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don't know what's going on with the drama in the rafe fandom, but wanna say: my account is not a safe space for trump supporters, homophobes, transphobes, racists, and zionists. idc if you don't "care for politics," i do, and everything i create is political.
Jack Abbott - The Secrets Out
a/n - just a lil bit more fluff I’ve been working on. I literally write and edit things while I’m at work (yay for wfh) lmao so it takes me FOREVER to get stuff out. Kind of a reference to my lil short on Jack loving capable women. Never really done fluff before but I’m down bad for this man so I’ve got a lot of feelings ok!!!!
———-
The night had started completely normally, you’d gone out with friends. Nothing wild, just drinks, food, and the sort of night that seemed to get harder to recover from the older you got. By eleven o’clock, your friends were ordering another round while you found yourself staring at your half-finished cocktail.
Not because you weren’t having fun, it was fun but you were just tired.
Jack was working nights this week and somewhere along the way your body had adapted to his schedule. Late nights weren’t nearly as appealing as they used to be. So after promising you’d text when you got home, you hugged everyone goodbye and headed towards your car.
But you didn’t make it home, you were in the back of an uber, the sound of tyres squealing and metal crashing together pulling you away from your phone.
The first thing you noticed was the smoke. The second was that traffic had stopped completely.
Cars sat at strange angles across three lanes of the freeway. Hazard lights flashed red and amber through the darkness. A pickup truck rested against the central barrier, two vehicles had somehow ended up facing the wrong direction entirely.
For a second you just sat there, staring at the blur of brake lights. Then somebody started screaming. Everything after that happened so quickly, you clicked your seatbelt free, opened the door and suddenly you were running.
The smell hit you first. Burning rubber, fuel, hot metal.
People were climbing from vehicles looking dazed and confused, some were crying, some were shouting names. Others simply stood there staring at the wreckage in shock.
You remembered thinking: Jack would already know what to do.
Then another thought arrived immediately afterwards.
Well he’s not here.
So you did it.
The first patient you reached was unconscious. Middle-aged, grey hair, no visible injuries, no pulse, not breathing. Fuck.
The guy who pulled him from the wreckage had his hands on the man’s shoulders, shaking and trying to wake him.
“Has anybody called 911?”
Several people nodded, you immediately started compressions. Hard, fast, just like Jack had described a hundred times while telling stories over dinner. Push hard, push fast and don’t stop. You heard his voice repeating in your head like a mantra.
You kept going until your arms burned and your knees ached against the asphalt. The world narrowed to the rhythm beneath your hands. Cars burned somewhere behind you as sirens wailed in the distance. Eventually another bystander found you and took over.
Then someone screamed for help, a woman sat against the barrier clutching her leg, blood was soaking through her jeans and pooling on the rough concrete below her.
So much blood.
You remembered another conversation. Tourniquets. Jack explaining why belts weren’t ideal. Improvised alternatives. You ripped the strap from your handbag and wrapped it above the wound. The woman cried out, you appologised but then tightened it anyway. The bleeding slowed. Good.
Next patient.
A young man sat on the shoulder holding his arm awkwardly against his chest. Dislocated shoulder. Maybe broken? You grabbed the scarf hanging around his neck and borrowed a handful of hair ties from another woman nearby. Not perfect but enough. The sling held and the kid nearly cried with relief. By the time the ambulance arrived you were exhausted. Covered in blood, thankfully just not yours.
Then someone shouted. A car further up the freeway had caught fire. Your stomach dropped, there was still someone inside. You didn’t really remember making the decision. One second you were running. The next you were yanking open a damaged door while people shouted at you to get back. The heat was unbearable. The smoke stung your eyes. The woman inside was conscious but trapped. You grabbed her beneath the arms and pulled. Hard. Metal scraped. Glass shattered somewhere nearby. And finally she came free. You dragged her away from the vehicle moments before flames erupted through the engine compartment. Somewhere in the process, something sliced your calf, it stung but it wasn’t even top ten on your list of problems at that moment.
⸻
Back at The Pitt, nobody was having a particularly good night. The pile-up had hit the department like a bomb. Trauma bays filled almost immediately, stretchers lined hallways. Staff moved at a sprint. Lena was already reorganising assignments. Whitaker was helping move patients and Santos looked annoyingly excited for somebody dealing with mass casualties. Jack barely had time to think, patient after patient rolled through the doors. The woman with the leg injury arrived first.
“Improvised tourniquet on scene,” the paramedic reported.
Jack looked down. The application wasn’t perfect. But it was good. Really good. The woman winced as Jack did his exams and looked over the strange wrapped around her thigh.
“Some girl did it.”
“What girl? A nurse?”
The patient shook her head “No idea. Just appeared out of nowhere.”
Jack moved onto the next patient, it was the young guy with the sling.
“Heard somebody made this for you?”
The kid laughed weakly.
“Yeah.”
“You catch who it was? Nurse? Doctor?”
“No clue.”
Same storA woman. Nobody knew her name. Nobody knew where she’d gone. Just that she’d helped. Then came the CPR patient, the one everyone had been worried about.
The paramedics reported early bystander CPR. Immediate intervention. Good compressions. Enough to keep blood running until they arrived. Again, the mystery woman. Jack registered it. Then immediately forgot about it. There were too many patients and far too much happening.
And as far as he knew, you were still drinking cocktails with your friends.
⸻
An hour later you limped in with the help of the paramedics, you’d refused to be wheeled in, you’d rather hobble in than be laid on a stretcher. Your newest friend, EMT Mike kindly announced your arrival.
“Got a bystander from the freeway accident. Cut her calf helping people before we got there. Refused transport twice, so if she tries to leave that’s on you.”
Jack glanced over automatically then froze. For a second his brain simply stopped working. You stood near the nurses’ station. Hair messy. Dress stained. Blood on your arms. A cut running down your calf.
“What in the fuck?” He yelled, not angry just shocked and concerned.
Your eyes widened. Immediately regretting coming here. Jack crossed the department in seconds.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“It’s not mine-.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
His hands were already checking your arms. Your shoulders. Your face. Looking for injuries. Looking for proof you were actually okay. The entire nurses’ station had gone suspiciously quiet. Lena looked deeply confused. Santos looked confused and delighted. You looked trapped.
“Jack.”
“Sit.”
“Why?”
“Just sit.”
The attending voice had appeared. The scary one. You sat immediately.Jack pointed at the chair. Then pointed at Lena.
“Don’t let her leave.”
Lena raised an eyebrow.
“Seriously?”
“Do not let her out of your sight.”
Then he disappeared back into a trauma bay before you could argue. Leaving everyone watching utterly bewildered.
⸻
Fifteen minutes later, the woman with the tourniquet spotted you. Her eyes widened immediately.
“That’s her!”
Half the department looked up. You immediately knew this wasn’t going to end well.
“Her?” Whitaker asked.
The woman pointed directly at you.
“The girl from the freeway.”
Silence.
“The one who did my tourniquet.”
Now everybody was staring. Wonderful. A second patient overheard.
“The CPR girl?”
You closed your eyes. Santos practically levitated from her chair “The what?”
Before you could answer, another voice spoke. A woman, older, shaky. Everyone turned. The wife of the CPR patient stood near the hallway entrance. Her eyes immediately locked onto you. Then filled with tears.
“Oh my God.”
The entire department fell silent. The woman crossed the room quickly. You of pure instinct you stood, nervous and slightly confused.She reached you and grabbed both of your hands tightly, like she was afraid you might disappear.
“It was you.”
You blinked.
“You helped my husband, they told me you helped”
Her voice cracked. Realisation hit.
“Oh- yes I tried my best”
The woman’s eyes overflowed “They told me somebody started CPR before the ambulance arrived.”
The room was completely silent now. Even Santos stopped talking. The woman sniffled through her tears.
“They said if nobody had started when they did…” She couldn’t finish. Her hand squeezed yours.
“They said he would’ve died right there, alone..”
Your throat tightened immediately. Across the nurses’ station, Lena looked away. Whitaker suddenly became very interested in a computer screen. The woman smiled through tears.
“You gave him a chance to come home. I’ll never be able to tell you how thankful I am for that”
Nobody spoke. The weight of it settled over the room, heavy and real.
The woman’s shoulders shook as she hugged you. You wrapped your arms around her automatically. For a second she simply held on.
Then whispered:
“Thank you.”
When she finally stepped away, your own eyes looked suspiciously glassy.
“I’m really glad I could help .”
The woman nodded ad she gave your hands a final squeeze.
“So am I.”
⸻
Jack was watching the whole time, arms folded, his face a mix of pure terror, utterly enamoured and gobsmacked. His brief break was cut short by monitors beeping as he swung back into the trauma room.
The woman finally stepped away, wiping tears from her face. Her husband was alive, not out of the woods but alive. The reality of it all seemed to settle over the department at once. For a moment nobody spoke. Then Santos ruined it.
“Okay.”
Everyone looked over. She pointed directly at you.
“The CPR thing is insane.”
“Yeah” you winced.
“The tourniquet thing is insane.”
“That’s fair.”
“The sling thing?”
“It worked.”You shrugged.
Whitaker stared.
“You’re saying that like it’s normal.”
“It felt normal at the time.” You defended.
“It is absolutely normal for us, are you a nurse?”
“No I work in IT” you answered.
Santos folded her arms.
“So how’d you even know how to do any of that?”
You blinked, the answer seemed obvious.
“Jack talks about work stuff all the time.” Your finger pointing in his direction.
A small silence followed.
Whitaker frowned.
“Jack Abbott?”
“Yeah.” You nodded.
Santos looked confused.
“How do you know Abbott? Why would he be telling you stories about work?”
You looked around the nurses’ station. Then laughed “Ohhh.”
Suddenly everybody was staring. Lena had stopped typing. Whitaker had stopped pretending to chart. Even Shen looked up from his computer.
“Because he’s my boyfriend.”
The silence that followed was genuinely impressive, You frowned “What? He’s my boyfriend?”
Whitaker looked personally offended.
“YOU’RE JACK ABBOTT’S GIRLFRIEND?”
You laughed.
“Well yeah, it’s not a big deal, we’ve been together over a year.”
“A year?” Santos repeated, eyes wide “A YEAR?”
You nodded.
Lena pinched the bridge of her nose.
“Oh my God.”
Poor Whitaker looked like he might pass out. Garcia appeared carrying coffee, took one look at the scene and sighed.
“I knew.”
“Of course you did,” Whitaker muttered.
Questions immediately started flying.
“How did you meet?” “Do you live together?” “How long have you lived together?” “Is he always grumpy?” “Does he really do naked yoga?”
That one made you laugh. Across the room, the trauma bay doors opened and Jack stepped out.
The laughter immediately caught his attention. Then he saw you. Still sitting exactly where he’d left you. Surrounded by half the department. Immediately suspicious.
“What’s goin’ on now?”
Nobody answered. Which was so much worse. Jack looked at Lena. Lena looked at Jack. Then pointed at you.
“Your secret’s out.”
Jack closed his eyes, once and slow before rubbing his hands over his face.
“Oh for fucks sake.”
Santos looked delighted. Whitaker looked betrayed. Garcia looked unsurprised. You just looked confused.
“What?”
Jack opened his eyes and immediately pointed toward an empty treatment room.
“Come on.”
“What?”
“Now.”
You blinked.
“Jack—”
“You’re bleeding.”
“It’s barely a scratch.”
“Baby, you pulled someone out of a burning car.”
The entire nurses’ station fell silent again. Jack looked around. Realised what he’d just said. Everyone looked at you. Then back at him, then back at you. Santos gasped and right then Jack immediately regretted everything.
“Room. Now.”
You couldn’t stop giggling as he steered you away by the shoulder, ignoring the chorus of questions following behind.
The door shut the second you stepped inside. Silence. Finally. Jack grabbed supplies while muttering under his breath. You sat on the edge of the stretcher. Trying not to smile. He turned around holding saline, gauze and steri-strips. Then looked at you. Really looked at you. The blood. The torn dress. The cut on your leg. The soot smeared across your arms. The reality of what could have happened finally catching up with him. His shoulders dropped. Some of the adrenaline leaving him.
“You scared the hell outta me.”
The words came out quieter than you’d expected. You softened immediately.
“I’m sorry.”
Jack shook his head. Then crouched in front of you to clean the wound. The antiseptic hit. You hissed at the cold sting. For a moment neither of you spoke. Then Jack glanced up.
“You did CPR on a freeway?”
“Yeah.”
“Then made a tourniquet?”
“Mmhm.”
“And a sling?”
You nodded.
“Then pulled somebody out of a burning car?”
“Well when you say it like that…”
Jack just stared at you. Half proudc kind of horrified yet completely in love. Before interrupting.
“How the hell did you know what to do?”
The question was genuine. You smiled softly.
“You tell a lot of stories.”
Jack paused.
“Oh.”
“You talk about patients all the time and explain what you’ve done, or usually what people haven’t done”
“I do.” His hands slowed as he looked up at you.
“And you listened to all that?”
“Jack, I listen to it all” You laughed.
For a second he just looked at you. Then shook his head. A disbelieving smile appearing despite himself.
“Unbelievable.”
You grinned.
“That’s what everyone else said.”
Jack rolled his eyes and pressed a kiss against your forehead before going back to fixing your leg.
Outside the room, Santos was almost certainly telling everyone she knew that Abbott’s mysterious girlfriend had accidentally become a trauma nurse for the evening.
Inside, Jack was quietly wondering how he’d managed to end up with someone brave enough to run toward a burning car, yet take no credit for the heroics. Also, whether he was ever going to recover from the heart attack you’d just given him.
𝑠𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑛 | 𝑗𝑎𝑐𝑘 𝑎𝑏𝑏𝑜𝑡
𝙟𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙖𝙗𝙗𝙤𝙩 𝙭 𝙥𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙛𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙫𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙢!𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧
𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: jack abbot recognizes a familiar face during the worst night of his career 𝙬𝙘: 1.1k 𝙨𝙤𝙣𝙜: the great divide by noah kahan
𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑖 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑘 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑚𝑦 𝑑𝑒𝑒𝑝 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 ℎ𝑜𝑤 𝑏𝑎𝑑 𝑖𝑡 𝑚𝑢𝑠𝑡 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑏𝑎𝑐𝑘 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑎𝑛𝑑 ℎ𝑜𝑤 ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑖𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑘𝑒𝑒𝑝 𝑖𝑡 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑖 ℎ𝑜𝑝𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑛, 𝑖 ℎ𝑜𝑝𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑦 𝑟𝑖𝑐ℎ
𝙖/𝙣: obvious trigger warning ! hai :) this has room for a part two where the end is a misunderstanding if you squint. if that's wanted lmk.
𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 2
the last time you had seen jack abbot, before today of course, you'd told him you never wanted to see him again.
you weren't sure back then if that was true; you'd loved him, deeply, and he'd loved you too. you wanted to hate him, to never have to look in his eyes again after everything that happened.
but while you're there, laying in the back of a pickup truck, covered with not only your own blood, but the blood of the victims you'd attempted to save, you wanted so badly to open your eyes and see his looking back at you, one last time.
"come on," you'd wrapped your cardigan around the wound of a young woman at pittfest. she was in her early 20s, you'd assumed. you wrap her arm around your neck and lift her up. "stay with me, stay with me."
you'd be told later you'd saved her life. you'd saved all of their lives, everyone in the back of the truck, even as the blood pooled out of your body. you'd have time later to rest, perhaps permanently, but you didn't want anyone to die on your watch.
when everyone in the back of that truck was patched up as you were rushed to the hospital, you laid down and stared up at the sky. you never believed when patients would say that their life had flashed before their eyes when encountering a near-death experience, but now you'd think twice.
you remember running through the fields as a kid with your dad, before he had passed away. you remember the stupid fights you had with your mom when you were a teenager, you remember your final straw that made you move out and attend med school in pittsburgh in the first place regardless of it being miles away from home. you remember visiting your mom every summer and being able to sneak your younger sister drinks.
you remember your first heartbreak, and you remember the three that follow. the first boy in high school who'd cheated with your classmate, the next two in med school just not being the right fit.
you remember jack abbot, your final heartbreak. you'd met at a bar one night, bonding about being doctors and your different experiences at your hospitals. you'd fall in love shortly after and you'd stay together for four years until one night everything falls apart.
