blooming all over your head.
Very spring-like, which is an antithesis of who you are. John classifies you as very much a winter person, though maybe it's because he met you during a blizzard after you'd been called in for an emergency craniotomy. The snow-chill was still melting from your fingers, and your toes were still thawing as you had walked in like a breath of fresh air.
Shen had been an intern then, and you were an R7, in between your attempts at publications and trying to figure out your footing after graduating. It felt like Godzilla stepping into the Pitt.
Now, he's technically your equal. Attending to attending.
He stifles a laugh as you forgo a greeting and start with, "Dr. Shen, I hear congratulations are in order." Your hands are clasped tight as you lean in beside him on the counter, but your expression is as it always is: neutral, a settled brow line and clear eyes catching the Pitt lights. "Attending Physician Dr. Shen, I should clarify."
"Attending Physician Spider, I thank you," he replies, "if we're going by our official titles."
"That's Attending Physician Dr. Spider," you correct. "Or, I mean, I still have a real name."
As if swatting a fly away: "Yeah, but no one calls you that." Biting on his coffee straw, he looks up at the board. "Any advice for the new guy?"
"Advice?" you echo. "It took two months for it to really sink in, and a year until I really felt normal about it all, if that's the right word for it. When the paperwork started piling up, I realized that it's not that different."
"Well, next year I'd like to request a check-up and see if that's a common diagnosis." John grins around his straw. Your expression flickers before settling into amusement. "Make it a routine thing, make sure I'm doing this whole 'attending' thing right."
"If you get to your desk and there's three stacks of papers needing to be signed," you intone smoothly, "you must be."
"I don't think we get private offices."
"Oh? Robby and Abbot share one. They must have some room they can empty out for you."
"You think?"
You shrug. "Maybe." Then, you add on, "By the way, a car versus pole arrived right before you came in. Not going too fast, airbags deployed. Bruising on the chest, closed radial fracture, no acute head injury. Ordered a CT to rule out anything that might've caused dizziness or confusion. He was awake and alert, but keep an eye out for decompensation for me, will you?"
"Did you let Abbot know?"
"I did, but I wanted to let the other attending on shift know," you remind him. "Just in case."
John is quick to mask his surprise. "One less patient for me to round on. God, you're so good to me and I'll do anything you want."
"Just don't be lazy on your first day of being an attending."
"Oh, I'd never dream of it. Hey, you gonna be around for the night?"
"Yeah." You cup the back of your neck and massage it thoroughly. Under your brow, you stare up at the board. As always, the air around you warps and undulates like a heartbeat—each pulse making something twinge as you shrug helplessly. "No one else would work July 4th weekend."
"Short end of the stick, then."
"No, I volunteered," you admit. "I'm not in a very patriotic mood." This, at his levelled gaze. "You know me."
"I'm still of the mind that you need friends," he drawls. "More friends, I mean. 'Cause that's what we are."
"Oh? I hadn't noticed."
"Yeah, between dastardly saves and water cooler talk. Oh, and by the way, you're terribly in love with me." Your eyes crease in a smile, and John feels a relief pool in the bottom of his gut. "You know, I think we're friends. Like you could talk to me, because you can. If something's bothering you."
At last, a small, placid smile finds its way onto your face. "We are friends," you tell him quietly. "I'm not friends with people who aren't exceptional at their jobs."
"Then why're you so tight with Abbot?"
"Do you want to toe that line on your first day?"
Another heave of his shoulders. "You know me," he parrots. "I like to toe the line."
You draw away, and with it comes that tone you always take on whenever you decide to drop into his world. Finely trimmed in warmth and warning is your grin as you retreat to the elevator. "Be good, Shen."
"Y'know," he ventures, "technically, you can't boss me around anymore."
You spin on him, quick as a whip, tracking backwards down the hall. "When did you start biting back?"
"I'll never bite your hands. They're too expensive, and I haven't gotten my first attending paycheck yet," he promises solemnly, hand to his heart and fingers splayed as if you'll stitch each digit to his skin if you had the chance.
You don't laugh, or frown, or show any sign that you're angry, as you are wont to do. Your countenance softens, and then you jab your thumb into the button. Immediately, the sign above you lights up and the two heavy doors part.
"Don't let the R2s defer to Abbot when you stand in the room," you advise, stepping in, "Attending Physician Dr. Shen."
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2.
The sterile, cold air shifts with a gust of air that sweeps into the trauma room. A quick glance at the clock. Only barely past midnight.
Shen is craned over the woman on the gurney when you duck in and around the staff setting up stat monitors, your eyes dark and focused. You sidle in next to him, hand digging into your pocket to withdraw your penlight.
"Oh, I know you love me if you're here so fast," he sings as you take over the neurological exam.
"My gift for our new night shift attending. Dr. Shen—" lifting the woman's eyelids, you swing the light and watch the pupil dilate— "who've we got here?"
John shoots a finger gun over at the intern. "Phillips, go time."
"Anna Badriya, twenty-seven, GCS 12 en route. She called 911 before losing consciousness. Head ache, slurred speech, nausea for three hours."
You frown. "Do we know how long she's been complaining about the headache?"
"She said a few days?"
"We're setting up fluids, zofran, haloperidol," Shen cuts in cleanly. "No barf yet, but you know I hate to see aspiration." His hip bumps against yours as they rip open her front. "Alright, woah, stop. Looks like we've got someone fresh from cardiothoracic surgery. We need to pull up her EHR and be careful when we move her around."
Your gaze darts towards her chest. A surgery wound splits the patient's skin a part, and you clench your jaw, turning back to the woman. "Is it infected?"
"Nope. Looks clean. POCUS." With a generous slather of gel, Shen places the wand to the skin. "Bilateral lung sliding."
"Is it from a valve replacement? Like, could it have failed?" Phillips asks.
"Don't know yet… nope! Chest is clear. Upper quadrants are clear."
Lathered in sweat by pain, the woman lets out a soft moan as you press your hand to her forehead, using your thumb to draw back the other eyelid. "Anna? Anna, do you know where you are?" A soft moan comes out choked and out of the corner of your eye, you see gloved knuckles rub against the sternum.
"Responsive to pain," reports Phillips.
"Lower quadrants are good too. Spider?"
"Got a blown pupil. We need a head CT."
"She came in two weeks ago for an ascending aortic aneurysm. Discharged and lives at home with her mom." You whip your head over your shoulder at Olive standing by the computer. "Post-op DVT prophylaxis."
Straightening up, you step back and tuck your torch back into your breast pocket, ripping off your gloves with a rippling snap. "Alright, CT to OR."
"We'll need someone to call her mom."
"What is it?" asks Phillips.
Olive nods. "On it."
"A brain bleed caused by the blood thinners. Generally pretty rare," you explain, "but probable now." The harsh clang of the metal punctuates your words as the gurney rails lock into place. The ER staff become a procession, ushering the patient to the elevator and you cup your neck, lolling it under your palm and hearing the bones click. "We'll have her spick and span before you can say 'infundibulum.'"
"Still think mammillary bodies is weirder when we're talking about brains," Shen retorts, his fingers ghosting your elbow as you walk past him to follow. Side by side, they push their way out of the trauma room. The intern scurries ahead to help push the gurney.
Shen inclines his head towards yours. "Why do they call it that, by the way? Is it cause they look like a bunch of tiny nipples?"
"You just like boobs." You wrinkle your nose at him
With a huge, impish grin: "What guy doesn't like boobs?"
From where he leans on the counter by the arm, swiping mindlessly on the iPad to keep the screen active, Abbot interrupts whatever retort you had building up. "Hey, you need an extra set of hands?"
Shen pauses, fingers wrapping around the ends of his stethoscope. You continue onward, sending Jack a lazy wave, and as easy as breathing you say for him, "Relax, old man. Shen's got it handled."
You slip into the elevator just as the doors slide shut.
Turning on his heel, John walks a pace around the hub before pulling up Anna's chart on the computer, sitting down with a restrained groan. He stretches his arms high and back behind his head before flinging himself into the keyboard. Better to get started on his charting while he's ahead.
Yet as he settles his hands above the keyboard, he pauses for a moment. Then, he looks up at Abbot. The man doesn't even look phased as he works. John folds his arms on the desk, and says airily, "Don't know if you believe all that she's said."
"What? The part where she called me old, or where she said you had it handled?"
"Well, you're only, what—pushing seventy?"
"Alright."
"No, I mean, the other part."
Abbot doesn't bother even looking up from the iPad. Vaguely, he answers, "She's an excellent judge of character for everyone except herself."
"Which means to say she's good at holding people at a distance," John surmises under his breath, but he averts his gaze when Abbot sends him a well-meaning but hard warning glance. He tries to think of what little he can glean from you—your hobbies, what you like or dislike, even how old you are—and doesn't like at what he comes up with.
Which is to say, nothing.