"what the fuck do you not understand?" he'd yell at you and you'd roll your eyes. "no, for real, y/n, tell me everything you just told me again and tell me how, if the roles were reversed, you wouldn't be just as fucking pissed."
"it's not that big of a deal, jack!" you'd defend your honor. "he was aggressive the second he came in, i wasn't going to let some med student take him as a patient."
"so what you should've done was consulted your attending--"
"hey! i am an attending, you do remember, right?--"
"you have two on shift every day, babe, and the other one is a jacked forty year old who could've snapped his neck with his fingers."
"i don't care. he was busy. i had it handled."
"so that's why there's bruises all over your neck and your wrists and there's a huge scar on your stomach right--?"
"holy fuck! look, i am fine, i'm still standing, aren't i? i'd fucking do it again, i'd rather it be me than her. she's in her early twenties, she shouldn't have to deal with that--"
"you shouldn't either!"
silence took over.
"if you don't think i can handle myself," you broke the silence, "then leave."
that was the last moment you remembered before your eyes closed in the back of that truck. you'd regret that moment for the rest of life. you'd only have a few more minutes of that regret left.
john shen recognized you the second he'd laid eyes on you and wrapped a red wristband around your wrist while telling the other doctors that you needed priority, and if they wanted to argue, to speak to jack abbot.
blood was still leaving your system, it'd been over twenty minutes now.
"abbot," robby yelled his name, causing him to look over. "need you now."
"i have a patient--"
"samira!" samira ran over to the patient. robby looked back at abbot. "right now."
abbot ran over and finally saw you laying there. it'd been three years since he'd last seen you, he thinks, since he let you leave him. but he'd never forgotten.
silently, swiftly, he worked on patching you up. he watched your pulse drop, twice, but refused to let up. he would save you, he'd make up for last time when he couldn't.
you're not sure when it happens, perhaps right after your second pulse drop, but you manage to open your eyes. you see him there.
"are they okay?"
his eyes meet yours and his bloodied glove clings to the side of your face. "stay with us."
"are they okay?"
he knows you mean the others with you in that truck. he wasn't sure. but he nods. "now stay with us."
you smile and close your eyes again, lucky to be under his care.
you'd come to a few hours later, stitches in your side with new blood in your veins. you'd been put in a private room amidst the chaos. it was the morning again, the clock on the wall confirms, 7am. you sit yourself up with a wince.
you watch dana watch your every move from outside the room and call jack, who came running.
"hey, hey," he rushes to your side. "you're okay."
you nod. "great doctor."
he smiles.
you guys will talk for thirty minutes before he's rushed out of the room. he won't ask what you were thinking taking care of everyone but yourself, he knows you better. you won't ask why everything went so wrong that night and you'd never know that since then, he'd refused to let sight of any female doctor alone in the room with a man. he won't ask about the ring on your finger, he knows he'd rather not know. you'd leave the hospital today with stitches in your side and the need for at least two weeks of recovery. he wonders how your husband would take care of you, if he'd do a good job, if he's a doctor himself. he'll wonder if you ever had kids, kids he wouldn't have been able to give you.
for the second time in his life, jack abbot let's you walk away. and just like the first, he'll regret it for the rest of his life, but he let's it happen anyway.
𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵 ! ☆♪
taglist : @ahoeforfandomsblog @catieiscute2001 @localsams @catmg @justemilyjpg @ihe4rteverlark @catastrophe411
had this in my drafts lol
Jack abbot x fem!reader
divider by @/andromeda-graphics
thinking about jack who catches you staring at yourself in the mirror, hunched over like a gremlin with a frown and a pout on your face.
ah, he thinks, i know this dance
"honey?" he walks over to you, circling his arms around your stomach. "what's going on in that pretty head of yours, huh?"
your frown deepens as you lean on him. "you've made me fat."
he chuckles. "me?"
"they call it happy weight." you cover yourself with your arms, "the weight you gain when you're in a happy relationship."
"isn't that a good thing?"
"the happy thing? yes." you say. "the gaining weight part? not so much."
jack hums. "i think you look beautiful like this."
"pish posh."
he laughs. "seriously. i've gained weight, too. it's okay. like you said, it's happy weight."
"it's okay for you, you're a guy!" you argue, "you gain weight and nobody says anything. i gain weight and my family— no, society, has to comment about it every time."
ok maybe i don't know this dance. jack takes his words back.
you sigh and pause before saying. "i'm skipping dinner."
"what? honey, you can't not eat dinner, you haven’t eaten all day-"
"i'm going on a diet!" you shout as you walk away.
"honey, come on," jack follows you, "you're beautiful. i mean it. i like seeing you so happy when you eat. i like taking care of you. i love you-and always will-no matter how you look."
he stands in front of you. "i don't want you starving yourself just because the world's beauty standards are ridiculous."
you look at him with a frown, but the warmth in your chest can't lie. "...fine."
yup, still got it. jack proudly thinks to himself while going to the kitchen to cook you something.
Jack has a staring problem
tags: jack abbot x reader, younger reader (late 20s), resident reader, fangirldotcom's full pope cody debut, jack thinks pope wants that cookie (reader), jealous jack abbot, reader tries not to explode with basically jack-squared in one room, pope is just there for the ride
notes: okay funny thing is I had this almost completed before I changed gears to write doppelbangers (which if you want to read click here) but I at least wanted to get this published because I love Pope, and I cannot wait to start writing for him! so please enjoy, and if you'd like to be added to my permanent tag list, please comment on this post!
word count: 6.8k
The chairs had always felt vaguely cursed to you, even on good days.
On bad days—days where the waiting room smelled too strongly of antiseptic and drying blood, where somebody’s kid was crying near the vending machines, where a grown man was acting like a child as he yelled about missing insurance—it felt like corporal punishment in its purest form. You’d been down there for nearly two hours already, bouncing between triage and lacerations and flu symptoms and a man who had somehow managed to staple his own thumb at work only fifteen minutes into his shift.
By the third anti-vax mom, your patience had worn thin. And being exiled to chairs now felt less like staffing necessity and more like karmic retaliation. How were you supposed to know Robby was right behind you, listening in on very important Pitt gossip, and that he believed in the whole “if you had time to talk, you had time to work.”
Thus, you’d been sent off to chairs until Robby deemed you cleansed of your sins.
Because, unfortunately, chairs happened to be the closest thing the Pitt had to purgatory: the perfect place for hellfire and fractures and a waiting room from hell. People were packed shoulder to shoulder while irritated family members grumbled and complained about the temperature. The television in the corner played daytime reruns at an offensively loud volume, and every few minutes somebody new approached the desk asking how much longer the wait would be for something as simple (or ridiculous) as a cut hangnail. Their questions made you believe they thought you personally controlled time itself.
Which, if you did, you would have made your shift go by a lot faster.
But no. You did not control time. Time and a chief attending named Michael Robinavitch controlled you, and you hated every second of it.
By the time you pushed back through the waiting room doors with another chart in your hand, a mechanical smile that didn’t quite meet your eyes plastered across your face. Your eyes glued to the tablet in front of you with the name Mrs. Hill stuck between your teeth.
However, the name died in your throat after you glanced up.
There, in the corner, near the far wall, sat Jack Abbot, all hunched over in one of the molded plastic chairs with his elbows on his knees, body stiff as a board almost as to not touch the chair at all, and hood pulled over his head despite the warmth of the waiting room. Your brows pinched, confusion plastered all over your face. For a second, Jack sitting there genuinely made no fucking sense.
He was the night shift attending. He could walk through the ambulance bays whenever he needed. He’d be prioritized because the Pitt didn’t just look over one of their own and ban him to the chairs off all places to sit and wait with the rest of the common people.
Jack also never sat still enough to like a garden statue. Even through exhaustion, even post-shift, you noticed that he carried this restless energy about him, like if he stopped moving for too long, he might actually wither away.
You stared at him for another beat before walking over, Mrs. Hill be damned.
“What the fuck, Dr. Abbot,” you hissed, stopping in front of him. “What happened to you, and why didn’t you walk through the back?”
Jack slowly lifted his head, and a small something snagged uncomfortably in your chest. The feeling wasn’t alarming, and it wasn’t that guy from TikTok running back and forth across a field with an overly large flag yelling Red Flag! Red Flag! either. The cause of this feeling was the small curls peaking below the hood.
Jack’s hair had always been salt-and-pepper for as long as you’d known him in the Pitt, causing the very serious nickname of a true “silver fox” to be tossed around when he wasn’t listening. But right now, Jack’s hair was dark, richer, and auburn almost. Near his temples, the deep, reddish-brown curls were flat under the fabric.
But even with the recent hair dye, his face was Jack’s, your brain filling in the gaps automatically to the point you didn’t notice the way he was missing his sun spots and wrinkles that Jack normally dawned in the sexiest ways.
“Hit my head,” he finally replied quietly.
Even his voice sounded the tiniest bit off, however, your concern for him outweighed the missing features your Jack normally had.
You frowned, couching slightly so you could get a better look at him, Robby’s “words of wisdom” about getting on the patient’s level ringing in your head.
“Okay, that explains why you look like you got dragged behind an ambulance,” you said before reaching up to gently cup his face.
This time, you didn’t miss the way he flinched under your palms before settling as you tilted his head to find the injury.
“Did you pass out? Throw up? How long ago did it happen” You didn’t really wait for his answers before continuing, already slipping deep into assessment mode. “Actually, hold on, no, don’t answer all that because your pupils are clearly telling me you’re very concussed, and if you start slurring your words, you and I won’t get anywhere with delayed responses.”
Jack’s eyes fluttered shut as you talked to him, and the weird feeling bloomed under your skin again. When his hazel met yours again, you let his face go and stood to full height.
“C’mon, Dr. Abbot,” you sighed, motioning for him to stand. “You’re not sitting out here looking like a murder suspect all afternoon. Let me get you into a room before Robby sees you and starts berating me as to why you’re still out here.”
His eyes lifted to yours fully, and the intensity almost stopped you cold. Jack looked at people all the time—quick glances, assessing looks, sharp little observations hidden behind sarcasm—but the way he was looking at you now was different. This Jack, looking at least fifteen years younger, looked directly as you with a heavy kind of focus that should’ve felt unsettling, like he was trying to learn your family’s history with once glance. Unlike your Jack (which you were still convinced was sitting right in front of you), he felt almost dangerous in how still he was and how carefully he watched.
When he didn’t stand up to follow, you asked, “You gonna pass out if I make you walk?
“No.”
“Is your leg bothering you? I can get you a wheelchair if you need.”
“I can walk.”
“Great. Love your confidence.”
He stood slowly, hands never touching the handles, body towering over you once he straightened fully. Again, another disjointed feeling washed over you. Jack was tall, yes, but he was now carrying himself so opposite of how he normally did. Here, he seemed disconnected from the room, like feeling the air was inconveniencing him. Now standing, you caught another glimpse of bruising near the edge of his jaw as you guided him through toward an empty room down the hall.
His silence was starting to get uncomfortable, so you found yourself talking just to fill the unusual quiet between you, even if talking had gotten you banished to chairs in the first place.
“You know, Dr. Abbot, most people with concussions demand to be sent through immediately even if they aren’t an attending. Please tell me this isn’t you trying to not look weak in front of everyone? I bet they would rather you come through walking and talking than someone giving you a wellness check and finding you dead because you didn’t follow concussion protocol.”
Behind you, he stayed silent.
You busied yourself by pulling gloves on, still talking as he sat on the very edge of the exam bed, hands clenching into white-knuckled fists on his thighs.
“Seriously though, Dr. Abbot, you scared me for a second out there. You looked half-dead sitting in that chair, which, honestly, kind of impressive for you because you usually can’t keep still. I guess that’s why you do SWAT and stuff, huh? One of these days you’re going to find out you’re not actually immortal even though people talk like you are. But what would I know, I’m just a nurse while you spend your free time getting shot at.”
Finally, like broken pottery, the smallest smile cracked through his face. You blinked at him while his eyes refused to move anywhere but your face.
“Okay,” you said slowly. “You are being deeply weird today. Are you okay?”
His gaze dropped briefly before returning to your face. “Head hurts.”
“That would be your concussion talking.”
You stepped closer, gently tilting his head toward the light to examine the molted bruise near his temple. Unlike in the chairs, he didn’t flinch under your fingers this time. Up close like this, Jack’s differences stood out more. The lighting in the waiting room made everything seem worse under shadows, but the direct light washed away the wrinkles and lines around his eyes.
And still, he kept staring at you with an unwavering intensity that made your knees go weak and made a warmth creep up your neck.
“You’re very stare-y today,” you murmured distractedly while checking his pupils.
“Sorry.”
Your hands paused for a half a second at his promptness for an apology.
As far as you knew, Jack never apologized that fast.
However, the though slipped through your mind before you could stop it, but again, the concussion explained enough that you ignored every strange feeling creeping higher in your chest. Head injuries changed behavior sometimes. Personalities softened, reactions slowed, and people became emotional, subdued, clingy, and disoriented. You’d seen it first-hand countless times.
Still.
You moved back slightly to jot something onto the chart. “Any nausea?”
“A little.”
“Blurred vision?”
“Yeah.”
“Memory issues?”
His eyes stayed on you. “Maybe?”
“Can you tell me where you are?”
“Pittsburg Trauma Medical Hospital.”
You snorted softly. “Using the full government name. I see you Dr. Abbot. I’ll give you a gold star for incredible patient participation.”
He didn’t laugh or smile at that this time. You continued to fill out his chart: name, birthdate, allergies. Thankfully, most of it was already in the system. Your eyes rose back to his when you finished up, chart getting tucked under your arm as you pulled the gloves off.
“Okay, let me go get Robby since I highly doubt you’d want anyone else in here—”
“Can you not tell anyone I’m here?”
You cocked your head. “What?”
His jaw tightened slightly, gaze flickering briefly toward the closed door before returning to you. “Don’t want people knowing.”
Concern replaced every single weird feeling. Embarrassment after injuring wasn’t uncommon, especially with doctors, and even so more with attendings who weren’t used to being the ones under care. God knew Jack hated appearing vulnerable in front of his coworkers.
“You do know they’re not going to make fun of you for getting a concussion. Robby might poke fun, but you are like his best friend.” Your eyes glanced toward the door. “Okay, maybe his only friend,” you added on with a mutter.
He didn’t answer right away.
You leaned against the counter, studying him for moment. The intensity was still there in the way he watched you, but his eyes held a sadness you’d never seen before. The hazel hues dripped with a scarcity that made your heart clench.
After a moment, you conceded. “Okay. Fine. Your secret is safe with me, Dr. Abbot.” You pointed at him with your pen. “But only because you’re looking at me like that. Special privileges are frowned upon here.”
The faintly cracked almost-smile appeared again.
And God help you, it looked surprisingly pretty on him, making you want more of it.
_______________________
Purgatory had ended the moment you stepped out of the room and went diving head-first into the incoming trauma after Robby grabbed you by the shoulders and physically steered you into Trauma Room One. The entire department had gone from irritatingly busy to borderline catastrophic after a minor highway pileup flooded intake with a dozen patients and emergencies that clogged up the CT scan because their necks felt “a little weird.”
Softened and concussed Jack Abbot fleed from your mind as you called out BP’s and administered correct dosages. You’d spent most of the last hour speed-walking between rooms with granola bar shoved into the pocket of your scrub jacket, half-finished notes beneath your arm, and a headache steadily building behind your eyes by the sterile light that never gave up buzzing for even a second.
At one point, Dana moved you toward the break room and ordered you to eat something before you passed out in front of a patient.
At another, Whitaker had nearly stepped into a pile of vomit while reading a chart, which honestly might have been the funniest thing you’d seen all week.
Through it all though, you kept thinking about softened and concussed Jack. Every time you passed through the hallway leading toward his room, your eyes drifted toward the closed door, checking without meaning to whether he was still there. And honestly, you were surprised Robby hadn’t yelled at anyone—you—for taking up a room and not having a resident check in.
When you finally nudged the exam room door open again with your shoulder, two awful vending machine coffees balanced carefully in your hands, the room was dimmer than before. He must have lowered the lights while you were gone, and you silently cured yourself for not doing that on your way out.
To your surprise (or horror) he was sitting exactly where you’d left him on the exam bed, shoulders straight, back even straighter, hands still glued to his thighs like he didn’t know he was allowed to touch the bed beneath him.