"So, when's her birthday?" Abbot tells him, and he frowns. "How do you know that?"
"Ladies are attracted to a little experience." Shen pulls a face. Abbot snorts. "I mean, maybe she digs guys pushing seventy."
His boss pushes off the counter and walks over to the South wing. John's jaw drops, and Lena reaches over to manually hinge it shut.
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3.
John Shen isn't superstitious. He doesn't believe in saying the Q-word or the S-word or any word bringing bad luck, no matter how hard Ellis slugs him in the shoulder for it. Full moon madness isn't real. And he definitely doesn't think deaths come in threes. Good things, maybe, but not death.
Mostly, he believes good things should happen to good people.
"Dr. Shen?"
"That's me." He looks up, chin lifting from the cup of his hand to see a woman standing there. A surgical nurse, by the scrubs, stands there with shoulders pulled back as she stretches her arms. Her ID tag glints when her chest arches up towards the lights. CONNIE JOAN HUNTER. Crazy, he thinks idly, to have a name comprised entirely of first names. "Can I help you?"
"Spider sent me down. Said you would want to know that Ms. Badriya is well and in recovery."
"Oh." He stands, suddenly feeling very impolite sitting when someone is talking to him. In the back of his mind, he hears his mother chiding him. "Well, thank you. You didn't have to come all this way."
"She insisted," the nurse says with a shrug. She doesn't look at all bothered. "She told us that it was your first day as an attending, so you get to hear about all the wins you don't normally hear. Congratulations."
"Wow, is it a party up in neurosurg or something?"
"Always is." The nurse taps the counter with her fingers rhythmically before moving to glide off towards the stairs. She barely drags her hands away before coming back to stand in front of Shen. "Hey, are you close with Spider?"
"Decent friends," he says, pausing awkwardly between sitting and standing. "Have been for a while."
"Like outside of work," she clarifies.
"Those questions are directed to Dr. Abbot," he says. "Why?"
"We already asked him. We want to celebrate." She adds it as if it's the most obvious thing in the world and his confused look is stupid. He straightens up again. "But we don't know what she'd like to do or get. If you have an idea, let any one of us know. We have, like, a group chat and everything, and we asked Abbot but he told us to ask Dr. Robby, and no one really wants to talk to Dr. Robby, so we're still in the middle of trying to convince Abbot to be a liaison." He frowns. Connie Joan Hunter slumps. "It's a whole thing."
John's still trying to wrap his head around the first half as he asks, "Celebrate? Did I miss a memo in the company emails or something?"
"You didn't hear?" At this, Conne Joan grows a little concerned. "Spider got her pick of fellowships next year. Neurotrauma at U-Dub, or UPMC, or Toronto. It's where she went for med school," she adds, although Shen somehow knows that. Fellow Canadian, and all that. "They're holding a spot."
"Can they do that?"
"Well," Connie Joan says, "I think they make exceptions for her."
She continues to prattle on about adding John to the group chat so that they can come up with some sort of celebration together. He opines that you wouldn't like a big party—even a simple gift would do—and ignores the strange, sinking sensation that floods him. An overwhelming wave of sadness, almost, if he gives it too much credence.
He clenches his jaw tight and tries to temper his thoughts on why you wouldn't tell him with other things, like genuinely, what gifts you'd like. How you'd react to a surprise party.
How much you hate it, how much you'd try to shimmy your way free from the room. Sure, you'll thank them all with a smile, but you'd try not to shrink in on yourself, attempt to sweep the entire thing under the rug with enough white lies to drown yourself in. Let's not make a big deal out of it. It's not like I'm dying. I'm really not worth all this. It's just U-dub. It's just U of T. It's just UPMC, and it's just neurosurgery. Anyone could do it—
A pager beeps. Connie Joan curses under her breath. She scurries out of the Pitt with a, "I'll text you!" and it's loud enough that Abbot frowns as he rounds the corner back from South.
"Were you hitting on her?" Appalled.
As petulant as a child who's lying but Shen really isn't lying: "No."
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4.
Somewhere between the lapse of hellish exhaustion and the second wind at 5 AM, Shen treks up to crit care with a half a sandwich, a banana, and goal in mind. That is to say, to find you and figure out what this whole fellowship business is about. He prides himself on knowing the general comings and goings. He also wants to know if he's about to lose one of his friends to U-Dub of all places.
He'd rather you go back to your alma mater of Temerty, across the border if you didn't want to stay in Pittsburgh. At least he'd stop by the Falls to visit. He himself graduated just up the St. Lawrence from McGill, so it's not like it would be too far if he ever decided to swing up there. Support a friend. Toronto winters aren't so different.
He'd rather you just tell him straight that you're leaving instead of playing along with routine yearly check-ups and all that bullshit.
A young man sits at the nurse's station when John gets there. Hair limp and oily under the pale light, he leans back into the most unergonomic, cheap, shit black office chair the hospital could scrounge up, and stares up at the screens mounted on the pillar. One for scheduling, another for stats.
Spooning yogurt robotically into his mouth, he just watches. John would think he's a statue, if not for the steady lifting and sinking of his chest. The few others are writing or typing away, and it's quiet. All around him are other staff, sweeping in and out of rooms for their hourly neuro checks, the shout of a particularly cantankerous patient complaining loudly about his sleep being disturbed, and John's shoulders rise, tense just a bit, eyes darting.
"Sorry." The nurse swivels, spoon pulled over his bottom lip. The ID has been tossed onto the desk as John leans over on his knuckles. Carter. "Is Spider around?"
"Could try her office. It's on the neurology floor, though. Not here."
"She got pulled into surgery," another one intones, not even bothering to turn around from where she leans onto the desk by her elbows. The nurse pushes her face into her hands, dragging the skin up and down as if wiping away a memory. "Jordan wanted the lesions out and the tumour biopsied as soon as possible and she said she could squeeze it in tonight by… I don't know, magic?"
"What the fuck?" the male nurse mumbles, then remembers Shen. "Sorry, man. Guess she's in surgery. Might be a while."
"Everything okay?"
"She's poking around in our friend's head. Like, nursing school and shit." With a daggered look over his shoulder: "He told me he was doing it tomorrow."
The woman holds her hands out in the air, shrugging. "Don't shoot the messenger."
The nurse, back to John: "You see how it is."
"Yeah. It gonna take another two or three hours, I'm guessing?"
Carter nods apologetically. "Do you need a consult? She's got some R1s tonight. They'll page her directly."
Everyone here is so nice, he thinks distantly. He sweeps his gaze around him. Then he realizes that there must be endless compassion or endless apathy to work in a place that dealt so cleanly with life and death and the meaning between the two.
John doesn't want to say it's any harder than the Pitt, but he remembers when he did a neurology rotation during his intern year. He shadowed a stroke team for weeks, watching as they brought back pieces of a person's identity—their speech, or the capacity to understand it, parts of the body that would jolt and twitch, and then go still.
"Maybe there's a small mercy here," Dr. Mehta once said to him, lacking his usual sense of joy and joke that he had gotten used to. He must've caught John's expression when a patient arrived too late for treatment, and died right in front of them. He remembers feeling sick. It wasn't the first person who died in front of him, but probably the first one where the doctors stepped back, and let the patient pass peacefully. "Not just to our patient, but to his doctors who don't have to weigh at what point the quality of life justifies living."
"No," he remembers to say presently. "Just tell her if she's free to page me. I wanted to talk to her about… Lance Burns. Car accident guy from earlier." He forks over his extension and the banana as thanks, and a little recognition flickers over the nurse's face.
"We'll have a room for him ready eventually," the nurse says apologetically, taking the food offering. He pauses. "Wait, you're the new EM attending."
"That's the story."
"Sweet. Congrats."
"Yeah, thank me when I keep sending up the guys that won't shut up," John teases, clutching onto his sandwich tighter. "Say, do you have a bathroom I could use?"
By the time he comes out and walks back to the nurse's station to retrieve his sandwich that he left for safekeeping and sanitary reasons, a few new figures roam the hub. One in particular is peering over Carter's shoulder. Your arms are planted on your hips, scrub cap still on your head as you dictate orders to the residents behind you.
"And make sure she doesn't try to roll out of bed again. Check the output every hour. I don't want to explain to her son why her EVD got dislodged or some other nonsensical thing," you mutter, fingers pulling down your cheek. The two residents nod and scatter, and you redirect your attention to Carter. "Next scan, please. See, right there. I knew it. He needs new scans. The lesions are way more invasive than these showed." You slide your hand to cup your neck, and roll it out. "I'll have to consult with Dr. Cheung and Dr. Conley. The good news is the biopsy results will be in by the end of the week, the bad news is I can't give you definitive answers." Your face twitches. "I'm sorry I can't do more right now."
"It's not your fault," Carter says, eyes empty as he clicks repeatedly. His voice is tight, and the other nurse from earlier has a hand tight on his shoulder, knuckles blanch, fingers rigid and digging. It looks painful. Carter doesn't even flinch.