His head snapped up at the sound of the door opening, hitting you with that look before you could even mentally prepare for it.
Most people only half paid attention after hours in an ER room. Patients looked tired, distracted, and uncomfortable; doctors were worse. Jack especially had always operated at a hundred miles an hour, his attention split between six different thoughts at once even when he focused on you. Here in the exam room, he looked at you completely like he was tracking every little expression crossing your face the second you walked into the room.
The familiar warmth climbed embarrassingly fast into your chest and sat there.
“Oh, good,” you said quickly, mostly because the silence suddenly made you self-conscious. “You’re still alive. I was starting to think you’d turn into a statue or died sitting up in here. That would really make my paperwork worse, so I’m very glad you’re still breathing.”
His gaze dropped to the coffee cups in your hands before dragging up back to your face.
“You brought me one.”
The way he said it almost made it sound like he couldn’t quite believe why the hell you’d go out of your way to get one for him.
You shrugged, cross the room toward him before holding one out carefully. “I use the word coffee loosely here, because I’m pretty sure the machine actually dispenses motor oil, but you looked miserable earlier, and caffeine fixes at least eighty percent of human suffering.”
His fingers brushed yours when he took the cup. The contact lasted maybe a heartbeat, but it sent chills ripping up your arms. You turned away before he could possibly notice, pretending on the monitor beside him while taking a sip of your own coffee and instantly regretting it.
“Damn,” you muttered. “That’s genuinely horrific. I change my mind; this only fixes about 30 percent of human suffering and adds to the other percentage.”
A faint hint of amusement crossed his face, and the sight made you beam.
“You look handsome when you smile,” you blurted before you could even stop it. Your hands clapped over your mouth to the point it hurt. “I don’t know why I just said that.”
Jack cocked his head, eyes still burning into your face. “Do I not normally?”
Your heart clenched as you lowered your hands. “Um, I mean you do? But normally it’s when you’re about to say something so sarcastic it makes me want to pull my hair out.”
His brows pulled together slightly at that, like he was trying to remember through the lingering fog of his concussion.
You kept talking before he could say anything, words spilling naturally into the quiet space. “Actually, let me rephrase that. Usually you do smile, and it’s very nice, but it’s not normally after something I say. Also, is your head still hurting? You’re still staring at me like I’m a dessert you just want to eat, and that’s so unfair because I normally look at you like that and—”
Another hand slap to your mouth.
“Please ignore everything I’ve said in the past fifteen seconds. Or better, I’ll just stand here and wait for the floor to swallow me up. I’m talking way too much.”
You found yourself fidgeting under his stare before stepping closer, coffee cup placed gently on the counter. “Is your head any better? Or still hurting?”
“Hurting a little.”
“Have you gotten dizzy?”
“Yeah.”
“Still feeling nauseated?”
He nodded once instead of answering, and you wondered if he had hit his word limit for the hour. You sighed sympathetically while typing notes onto the chart.
“If I had to spend hours in a chair listening to daytime TV and screaming children, I’d probably feel that way too. Your concussion doesn’t help either.”
Another tiny smile quirked his lip even though he didn’t say anything else. You “allowed” him to stare at you while you finished updating the chart, his silent presence settling under your skin as you worked. The way he looked at you should have made you reach out for Robby the minute Jack started acting this way, but the intimidating way his droopy eyes never left your figure felt strangely calming.
Which probably said concerning things about your taste in men, but the whole ER was pretty much putty in Jack Abbot’s hand. You were the white sheep in the flock, and you’d follow Shepherd Abbot anywhere.
You turned away from the chart and leaned against the counter. “You know, Dr. Abbot, you’re allowed to talk in here. I know I tend to carry the entire social interactions, but this is kinda exhausting for me. Usually, I can barely get a sentence in around you.”
His mouth twitched faintly. “Why’s that?”
Your cheeks burned. “Well, um, medically that’s not important.”
His eyes lingered on your face and the small area around your mouth longer than necessary, and once again you felt like melting and dramatically draping yourself across a Victorian fainting couch to blubber about your feelings for the concussed attending.
To compensate for these feelings and the sterile quiet, you started talking more.
“So chairs officially became a nightmare while you were hiding her, by the way,” you told him. “Some guy tried convincing triage he needed immediate treatment for a paper cut, which would’ve been annoying enough on its own except he kept trying to squeeze blood out of it like he was in a Victorian tuberculosis ward. Then Dana yelled at me for skipping lunch again, which, in my defense, I fully intended to eat until somebody—probably Ogilvie, that fucker—stole my yogurt from the fridge. Again. At this point I think he’s specifically targeting me.”
The entire time you rambled, Jack listened without interrupting. He watched you pace while talking, energy buzzing unpleasantly beneath your skin from the nonstop pace outside.
“And then this woman asked if I was old enough to be a nurse, which somehow turned into her husband asking if I were single while she was standing right here! Emergency medicine should qualify as psychological warfare.”
The last tidbit made a quiet laugh escape, and the sound pulled your attention back toward him.
“At least you think I’m funny,” you said, pointing at him with exaggerated triumph. “Robby never thinks my jokes are funny. Don’t tell him I told you, but I think someone’s swapped him with a robot or AI engine that’s trying to convince everyone he’s a functioning person under all that brooding trauma.”
His face softened, and for some reason that affected you more than the laugh had. The warm in your chest spread outward before you realized you’d been talking almost nonstop for several minutes.
“Oh fuck,” you groaned, dropping your head briefly into your hands. “I’m doing it again.”
Jack sat up a bit straighter if somehow possible. “Doing what?”
“Talking too much.” You laughed awkwardly. “You’d think after enough years in medicine I’d learn when to stop speaking, but apparently not.” You looked down at your hands, suddenly embarrassed by how much space you’d filled with your own voice. “Sorry. You probably have a splitting headache and want to nap, but I’m over here narrating my entire day.”
When you finally looked back up, his gaze was still resting on you with steady attentiveness.
“I don’t mind it,” he admitted, tone close to a whisper.
You blinked rapidly.
“Your talking.”
Something about the way he said it in the sincerest and honest way made your chest tighten. He glanced down at the coffee cup in his hands before looking back into your eyes.
“Room’s less quiet when you’re here.”
A bright smile tugged at your lips. “Thank you for listening then.”
_______________________
The night shift always arrived like a storm rolling through the Pitt.
While the ER was the ground, and the day shift staff floated around with enough caffeine to possible kill a small animal, the night shift trickled in like the rain, refreshing and very much welcomed to take over the atmosphere. The residents, including you, handed over your charts with sluggish movements, desperate to go home and sleep the day and loss of patients away.
Normally, somewhere in the middle of all that transition, you and Jack inevitably found each other. Sometimes it was purely by accident; others it absolutely wasn’t. He’d appear beside you while you were finishing your charts just to bother you. You’d steal his coffee when he stopped paying attention. Always, there was some running commentary between the two of you, whether it be playful arguing or just an update on how social life outside the Pitt was going.
Tonight, though, you barely noticed the shift change happening around you since you’d ended up back in his room again almost without realizing. Through the last few hours, checking on him had stopped feeling entirely professional. You still used plenty of legitimate excuses, of course; his concussion needed monitoring in case his symptoms changed. You were also technically responsible for him until discharge, but if you were being honest with yourself, looking after him had become dangerously easy.
While the rest of the Pitt felt loud in comparison, his room felt quiet.
You’d sit perched sideways on the rolling stool near the exam bed, updating charts while absentmindedly talking through how your shift was going. He listened quietly from where he sat on the raised bed, legs swishing back and forth now, his hoodie abandoned sometime during the last hour.
Still, every now and then, your brain caught onto his staring and stumbled.
“You know,” you said while typing notes, “Dana threatened to physically drag me into the break room earlier because apparently surviving on caffeine and spite isn’t medically advisable. Which honestly is very hypocritical considering more than half the staff here are one inconvenience away from cardiac arrest.”
You looked up from the chart in time to catch a small smile.
“I’m glad you still think I’m funny even with brain damage. The cryptic staring can only last for so long.”
His eyes stayed steady on you. “Maybe.”
You giggled. “Still terrible at conversations, though. Truly tragic.”
While you were keeping him company, across the department, Jack Abbot had just walked into the Pitt, dressed in his scrubs and already talking.
“Tell me somebody restocked trauma two, because if I have to hunt down another chest tube tonight, I’m filing a formal complaint against humanity.” His voice carried easily across the department.
He shrugged out of his jacket while walking, salt and pepper curls slightly windblown from outside, already grinning at something Dana said near the nurses’ station.
“Four minutes late, by the way,” Dana informed him when he got closer.
“Still counts as on time in emergency medicine.”
“For an attending, you sure are incredibly wrong some of the time.”
“Key word being some and not all the time.”
Robby looked up from a chart with visible exhaustion. “I need you both to come down from a level eight to a level zero.”
Jack chose to ignore him, eyes already scanning around the room. When he didn’t find who he was looking for, he frowned slightly. “Where’s she at?”
Dana smirked before Robby could respond. “Interesting that you looked for her before your patients.”
“She’s less mean to me,” he replied without thinking, tossing his bag onto the counter.
“She’s been in one room half the afternoon,” Dana responded casually. “Concussed male.”
The minute her words ended, something subtle shifted in Jack’s chest. It probably wasn’t noticeable to people who didn’t know how Jack Abbot ticked, but Dana noticed, and her smirk turned downright evil.
“Aww,” she drawled. “Somebody jealous?”
Jack scoffed a tad too quickly to sound convincing. “I’m not jealous; I’m concerned.”
“Sure you are.”
Jack rolled his eyes hard enough to qualify as a medical even before pushing away from the counter. “I’m going to make sure she hasn’t adopted another emotionally damaged patient.”
Even as he said it, irritation had already begun creeping unpleasantly under his ribs.
One room all afternoon.
He knew how you got with certain patients; you were too soft-hearted for your own good sometimes, despite how hard you tried to pretend otherwise. But something about imagining you tucked away somewhere for hours giving another man the kind of attention you usually guarded carefully made something territorial and irrational bubble under his skin.
Back inside the room, you were still smiling down at your chart when you finally pushed yourself upright from the stool.
“All right,” you sighed. “I should probably go check whether the Pitt has fully descended into anarchy without me.”
His eyes followed you as you moved toward the door. “You’ll come back?”
You stopped for half a second, turning lightly and fully surprised enough by the quietness of his question that warmth spread through your being.
“Yeah,” you said softly. “I’ll come back.”
Your stomach flipped when his expression changed from a tight, worriedness to a soft, placated expression. Needing to escape before you could embarrass yourself further, you swung the door open and stepped into the hallway, holding the chart to your chest while talking over your shoulder toward him.
“Seriously, though, if you try sneaking out before I get back, I’ll actually—”
You voice cut off when your eyes landed Jack standing halfway down the hallway staring directly at you. It was almost like your brain hit the power mode and shut down completely, because Jack Abbot—your Jack Abbot was standing right in front of you.
Alive.
Healthy.
Definitely not concussed unlike the Jack—now not-Jack—you had spent hours sitting beside.
Your pulse dropped so hard it almost hurt.
Behind him, Robby slowed slightly, noticing the way all color drained from your face. Jack’s teasing grin faded into confusion as he took in the way you stared at him like you’d just seen a ghost.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he said slowly, concern beginning to edge beneath the nickname. “You okay?”
You couldn’t answer as your eyes darted toward the closed room behind you, then back to Jack, then back again, then back to Jack one more time. Him standing there was impossible, so entirely impossible. Your heartbeat climbed into your throat.
Jack took another small step closer when you failed to answer. “Hey. What’s wrong?”
You blinked once before bolting back into the room.
“What the hell—” Jack muttered, following after you without hesitation while Robby moved right behind him.
He was the first through the doorway and stopped right as he went in. The air dropped almost noticeably. The man sitting on the exam bed had lifted his head slowly at the sound of the door opening, and for one disorienting second, it genuinely looked like Jack was staring at another, younger version of himself.
The man’s auburn hair caught warmly in the lighting while bruising shadowed one side of his face. He sat completely still on the bed, one hand loose around a cup Jack knew you had brought him at some point, his expression unreadable as he stared back at Jack.
Jack didn’t move, and you stood frozen near the corner, chest rising too fast while your brain desperately tried to recover from the fact that somehow—somehow—you had spent nearly an entire shift accidentally flirting with a completely stranger wearing Jack Abbot’s face.
Silence stretched painfully.
Behind Jack, Robby pinched the bridge of his nose. “Absolutely not,” he muttered under his breath. “Secret twins are above my pay grade. My sabbatical cannot come sooner enough.”
And before any of you could stop him, he turned around and walked directly back out of the room, letting the door click shit behind him, leaving only you, Jack, and the stranger sitting on the exam bed staring at one another in stunned silence.
_______________________
Nobody moved.
You still stood frozen near the corner clutching the chart so tightly your knuckles were white, while across the room Jack remained rooted just inside the doorway staring at the man like he genuinely could not process what he was seeing.
The resemblance was worse with both of them in the same room. They weren’t identical, but close enough that your brain kept trying to overlap them anyway with their same eyes, same mouth, same build. The now-stranger looked like someone had taken Jack and stripped ten years off him, softened the gray from his hair, and carved away some of the sharpness age and multiple years as an ER attending had left behind.
And suddenly you felt violently aware of every single thing you’d said over the last several hours. Heat flooded your face so quickly you thought you might actually die from humiliation right then and there.
To break the cursed silence, Jack finally spoke first. “What . . . the hell . . . is this?”
The stranger’s gaze shifted toward him calmly. Unlike you, he didn’t seem particularly unsettled by the situation. If anything, he looked mildly tired. The concussion probably wasn’t helping matters, but even beyond that there was still the same strange unwavering presence about him. You found yourself staring at him helplessly.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” you blurted, voice climbing in disbelief as you looked at him. “I spent like almost twelve hours calling you Jack.”
He looked back at you for a moment before answering. “My name’s Andrew.”
Jack let out a sharp disbelieving laugh. “Andrew?”
You shook your head. “Okay, no. You had so many opportunities to correct me, and you’re just now telling me your name?”
Andrew’s expression shifted slightly into something more apologetic. “Tried to.”
“You absolutely did not!”
“A little.”
“You said maybe four words all day!”
“You talked fast.”
You dropped your face into one hand, mortification crashing over you in waves now that the shock had worn off enough for your brain to start replaying the day in horrifying detail. “I told you that you were handsome.”
Jack’s head snapped toward you so fast it was almost comical. “You what?”
“Not talking to you Jack,” you shot back.
He stared at you in open betrayal. “I walk in here and find out you’ve been flirty with my concussed doppelganger all day?”
“I DIDN’T KNOW HE WASN’T YOU! HE’S LITERALLY WEARING YOUR FACE! WHAT WAS I SUPPOED TO DO?”
“Um, I don’t know, sweetheart, check first that it was actually me?
Andrew watched the entire exchange quietly, and to your absolute horror, there was the faintest hint of delight on his face.
You looked between the two men. “This is actually my worst nightmare.”
“Mine too,” Jack muttered before his eyes narrowed slightly when he looked back toward Andrew. “Hold on. You seriously never corrected her?”
Andrew was quiet as he kept looking at you. “I liked listening to her.”
Something fluttered in your chest. His words weren’t necessarily romantic, but he said it with such earnest that you couldn’t help but melt a bit. Jack clearly felt something too because his mouth pinched in irritation. You recognized it as the look he got whenever another one of the radiologists flirted with you for too long at the nurses’ station.
Jack Abbot was reeking with actual jealousy.
He looked away first, jaw tightening slightly before he exhaled through his nose and pointed vaguely toward the hallway. “Sweetheart.”
You tore your gaze from Andrew to look at him. “What?”
“Go do your handoffs.”
Your brows lifted. “Jack—”
“Go,” he repeated, still watching Andrew instead of you. “Before Dana starts a manhunt.”
You hesitated, sensing the almost openly hostile vibe Jack was giving off. It was certainly heavy enough that you suddenly felt like you were standing in the middle of something private. Andrew sat watching Jack with the same unreadable stillness while Jack looked back at him with visible suspicion. It genuinely felt like watching two wolves silently size each other up.
You pointed between them uncertainly. “Try not to kill each other while I’m gone.”
“No promises,” Jack muttered.
Your eyes rolled back deeply. “You are unbelievably exhausting.”