"You can be there for him," you suggest quietly, pulling off your scrub cap. "Tired advice, but it's hard to be a patient." At his approach, you look up, exhausted, but still forcing yourself to blink and peer at him with as much energy as you can. "Shen?"
"Hey."
"Is something wrong? Lance; did he decompensate?"
"I just wanted to ask you about something." A meaningful look. You nod sharply down the hall, excusing yourself with your exhaustion. He follows after you and hands over the sandwich. "Just in case," he adds as you lead him through the twist and turns of the floor. You gesture to an on-call room after a quick peek inside to assure no one was already in there before slipping in.
John locks the door behind him, turning around just as you sink onto the bed, rest your elbows on your knees, and pry open the plastic encasing the sandwich. He pulls the chair from the desk and seats himself, arms lined along the worn armrests.
"What is it?" Your eyes warm in the gentle glow of the lamplight, and you look up from beneath your brow as you eat, cheeks full. You wipe at your lip, lowering your face at his expression, and your eyes widen, ducking your head even more into your hand when you realize he's still staring. Shen can't help the slight smile, the way his face heats as he turns his head away, pressing his jaw into the heel of his hand. "Sorry. I'm eating like a pig. I haven't eaten since… Sorry, what time is it?"
"Half past four."
"Probably since eight or nine," you confess. "Sorry."
"You just apologized three times in the last two sentences."
"Ah. Yeah. Habit." You eat slower. John watches out of the corner of his eye and wonders what that could mean. "Right. What happened to Lance?"
"Nothing."
"You're being weird." Your eyes are shadowed, a slight frown weighing down on your lips in concern. "Did something happen?"
John winces. "No. No, it's not that." He leans forward too, steepling his fingers. Their heads are inches apart. You cock aside, your brow wrinkling delicately. "We're… we're friends, right?"
"I think I recall saying that earlier tonight. Is the late night getting to you?" You clear your throat. "Shit, this sandwich is good."
"I think the late night's getting to you," he comments, and the tone holds more of an edge than he wants. He tempers it with a quick, "It's from the cart in the Pitt. Marginally better than the cafeteria."
You stare at him, gaze searching. Although you keep your tone light, it doesn't refract an inch in your face. "The cafeteria could kill people." Tone measured, every movement calculated. "I think it's what keeps us in business."
"Tell Gloria that."
"Hm." You chew the rest of the sandwich, dust your hands into the plastic container before setting it on the table, snapped shut. It's such a carelessly tidy sort of action that has John's throat going dry. He rubs his palms together. "So?"
"So what?"
"You clearly have something to say to me."
"No."
"Shen."
"I'm sure it was some baseless rumour, but you should know that your staff have loud mouths. Like... it could be a security breach, and if you were the president—" he whistles— "game over."
"Do you want me to have a talk with them?" The corner of your lips twist, displeased and a bolt of guilt strikes through John. He shakes his head violently, hands shooting out in front of him. Pitching forward at the hips, his feet shuffle and make his legs wider apart. You flinch.
"No! No, no, no, it's not like... bad or anything." He draws back, scratching at his brow. "It sounds bad in hindsight. No, what I mean to say is that I heard you were returning back to humble roots but instead of an R7 it's to fellowship. Should I be hurt that I wasn't in on the newsletter?"
Your shoulders fall, and your lips part, a soft breath coming out in the quietest of sighs before you utter, "I don't know. The only reason people know is because they keep eavesdropping."
He smiles wryly. "Do you think that maybe they eavesdrop because you don't tell anyone anything?"
"People need to mind their business. They spread all these rumours about fellowships, and I don't even know if I'm accepted into some of them. I don't want to get my hopes up in case they retract their offers and decide with a better candidate. Either way," you continue brusquely before John can cut you off, "don't be like me. Just enjoy the attending life. Maybe that's the advice I've got for you."
"Then why?"
"Competition. Interest. I was lucky to get a job without doing a fellowship. I need to be better to keep it. And it's either this or being a neuroscientist."
"So you're going to move to Canada."
"I don't know yet," you tell him smoothly.
"You're leaning to one over the other."
"I'm letting myself weigh the options. Measure twice. Cut once." Your eyes knife to him, under your brow, a butterfly's touch. Hair has slipped from your tight hairdo, ending like a swaying rope by your mouth. Over the past four years, he's seen your face—a passing ghost between doors and curtains, hidden behind a computer screen, translucent through a printed scan. Underneath Abbot's arm when you're too still and half the room thinks you're a cadaver and he's trying to shake some life into you. Over Olive's shoulder. In the break room, the line of your shoulders sloping downward as you press your forehead to the wall, and there it is again: that distinct puncture wound Shen gets between the ribs urging him to reach out, to tell you that he's sorry and that he's here—
It vanishes like smoke.
"The whole point of the brain is to adapt and survive," you tell him as you reach up and pull the elastic out of your hair. It tumbles all around your face, a wave of eucalyptus fragrancing the air as you rub at your scalp. Your words are a hand on his arm, squeezing him assuredly. "And to remember. In neuro, we gauge the humanity of a surgery by what will remain after."
He doesn't know why that sticks with him. You press a hand on his shoulder before you go, tell him you'll see him later.
John turns to watch you go, a lone shadow flooded by a pillar of light.
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5.
He doesn't see you again until his shift's over. Well, technically it ended fifty-seven minutes ago, but who was keeping count when he had charts to dictate and final discharges to go through?
You're talking to Langdon, which is a strange sight in itself, but the claws have been sheathed since March. Not gone completely, but the scratches glance off the skin rather than draw blood. You pass off an iPad, gesturing with your pinkie about levels and brain bleeds and shit he can't think of when he's tired off his ass from running everywhere.
But Langdon gets it. With every nod along to whatever medicine you're spewing, Shen wonders if the guy realizes he's staring more at the side of your face than at whatever you're talking about. He wouldn't be able to notice himself if he wasn't sitting at the hub right in front of the pair, double-checking to make sure his charts are fully uploaded.
"So, we hitting the diner?" he cut in cleanly when you pause in the midst of your conversation. You snap your jaw shut, pinning him with a look before muttering a dismissal to Langdon who hands back the iPad and disappears into the swirl of the Pitt without another word.
You turn to fully lean against the counter, setting down the iPad. "The diner?"
"Yeah."
"Don't really recall an invite."
"Well, consider this your invitation to the best congratulation dinnerfast in all of Pittsburgh. Who knows how much time I have left with you?"
"You mean how much you have to stick out before I'm out of your hair," you reply ruefully. "Besides, I have plans."
"What? A date?"
"No, of course not. Hey, give me your hand." Your fingers delicately steady his wrist as you slap something into his palm. "Come to the roof when you're done with your shift. Oh, and tell the DoorDash driver 2091 when he asks for the code."
He crumples up the twenty dollar bill in his hand, staring at it as if it were a baggie of paraphernalia. "What?"
"The DoorDash driver. That," you say, pointing at the money, "is his tip on top of the tip. Bring up the bags when he gets here."
"Why?"
The withering look you give him could've rotted a flower in the height of spring.
He's sure he's on the brink of asking another question you'd never call him stupid for when a nurse scrambles up to them, wide-eyed, flush-faced.
"Sorry!" she squeaks out, head swiveling from one doctor to the other. She seems to decide on you, fists clenched tight in front of her. "Ma'am, we need an attending in South 16 to oversee an intubation."
Without missing a beat: "Don't look at me. Talk to Shen."
The nurse firmly faces him with a determined nod. "Dr. Shen, we need you in South 16."
Shoving the money into his pocket, he shoots you a look. You smile innocently, and shrug your shoulders, head tilting towards the bed. "Yeah, yeah, I'm on my way."
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1.
"Lemme know how much this was and I'll send back the money," John says around a mouthful of fries. You wave the notion away. They watch the sunrise as Piitsburgh begins to come to life under the growing sunlight reaching between the skyscrapers to brush along the filling roads and empty paved walkways.
"Are you sure?"
"Positive. My treat, remember?" Whilst rifling through the bag: "Hey, don't forget your double-bacon."
"You got burgers too?" You withdraw your hand as he takes it from you, peering into the bag. Within indeed is a waxy bag of onion rings, and a neatly folded and huge lump that no doubt promised a greasy burger with crispy bacon and melted cheese. His stomach yawns and shudders at the idea of it and he pats himself through his shirt. "I knew I was your favourite."
"Right…"
The summer heat does not yet bog down their clothes, and you sit aside John, legs sprawled against the concrete as you saw a piece of waffle apart in the takeout container in your lap. The man himself stands, chin tilted to the wind the way a dog sticks his head out to feel the breeze. The night's exhaustion wears on him, but he knows if he sinks to the floor, it'll take you and a handful of nurses to haul him to his feet again.
He looks down at his packet of fries—near empty now—and his fingers crunch the paper. Just another thing you wouldn't be around to do in a year's time.
"How was your first day as an attending?"
Truthfully, he answers with a glance to where you sit by his feet, "Better with you in it."
You open your mouth to retort, but John doesn't hear it. A strange grief has wrapped around his heart in the hours since he's left the on-call room. It's a hard wire, tighter than it might've been if you had just left without warning. Like he's expecting to one day turn around and you won't be there.
"Sorry, I'm about to be real fuckin' annoying."
"Look, Shen—"
"Did UPMC say yes?" he interrupts. "Or are you just expecting a no?" Your lips press together, a small knot between your eyebrows and he jerks his stare away, a hard lump congealing in his throat. "Kill a guy for wondering if his friend's leaving the state."
Your eyes settle somewhere along the curve of his jaw. "Yes. I mean, no, they didn't say yes, and yes, I am expecting a no. I also don't know if staying here is the right choice. I've been here since my internship. Maybe a change of pace would be good. Maybe Pittsburgh saying no would be a sign."
"A sign for what?"
"A sign to move on." You throw a hand listless in the air in some vague expression. "If I don't have the medicine, I don't have much. I need to be somewhere where I at least have that."
John's heart drops. "They'd be ridiculous to reject you," he murmurs to the wind. You must hear him anyway, because the feeling of your arm disturbing the fabric of his scrub pants as you cut your food ceases. Forcing himself to speak louder, he looks over at the Pittsburgh skyline. "Especially since they know about your publications, case records, your work ethic. The fact that you already live here."
"My weaknesses."
"Your strength," he counters with an incredulous look down. "Your achievements. You. Spider, don't you know? Anyone would be lucky to have you." Your eyebrows rise at the heat in his tone and he turns back to his fries, fighting the tingling heat in his ears. "Besides, we'd miss you."
"We'd?" you echo, quirking an eyebrow at him. He nudges you with his foot, a grin flickering onto his face like a neon light, buzzing and bright. "You flatter me."
"Yeah, yeah, eat it up." You huff a laugh. After a moment of consideration, he remedies it. "I would miss you."
"…thanks, John."
He watches the sun your face into a bust of burnished copper when it tilts up to smile at him.
✃ summary: ptmc's latest gossip piece: dr. langdon and the neurosurgeon. spoiler alert: he absolutely can NOT stand her. who even knows why?
✃ pairing: frank langdon x surgeon!f!reader, implied robby x surgeon!f!reader
✃ wc: 8.5k
✃ notes: my first pitt fic! not too sure if i should write more, but this is me going back to my roots 'cause one of my best known fics back in the ffn days was a grey's anatomy fic. regardless, i love my pittlings so i might write more? esp with reader and langdon bc they have a juicy dynamic... or even reader and robby! pls lmk!
✃ tags: langdon is a dick (i'm so serious), enemies(?)-to-it's-complicated, set pre-s1, medical inaccuracies (sorry!), angstier end, but mostly slice-of-life convo/banter!
special thanks to my lovely @rayveneyed for being my sounding board throughout all this madness!! xoxo love u
read on ao3 || series masterlist
eleven am
It's a widely known secret that Frank Langdon cannot stand you.
Understatement of the century, but Princess isn't one to judge.
Even though Ahmad runs a board every time there's an incoming trauma with a reported head injury, hidden in a corner so all the post-its are sorta piling on top of one another. Just in case. No one turns down a small bonus just for guessing whether or not the ED will explode when you and Langdon are put into the same room.
She's got five on fifteen minutes, patient care, she walks out.
It's just so unfortunate that Dr. Langdon can't get over the one neurosurgeon that'll zip down to the Pitt in five seconds flat if she gets called, but it makes for a great way to pass the time. Or that's what Perlah says after putting in ten with Ahmad: thirty minutes, snippy comment, Robby breaks it up.
Over the counter and pretending to charge the iPads in low, humming Tagalog: "And they'd look pretty together, if they weren't always at each other's throats."
"Maybe that's what makes them so pretty," Princess had answered. "It's spicy."
"And he's married."
"Right, can't forget that. Is she?"
"I dunno. Should we ask Dr. Robby?"
"If you're so curious."
But any other conversation dies as the doors to T2 are pushed open with a shove. The patient is already being wheeled to surgery right when Princess catches something an ischemic stroke turning hemorrhagic and a very pissed off neurosurgeon. There's a whisper of intercranial bleed and craniotomy as a flash of navy blue is followed by grey.
A cat and a mouse, constantly chasing one another.
She glances over her shoulder to catch the action.
"I can take it from here, Dr. Robby," you call, hands wrapped tight around the gurney rail. Down the hall, Mateo holds the waiting elevator open and Dr. Robby's planted himself at the head of the gurney, pushing with all his might as if that'll separate you from Dr. Langdon faster. Said Pretty Boy lingers by T2's doors, ripping off his gloves with a violent snap. "I would've preferred to avoid this."
"I know, Spider, I know."
But even Dr. Robby cannot pacify you. You twist at the waist, glaring at Dr. Langdon. "Keep a closer eye on your residents then so when they decide to administer t-PA for a patient with high blood pressure and a CT showing an aneurysm well on it's way to bursting—" the edges of your words are embittered and icy— "this doesn't happen again."
"It was, what, 7% chance? He had no blood flow—"
"—Do not worry, I will caution Dr. Langdon one more time about there being such a thing as too gung-ho."
Langdon looks more like a angry hound than the bright shining star as his head snaps to Robby. His eyes are wide and too bright under the pale lights, lips curled into an ugly snarl.
"You're welcome, by the way."
His voice carries across the hall, bouncing off tile and ceiling.
It's far too loud. Far too sharp. The sentence is strung all wrong, like a bone that hasn't set right and needs to be broken again. A silence plunges into the Pitt as Robby stops. He rubs his face into his hands, a muttered noise escaping through the crevices of his palms as his star pupil shoots his gloves into a waste bin and steps into line next to him.
"Now you can clear your schedule on Thursday."
You pull the rest of the gurney into the lift with Mateo's help, your eyes, clever and cold, fixed on him. "Do you want to take me out to dinner, Hasselhoff?"
"I'd rather be beheaded."
You step into the elevator. A faint smile pulls at your mouth. "Too bad I'm fully booked in OR 3 and blissful silence, otherwise you and I really would have a date with the guillotine."
"Oh, you'd be lucky to even get an invite anywhere."
Your smile flickers. "What do you mean?"
"If you need me to spell it out for you: You. Do not. Get any."
For a moment, Princess wonders if you're going to leap out and strangle Langdon or turn on your heel, but you surprise them all with a slight laugh. "You'd be surprised, Dr. Langdon."
The elevator doors slide shut. The oppressive quiet seems to swell, pushing down onto all of their shoulders. Princess barely thinks to breathe. Perlah, leaning against the desk, meets her eyes with wide, dark eyes and a slight shake of her head.
Then:
"Freaky." Dana smacks Langdon in the back of his head as she passes and he frowns, cradling his skull. "What? Something I said?"
"Langdon," she begins, shoving the iPad back into the rack, "have you ever learned the phrase 'I'm sorry'?"
"Vaguely recall 'em." He draws up a chair and plops down, reaching over for a glob of sanitizer. He rubs his palms together, flashing a smile. "Why?"
"'Cause it'd be good if you remembered how to use them," Dr. Robby says, leaning in beside him. He smiles, but not with his eyes. A warning if Princess has ever seen one, "before you run off our one-way ticket to a neurosurg consult."
For a moment, Dr. Langdon and Dr. Robby's gazes meet, searching and fighting and running. The air fizzles and burns.
Then, Pretty Boy bows his head, the Big Boss claps his shoulder. "Good man," he says. "Now, let's all get back to work." Langdon eventually gets up with a groan, muttering something about doing a round. He grabs an iPad from the rack, and offers a grim half-smile at Princess as he walks past, shoulders slouched and a boy's pout on his lips.
The thickness in the air begins to melt away. The rush of the ER comes back—the clacking of keys, the sound of wheels running over linoleum tile and the muffled coughing between curtains and squeaking beds—and the world keeps on spinning.
You'll come down again with the good snacks from upstairs for the nurses and another one stuffed in your backpocket for Dr. Robby.
And Dr. Langdon will cause a fuss, like he does. It shouldn't be any different, but for some reason, Princess feels weirder than normal going back to work after that blown fuse.
Dana crashes into a seat next to her, but her body's still stiff like a live wire is strung throughout her skeleton, her feet never quite leaving the floor, always planted in case she needs to dash. It's the Q-word in the ED, which means the charge nurse eyes the phone with a wariness and a thumb flicking over a pack of cigarettes, waiting for the shoe to drop.
"Fucking unbelievable," she mutters.