Then, after one last glance toward Andrew and a silent wave goodbye, you slipped out into the hallway and pulled the door shut behind you.
Jack crossed his arms slowly over his chest, leaning back against the closed door while studying the man in front of him more carefully now that the initial shock had worn off. Up close, the differences stood out more clearly, but enough resemblance lasted to make the situation deeply irksome.
Andrew continued to stare, though his lips had quirked up well before you had left the room.
Jack exhaled sharply and shook his head. “You know, most people would correct someone after the fifth time they got called the wrong name.”
Andrew’s gaze drifted over his shoulder like he could almost see you through the wooden door. “She was nice. Didn’t want to upset her. She looked like she was enjoying the idea of getting to take care of you.”
An unpleasantly possessive feeling twisted deep in Jack’s gut at the quiet sincerity of his answer. He understood why the man in front of him had gotten such a reaction from you. Andrew didn’t deflect; he said simple truths in a low steady voice that was somehow worse than flirty in his eyes.
Jack rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Did you flirt back?”
Andrew considered the question for a moment. “Didn’t have to since she did all the talking.”
And to his credit, he didn’t smirk afterward or act smug about it. If anything, he almost looked sad as he stood slowly from the exam bed. Even concussed, he carried himself with a height that made Jack very aware of the man when he moved. Jack puffed his chest out without meaning to, an instinctive reaction to the man who had held your attention for an entire day.
Andrew stepped close enough that now they both could look each other in the eye at the same height, making Jack almost laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.
“You have a good girl,” Andrew said quietly, never looking away from hazel eyes that mirrored his own. “Don’t let someone else get to her first.”
The fact that Jack could picture you getting swept off your feet by another man felt like a punch directly to his chest. He’d been hiding behind teasing remarks and heavy sarcasm and blatant flirtation because it was easier than admitting how badly he wanted you. He couldn’t fathom the idea of someone, much softer and gentler than he might ever be, taking the chance he was too scared to. Andrew was an example of that man, someone who sat still long enough and quiet enough to let you feel seen and heard without interruption.
Because while he was falling behind, some concussed stranger who happened to share his exact face had managed to make you blush just by listening carefully.
Jack stared at Andrew for another long moment before muttering, “You know, I really don’t like this.”
“Do you not like this because I’m making you uncomfortable? Or do you not like this because I’m finally a wakeup call?” Andrew answered before stepping past him toward the door.
Jack whirled around. “Where are you going?”
Andrew opened the door with one hand. “To get discharge papers. Even though I enjoyed hearing her talk, I do not want to sleep in a hospital bed.” He paused. “You could probably go talk to her. Never know if another one of us might waltz through that door.”
The door swung shut behind him a second later, leaving Jack standing alone in the suddenly too-quiet room. For maybe three seconds, he stayed there staring at the empty doorway before he swore softly under his breath and headed out after you.
He found you near the nurses’ station halfway through handoff, leaning over a chart while Dana talked beside you. The second you noticed him approaching, your entire expression shifted somewhere between lingering embarrassment and outright panic. He didn’t slow down.
“Dana,” he interrupted the blond charge nurse mid-sentence.
She stared at him over her nose. “What?”
“I need her for a second.”
Her eyes tracked between him and you for a beat, and disappeared, though not before throwing you a deeply interested look over her shoulder. The moment she was gone, silence settled between you and Jack in a rather awkward way.
You looked down at your hands. “So.”
“So,” he echoed.
A soft groan pushed through your lips while your hands covered your face. “I cannot believe I spent an entire afternoon thinking your doppelganger was you with a concussion.”
“I can’t believe you called him handsome and still thought it was me when he didn’t do anything.”
“Hey,” you whined, lips jutting in a pout. “I was under emotional distress because I thought you had a severe concussion!”
“You know he liked you,” Jack teased with a smirk for half a second before his face dropped into a more serious look. “I don’t blame him, though.”
You swallowed once. “Jack—”
“I’m serious. And honest? I’m jealous as hell that he got to spend an entire shift with you.”
Warmth rushed to your face. “You’re jealous of your own face?”
“I don’t think that was my point, sweetheart.” He stared down at you. “I think I’ve been screwing this up for a while and seeing him just made me very aware of it.”
Your chest tightened. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he said slowly, “I keep joking around with you because if I actually said what I’ve been feeling, I’d probably mess it all up.” He ran a hand through his curls, almost frustrated by the lack of words to describe his feelings. “I like you,” he admitted finally. “Like . . . really like you.”
You couldn’t help but laugh softly under your breath in disbelief. “It took your twin from another universe getting a concussion for you to finally say that?”
“Apparently, yeah.”
Your smile widened helplessly, and Jack’s gaze briefly dropped to your mouth before lifting back to your eyes.
“Can I kiss you?”
The fact that he asked nearly ruined you on the spot. You nodded once before your brain could catch up enough to overthink it. But apparently that’s all Jack needed because the next moment, his warm hands slid carefully against your waist as he pulled you closer. Unlike all the teasing flirtation that existed between you for months, the kiss itself felt so intensely severe your knees almost buckled.
There were no games, no smug comments, just Jack kissing you like he’d wanted to for a very long time, his concussed double finally being the last straw to do so.
By the time you finally pulled apart, both of you were smiling a little stupidly.
And somewhere down the hallway, you were almost certain you heard Dana yell, “FINALLY!”
🏷️ permanent tags: @dumb-fawkin-bitch @nofinnn2 @books-thingys-andstuff @nyxmoretti @glitterquadricorn @itzpixiebabe @xoxoloverb @macbaetwo @cerberus101 @thorfemmes @goddess-of-spring @staygoldsquatchling02 @obi-wansgirl @phantom-101 @fly-me-away @xblackcatx @dedicateeverythingtomilkshake @aoi-warrior @keepingitundercover @sofianotvergara @shawnhatosysrightbicep @straykids1011 @vicky066 @67-angelofthelordme-67 @sepidehmoafiglazer
omggg lmao i’m loving these doppelgänger scenarios😭
APARTMENT SEVENTEEN — Pt. 3
SUMMARY: A trip to the ED, a retirement meal, and a phone call with Robby. One leaves you up close and personal with your neighbor, one has Phoebe spilling secrets like it's an Olympic sport, and another has Jack realizing he's got a fucking crush on the single mom in apartment seventeen.
WARNINGS: medical inaccuracies (IUD removal and replacement), a very awkward encounter, Phoebe being a blabber mouth, some very inappropriate and unprofessional thoughts, small amount of alcohol consumption, everyone thirsting over Jack, talks of Robby and his sabbatical (aka his mental health crisis), swearing and flirting!!!!
A/N: I had the best time writing this chapter!! It is another long one but I promise every word and encounter is necessary. First person to spot the hidden reference wins a big old smooth from me <3 Also, next chapter is Phoebe's birthday party so be prepared for a whole lot of chaotic toddlers and a bunch of moms thirsting over Jack.
PAIRING: Jack Abbot x Single Mom!Reader
WORD COUNT: 7.1k
PREV. PART — SERIES MASTERLIST
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
You’ve been trying to ignore the pain for the last two hours.
Bubble baths, heat packs, even yoga as a last-ditch effort to try to relieve the intense ache and stabbing in your lower abdomen. But the pain has grown exponentially, almost crippling you into a fetal position in the middle of your bed.
In hindsight, you know you should’ve taken yourself to the ER hours ago, had them check you over to make sure it’s nothing serious. But you assumed it was just a heavy period making its appearance for the first time in three years. Now, you have a sneaky suspicion that your IUD has either shifted or embedded itself into your uterine walls.
Not ideal. A bit scary, to be quite frank.
And of course, it’s something that has to happen on one of the only real nights you get off to yourself. Not a night where you expect a call or text because Phoebe wants to come home. A night where, if anything, Phoebe has most likely begged your mom to just move in with her.
You have to laugh at the thought, but the movement and contractions of your stomach only heightens the pain. You’ve bled through two pads and pairs of pyjamas, soiled your sheets well enough that you’ve had to throw them out.
Perhaps it’s dramatic to call an ambulance to get you to the ER, but you’re unsure you’ll be able to stomach getting up, let alone driving yourself the short ten minute trek to PTMC. You consider leaving it, just ride it out for as long as you can. But the thought of Phoebe coming home tomorrow afternoon to a crippled and possibly bleeding out mother…
A pathetic groan follows your movements as you force yourself to sit up on the bed, allow yourself a moment for composure and a silent prayer to the Universe to just make it stop.
Much like all other times, the Universe doesn’t listen. And the moment you stand, you’re met with that horrifying sensation of blood pooling between your legs and soaking into three pads you’ve stacked in your underwear.
What should take you fifteen minutes to get ready and arrive at PTMC actually ends up taking you almost an hour. The only reprieve you are offered is a slightly quiet waiting room. Twenty to thirty people at most occupy the chairs, all too exhausted or pain-ridden to offer up much conversation between each other.
You don’t look much better than them. Pyjamas, messy hair, face bare of anything other than a grimace. Every step toward the check-in desk takes you back to when you first had Phoebe. When, for two weeks, you could only just shuffle your feet across the floor to get around after the emergency surgery.
You’re clutching your abdomen when you finally reach the desk. An older woman sits on the opposite side of the protective screen, dark hair pulled back into a bun, kind eyes that assess you and a soft voice that asks for your name and what’s brought you in.
“I think my IUD has moved or embedded.” You manage to get out through gritted teeth, hunching slightly over the tall ledge as you take in her name badge.
Lupe’s head tilts sympathetically to the side. “Can you describe your symptoms and pain for me? When did it start?”
“Uh, about four hours ago. Very heavy bleeding, the pain is both an ache and a stabbing sensation. Feels kind of like someone’s got a chainsaw on my uterus.” You try to laugh through the pain, but when your stomach tenses you’re met with a blinding sensation of agony that you struggle to blink away.
Lupe types on the keyboard of her computer, side-glancing you as if checking you’re not about to pass out and smack your head on the ledge or marble floor. “Any nausea or dizziness, hon?”
You nod, swallowing on a dry throat. “I think that’s only due to the pain, though.”
Lupe finishes typing before the printer beside her begins to rumble and she’s slipping you a write-up through the small gap beneath the safety screen. “There’s free sanitary products in the restroom. Take a seat, hon. Someone should be with you shortly.”
You offer a weak smile in thanks and she returns one with understanding.
It’s painful to sit but even more so to stand. After ten minutes, you’re slouching in the most uncomfortable chair you’ve ever had the displeasure of using. Another ten minutes and you’re shuffling to the public restroom before you can leak through yet another article of clothing.
It’s only twenty minutes later, when you’re trying to remember labor breathing techniques that the door opens and a gentle voice is calling your name. It takes you a moment to reach her but she waits patiently, an understanding look on her face through pursed lips.
She introduces herself as Dr. McKay as she slowly guides you to a curtained off section in triage. It’s not until she’s helping you onto the bed with steady hands that you take notice of two other doctors standing behind her.
Dr. McKay follows your line of sight. “We’re typically a teaching hospital, if you’re okay with two of our students observing tonight?”
You wave her off. “I’m a mom, I lost my dignity a while ago. The more the merrier.” You manage to joke but when a laugh slips from your lips, your face scrunches in pain and your body curls involuntarily.
Dr. McKay grins through a sympathetic look, sitting at the stool to the side of you. “Trust me, I know all about that,” she reassures, turning back to the students at the foot of the bed.
“This is Kwon and Ogilvie. They’re in their third and fourth year as med students and getting a little taste of the night shift. We’ve read through your patient intake report, but do you mind explaining again what’s going on? You think your IUD has moved or embedded?”
You nod on a sigh. “Yeah, the pain and bleeding started around four hours ago. I’ve leaked through pads and clothes maybe three times since it started.”
McKay hums, snapping on a pair of gloves and lifting your pyjama shirt to expose your abdomen. “Copper or hormonal IUD?”
“Hormonal. I only got it about three and a half years ago. A few months after I had my daughter.”
She hums. “Any dizziness or nausea?”
Your head bobs, a wince slipping from you when she pushes slightly lower on your mid-section. “A little dizziness, a lot of nausea. I think it’s just because of the pain, though.”
Kwon moves to your side, as she slips her hands into a pair of blue gloves and reaches for the thermometer. It beeps, flashes green. “Temp is steady at 98.96.”
McKay moves back, discards her gloves into the trash and slides back over to you. “Are pain and bleeding usual for you?”
You shake your head before she can finish her question. “No, my cramps and monthly periods stopped a month after I got it inserted.”
She nods, a distant look growing in her eyes for barely a moment. “Alright, we’ll do a pelvic exam to check if we can identify the device to rule out any embedding. If it has shifted, we’ll get you ready for an ultrasound to find out what’s going on before attempting removal.”
You nod with a wince when Dr. McKay stands, reaching over for a robe that she hands to you with a sympathetic smile. “We’ll step out for a moment while you change and get comfortable and then we’ll be back shortly.”
You hear her speak with the students as they pull the curtain closed behind them, questioning something about initial assessments but you zone out when the pain begins to grow. It’s five minutes later when you're situated in a gown on the bed when the three of them return.
“Our student doctor Kwon is going to conduct your pelvic if you’re okay with that?”
You hum at McKay’s words, not really caring who is going to be all up in your vaginal canal so long as the issue is resolved. You weren’t lying when you said your dignity left when you fell pregnant almost five years ago.
Joy Kwon doesn't offer any pleasantries as she slides her hands into a pair of gloves and positions herself on the stool between your legs at the foot of the bed.
Ogilvie stands behind her, looking anywhere but at your parting thighs. You move silently, without guidance. Knees up, dropping them to your sides, heels together. McKay grins at the sight when you fist your hands and shove them beneath your back, in line with your coccyx.
You catch her amused look and offer an exhausted grin in return. “I know my way around these exams.”
Kwon cocks a brow as you meet her gaze again, a flicker of amusement washing across her eyes. It’s fleeting, but you catch it nonetheless. She reaches for the speculum, applying the translucent lubricant to the equipment.
Your eyes are closed, an overwhelming wave of pain washing over and you crippling any sense of peace you had begun to find. It’s so intense that you miss the voices from outside the curtain, only just catching McKay informing you that an attending is going to observe Kwon’s exam.
“Yeah, no worries. Let’s call it a party.” The words are rushed on a pained laugh from your lips before McKay is slipping outside before returning with another.
When your eyes flicker open and a shaky exhale leaves your lungs, the air gets suddenly stuck in your throat at the sight before you.
“This is Dr. Abbot.”
Jack stares at you with wide eyes and raised brows, his gaze involuntarily trailing down to your parted knees before snapping his eyes to the wall on the other side of the room. Your cheeks feel hot, your heart is thumping against your ribs and you feel like you can’t fucking breathe.
There is no fucking way this is happening right now. Jack is barely able to meet your gaze again as he tries his hardest to offer the most professional nod and tight-lipped smile you’ve ever seen.
“Fancy seeing you here, neighbor.” You can’t help it. The words fall from your lips before you can think twice, the tension in the room that the others are only now privy of is too much to remain silent under.
McKay’s eyes dart from you to Jack, lashes hitting her brows in shock. “Neighbor?”
Jack clears his throat, scratching at the nape of his neck in a nervous tick you’ve never seen before. He blinks at you, lips parting and closing again. You never imagined him to be anything other than confident and composed.
Bored with the conversation, Kwon moves closer and lines the speculum with your entrance, a hiss falling from your lips at the cool contact of the lubricant.
“Take a deep breath, you’ll feel some pressure.” She advises, a bit dully. Like she’d rather be anywhere but here. You feel the fucking same.
Ogilvie frowns at the speculum, eyes darting from the tool to between your legs. Like he’s assessing the physics of the exam. “Is that going to fit?”
“I can get Shen, instead.” Jack offers abruptly, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. Perhaps he’s trying to find a way out for himself, maybe he’s the one that’s uncomfortable with the situation he’s accidentally walked into. But the thought of yet another doctor staring between your legs is the last thing you want right now. Your eyes squeeze shut in pure mortification.
Your hot, widowed neighbor has just seen you in the most unappealing way you could ever imagine.
“Nope. Four doctors getting an eyeful is enough. I don’t need a fifth.” You keep your eyes closed, unable to bear the thought of meeting Jack’s gaze right now and a wince passes through your teeth when Kwon slowly pushes the instrument into your vaginal canal.
You blink up at the ceiling through quick breaths, discomfort turning into pain as you struggle to stretch around it. Kwon peeks up between your parted knees, noting the discomfort in your expression, can feel the resistance of the instrument and casts a quick glance to McKay.
“Did you have a vaginal birth?” she asks you softly.
You laugh through gritted teeth. “Emergency caesarean, baby.”
Kwon sighs, slowly retracting the speculum and placing it back on the tray. You don’t need to look at it to know it’s covered in blood. “I thought it felt a bit tight.” She comments.
Your eyes bulge open at that with another mortified laugh. But when your gaze snags on the tool she originally tried to use, you blink rapidly. It’s bigger than anything you’ve ever had inside of you before. Including any and all speculums you’ve had the displeasure of being examined with. “You thought that was going to fit!?”
“I didn’t think it would. I’m happy to try instead with a Pederson.” Ogilvie offers with a wide smile and you’re far too quick to shake your head for someone who was, at the beginning, happy for students to observe and conduct the exam.
“No! That’s okay, Dr. McKay—”
“Dr. McKay, there’s a phone call for you. An officer from the PPD.”
“Are you fucking kidding me!?” She doesn’t excuse herself. Just tears off her gloves and stomps through the curtain. Leaving you with two student doctors and Jack fucking Abbot.
Wearily, your gaze meets his again; your cheeks aflame and a stillness in his shoulders that makes you slightly more uncomfortable than the idea of Ogilvie spreading you open. Ultimately, you know Jack is your best option out of the three.
More experience, kind and compassionate. Familiar, but maybe that’s not a pro in this situation. No. Definitely not a pro to have your fucking neighbor inspect your cervix. Yet you don’t look away from him. You don’t mean for your gaze to be pleading, don’t mean to ask the silent question that you do but Jack hears it anyway, answers it with a subtle dip of his head and he’s slipping into a pair of blue gloves and clearing his throat before taking Kwon’s position.
“Asking the patient what birth they had should always be asked before conducting a pelvic exam.” Jack notes, eyes flickering to Kwon in a brief moment of silent scolding before he reaches for the other, much thinner probe.
You don’t miss the way Kwon shoots a glare at Ogilvie with slightly threatening eyes. He has the right to look sheepish and a little scared before slowly stepping on foot closer to the foot of the bed.
“That would be my fault, Dr. Abbot,” he admits nervously. “She said she was a mom, so I assumed the birth was vaginal and the largest speculum would be most appropriate.”
You don’t mean to scoff when you laugh, but you do. Partly in offence for all women across the fucking world that this guy assumes all moms to have loose vaginas. The other part because if he had been watching Dr. McKay when she was checking your abdomen, he would’ve seen the small but visible scar just above your pubic bone.
Jack blinks as he unwraps the sterile tool and smears a small amount of lubricant over it. “In that case, I highly recommend you brush up on your knowledge of a woman’s anatomy.”
Ogilvie takes the hint. He tears off his gloves and slips past the curtain to do exactly what Jack has said. A wave of guilt begins to ride over you but it’s also quite quickly replaced with a bigger wave of relief.
Kwon turns to you with a thin grin, like she’s pleased with his lack of presence. “Sorry about him. I don’t think he’s seen a vagina since he came out of one.”
You almost choke on your laugh at that, wincing quickly after as your body locks up with another crippling cramp of pain. Jack’s gaze flicks up to your face, assessing the furrow in your brow, the flush to your clammy skin.
“You doing okay, neighbor?” His voice lacks its usual flirty tone; gravelly now and laced with a thickness he can’t quite shift. But you can hear the lightness he tries to offer, the reassurance he doesn't speak that this is okay and you are okay and you don’t need to be embarrassed that he’s seeing you like this.
“Oh, just peachy.” You snip back through gritted teeth, fisting the thin cotton sheets beneath you.
Jack blinks his way to go between your thighs, jaw clenched and having to remind himself to separate any personal sensations right now from his professional responsibility. It’s one thing to think about you being laid in the position, but it’s a completely other thing to have you like it for an entirely different reason.
Jack tries to block out the actual sight of you. Because in truth, there isn’t anything erotic about this, not even in the slightest. You’re in pain and bloody and hurting, and you’re trusting him to fix the issue. He feels sick with himself for how much he’s internally struggling at the situation.
“I’ve done this plenty of times, promise you’re in good hands.” He clears his throat, lines the speculum with the entrance of your vaginal canal and very slowly eases it between your walls.
There’s no pain this time, only a slight hint of discomfort but that’s mostly at the cold gel. You can’t help the cock of your brow at Jack’s words. “You examine a lot of your neighbor’s cervixes?”
He laughs at that, breathily enough that you can feel it ghost the side of your thigh. You swallow, blink up at the ceiling. His laughter helps ease this fucking awkwardness and embarrassment of having to dig around in his neighbors vagina. Doesn’t do enough to stop it from haunting you moving forward.
“No, you would be my first.” Jack promises, and you’re foolish enough to let yourself believe that comment has a double meaning to it.
“I’m honored.” You mutter it sarcastically and brave the thought of looking down to the foot of the bed.
You’re met with the sight of Jack peering between your legs, eyes slightly squinted as he works. Kwon looks just as invested as Jack does, handing him another tool when he silently opens his palm toward her.
“You said you bled through clothes and menstrual pads?” Kwon asks.
You nod, trying to remember not to tense or hold your breath. “Yeah, why? I’m not haemorrhaging or something am I?”
“No.” Jack assures you with a firm tone, catching the lick of anxiety growing in your voice. He doesn’t move his head but his eyes flick up to meet yours and your entire stomach turns molten at the sight.
You can’t look away and despite your best efforts, you do find yourself holding your breath.
“You’re not haemorrhaging and it’s definitely not embedded, which is good. Looks like it’s just shifted slightly which has caused the pain and the bleeding. Did it start tonight?”
You nod, watching Jack slip into a fresh pair of gloves and reach across the room for a small machine. “Well, I’ve felt a little uncomfortable for a couple days. Just light cramps that I usually get when I should be due on my cycle. But the bleeding and pain started tonight, yeah.”
Jack nods as he approaches your side, a look of reassurance on his face as he turns on the ultrasound screen and reaches for the gel. Kwon moves silently, offering you a large sheet and gesturing to cover your lower part and pull up the hem of the hospital robe to reveal your abdomen.
“I’m just gonna check everything is okay internally and then Kwon should be able to do a quick removal and replacement.”
You nod, loosing a breath as you try to relax yourself as Jack presses the transducer to your lower abdomen. He moves it slowly, tenderly with his touch; not using too much pressure or pushing on your bladder like the midwives did when you were pregnant.
He keeps his eyes on the screen and you realize you definitely have a thing for doctors. Or more specifically, this doctor.
“You bring Pheebs with you?” He asks softly, offering a brief glance to your face before returning his attention to the screen again.
“No, she’s having a sleepover with my parents tonight.” You say softly and you don’t miss the fond grin that spreads across his lips. It warms your heart so much that you can’t help but subtly mirror it.
“How’s her tummy now?”
A laugh bubbles up your throat. The irony of him being the one to check you over when only a week ago he was checking your daughter. “Yeah, good. Back to shitting like a pro again.”
Jack huffs in laughter, taking one more moment to assess the ultrasound before removing the probe from your skin and cleaning it off.
“Your uterine walls are thicker than usual. They're shedding, which is why you're bleeding the way you are. Totally normal. Other than that, ultrasound is clear,” he concludes with a smile that you can finally meet.
That awkwardness and tension has finally begun to ease and disappear. Right now, you’re not neighbors. He is your doctor and you are his patient.
“So, everything looks okay?” You ask. Jack nods, eyes on you again with that intensity you’ve started to grow used to.
“Yeah, you look perfect.” It’s slightly raspy when he speaks, both the tone and his words causing a flush to burn across your entire body.
It feels like air has trapped itself in your lungs and Jack’s shoulders stiffen as if he’s just realized the words he’s used and the tone he’s spoken them in.
From the foot of your bed, Kwon’s slightly uncomfortable eyes flicker between you and Jack, blinking as if that’ll clear the air as to what the fuck she’s witnessing right now. Before she can open her mouth with a remark, before Jack can splutter an apology or a distraction, the curtain moves and McKay is slipping back into the area.
Jack steps away from the bed, lips pursed into a firm line and he’s tugging off the gloves and moving toward the curtain. “She’s all cleared for removal and replacement.” He tells McKay, voice slightly strained.
You can’t help the amusement that starts to curl within your lower belly, a grin stretching across your face and Jack meets your gaze, mirroring it a bit bashfully before slipping past the curtain. Leaving you with your legs spread, heart thumping, and delusional thoughts in your mind that he found this procedure just as eye-opening as you did.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
It’s late Sunday morning by the time Jack’s done with his shift, exhausted and almost limping with how sore his leg is. He stayed late. Again. And his knee is protesting at the idea of potentially having to do it once more on his next shift.
It’s been a slight struggle now that Robby is on sabbatical. Jack’s left with the responsibility of staying later or starting earlier to aid Al-Hashimi with the influx of patience as the weather has gotten hotter. The sun comes out and people grow stupid. And Jack has to work through the pain of his prosthetic growing sweaty and unstable.
On top of that, he’s been riddled with something he can only compare to high-school level anxiety. Every time he’s walked through the main doors of the apartment complex for the past week, Jack’s been fucking nervous. Anxious that he may stumble into an awkward encounter with you after performing your pelvic exam.
It’s stupid, he knows. You’re both adults and Jack’s a professional, for fuck’s sake. He offered to get you another attending, and you declined. You had smiled—grinned—at him when he left you in McKay’s capable hands. And yet he had not heard from you since.
No text, no collisions in the hall. Not that you owe him anything, he knows that. And it’s not even like you texted religiously before your night in the Pitt. But Jack can feel something strained between you. Perhaps you’re embarrassed by the situation. That your neighbor had pried you open to check for an embedded IUD. Or maybe he had made you uncomfortable with that stupid fucking slip he made when he said you looked perfect.
What the fuck is wrong with him?
Jack takes the elevator to the third floor, his leg far too achy to brave the stairs after being on his feet for the past nineteen hours. When he makes it inside his apartment, he’s not sure what’s worse. The deafening loneliness or Robby’s contact popping up as an incoming call on his phone.
He answers before he even closes his apartment door.
“You’re alive, then.”
Robby scoffs a breathy laugh down the line at the greeting, something Jack can’t help but smirk at. He makes his way straight to the couch and falls into it, tucking the phone between his shoulder and ear while he works to remove his prosthetic.
“Yeah, well… who would’ve thought nature could be so refreshing.”
Jack hums, half listening with a grunt until he slips the metal from his knee and exhales a breath of relief. “You doin’ okay, though? Haven’t heard from you for two weeks.”
“What? Miss me already?” Robby snides.
It pulls at the corners of Jack’s mouth in the form of a gentle smile. This is good. He’s cracking jokes, his voice doesn’t sound strangled and pained. He sounds better than he did when he left two weeks ago, but Jack is not a fool. He’s all too familiar with what Robby is experiencing, he’s danced toward the line one too many times himself.
“What are you even doing with yourself out there?” Jack says instead.
He can almost hear Robby shrugging through the line. He’s quiet for a few moments, likely contemplating, deciding how much or how little he wants to share. “How’s the hospital?”
Jack scoffs, shakes his head and leans back into the couch, allowing his eyes to close for a moment. “Work is not your concern until you’re back from sabbatical. Not a day sooner.”
Robby grows quiet again and they stay like that for a little while. No words spoken, just breaths shared down the line; both basking in the quiet comfortability of one another. Calming, familiar. Like moments shared on the roof after a particularly long shift.
“Spoke to McKay yesterday.” It’s Robby that breaks that silence. “Said you performed a pelvic exam on your neighbor.”
Jack can hear his smirk, the teasing churn in his voice. He takes a deep breath and then a laugh is spluttering from his chest; exasperated and exhausted.
“Brother, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.” Jack admits roughly.
Robby doesn’t push, gives him a chance to add more if he wants to. He doesn’t. So Robby approaches carefully.
“You like her?”
The question makes Jack pulse skip. “Barely know her.”
“Not what I asked.”
Jack hesitates. It’s a lie, really. He does know you. Perhaps not in the most stereotypical way, but he does. He knows your love lost, your hatred for the way your ex treats your daughter, how your mind works when you create the excellence that you do.
Deeper than that, he knows your heart beats solely for your daughter. He knows Phoebe. Her chaos and easy charm, knows how you’ve bled your personality into her unintentionally.
Jack swallows. Robby waits.
“I don’t know what it is. There’s just—there’s something there. Something about her…”
“It’s not just her, though, Jack. She has a daughter. Package deal. Big deal.”
Jack hums, an involuntary smile curling on the corners of his lips. “She’s the coolest kid I’ve ever met, man. She makes her mom sing her AC/DC as a lullaby.”
Had they been on the roof, Jack would see the softness that smoothes the worry on Robby’s face. He’d see the quiet understanding in his eyes as he listens to every word, as he understands why there’s a certain dullness in Jack’s voice. A reservation.
Robby takes a heavy breath. “You don’t have to feel guilty about that, Jack.”
It makes Jack wince. Because he does feel guilty. Whenever his mind wanders to the thought of you, he’s crushed with an immense wave of guilt. Like he’s betraying his wife, like he’s losing sight of her in the fogginess of his memory.
Maybe that’s what scares him so much. He’s been with people since. One night stand, casual flings to keep the loneliness and demons of the night away. Physically invested and emotionally detached. It’s different this time. With you. Because there’s no physicality there, just this undeniable pull he feels whenever he looks at you, thinks of you.
It’s deeper than a surface level attraction. It fucking terrfies him because he hardly knows you. Not truly, not in the ways he wants to.
“You’re allowed to find happiness somewhere else. With someone else.”
The phone slips to rest on Jack's shoulder as his gaze falls down to the hands resting in his lap, the silver band that still wraps around his ring finger.
Time doesn’t heal all wounds. Time just lets you grow around them.
Jack changes the subject fairly quickly. They spend the next ten minutes talking about nothing much before Jack forces Robby to promise he won’t leave it two weeks to reach out again. He showers, changes, takes some time to tend to the ache in his knee before brewing a coffee and making some eggs and taking them out to the balcony.
He hears it the second the door opens.
Music. Singing. Laughter. Loud and carefree and happy.
It pulls a smile to his face immediately as he sits at the table and watches across the gap between your balconies. Jack sips on his coffee, admires the sound he’s blessed enough to hear, the fleeting catches he gets of you and Phoebe running around or dancing on the kitchen island.
The sun is warm on his skin, the breeze soothing the ache of his tight skin where a limb once was and he feels himself slowly beginning to relax.
“Morning neighbor!”
His eyes peek open, a palm out above his eyes to cover the blinding sun. Jack blinks and you’re there. Standing on your balcony, one hand on the railing and the other is waving above your head. Calling out to him, like that night last week didn’t happen.
So you’re not embarrassed and he hasn’t made you uncomfortable. He can’t see you properly, too far a distance but he can make out the wide grin you offer.
Jack throws a hand up to reciprocate your wave and you jab a thumb over your shoulder. “What do you think!?” You call back, and it takes Jack a moment to realize you’re asking about the music.
His hand drops from the air and moves to cup the side of his mouth. “I love The Smiths!” He calls back.
You lean closer, he’s sure he can see your brows pinching as you call out to him again. “What!?”
Jack huffs a laugh, leaning forward in his seat and sitting up straighter. He cups both hands around his mouth now and bellows across the space. “I said I love The Smiths!”
He watches you throw your head back in laughter and suddenly wishes Robby never called. Because then he wouldn’t be so aware of the feeling in his chest whenever he looks at you. He wouldn’t have had to acknowledge and verbalize the turmoil that’s been brewing in his head from the moment he first laid eyes on you and Phoebe.
You don’t say anything else. He watches you retreat back inside and you don’t come back out. The balcony door is closed sometime ten minutes later. And within thirty minutes, the music stops completely and Jack’s left in that horrible, aching silence again.
After his eggs and coffee, he too is returning inside, leaving the dishes in the sink. He only allows himself a quick shower when the coffee begins to perk him up and decides it’s probably best to run some errands and grab some groceries before he inevitably crashes and sleeps for the rest of the day.