"I still stand by what I said last week," Perlah intones as Ahmad ducks into the office to read over the post-its. "We should get them both a shock collar."
"As much as I'd love that, I don't think Gloria would appreciate our doctors wearing collars on the clock." Dr. Robby slides along the counter until he's leaning over, head cocked towards the nurses and his voice lowering. "Do I even bother trying?"
Dana pulls on her glasses. "He's your puppy, not mine. Yank his leash a little. Throw 'im a bone. You don't have to make 'em get along. Just civil enough that a patient doesn't die."
"Or a patient doesn't complain." He buries his face into his palms. "Fuuuuuuuuck…"
"You could lock them in a room together," suggests Perlah.
"Nope. Will not be doing that."
Princess smiles sympathetically. She walks around the counter and pats Dr. Robby on the back. Her eyes catch something glinting in his back pocket. The trim of his hoodie lifted when he bent over, and it reveal the silver wrapper of a granola bar, untouched and a little bit smushed. "They just need to work it out."
His eyebrows knit together. "Work it out."
She nods. "Maybe you could promise a treat, so long as they play nice. You know, train them."
"Those two are not food-motivated," he answers. "Especially her. Trust me, I've tried everything."
"Well, we can't all roll over at the first sight of pizza."
Doc straightens up, frowning. "Wha—Hey, what's that supposed to mean?"
"Means you're not you when you're hangry," Dana says as Princess leaves. "And you better try somethin' before they start blowing shit up."
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twenty-three minutes later
"I thought we would have to duck for cover," McKay jokes.
Mateo blinks. He doesn't know how long he's sat in the break room. His legs are partially jelly, the heels burning up to the Achilles and pulsing in a way that makes him grieve the remaining time he has left to sit down. Very quickly he is realizing doubles are not his speed, especially not in the Pitt. That, and he needs a new pair of shoes. He's pretty sure the sneakers he's got on right now are so run-down that he can feel every bit of the floor.
McKay fixes herself a cup of tea into a to-go cup, sweeping her fringe with her fingers and collapsing into the seat across from him. She smiles sympathetically. "First time seeing them fight?"
He pinches the bridge of his nose and groans. "Why are they like that?"
"I know right," McKay replies, and doesn't elaborate. She looks like she doesn't see the need to. A frown pulls at the corner of his mouth and when her big blues catch it, she sighs. "Look, it's just how it is. I'm not saying it's right, but they're not out to kill each other, and a patient's never said anything. I don't think anyone takes it that seriously."
"Has it always been like that?"
"Always?" she echoes thoughtfully. She thinks about it for a moment, her eyes squinting, lips pursing. "Hmm, yeah. No." A beat. A reconsideration. "I don't know, actually. Probably, since Robby's never done anything more than a light slap on the wrist to stop it. He gets tired when someone plays the same song twice on the radio. I can't imagine what those two do to him."
"Doesn't explain why Langdon hates her guts."
"Because Langdon is Langdon," she says as if that explains everything, "and Spider is Spider. They're like oil and water, y'know."
Mateo does not know. The bite of Dr. Langdon's words echo in his brain over and over, like a sort of memory that wakes you up in the middle of the night. He shudders at the idea of one day that vitriol turning on him. "It's a miracle," he says carefully, "that she keeps coming. Normally, surgeons are too good to slum it with us. And for Langdon to act out that way—"
"Oh, yeah. Heard it's like a personal favour for Dr. Robby." McKay shrugs. "They've known each other for a while, and from what I've gathered, she's not going anywhere. No matter how hard Langdon tries to run her off."
"Whatever his deal is."
McKay's voice twinges. "Two kids under five does that to you. I have enough trouble with Harrison alone."
"That isn't solely a Harrison problem." Mateo doesn't need to add the Chad and Chloe of it all. "He's a good kid. The rest is something you just deal with."
She laughs dryly, tugs on the string of her teabag with long, graceful fingers. "I suppose. Then Langdon'll just have to deal with all of it, too."
"And 'dealing with it' entails…?"
"A very harsh reminder from Dr. Robby," she replies, "or going until one of them runs out of steam. But between you and me—" and she leans over conspiratorially, voice low and raspy— "I think she likes the fight. I mean, how often does someone get to tell Langdon that he's wrong?"
Mateo's gaze shoots to McKay. His lips press into a thin line, eyebrows furrowing. "You're being a little too supportive of those guys," he murmurs. McKay draws back, capping her to-go cup with a small, self-satisfied smile.
"Trust me, ordinarily, I grin and bear a surgeon's big ego because it gets them out of our hair and back up to their little glass pedestals faster. But Robby likes her. It's good enough reason for me."
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four-thirty-six pm
Kim chews on her nails. She tugs at her hangnails. Given the chance, she'll pick at her cuticles if all else has been depleted.
It's a fucking really bad habit, but one that makes her look busy when she looks down at iPads. Gives the impression that she's reading really hard.
Ugh, who's she kidding? It's terrible. She's a pretty confident person, or so she likes to say, so biting nails feels a little out of left field, and she can't help it. It's not the high-stress situations that do her in but the feeling of doing something that she shouldn't be doing that makes her fidgety.
But when she bites at her nail and has a screen in hand, it makes her just perfect at standing in places she probably shouldn't be in. Even better at eavesdropping juicy gossip she can pawn off to Princess and Perlah for a small boon of her choosing. A favour here, a snack break there. Knowledge is power.
Which is why she's here, standing. Lurking, mostly, with her juicebox while she can get away, and her thumb picking away at a hangnail she gnawed at. Her feet are glued to the floor, and she presses herself against stairwell.
Above her, two voices come louder and louder, their footsteps slapping as they skip steps with practiced ease.
"I'm just asking to talk." Langdon.
"We're talking right now." The neurosurgeon from earlier. "Unless you want to say something specific, Dr. Langdon."
"Don't be—"
"Don't be what?"
"You're genuinely insufferable. Do you know that? Like really, really know that?"
"My father drilled that into my head. Anything else?"
"Yeah, but someone's deciding to be a—" He cuts himself off and groans. "Nevermind. Just stop."
Your little laugh barely conceals the slight shocked noise that comes out of Kim. Because as far as she's concerned, Dr. Langdon's never taken back anything he's ever said. Never stopped. Never backtracked. Granted, she's worked here for a little less than a year, so she doesn't know everyone all that well yet, but it's sort of obvious.
"Stop what?" you ask.
"Stop being that."
"Being what?"
"Being you. For just a second."
"Don't be stupid."
Langdon's voice scorches. "I'm not being stupid. You're being a bitch."
The word makes the air swelter thickly and feeling more increasingly like she shouldn't be here.
Kim glances at the door back to the Pitt, and debates the odds of her being able to sneak there without them seeing.
The two doctors stop at the landing. Her fingers tighten on her juice box, and it squirts, dribbles all over her fingers. With a quick shift of her foot, Kim snuffs out the possibility of her splatter making noise, and she holds back a wince. Her splatter. Not the best turn of phrase, but nonetheless, she's getting distracted from the gossip at hand.
"Is that so?" you're in the middle of saying, flat as still water. Langdon hitches a breath, then he lets out a long exhale, a soft muttered 'fuck'.
"No, well, yes, but I just—I just wanted to say that I rushed. With Mr. Harland. I didn't want to say... the other stuff."
You let out a small 'huh'. A few seconds roll past. Four, to be exact. The soft squeak of a shoe shifting against the floor. "And is this supposed to be some sort of apology?"
"If you let it. Can you just give me a fucking second? Please."
"Okay. Fine." No answer. "Langdon, we both have patients. Can we speed it up?"
"Yeah, I'm finding it."
"If you have to find it, I'm not sure you're ready to say your big boy words. In fact, you drain the satisfaction out of getting an apology in the first place. That's nothing short of a miracle."
With a sharp squeak of a shoe turning, the fuzzy shape of your shadow grows sharp and clear as you descend the steps, and Kim presses herself tighter to the white plaster, inching side-face and closer towards the exit to the ambulance bay. The zipper of her jacket scratches against the plaster wall, and she jolts to a stop, pricking her ears and glancing fearfully over her shoulder.
But Langdon, hot on your heels, has swallowed Kim's presence with storming footsteps. "It's easier when the person I'm trying to talk to gives me the time of day."
"You would know better than most that our time is valuable."
"And surgeons are worth more, yeah, yeah. I've heard that spiel before."
You reach the bottom of the stairs and turn around, mouth opening to reply, but for a split second, your eyes snag on Kim's, and you immediately snap it shut. She bites back a panicked scream at the slightest twitch of your eyebrows and instantly vows off eavesdropping anyone ever again.
"Dr. Langdon," you say as you drag your gaze up towards the doctor still higher up on the steps, "I don't think we have much more to say to one another."
You don't wait for an answer.