He dresses in a black t-shirt and a pair of beige chino shorts. It’s not something he’ll ever really admit outloud, but Jack hates the summer. He hasn’t always, but in more recent years, especially since losing his leg, he does. There’s a choice he has to make every time the heat begins to pick up in Pittsburg.
Wear trousers and ignore the sweat and swelling on the tight skin of his knee, or wear shorts and ignore the lingering stares of the general public. He should be used to it by now, it’s been well over a fucking decade since he lost his leg. But in recent years, without his wife’s reassurance that they’re curious glances and not judgmental stares, Jack can’t seem to decipher a difference between the two anymore.
Still, he knows he has to take care of himself. And with the ache still settling deep in his bones from his earlier shift, he’s aware that shorts are his best bet. It’s just after he clips his prosthetic back on again that there’s an uncoordinated knocking at the door.
The short relief of letting his leg breath allows Jack to move a bit more fluidly now, limp barely noticeable as he makes his way to the front door and slowly eases it open. He’s not offered much of a chance to check who his visitors are before a small body is barrelling into limbs.
Jack only just manages to catch himself by gripping a hand on the doorframe as he blinks down at a small head of curls of a three-year-old who is blinking in wonder at his prosthetic. He faintly hears your voice, soft but firm and scolding Phoebe for barrelling into him.
The child beams up at him, excitement laced in her chubby features as she points to his leg. “I like your leg.”
It makes Jack blink, pulls him back to the present where a throb begins to form around his knee and he grins at her, reaching down to readjust the prosthetic that the kid has somehow almost displaced.
He misses the way your brows raise as you look at him. You’d never realized he had a prosthetic and you can't help the way your head tilts at the sight of his arms straining when he readjusts the straps.
“SWAT?” you ask, voice thick as his veins pop and muscles flex beneath freckled skin.
Jack huffs out a laugh, pretends he can’t hear his heart in his ears and the fact that you’ve seen his fucking leg and you’re not being awkward about it. “Military.”
Phoebe watches him intently as surprise flickers across your face. “Well, aren’t you full of surprises, Dr. Abbot. Thank you for your service.”
He rises to his full height at the flirty tone of your voice, letting his eyes rove over your body from the painted toes to the hair on your head. A beautiful sage green summer dress kisses your skin. Cinched at your waist, short but puffy sleeves, a neckline that teases the swell of your breasts and the hem stops just mid-calf.
Jack swallows, admires your face. Hair pinned back in a flaw clip, messy and yet presentable. Your lashes look fuller and darker, a brightness to your face with makeup that doesn’t hide but accentuates your natural features. It momentarily knocks him breathless.
He’s never seen you like this before.
“I could say the same about you.” Jack’s voice is low and raspy when he speaks. It prickles your skin in buzzes of excitement, spreads a warmth beneath the flesh that charges your blood.
Of course, Jack notices. The way your lashes flutter, how your lips part. How, despite the warmth, goosebumps prickle your skin. A smirk kicks at the corner of his mouth and he looks away, back down to Phoebe.
She wears something similar, a blue summer dress that stops below the knee. Her hair is twirled up into a bun, little white sandals on her feet. It’s the most presentable he’s ever seen the kid look. And from the way she pulls at the dress and rolls her shoulders, he can tell immediately that it was a fight getting her to wear it.
The fondness in that crevice of his heart aches at the thought.
“Where are you two off to, in your pretty dresses?” He directs the question at Phoebe, who offers a twirl despite her hatred for the clothing.
“Grandma is dying.” She chirps.
Jack’s brows shoot to his hairline at the same time as you whipping your head down to your daughter. “What? No. Grandma is retiring, baby. We’re going for brunch with her company.” You correct her quickly, blinking profusely and both you and Jack are confused as to how she got those two words, of all things, mixed up.
You clear your throat, taking a step closer to the threshold that Phoebe has occupied. Jack notices the movement from his peripheral and sets his burning gaze on you again. You smile at him, a bit sheepishly and push your arms out to offer him the tray of cupcakes he had missed.
They’re decorated with multiple colors of messy frosting, some smothered in sprinkles and others decorated with some diced fruit. Jack blinks at you.
“We made cupcakes for Phoebe’s birthday tomorrow, and we made you some as a thank you. You know, for helping her tummy and then… well—mine.” You finish on a nervous laugh, one that Jack reciprocates.
But he takes the dish from your open palms, a revert thank you falling from his tongue and he lets his finger tips brush against yours as he does. So this was a peace offering of sorts, a way to clear the air. He offers a glance to Phoebe. “It’s your birthday?”
Phoebe nods. “In the morning, and I’m having a birthday party at my house, Jack! Will you come?”
His eyes widen slightly at the request, casting a quick glance to you. You shrug a shoulder, pursing your lips to hide a smile and when he looks back down at Phoebe, she’s got her palms together in a prayer-like position with far too convincing pleading eyes.
Jack breathes through his nose, smiles fondly at the young girl. “Absolutely, I wouldn’t want to spend my day off doing anything else.” he promises.
You smile at the sight, at how Phoebe brushes a sprinkle off Jack’s prosthetic that fell from the tray. He watches her just as intently, but when she returns her attention to the chipped polish on her nails, it’s like he loosens a breath.
“Everyone’s coming by at like 5 ish. But come whenever.”
Jack nods, allows his gaze to drift over you again. “You both look beautiful.”
There’s a reverence in his tone, like it’s a physical need that you believe him when he says it. All you can do is smile; soft and shy. You reach for Phoebe, tell her to say goodbye and slowly guide her away from Jack’s door and down the hall.
Of course, he watches you both go. Phoebe’s hand in yours, your slow steps and her quick skips. He’s about to go back inside when Phoebe halts abruptly, tears her hand from yours and turns to race back to Jack, giggling his name like she needs to tell him something exciting.
She stops by his feet again, he watches as you wait for her with a sigh at the other end of the hall.
“Jack! I told Mommy I want to be a doctor when I grow up, just like you!”
He blinks down at her, feels his throat constrict as she admits something that causes so much turmoil within him. “Yeah?” he rasps, clears his throat and bends slightly at the waist. “I think you’ll make a fantastic doctor, Pheebs.”
Her toothy smile is wide and excitable, it’s almost impossible for Jack not to mirror it.
“Before, I wanted to be a pop star so I could marry Harry Styles. But now, I wanna be a doctor.” She states it so matter-of-factly, like she’s discussing something as simple as the weather.
It makes Jack chuckle. “You don’t wanna marry Harry Styles anymore?”
Phoebe shrugs, makes a small noise of contemplation. “Mommy said she’d fight me for him!” She giggles.
Jack cocks a brow, dares a glance down the hall to you where you’re texting someone on your phone as you wait. “Oh, so Mommy wants to marry Harry too?”
Phoebe steps closer, looks a bit conspiratorial as she whispers her next words. “She said Harry will be a silver fox when I’m old enough to marry him… What is a silver fox?”
He blinks at that, unsure as to how they’ve crept into this territory and why the kid even knows the saying of a silver fox. He blubbers momentarily. “Um… it’s someone who’s old but….pretty.”
Phoebe grins, chin tucked to her chest with wide eyes and raised brows. The conspiratorial look has morphed into something far too mischievous for Jack’s liking. This kid is going to be so much fucking trouble when she’s older.
“Mommy said you’re a silver fox.” There’s a slyness to her tone, like she knows what she’s doing. That she absolutely should not be repeating whatever it is she’s heard you say.
Little shit.
Jack stills, lips parted into a soft O shape and he blinks at Phoebe. An amused huff of hair slips past his lips “Oh, I don't think Mommy meant for me to know that.”
“Why not? She told my Aunt Bella so. It's a compromise.”
Jack’s brow raises again, though this time in amusement. “You mean complement?”
Phoebe nods at that, moving even closer now. She reaches on her tip toes and cups her small hands around Jack’s ear. “My mommy is a silver fox.”
He laughs harder at that, pulls away to get a look at her face and he shakes his head, rubs at his eye. “Your mommy isn’t old, kid.”
“But she is pretty.” It’s a statement, not a question. And she looks about ready to fight if Jack even dares to argue otherwise.
Not that he would. He couldn’t ever. He lets his eyes drift across the hall again, finding you standing in the same place. Jack feels his heart rate pick up, feels his skin grow warm and a rush of pure adoration and fondness overwhelms him.
“Yeah, Diva. Your mommy is very pretty.”
It makes him realize something very, very sobering.
Jack’s got a fucking crush on you.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
SERIES MASTERLIST — NEXT PART
Tag list for this series has grown way too big for me to keep up with so it’s unfortunately CLOSED. You can however follow the #apt.17 tag instead for updates on the series!
Ahhh okay, the flirting is beginning, Robby is trying to knock a lil bit of sense into him and Pheebs is just well... she's doing her thing LMAO. This is where things start to get super juicy and I promise you the next chapter will have lots and lots more of flirty playfulness. I would love to know your thoughts so far!! <3
Thank you very much for reading! Feedback really means a lot so I would love to hear your thoughts and ideas for where you think this will go!! Reblogs helps to boost stuff for more people to reach so if you enjoyed it please consider reblogging!!
tags:
@gennywennypenny / @thefemininemystiquee / @mrsjgbuck / @linnyalou / @rathatosy
@averyhotchner / @blackirisesinthesunlight / @vicky066 / @amacphet / @gaypoetsblog
@littlewolfbird / @woodxtock / @myescapefromthislife / @freakedtfout4 / @whatyagottado
@kaitieskidmore97 / @what-the-jams / @ryannnleigh / @freshouttheslammmer / @theaskeeps
@whimsilverhand / @yiiiikesmish / @kacananda / @solastasims / @stardustdd
@cestmoijola / @xh444 / @venus584 / @celestialceremonials / @jordz34
@milflover-72 / @melissa66orion / @peaches-and-sunshine / @profoundbelieverpeach / @maya-j0y
@unsaidjaelinrose / @deathbyvexs / @4ria790 / @jayjay-218 / @slipfastrry
@novamiss / @themarvelousbee / @stardustworlds / @magi999 / @sarahhxx03
@memeorydotcom / @laughsandlivia / @1dhoe93 / @cerberus101 / @moonjellyfishie
LMAOOO PHOEBE, DIVA SHHH GIRL😭😭
I love that kids just say whatever they want😭
The Difference Between Us: Chapter 1
Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x Reader Fandom: The Pitt Reader: resident/combat medic!reader, amputee!reader, ex-military!reader, widow!reader
Summary: After being honourably discharged from the Army, you arrive in Pittsburgh with a half-finished residency, a body you are still learning how to live in, and a past you have no intention of unpacking. Dr. Jack Abbot is supposed to be a professional contact, nothing more. But he notices too much, understands things he should not understand, and carries himself with a familiarity you cannot quite place. What begins as professional tension slowly becomes something harder to ignore.
Word Count: 11K
Masterlist
Warnings: age gap, mentor/mentee relationship, medical trauma, military trauma, PTSD symptoms, grief, spouse death, widowhood, amputation, prosthetic limb adjustment, survivor’s guilt, emotional repression, panic/nightmare episodes, captivity/torture references, violence, blood/injury, medical procedures, concussion, alcohol/smoking, age gap, complicated healing, eventual smut, swearing
Author’s Note: Hi :) This is my first time posting on here, so please be kind. I’m still figuring things out, but this story has been rattling around in my head for a while and I finally decided to just start getting it out. I’m mostly posting this for myself, but I hope at least one person enjoys it too. I tried to research the medical and military details, but I’m definitely not an expert, so please forgive any inaccuracies.
Oh! Also, this first part is very foundation-heavy, the reader doesn’t meet Jack right away. I wanted the emotional groundwork to feel earned, so I tried to keep the story detailed, thoughtful, and rooted in reality where I could. This is a slooooow burn. Enjoy!
"Hey, thank you so much for helping me with that." You let out a heavy sigh as you drop the trunk onto the elevator floor. It was way too big for one person to carry alone. You'd known that the second you tried to wrestle it through the lobby doors, and you'd done it anyway. Your neighbour had appeared out of nowhere and grabbed the other end without being asked.
"Thanks again," you trail off, waiting for her to fill in her name.
"Kalista," she finishes, then looks around the apartment with an expression caught somewhere between impressed and amused. "So. Not a lot of stuff?"
It was almost comical, you had to admit. Nine large boxes covered in dust with god knows what inside. Three duffels and two backpacks full of clothes and miscellaneous hygiene products. A disassembled bed frame with no mattress. An L-shaped olive green velvet couch that came with the apartment. The massive trunk Kalista had just helped you drag upstairs. And a few other odds and ends sitting static in a living space that was, by any measure, far too large for what you'd brought to fill it.
The apartment was nice, genuinely nice. A long hallway from the entrance opened through a wide arch into the living room. The kitchen and eating area sat beyond that, and covering the entire back wall was a gigantic semi-circle of windows that caught the afternoon light in a way that had sold you on this place before you'd even finished the tour.
You loved the sun. It gave you a kind of peace you couldn't fully articulate, just a steadiness, like being reminded the world was still turning. Large windows had been your only non-negotiable when you were searching. The balcony was through the sliding glass doors, and on a clear day you imagined you could stand out there and feel almost normal.
There were two bedrooms. The master had an ensuite. The second sat on the opposite end of the apartment with its own bathroom and a standing shower. Both had decent closets. Laundry was in-suite. You could walk a straight line from the front door all the way through to the balcony without turning.
You liked it. You did. But it felt strange, all this space, just for you. You weren't used to that. You weren't sure you'd ever been used to that.
"I just got back," you say, setting your keys on the kitchen counter. "I've been away for a while. Couldn't carry much with me on the road."
You look at the girl still standing in your doorway. Light brown hair, blue eyes, olive skin. A few dainty floral tattoos running up her forearms, nothing heavy, just delicate lines and small blooms. She was dressed in blue denim and a fitted white top with ARMY printed across the chest in block letters.
Ironic.
Something stirred in you that you didn't want to name. A small, irrational heat moving up through your chest. You recognized it before it could get any further. Your therapist had a word for it, something about intrusive emotional responses, about how the brain codes certain stimuli as threats long after the actual threat is gone. You knew the theory. That didn't always make it easier.
Unjustified. She doesn't know. You have no right to be upset with her for wearing a shirt.
Before it can build, you breathe in through your nose and let it go slowly. You scan the room the way Dr. Osei had taught you. One, boxes. Two, duffels. Three, the grey walls. Four, the balcony door. Five, the kitchen counter. You feel your pulse settle.
"You said you just got back?" Kalista interrupted your thoughts, tilting her head. "From where?"
Your mouth moved a half-second before your brain caught up. "Afghanistan. Iraq. Kuwait for a stretch. South Sudan. Most recently Syria." You paused. "I spent the last three years doing my residency embedded with a forward surgical team. It's like a Forward Operating Base. Salerno was my primary, but we moved around a lot. Combat medicine, mostly trauma." You glanced down. A breath snagged somewhere in your chest. "I got sent home."
"Sent home?" She said it carefully, like she wasn't sure she was allowed to ask.
"I was a medical intern when I deployed… made it through two and a half years of my physician residency." You kept your voice even. "Then I was involved in an incident and I lost it a little." A short, humourless sound escaped you that wasn't quite a laugh. "Honourably discharged. Sent home three-quarters of the person I used to be." You felt the tears threaten the back of your eyes and looked deliberately past her until the feeling passed. "My sergeant major, she's the one who convinced me to come to Pittsburgh. Said she had connections here, that she'd find me something. So here I am."
"So you're a doctor," she said slowly, "and a soldier." Her eyes had gone wide, the way people's eyes went when they were recalibrating everything they thought they knew about a conversation. "What happened to you?"
And then, before you could even form a beginning, she pulled it back.
"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean, I--" She was already backtracking, hands up, eyes apologetic. She'd clearly clocked something in your face you'd been trying to hide.
"It's okay," you said, and meant it, more or less. "You're the first person I've actually talked to in this city. Aside from the airport clerk at baggage claim and a taxi driver."
True. Completely true.
You didn't have anyone in Pittsburgh. You didn't have anyone anywhere, not anymore. Not after--
"Are you okay?" she asked. "Now, I mean." A beat. "You don't have to answer that either."
You considered it honestly. Were you okay? Right now, at this moment, you were distracted by the moving, by the boxes, by the task of standing in a new city in a new apartment and figuring out what came next. That counted for something.
"I think so?" It came out more like a question than a statement. "I'm still adjusting." You reached down and lifted the hem of your left pant leg, just enough. The prosthetic caught the light, cool gunmetal, carbon fibre casing below the knee, a replacement for what had been amputated eight months ago on the second worst day of your life.
"Woah--" Her eyes went wide. "Sorry, I didn't mean to--"
"It's okay," you cut her off, not unkindly. "That's the look I give it too."
She was quiet for a moment. Then something shifted in her face, not pity exactly. Something more like recognition of the weight of it, without pretending to understand the specifics. You appreciated that more than you could explain.
Kalista was the first person, outside of medical staff and your commanding officer, who knew about the leg. And that small honesty, those two sentences and a lifted hem, was probably the most vulnerable you'd allowed yourself to be in months. You weren't sure why you'd done it. Maybe because she'd helped carry your trunk without being asked. Maybe because the city felt enormous and you had no one in it.
You didn't notice the tears until you felt her arms around you. Quick and warm and a little fierce, like she'd decided and acted before she could second-guess herself.
"Sorry if that was weird," she said, already pulling back. "I just thought you might need a hug." She looked at you then, direct and unhesitating. "Okay, listen. You're new to the city. You're clearly an incredibly cool human being. You're a doctor and a soldier and--" she gestured at you in a way that managed to be both sincere and ridiculous, "honestly you're a little intimidating to look at. And I know what it's like to show up somewhere alone and not know a single person." She held her phone out. "Give me your number. Text me. Let's be friends."
You let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "I don't need a pity friend."
"Not a pity friend. Your first friend in Pittsburgh." She smiled, wide and bright and genuinely warm.
"I don't even know your last name."
"Okay, fine." A dramatic sigh. "Hi. My name is Kalista Reid. I'm 28, I live in unit 601 across the hall, and I am currently offering you my very limited and highly sought-after friendship." She looked at you expectantly.
The wall you'd been quietly reinforcing for months, the one you'd rebuilt piece by piece since the field hospital, since the flight home, since all of it, gave a single, audible crack.
"Hi," you said. "My name is Y/N. I'm 28. I live in unit 600." The corner of your mouth moved against your will.
"So you don't have a last name?" Her eyebrow lifted.
"Y/N Abbott."
"Y/N Abbott." She grinned. "It's very nice to meet you."
Four Days Later
Over the next few days, you and Kalista got to know each other with the particular intensity of two people who had stumbled into each other's orbit at exactly the right moment. She told you about working her way up through Pittsburgh's restaurant kitchens over the last decade, starting at the bottom, learning every station, building the kind of skill that only repetition and stubbornness could produce. She was a sous chef now at a place downtown that she described as "fancy but not pretentious, there's a difference." She told you about her family, her exes, her running roster of hobbies, and the exhaustive, occasionally unhinged details of her most recent love affair, which had ended with her walking out of a restaurant mid-entree and not looking back.
"So I couldn't take it anymore and I left him," she finished, landing the story with the satisfaction of someone who had told it several times and still enjoyed it.
"I would have left too," you said, still laughing.
The more you learned about her, the more it became clear that you could not have been more different. Her life was spontaneous and colourful and moved fast, with a particular kind of warmth that filled whatever room she was in. Yours had been structured and precise and governed by protocol for so long that you'd nearly forgotten what the alternative felt like. Maybe that was what made it easy. She was unlike anyone you'd spent real time with in years.
Four days in, you'd unpacked almost everything. A mattress had arrived. Kalista had strong opinions about throw pillows and had escorted you, somewhat against your will, to a home goods store where she'd made several executive decisions on your behalf.
The apartment was starting to look inhabited.
She stood up from the couch and wandered toward the last unpacked box, sitting near the far wall.
"You still haven't touched this one?"
"It's just books," you said, a little too quickly. You gestured for her to leave it.
"I like to read." She picked it up. It was heavier than it looked, and you knew that. She set it down closer to you, just out of arm's reach, and opened the flaps.
Everything in you went still.
Your heart rate spiked before your brain had time to explain why. The room began to contract slightly at the edges. You could hear your pulse in your ears, low and fast and rhythmic. The urge to reach over and close the box, to put your body between Kalista and whatever was inside it, rose up so sharply it took real effort to stay seated.
"These are so cute," she said, already lifting one of the photo books. "Is this baby Y/N?"
Breathe.
"Yeah," you said. "Baby Y/N." You reached out and pulled the cardboard gently toward yourself. Inside were at least fifteen photo albums, stacked in neat rows. A careful, chronological documentation of a life. "Oh, look at this one, you're naked!" She turned the book around, and there was a two-year-old version of you sitting in a bathtub with a rubber duck, completely unabashed.
The laugh that came out of you was real. "My dad never put his camera down. He was a photographer." You dug through the box, dug was generous, you knew exactly where it was, and found a photo of him taking a picture of himself in a mirror, grinning at his own reflection.
"Aw, that's your dad?" Kalista's face softened. "He looks nice. Where does he live?"
The smile left your face before you could catch it.
You stood up, shifted your weight, you still caught yourself compensating with the prosthetic when you moved too quickly, and walked to your room. You came back with a small box, the size of something you could hold in both hands. Solid dark oak, hinged at the back, with ABBOTT engraved across the lid in clean block letters surrounded by delicate filigree work. You set it on the cushion between you and unclasped the lid.
Red velvet lining. Three small urns, each a different size, sitting in fitted recesses. Nestled beside them, a small photo book, normal paperback size, worn at the corners, filled with pictures from before. Before everything. And beside that, a small chocolate brown leather box.
"Kalista," you said quietly, "this is my family. My mom, my dad, and my brother."
"Y/N--"
"My parents died when I was nine. Car accident." You said it the way you'd learned to say it, evenly, without pausing, because pausing let other people's grief into the room and you didn't always have space for it. You opened the small photo book and began turning pages slowly as you talked, not really seeing the images, just needing something to do with your hands. "A drunk driver ran a red light and hit us hard." You could close your eyes and still be there, upside down in the back seat, the airbags deflating around you, the smell of gasoline and something metallic, glass covering what should have been the ceiling. "My mother died on impact. My dad survived the crash itself but a steel rod had come through the windshield. It tore through his diaphragm, the left lobe of his liver, his stomach, his pancreas." A pause. "The abdominal aorta. I know now that he could never have survived that kind of injury. Nobody could."
Kalista had gone very still.
"My brother Hunter was fourteen. He woke up before I did. I don't know how long he was conscious in that car before anyone came." You turned a page. Hunter at seven, squinting into the sun. "He was never quite the same after. There were good stretches, real ones, where he felt like himself again. But he got into drugs." A slow exhale. "When I was sixteen, his girlfriend called me. She said he wasn't moving. I didn't have a car so I got on my bike and rode as fast as I could. I don't know why she didn't call 911, maybe she panicked, maybe she was scared because of the drugs, but he was gone by the time I got there." You reached the last page. The four of you, smiling, in a photo taken by a stranger outside some restaurant you couldn't remember the name of. You closed the cover. "I'd seen him come back from an overdose before. Not this time."
"Fuck," Kalista said softly. A tear ran down her chin.
"Yeah." You looked at the small wooden box. "But I've got them all here." You pressed your hand flat against the centre of your chest.
She hugged you again, tighter this time, like she was trying to hold something together. This time, you let yourself lean into it. Just slightly. Just enough.
She sniffed, swiped at her face, and looked deliberately at the stack of photo books with the energy of someone actively choosing to change the temperature of the room. "Okay. What about all of these? Are these all from the military?"
"Some." You pulled a few toward you and passed her one. "Military, university, med school, residency. A lot of years."
You flipped through pages slowly, giving her the shorthand version of each face. Your first squad, the five of you in a circle shoulder to shoulder like you're a football team huddling in between downs. The commanding officer, Sergeant Major Sawyer, who'd cornered you after a particularly gruelling week in your second year and told you flatly that you were too smart to be doing what you were doing and that if you didn't apply for the HPSP scholarship she would personally make your life difficult until you did. Pages and pages filled with years of memories with friends who'd become family across three deployments.
Then you turned a page and stopped.
The photo was taken outside in harsh midday sun, both of you in full kit. Operational camouflage pattern. Modular Scalable Vest loaded with ballistic plates, MOLLE-mounted magazine pouches, a radio pouch, an IFAK strapped along his side. His combat helmet was on the ground at your feet, discarded, technically against protocol, and absolutely characteristic. Your med kit sat next to it, enormous and overstuffed. Both of you had M4 carbines hanging on two-point slings across your chests. He was bent toward you and you were on your toes. Most of his face was turned away from the camera, but what was visible was enough, a jaw, the line of a neck, the particular way his whole posture changed when he was looking at you.
"Who," Kalista said slowly, "is THAT."
"It's a sensitive subject," you said, the words coming out before you'd made any conscious decision to speak.
"Oh, I'm sorry, you don't have to--" She was already pivoting, alarmed that she'd pulled on something load-bearing.
The doorbell rang.
You both looked up.
"Be right back." You got up carefully and crossed to the door.
A delivery driver stood in the hallway, scanner in hand. "Package for Abbott?"
"That's me."
"First name?"
"Y/N."
"Sign here." He handed over the clipboard. You scrawled your name and took the box from him. The size of a briefcase, heavier than it looked. You turned it over in your hands, searching for a return address, and found the sender's name printed in the top left corner in black block letters.
F. SAWYER.
Your sergeant major.
You stood in the hallway for a moment, just holding it.
You passed back through the living room and went to the kitchen, looking for scissors. Your hands were steady. That was something.
"Who is it?"
"A package from... an old friend."
"Ooooh, is it the old friend in that picture?" Kalista's voice carried around the corner, and you could hear the raised eyebrow in it.
"No, he was..." you trailed off, finding the scissors and cutting the tape. "Not the same person." You carried the box to the couch and sat down.
You folded back the cardboard.
A breath you hadn't known you were holding left your body all at once.
The tears came before anything else. Not the slow, manageable kind, the kind that blur everything immediately, that make the walls feel closer and the air feel thinner. Your pulse was in your ears again. A high thin ringing started up somewhere behind your eyes.
And then, just as fast, you shut it down.
Not here. Not right now.
You pulled each feeling back as it surfaced and pushed it down into the place you kept things like this, deep in the pit of your stomach, that quiet abyss where you could put the things that would break you if you gave them room. You sealed it. Breathed. Wiped your face with the back of your hand.
When you exhaled, you were steadier. You looked at Kalista, who was watching you with the careful expression of someone who understood she was witnessing something she hadn't been given the full context for yet.
"Holy shit," she said quietly, leaning in.
The box was packed with photographs. Hundreds of them, four-by-six glossy prints, stacked in loose rows, sorted into stacks. In the centre on top of all the photos sat two envelopes. One large tan envelope, stamped:
CONFIDENTIAL SGT. A. HANDSCOMBE
The other a letter-sized white envelope with your name written on the front by hand. Sawyer's handwriting, tight and slanted and unmistakable.
You picked both envelopes up and held them together. Something slid loose from between them and landed on top of the photographs.
A small clear plastic bag. Inside it, a ring. White gold, plain textured band, solid and unadorned.
"Oh my god--" Kalista stopped herself.
You reached up and found the chain around your neck, thin white gold, and pulled it out from beneath your shirt. Hanging from the end of it, a marquise-cut diamond in a white gold setting, delicate, distinctive, completely itself.
A perfect match for the ring sitting in the bag.
Kalista didn't say anything. She didn't need to.
"I'll give you the short version," you said, before she could ask.
And so you told her about him.
Adam Handscombe. Everyone who'd served with him for more than a week called him Corporal Handsome, a nickname that had attached itself to him when he was promoted to E-4 and refused to leave even after he'd made Sergeant. He'd introduced himself by the wrong name, or so you'd thought, the very first week you enlisted.
You met him at eighteen. He was twenty, two years in, already PFC and moving fast. He was assigned to show new arrivals around the FOB.
"Private Handsome?" You'd stared at him.
"Hands-combe." He'd said it the way you said things to someone who'd asked you to repeat themselves three times, efficient, not unkind, with the particular cadence of a man who had corrected this exact misunderstanding many times before. "But it doesn't hurt the ego either way."
You'd laughed. You weren't sure why, except that something in his delivery had been so entirely, disarmingly certain of itself.
You were flipping through photographs with Kalista as you talked. Sawyer had organized them, of course, dated on the back, sorted chronologically.
You'd always documented your life the way your father had, snapping pictures and getting them printed, building a physical record the way other people kept journals. You hadn't met anyone who understood that impulse until Adam. He'd kept a small digital camera in a pocket he'd sewn into the inside of his vest, completely against regulation, a rule he'd made peace with on the grounds that he wasn't photographing anything "classified". He'd photograph the sun going down over the base perimeter, the way the light turned everything amber at a certain angle. He'd photograph you looking at that same sunset, unaware, and you wouldn't find out until later.
You hadn't looked at most of these pictures in a very long time.
Then you turned to a spread and there the two of you were, surrounded by soldiers, white confetti paper thrown in the air, both of you laughing in the middle of all of it. Married. You looked at the place on your hand where the rings used to sit, the engagement ring now on the chain at your throat, the wedding band in the small chocolate brown leather box inside the oak box with your family.
"How did he..." Kalista started, and couldn't finish it.
"We didn't work together directly," you said carefully. "The Army discourages married couples from serving in close proximity, but in practice it didn't mean much. He was a Ranger with the 75th, I was attached to the forward surgical unit, our days rarely crossed." You paused. "He came by the medical centre at the end of his shift. We'd been married for seven days." You stopped. Swallowed. "He'd gotten hold of a small bouquet of flowers somewhere. I still don't know how, out there. Maybe a dozen, wrapped in brown paper. He called it a seven-day anniversary. We left through a back exit and walked toward a section of the perimeter wall that wasn't heavily monitored, hard to approach from the road, off to the side. We used to go there in the evenings sometimes. Just to talk." Another pause. "It was the perfect spot for an ambush."
"So, Mrs. Handscombe," he'd said, pulling himself up onto the wide ledge at the top of the gate, laughing as he said it.
"I haven't changed it yet," you told him, taking the hand he offered. "I love Abbott. I don't want to lose it."
"Then don't change it." He said it simply, like it was the easiest decision in the world. "We can be Sergeant Handscombe and Resident Physician Abbott, the perfect team that everyone is jealous of."
Then he kissed you. His hand came up to your jaw, tilting your face to his, and his lips met yours with the kind of certainty that never got old, soft at first, then fuller, like a sentence that started quietly and meant everything by the end. You felt it the way you always felt it with him: the particular warmth that moved through your chest, the way the rest of the world went a little quieter. You'd been in love with this man for years and it still felt like the first time someone had decided to choose you, completely, without reservation.
You loved him.
The thought moved through you clean and simple and enormous.
And he loved you back. You had never doubted that, not for a single day. He knew you the way very few people ever get to know another person: the way you thought before you spoke, the thing you needed before you asked for it, the difference between the silence that meant you were okay and the silence that meant you weren't. You knew him just the same. You were the same shape, the two of you, just made differently.
"I love you," you said, into the space between you.
"I love you too." He pressed his forehead to yours, that wide ridiculous smile breaking across his face. "Okay, I have to tell you what happened with Rosenberg today. We were out in the--"
BANG.
One tear fell from your face and landed on the photograph in front of you. Adam on one knee, brown leather ring box in his right hand, digital camera angled upward in his left, documenting the moment from both sides at once, because of course he was. The next photo was his, taken from below, looking up at your face. Ring box in the lower frame. Your expression: a smile so wide it had taken over everything else, tears already streaming, clearly mid-yes.
That had been one of the best days of your life.
You and Kalista sat together for a long time after that. You told her stories about Adam, about the life that had existed before FOB Salerno and everything that happened there. At some point food was ordered and wine was opened, and somehow, without either of you quite deciding it, you had found yourself in a real friendship.
You didn't mind.
Three Days Later
Kalista had, through what you could only describe as a sustained campaign of low-grade social pressure, convinced you to go out.
You had agreed reluctantly, conditionally, with the caveat that you weren't going to wear anything that made you feel like a different person.
She took one look at your wardrobe and vetoed the entire premise. "We're going to my place first," she said, already walking across the hall.