Instead, you walk swiftly towards Kim, and grab her by the arm. Wrapping fingers around your wrist, she tries to form an apology but no words can slip out of her mouth. You drag her around the corner behind the stairwell, and outside to the ambulance bay. The autumn air hits her face, cold against her flushed neck and chest, and she presses her knuckles to her cheek. She didn't realize how much she'd been sweating until now. Gulping down some apple juice, she glances back between her toes and your side-profile.
You dig your hands into your pockets, searching for something, and, with a pounding heart and a red stamp that reads TERMINATED in her head, she spins around to face you.
"I'm sorry! I am so sorry," she bursts. "I didn't know, I mean, I was just drinking my juice and I wanted to get away from the chaos for just a minute—"
"Let's wait a few minutes out here," you interrupt calmly. You don't even look mad. Maybe a little amused, but mostly nothing. A sort of indifference that comes across a little uncanny as you pull out a box of gum.
You offer her a stick.
She takes it carefully and squish the tiny little beast called fear that had been growing at an alarming rate inside her chest. The apple juice is gone by the time she's undoing the wrapper of gum and popping it into her mouth. The mint crawls up her nose, and makes her feel like she's actually breathing properly for the first time since she's clocked in.
"You probably shouldn't do that again," you say out of nowhere, pivoting towards her. Kim nearly jumps, her head snapping to you.
But you're not looking at her. You're looking back over your shoulder, at the doors that have clicked shut and there's a harsh line in your brow, a tiny squint to your eyes.
When you speak, it doesn't sound like those are the words you really want to say. "Dr. Langdon's not… he, ah, whatever he said, he won't appreciate that being spread around."
"It wasn't on purpose," Kim says guiltily.
"If you want something to bring back to Princess and Perlah," you continue, "just tell them that I've seen Dr. Robby naked or something."
No. Fucking. Way. She gawks. "Wait, is that true?"
You shrug. "Maybe."
ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ
and right after…
Donnie knows who's approaching him way before he turns around. Call him a bit of a genius, but the comings and going of the Pitt have become sort of his business. Whether it's the footsteps of a new RN trying to get a good footing, or the hurried skips of an intern, Donnie has heard it all.
Which is why he takes a deep breath, sends a quick prayer to Jesus for patience, and another to Mary for kindness, before Langdon speaks. He woke up late, didn't have a chance to shower, and has had vomit on his new shoes. Donnie's a saint, but even he runs short on patience.
"Do we have an update on Mr. Harland? Saw…" Donnie notes in the corner of his eye the way Langdon clenches his jaw. "…Spider down here just now."
Without looking up from the monitor where he puts in orders for Mrs. Gillian (food poisoning mixed with anaphalyxis is not something he wishes on his worst enemy), he snorts. "And World War Three didn't start?"
"We stayed out of each other's way."
Sure. If Kim's pale white face after slinking from the ambulance bay is anything to go by, 'staying out of the way' translates to minor casualties, but Donnie doesn't mention that, clicking enter and logging out. He tells Ms. Gillian to stay put until she feels better, and that he'll be back to check on her before walking to the next patient. Langdon trails after him.
"Mr. Harland got moved to the neuro ICU," he reveals at length. The doc runs a hand through his hair, but it only makes it fall back over his face in a super 90s hearthrob way. Talk about pissing him off. He shrugs and looks at him. "It's all I got. I don't know anything else."
"She didn't say anything about a prognosis?" Langdon prods.
"No, man, but if you wanna know so bad, you could ask her."
"Why would that ever be a good idea?"
"I don't know, but you're barking up the wrong tree. He's not my patient." And because Langdon's got the wide guilty eyes of a kid that dropped his lollipop, Donnie adds quietly, "Look, I can tell her to forward the results to you, or something. She's not gonna get pissed because you care."
"No, don't," Langdon blurts out. "She'll find a way to needle me about it, and…" Scrambling for words, he gestures with his hands. "I don't want her to… Agh, fuck, Donnie, just don't let her know. Please. I don't want to add more to her plate."
He can't resist saying, "More than what you've already given her?" Langdon shoots him a look. Donnie shrugs again. "Look, man, I like her. And I like you, too, so I'll do you this favour once. After that, you go straight to her for what you want. Okay?"
A quick nod. Langdon lets out a long, long breath, and squeezes Donnie's shoulder. "You're a good guy."
"Better than you."
The smile that appears on the doc's face is all that of dry humour. "On that, we can agree."
Truth be told, Donnie doesn't think about that conversation for the rest of his shift. An hour and a handful of minutes later, as the night shift begins to pour in, his glances at his watch grow more and more frequent. He signs half a dozen discharges, writes down notes, and overall just imagines coming home to his wife and a pint of icecream. The buzz has died down, chairs growing into a more containable mess, but never ending.
Never. Ending.
As he returns to the main hub from South, his eyes catch on T2. Within, two familiar figures are locked deep in a conversation—Robby and Langdon; the former stoic and gesturing emphatically with his hands, the other bouncing on the balls of his feet and scrubbing at his face in frustration. Tense and shifting, the man looks half-ready to bolt as he glances out the window. The only thing stopping him is Robby grabbing Langdon's bicep to make him focus.
"Poor Langdon," someone mumbles, a waif of a figure that brushes past Donnie. Craning his head, he recognizes the shape of your back as you pause on your way out to the ambulance bay, a hoodie pulled over your form. Hands shoved into the pocket, your gaze lingers on the window. "What's that for?"
"Probably defending your honour," Perlah replies as she hits the extension for labs. You frown, head jerking back minutely as if offended, and your expression, always neutral, always guarded, seems to flicker a little when you blink.
It's then that Donnie remembers his promise. "Hey, is there any update on Mr. Harland?"
When you turn to Donnie, the mask slides back into place as if it had never shifted at all. "Uh, yeah. Made it through surgery, still checking for neural deficits. We won't know more until he wakes up. Why?"
"Just wondering. Caused a bit of a stir this morning. Thanks."
"Yeah... no worries." There's a tiny twitch to your brow, your eyebrows knitting together as you scan Donnie from head to toe. Then, you add, "By the way, if Robby asks, I'm outside."
"Y'got it."
"Thanks, Donnie."
You continue on your way out, a gusty autumn wind sweeping through the ED when the doors whirr open and shut. Shaking his head, he turns back to his clipboard and his iPad. More signatures. More orders to pass on to the night shift. The calmness of the ED, a warm buzzing feeling that settles deep into his lungs, reminds him of work again tomorrow. He just hopes that he'll be able to get the smell of vomit off his shoes.
"What are those two jokers doing?"
When Donnie looks back to T2, he finds two pairs of eyes fixed in his direction, or more specifically, towards the sliding ambulance bay doors. Lena, seated in the office chair before him, arches an eyebrow at him, but Donnie doesn't have the energy to give any sort of explanation.
"Spider," is all he manages.
Lena nods sagely. "It always is."
"You're here early," he adds.
"Just to give Dana time to smoke," she promises.
ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ
five-fifty pm
"Got room for another?" Dana lifts the cig from her mouth at the sound of your voice. Dark craters for eyebags have landed beneath your eyes, but you don't look worse for wear as you peek around the corner. "Just needed some air."
She scooches over on the ledge she'd been perched on, and you sidle in next to her, pulling out your own box of Luckies. Your movements are slow, sure, but you run your finger along the side of the wrapping like you're contemplating actually smoking it.
Then, you pinch it between your lips and cup the end. The sizzle of the lighter fills their silence.
Dana breaks it. "You okay?"
"Hm, why wouldn't I be?" You take one long drag before glancing over. "Oh, with Langdon this morning? That's how we usually are. You know that."
"Yeah, I know, but you seem a little down. Not every day I get company on my smoke breaks."
"I can go smoke on the other side of the bay if you want," you say, a wry smile twisting your lips. "But I'm not gonna stop."
"I'm no hypocrite," is all she replies.
They smoke for a while in quiet. The wind is nice, but it stirs leaves up and over the pavement, the scraping hiss accompanying the soft cough that comes and goes with smoking. You somehow finish your cigarette before Dana, and are already on your way to lighting up a second one when she nudges you in the side.
"Are you sure you're okay?"
You look down at your unlit cigarette and laugh. "Sorry. It's gross, isn't it?"
"Only if you're hitting three."
"No, I… no." You finger the cigarette, then look at Dana, and make a judgement call. As you tuck the Lucky back into its box: "Fine. I'll stop. But you stop after yours."
"I only smoke one at a time, ma'am."
"What's that about keeping each other accountable?"
"Never heard of it."
This time, your laugh comes out sharper. You lean back into the pillar, kicking up your feet onto the ledge, and watch Dana or somewhere past her at the wall, but she doesn't care. Your stare wanders, like a weightless thing. Never quite tethered. She can't imagine what it's like in your brain. Bad enough that you see inside others and have to dig through all that grey matter to make sense of it all. Could be worse if you had to be inside your own head all the time.
Dana's of the belief that most, if not all, neurosurgeons are a sort of freak. To hold the one thing that makes everyone someone and stab into it, to dig through and be careful enough not to mess with it—to deal with the consequences when you do. Few things are worse than dying.
She doesn't shudder easily, but if she was the type of person to, her whole body would be shivering just sitting next to you.
"D'you think Langdon's actually good to go back to work?" you ask thoughtfully, suddenly. Dana's gaze could've cut air with how fast it darts to you. You're looking at the road now. It's dark, and the asphalt's grown shiny in the way that makes the streetlights smudge. The only light is the one behind them, but it eases the lines in your face. Makes you younger.
Reminds Dana, idly, of when you first came to PTMC, however many years ago.
"Sure. PM&R cleared him."
"Yes. I suppose." You fidget with the drawstrings of your hoodie. "But eleven weeks is not enough. A sprained back, sure. But it's not enough for what he went through. Langdon's good, maybe the best, but he's not invincible."
"No G.I. Joe."
"No Superman," you agree dourly.
Dana takes in your expression. It's a strange mix of frustration and something else. Your fists are clenched tight in your lap, your thumbs rubbing the sides of your hands as if you're trying to pry something sticky off. "You think they cleared him early?"
"I think doctors make the worst patients and that he's fucking stupid." Dana accedes to that with a duck of her head. "I don't… I don't hate him, you know."
"'s okay if you do. He rubs people the wrong way." You shoot her a look. "Hey, just because I work with him doesn't mean I sing his praises. Especially since he's come back. He's testy. Can't stand up for too long."
"You noticed that, too? I thought I imagined it earlier, but he's slower. More uncertain." You tuck your knees to your chest. "He's going to hate that more than anything."
"What?"
"Feeling incompetent." Arms draped around your shins, you look away. "Like he's in the way, or not good enough. It'll make him shake with how frustrated he'll get, and then it'll cloud his mind. Pain makes you sluggish. It distracts you."
"You know a lot about that, huh."
Your eyes dart to hers for a moment. There's a hard read if she's ever seen one. "Maybe too much."
The doors slide open and shut as a figure clears the corner, and you turn your head up, the storm clouds parting immediately once you recognize who it is. The change is immediate, and it strikes Dana suddenly that she doesn't know much about a doctor she's seen on the regular for eight years, give or take.
Only that you're quick on your feet, love a smoke.
"Hey, how was your, uh… craniotomy patient?"
"Harland? Fine. A simple craniotomy isn't out of my realm of expertise." Your smile is sly and small as Robby leans in on the pillar behind you. "Want a smoke?"
Dana rolls her eyes when he laughs, declining.
And her boss flails at flirting with you. It's hard to keep track with where you stand with Robinavitch. Some days, you look as if you hardly care whether he lives or dies. And other days, you stare as if he hangs the heavens.
But Dana has no stomach for those uncertainties tonight. "If you're gonna flirt, do it outta my sight. You're ruining one of the few safe havens I have left."
Robby shrugs. "I just wanted to talk."
"It's never 'just to talk' with you," you reply, giving Dana a look. Either way, you hop off the ledge and let Robby lead you a few paces away. Dana watches from her spot, feeling the cold, steady press of stone against her thighs and the hot thick cloud in her lungs.
The two of you walk far away enough that no one really hears if they're rushing in and out, which most people are, but Dana's standing still and the night is quieter than usual. Voices might as well bounce back right at her.
"Do you wanna explain what's going on with Langdon?"
"I've… got nothing." Your eyes flicker up from the asphalt, to Dana, and then to Robby again. "We just don't get along."
"That's sort of impossible. You get along with everyone."
"Just not Langdon," you say, shrugging, but there's a pang there. One that's confused, and a little hurt, and you stuff it down stubbornly if the set in your jaw is anything to go by. "I don't know. He hates me, and he likes seeing me mad?"
"Yeah, but that doesn't mean he should be digging into you."
"It's just personal. As long as he doesn't do anything professionally, I don't care and… Robby. Don't give me that look. We agreed. No pity eyes."
"I don't have pity eyes." Robby's hand twitches up, fingers stretched out to touch you before he forces it up to rub at the back of his neck. You watch him, eyes narrowed, and then smack him in the elbow. He drops his hand. Dana snorts into her shoulder instead of laughing straight in his face. Just to be polite.
"What is wrong with you?"
"Uh, caffeine withdrawal."
"Right. Well, if you're here to ask me to play nice with Langdon in the name of patient satisfaction scores—"
"You know it's not that—"
"Not just that."
"—I need my team to work as a team."
"And I'm not part of your team."
"Honorary member," he proposes.
A beat.
"You just don't want to lose your neurosurg consult."
Robby's head swivels around like he's trying to make sure no one eavesdrop his secret before he mutters around a smile and a hapless shrug, "And I like seeing you at work."
Despite staring at the end of her cig, Dana knows you're smiling around your words. "Still haven't given that up, huh, Robinavitch?"
"Neither have you." A shoe scuffs against asphalt. "What will it take for you to tolerate him?"
"Tolerate's a strong word," you reply but by the reluctance laced through your words, you're already giving in. "He dishes out, I can't help but serve back."
"I know. I've talked to him about it, too." He steps closer. You don't stop him. Dana hides her scoff around another puff. These fucking kids. "What about dinner?"
"What, like a date?"
"Eh, could be."
You huff. "Smooth, but I'm on call for the next few days. I'm crashing when I can."
"Is that the only reason you're saying no?"
"This was a great talk, Dr. Robby."
Dana finishes her cigarette and looks down to make sure no ash got on her clothes as she gets up. She smacks at her legs, dusting her backside off and giving herself a shake, chasing the chill that's wrapped around her old bones out.
Robby's already walking back over towards the doors when she looks back up, some self-satisfied smug etched into his mug.
Dana meets you in the midst of trailing after him.
They both eye the attending in front of them, Dana's arm slung lazily around your shoulders. "Sayin' no takes a lotta willpower."
You nudge her back with your elbow. "I am never going out on a date with that man."
ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ
seven-twelve pm
Frank finds you in the hospital lot, on the other end of PTMC. The side of the bourgeoisie, as Collins likes to call it, as it's directly in front of the ivory tower of the esteemed Gloria Underwood, and the lot that's generally more empty because no one wants to staff the buildings—though, that might be more of Robby talking.
Still, that means he's able to snag a pretty good parking spot close to the ED, which saves him a couple of steps when his back keeps tweaking with that fucking pain that's been dogging at him all day. He can't think of anything other than something warm to eat and the feeling of his meds down his gullet. Maybe that's why his hands are so shaky as he fumbles for his car keys, backpack tight in his grip. Stopping beneath a street light, he squints, wrestling what he needs free from all the other shit he's got inside his bag before looking up with a relieved sigh.
Stepping off the curve, he wonders what Abby's made for dinner. Soup, or curry. She's been trying Asian cuisine lately, just to pass the time...
A slight figure catches the corner of his eye.
You sit on a bench parked right by a trashbin and just outside of a circle of lamplight, a cigarette half-finished and pinched between your lips.
And because he can't help himself, Frank calls out, "Don't you know those things kill you?"
"Had to go somewhere Dana wouldn't kill me first," comes your reply, and when you don't rip his head off or make a move to escape him, his feet take that as a sign to approach. You don't offer a cigarette to him. He supposes they've not yet reached such desperate times, and Frank's not sure he would've taken it in the first place. "Did you want something?"
"Uhhh, nope. I was heading home after this shit day." He hauls his bag onto his shoulder and shrugs. Your gaze flickers to him for a moment before cutting away. "Small mercies, and all that."
"Good for you." Your fingers brush over the buttons of your Spectralink, but it's not fidgeting. Langdon's realized quite quickly that you're not someone who fidgets. You simply find something for your hands to do, and that's decidedly different.
Or maybe it's just you don't fidget around him because he doesn't make you nervous, and that sort of peeves him. It roughens his voice when he, against his better judgement, asks, "You good?"
The cigarette is flicked into the trashcan. "Yeah. Long day." He nods. You kick your feet out, flexing your sneakers before letting them drop back down, heels scratching against the pavement. "I'll have to round with the night shift in the neuro ICU in…" A quick glance at your watch. "Fifteen minutes. I'd prefer to spend that time in silence."
Frank nods. "Right." He turns to walk to his car, his knuckles blanching and a crushing in his chest before he's spinning back around again. You arch an eyebrow at him.
"Mr. Harland's in the neuro ICU," he says. "Donnie told me you told him that he wasn't awake yet."
You eye him warily. "So what?"
"What's the prognosis?" Did I fuck it up? Do you hate me? Will he be okay?
"The same as I told him. Still tubed, and asleep. We still have to do tests and see if there's any neurological deficits."
"You don't sound hopeful."
"I don't get hopeful. It's not conducive to a healthy mindset to constantly be disappointed. But I do think we'll be able to wean him off vent." You shrug. "You would understand. Just living is the baseline. Anything else is more than we could want."
"Some would argue that's not much better than dying."
"What? Living?"
"Like that. Having those bare necessities and even that being forced on you," he corrects. "Staying afloat, but not exactly sailing. There's just no agency." He glances at the bench, then points because the stabbing in his back is a bigger problem than his pride. "Can I sit?"
You nod. They sit a respectable distance apart, each one leaning against the metal armrests. Frank puts his backpack down between them too, just for another barrier in case it really does come to blows. But it never does. Not really.
The silence that falls upon them is a fragile thing. The sharp prickling in his back and legs barely resolves as he shifts uncomfortably, and, between you and the dark lot, he cannot decide which he'd rather stare at. You're watching him, too, head angled just enough for their eyes to meet fully. A section of hair falls by your ear. He chews on his cheek, and holds his backpack tight against himself.
"Sometimes, you have to be okay moving without control," you tell him after a while. His eyebrows shoot up. "It's frightening, but it's too exhausting to think you can command every aspect of every thing, even if that means yourself. You just sort of hope that eventually the leaks in your ship patch up and you reach calmer waters. And sometimes that doesn't happen for a long time. With nerves and brainmatter, it takes its time to heal, and in that time, you have to accept and come up with a plan on what you'll do if it decides not to."
"Yeah?"
"Mhm." You pick off a piece of stray lint clinging to your woollen coat. "You okay?"
"Didn't I just ask you that?"
You snort. "I'm a bit of a pain specialist, if you've forgotten. Your back is bothering you, and it's still getting to your legs. L4 and L5, if I had to guess." At his look: "It's most common for herniated discs. Not engaging the core properly when you lift, pulling beyond your weight. Both probably true for you because I know you, Langdon: if you can move it faster the wrong way, you won't bother with the right way."
Frank nods despite himself, hot barbs of shame latching onto his neck and laying like a snake down his spine. "I was helping my parents move."
You, at least, have the decency not to sound smug. "Yeah, and now?"
"Now? Now, it hurts like a bitch."
"I'm not surprised. Are you still on anything?"
"Dr. Hagan prescribed pregabalin. Robaxin."
"But if you're cleared, you're supposed to be tapering off."
"I know that," he mutters harshly. "I will. I just… need a little longer since the pain's lasting longer than it should."
"Normally a sign that you need to rest more," you reply. "Or that you're addicted."
"I'm not addicted." His words are serrated and spiteful, his head snapping to dig a hole into the side of your head. You turn slowly to meet his stare, blinking like he's a petulant child.
"Okay." You're so calm it pisses Frank off. Like you could've predicted he'd burst out. "I'm just saying dependency can happen easier than you think."
"I'd recognize the signs. I'm a doctor."
"And even doctors need to rest. The Pitt's not going to collapse if you leave it for a few more days. Everyone should take a few days off."
He scoffs, raking up and down your body. Scheduled hand off, yet you're still in your scrubs, your hair still pulled into a tight bun as if you're prepared to go back into an OR at a moment's notice. Your Spectralink in hand.
A sneer works its way onto his mouth. A workaholic cautioning a workaholic, pot calling the kettle black.
"Yeah, well, trust me, I don't get much rest at home with the kids and all," he continues acerbically. He watches your face closely, searching for a flicker, a crack, anything he can wedge himself into to split apart your stony mask. "They still ask for piggy back rides, and I just can't say no. That's the joy of kids, and family. They keep me young, don't let me feel so alone."
"That's nice."
Your mouth doesn't so much as quaver.
It only stokes the mounting heat inside him. "And I always insist to Abby that I should be the one taking care of groceries and all since she's doing all the housework. 'Course she tells me I'm doing too much."
"You should listen to her," you murmur. "You're a candle burning at both ends. And we delude ourselves more than you think." The fringes of your voice come jagged and raw, then. When you let out a soft breath, shoulders falling, facing frontward again, Langdon feels like there's a part of you he, of all people, shouldn't be seeing. "But even being aware of that is not enough to stop the habit. We think we know everything. We think we can push our limits because we know what the human body can and can't handle, but we truly don't."
A lick of fire rises, blackening his heart. "Don't tell me what I can and can't do," he murmurs, a shark sensing blood in the water. "I've got it under control."
"I'm not saying you don't. I'm just suggesting you go slower for just a second." There's a softness in you that makes his heart pound. Blood roars in his ears as you place a hand down on the space between them, lean forward. He squeezes his eyes shut. It's meticulously hidden but theres a knife's edge somewhere inside you. He just can't decipher where you want him to get cut on. "One moment, before you spiral out of control and the next thing you know, you're not just hurting yourself, you're hurting the people around you. It's not a crime to stop."
"It is when people need me," he spits, bright eyes flashing in the darkness. You have the gall not to flinch.
"Langdon—"
"My kids need me, my wife needs me. Which is more than I can say for you. Who the fuck needs you? You go home to your empty house and you can't stand it which is why you're always at work, so why don't you back the fuck off and stop trying to pretend to understand?"
His ears ring in the silence that descends upon them. Nothing but a high-pitched squeal just out of his grasp keeps pinging as he ravages your face for any glimpse of care. Any ounce that you even heard him. You stare at him in that way you always do—like you don't care about him; like there's a million other things you could be doing.
But if that were true, why do you keep talking to him anyway?
"Did that make you feel good about yourself?"
The first breath he takes in is cold enough to shock, and he flinches back. He doesn't know when he started leaning forward, his hand gripping the metal back of the bench so hard his skin has turned white. Blinking, he draws back, tucking his chin in and staring down at his lap. His backpack has fallen to the wayside, as you take a deep breath yourself, shoulders rising and falling evenly.
"You're not the first angry man who's ever raised his voice at me. And I've always wondered why that is. Maybe I've got the face for it. Or maybe because I'm an easy target." Your voice is tempered and quiet as you bundle your jacket closed down your front. "Maybe because it makes them feel strong, to scream at someone weak. So, does yelling at me make you feel good?"
Your name slips out between his teeth before he can stop it, and a light flickers in your eyes. He clenches his fists tight in his lap. If he focused, he'd hear the rapid thud of his heart, the trembling breath rattling against his ribs.
Your eyes glitter in the faint lamplight, lips a soft line, hair falling into your face from a long day. A longer day made by his mistake. Made horrible by his words.
His hands dig tight into his knees. There's a grocery list he needs to fulfill, and a tank of gas he needs to top up, and he needs to tuck his kids into bed at eight, which is a deadline he can still make if he leaves now, while the space between them has fractured, a chasm carved deep into the air too great to mend. It wouldn't matter, he knows, whether or not he tried to fix it.
But that doesn't mean he can't try. Part of being in EM is about trying, being a stubborn pain in the ass who sees insurmountable odds and straps on a pair of gloves. Gets to work. Day after day for a thankless task.
And it will be. Because you're too good to put whatever they have in the way of patient care. You're too good for Frank, and the taste of the dust you leave in your wake has been bitter ever since he's met you.
"Frank?" you prompt softly.
The sound of his name rouses him. It falls from your lips like a whisper, a word you can't retract. You swallow, and he meets your stare, shaking his head. "No," he utters at last. "No, it doesn't."
"Okay, then. I'll watch Mr. Harland tonight," you tell him quietly. It sounds more like a dismissal than anything, "and you just go home."
"Spider, I—" The words catch in his throat as you get up. With a cocked head, you stare down at him patiently. Always patiently. He works the muscle in his jaw, a thousand things he wants to say and none of them he can bring himself to. "Try to get some sleep. Alright?"
The corners of your eyes crinkle when you smile. "Get home safe, Dr. Langdon."
He makes it home at 8:12, with no groceries and a limp. Abby's torn between ushering him to bed after seeing how he drags himself through the door and getting pissed that he missed dinner and forgot groceries.
But she relents once he's eaten and once he's showered and the meds have been swallowed down. He gives his kids their goodnight kisses, careful not to wake them up, before heading back into the bedroom and preparing himself for what he hopes will be the sleep that fixes him. As the mattress welcomes him, with his phone charging on his bedside, and Abby singing in the shower, he hears something buzz.
A text from Abbot.
9:32 PM
ABBOT:
A Mr. Harland fresh from a craniotomy is awake and responsive. GCS 11.
Spider wanted to tell you that. Said you were his doc when he came in?
LANGDON:
yeah.
thanks.
His fingers hover over the keys. A draft of a message (tell her that i'm sorry—) is put in and he stares at his screen until his vision goes blurry. He sees you, expression open and honest, voice ebbing with compassion and gentleness and your hand. You had reached out to him just for him to—
He tosses his phone onto the nightstand and buries his nose into his cupped hands.
Frank's only good at making a bad situation worse lately.