She found you a pair of low-rise flared black leather jeans that sat just right, no chance of the prosthetic showing unless you lifted the pant leg, and a shimmering silver top that fell a couple of inches above the waistband and caught the light when you moved. Black leather jacket over the top. Your Docs already on your feet, needing no intervention.
"Okay," she said, stepping back to look at you, "I need you to know that you are genuinely unfair to look at."
You laughed and grabbed your keys before leaving the apartment complex.
You drove. You weren't planning on drinking much.
The bar was loud and close and warm in the way bars got when they were packed, bodies everywhere, music you could feel in the floor more than hear through your ears, the particular energy of a Friday night in a city that took its Fridays seriously. You'd been to a bar maybe four times in medical school, most leaving before midnight. This was different. Kalista moved through it like she'd been coming here for years, which she probably had.
For a while, it was good. Better than you'd expected. You had a drink in your hand and your mind was occupied in the way it only got when there was enough sensory noise to crowd out the other things. You stood at the edge of the dance floor for a while, watching. A couple grinding against each other like they'd already decided where the night was ending. A group of women taking photos. A very large man being walked out by a bouncer with the resigned expression of someone who had done this many times tonight.
Kalista reappeared through the crowd with two drinks.
"I don't know if I should," you said, leaning in to be heard. "I drove."
"A couple of drinks won't kill you," she said, touching the bottom of your glass and tilting it upward. "Chug."
You didn't question it. You chugged. Cold and sweet, ice hitting your teeth at the end.
Somehow you ended up on the dance floor. Your body moved to the beat and for a while your brain was mercifully, completely quiet. A fine layer of sweat started at the back of your neck. You didn't know how much time had passed. You danced, you drank, you let go--just for a second. Eventually, Kalista tilted her head toward the exit and you followed her out through the front doors into the night air.
It hit you all at once, cold and clean, and you both stood there for a second, breathing it in.
"Oh my god you're so fun," Kalista said, arms spread wide, face tipped to the sky. She turned to you. "I am so happy you moved into my building."
"Me too," you said. And meant it.
To the left, a designated smoking area. A small cluster of people. You hadn't smoked since... you caught yourself. In a long time. The craving arrived the way it always did: specific and patient and completely uninterested in being reasoned with.
Kalista had already spotted someone. "Any chance we could bum a couple?" she asked, and a guy produced two without hesitation.
You thanked him quietly, lit yours, took a slow drag.
The nicotine moved through you in one clean wave.
Fuuuck. You'd missed that.
You weren't listening to the conversation next to you. You were just standing in it, watching the ember at the end of the cigarette, letting your mind go silent for the first time in days. That was the thing about cigarettes, the thing nobody liked to admit: they forced you to stop. To stand still. To breathe on a count.
"Shut the fuck up."
The words ripped you back instantly.
You turned just in time to hear the crack, the hard flat sound of a fist connecting with a face, and see Kalista go down.
You didn't think. That was the truth of it, and you would examine that truth later in the quiet of your apartment with a certain amount of unease. You didn't think. You just moved.
Kalista was on the ground, hands to her face. The man was enormous, well over six feet, broad through the shoulders, clearly drunk, which meant slower but also less predictable. You'd had a a few drinks, you'd been dancing for you don't know how long, and the adrenaline flooding your system was now at a concentration that made the alcohol irrelevant.
"Hey -- what the FUCK."
You hit him centre mass with your shoulder, driving your weight into his ribs. He staggered, more than you expected. His arms came up to push you back but you followed his arms and ripped them down before he could get the leverage, a defensive manoeuvre as automatic as breathing. He was stronger than you and you couldn't stay in a stationary grapple with someone this size. He recovered faster than you wanted. His fist came back and connected across the side of your face. You turned your head with it, an old reflex that saved you from the worst of it, but it still landed hard.
You saw red.
You hit his face. You drove a short jab to his midsection targeting the liver, then a sharp cross to his kidney. You couldn't feel the skin on your knuckles tearing apart as you hit him, blow after blow. He was drunk, which was the only reason this "plan" worked even slightly in your favour. You took him to the ground. You were on top of him, and somewhere between the first hit and the last you stopped counting, stopped thinking, stopped being in Pittsburgh entirely.
Someone grabbed you from behind, both arms around your torso, hauling you upright. You kicked and swung on pure reflex and they let go immediately. You could hear sirens under the ringing in your ears.
Kalista.
You ran to where she was sitting on the pavement, knees pulled to her chest.
"Let me look," you said, crouching beside her, two fingers tilting her chin upward. Doctor's hands now, steady, efficient, separated from everything else. Her nose had taken the full force of it. Deviated, visibly swollen, already darkening at the bridge. The shape was wrong. "We're going to need to go to the hospital," you told her, as gently as you could manage.
Behind you: "The one in the leather pants?"
A female officer. Calm, professional, expression giving nothing away. She had the particular stillness of someone who'd seen a lot of nights like this one.
"Ma'am. Can you come with me, please."
You stood and followed. Before she could start, you asked for the paramedics to go to Kalista first and gave them your initial assessment in a dozen words. Then you turned back to the officer.
"I can explain what happened."
"I'd appreciate that."
"We were in the smoking area. He started talking to her. I wasn't paying close enough attention." You kept your hands loose at your sides, your weight centred, your voice level. Your split and bloodied knuckles turned discreetly away. "I turned around when I heard him scream and she was already on the ground. I'm a combat physician. I reacted before I thought it through and I'm aware of that. But he broke her nose."
The officer looked at you, not at your face, but at the way you were standing. The way your weight was distributed. The way your hands were positioned. She'd seen this posture before, you could tell.
"Walk me through the part where you took down a man twice your weight and beat him bloody."
"He hit her. I reacted. I lost track of where I was for a moment." A pause. "That's not an excuse. It's what happened."
She studied you for a long beat. Then she glanced at your face, the bruising already darkening around your eye where his fist had landed, and something in her stern expression shifted. Not softness. Recognition.
"You took a hit too," she said, less like an observation and more like she was making a decision. "You should get that looked at."
"I'll be fine."
"You'll get it looked at," she said, and it wasn't a suggestion. She looked at the ground for a moment, working something through. "Multiple witnesses all put him as the one who threw first and her as the one who went down." She chose her next words carefully. "My read is he won't want to complicate this for himself. Not with that many people watching."
"That's not fair to her."
"No," the officer agreed, quietly. "It's not."
A pause.
"Am I being arrested?"
"Not tonight." She held your gaze for a moment. "Thank you for your service."
You nodded once and turned away.
Your feet didn't move immediately. You stood there, shoulders square, feet at shoulder width, hands loose at your sides. Alert. Waiting for a command that wasn't coming.
At ease.
You weren't sure if she'd said it or if you'd just needed to hear it. Either way, it was enough.
You made yourself walk to where the ambulance had pulled up. Kalista was on a gurney, pressing gauze to her face, looking simultaneously miserable and deeply unimpressed with how the evening had gone.
"Hey," you said, resting your hand on the edge of the stretcher. "How are you doing?"
"I'b been beder," she said, nasally, through the gauze.
You turned to the paramedic to her left. "Can I ride with her?"
He nodded. You climbed in.
The ambulance moved through downtown Pittsburgh, lights going, and you watched the paramedics work without interfering. You checked Kalista's vitals on the monitor, heart rate, blood pressure, oxygen saturation, all within acceptable range, and let yourself exhale slowly.
Then you looked at her again.
Something was slightly wrong.
Not wrong in the way that showed up on a monitor. Wrong in the way you had learned to read in places where the monitors weren't always available, where you had trained yourself to look at a person and take the information directly. The subtle asymmetry in her chest rise. The way she kept tilting her chin fractionally forward without seeming to notice.
Compensation.
Her airway was narrowing.
"Can you breathe okay?" you asked.
"Ib fine," she said.
"Kalista. Is your nose blocked on one side or both?"
A pause. "Both."
There it is.
"I need a penlight," you said to the paramedic on your right.
He looked at you properly for the first time. "Sorry, who are you exactly?"
"I'm her friend, who also happens to be a doctor. Something is wrong. I need a light."
He crossed his arms. "We're eight minutes out. Whatever you're thinking, it can wait until we're at the ED."
"It actually cannot wait." You kept your voice flat, clinical. "She's compensating. Her airway is narrowing. I can see it. Penlight. Please."
He looked to his partner looking for an answer, and you took action.
Fine.
You reached past him, pulled a pair of gloves from the dispenser on the wall, and snapped them on. "I'm going to need an 18-gauge needle and an angiocath when you're ready to be helpful." You didn't wait. You used your own phone light, leaning in to check the inside of Kalista's nose, pressing gently along the septum.
There.
A dark, taut, blood-filled swelling just inside the nasal passage on both sides. A septal hematoma, and a growing one. Another couple minutes and she'd have no airway left before they reached the ED.
"She has a septal hematoma," you said, turning to him. "A blood clot forming inside the nose that's pressing on her airway. I need an 18-gauge needle. Now."
"That is not a procedure we perform in the rig--"
"Now!" You held his gaze. "I'm asking you to hand me a needle. I've drained these in a tent in the desert with a headlamp and no backup. I will take every ounce of responsibility. Hand me the needle or stand there and watch this get worse when it doesn’t have to. Your call."
He looked at you, at the blood stains peaking through the blue latex of the glove, at the bruise forming around your eye, at the expression on your face that had nothing uncertain in it.
He handed you the needle.
You worked quickly and gently, the kind of efficiency that doesn't look like speed but gets everything done. A clean puncture, the pressure releasing in seconds. Kalista made a small involuntary sound and then exhaled through both sides of her nose for the first time since she'd been hit.
"Oh," she said, blinking. "Oh, that's so much better."
"I know." You pressed a small piece of gauze into place. "Don't touch it."
The paramedic on your right was quiet for a moment. Then: "We're supposed to wait for the ED on something like that."
"Sometimes you have to think about the life in front of you and not the rules," you said. "That's how we did it over there. Quick and dirty, whatever keeps the patient breathing."
He nodded slowly, like something had been filed away.
The ambulance pulled into the bay. As the doors opened and the gurney came out, he turned back to you.
"This is going to be a lot of paperwork."
"Yeah," you said. "It usually is."
The paramedics handed Kalista off to the ED staff, rattling off vitals and status, and she disappeared through the doors on the gurney. You trailed behind, knowing you couldn't follow her into the trauma bay. You stopped at the threshold and watched her go.
The paramedic who was driving appeared at your shoulder. "You good?" He was looking at your face, specifically at the bruising around your eye and the cut at your temple, which you hadn't thought much about until right now. You lifted your hand to it and your fingers came back wet.
Oh. He'd hit you hard enough to break skin.
You genuinely hadn't noticed. You looked down at your knuckles, split and still faintly seeping. You tried to remember what the guy looked like by the end and found you mostly couldn't.
That is not good.
"Yeah, I'm fine," you said, unconvincingly even to yourself. "I'll get a bandage or something."
"You should check in at the front desk." He gestured toward the waiting room doors.
"Yeah." You peeled away and turned left, and then your knee buckled.
Not all the way. You caught yourself on the way down, one hand out, taking a knee like you'd stumbled on uneven ground. And you were already pushing back up before you'd fully registered what had happened, both hands pressing off your right leg, forcing yourself upright through sheer stubbornness.
You'd be damned.
The prosthetic had slipped slightly in the socket, too much impact, too much movement, and somewhere in all of it you'd forgotten for a second that it was there. The paramedic was already at your elbow.
"Hey, are you sure you're alright?"
"Yeah." You locked your knee, felt the fit settle. "Just, yeah. I'm--."
"Who? Where is she."
The voice cut through the ED like something thrown hard at a wall. Sharp, loud, carrying the particular authority of someone who didn't raise their voice often and meant it when they did.
Both your head and the paramedic's snapped toward it.
Across the bay, near the nurses' station, a small crowd had formed. You could see the other paramedic from the ambulance talking rapidly to an older man, late forties maybe, with salt and pepper hair that curled slightly at the ends. His face was stoic. His jaw was set, his brow sharp, his posture absolutely squared. He was built like someone who had earned it over a long time and then kept it. Handsome in a way that caught you slightly off guard given the grey at his temples, the kind of face that had lived in it.
Wait. Did you just--
The thought dissolved because he was already moving toward you, and the paramedic beside you was making the face of a man who had just remembered somewhere else he urgently needed to be.
"Good luck," he said, and walked away before you could respond.
The man crossed the bay in firm, deliberate strides, not storming exactly, but with the kind of momentum that made people step aside without being asked. Something about the way he moved reminded you of Sawyer. The authority of it. The way his presence arrived just before he did.
Without thinking, you rolled your shoulders back. Feet--
Foot.
Shoulder width apart. Hands behind you, right clasped over left.
He stopped in front of you. He looked you over in one full pass, head to toe and back up--assessing, cataloguing, and landing finally on your eyes.
"You were the one who drained a septal hematoma in a moving ambulance?" His words were measured. He was sizing you up, you could feel it, the same way you were sizing him up.
"Yes," you said. "And I would do it again."
Direct. No qualifier, no apology. He'd expected defensive and gotten something else entirely.
"And who gave you the authority to do that?"
You have to be kidding me.
"I did," you said, "when I saw her compensating while we were still eight minutes out from the ED with a narrowing airway." You held his gaze.
Something shifted in his face. Barely. You'd have missed it if you weren't watching.
"You saw her compensating," he repeated, flat. Testing whether you'd move.
You didn't. "She's my friend. What was I supposed to do, sit there and watch her struggle to breathe?"
He was angry, you could see it contained behind his eyes, carefully managed, the anger of someone who ran a tight ship and didn't appreciate unplanned variables. But he didn't blow.
"And you think," he said, "in this state—" he gestured, briefly, at your face, at the clear bruising forming around your eye— "you were making sound medical decisions?
You almost laughed. "Is she dead?"
He didn't answer right away.
You didn't let the silence sit. "No. She's not. Because I performed a clean field drainage of a septal hematoma." You held his gaze. "In a moving ambulance." You took one step toward him, ignoring the dull ache at your residual limb that you'd deal with later. "I knew exactly what I was doing and I can walk you through every decision I made. Or maybe," a beat, short and deliberate, "you weren't paying attention in medical school."
That landed. You could see it in the fraction of a second where his expression went from controlled to genuinely caught off guard.
He is attractive thou-- Stop. Absolutely not. Move on.
You held your ground. He held his. The two of you stood close enough that you could feel the air between you shift slightly. Neither of you looked away.
"Do not leave this hospital." He said it quietly, which was somehow worse than loud. He turned his head slightly without breaking eye contact. "Ellis."
A woman appeared just behind his left shoulder, a small smile already on her face like she'd been watching this unfold with great personal enjoyment.
"What's up."
"Take her to South 7. Check her out." Still not looking away from you. "Don't let her leave. Come get me when you're done." A brief pause. "And don't forget the knuckles."
How did he?
Your hands were behind your back. He couldn't have seen them. You kept your face perfectly still.
"Yeah, no problem." Ellis looked at you. You clocked her in your peripheral vision but didn't break eye contact. "Wanna follow me?"
You inhaled through your nose, slow and deliberate, and let it out the same way. One more second. Then you let it go, turned, and followed her.
The ED at night was its own world. As you followed Ellis through the bay you took it in without meaning to, gurneys lined against the walls, monitors beeping in overlapping rhythms, the low constant murmur of medical shorthand passing between staff. A full trauma centre, stocked and staffed and humming. You passed a medication cart that alone probably held more than your entire FOB pharmacy at Salerno. Supply closets with closed doors that you knew, without opening them, were full.
People here would not believe what we were working with over there.
You tucked it away.
Ellis held a door open and gestured to the bed inside. You sat, your feet dangling off the edge.
One foot. One... fucking atrocity.
"So," she said, turning to you with an expression that was openly, cheerfully curious. "You want to tell me what happened?"
"I got hit," you said. "And things got away from me."
She moved closer, tilting your face toward the light, probing carefully around your temple and cheekbone with two fingers. "That hurt?"
"Yeah."
She pressed gently at the back of your skull. "That?"
"Less."
"Follow my finger." She held up her index finger and moved it slowly left, then right. You tracked it. "Any nausea? Ringing in the ears?"
"Some ringing earlier. It's mostly gone."
"Blurry vision at any point?"
"No."
She made a small sound and reached for a dressing from the cabinet, pressing it carefully over the cut at your temple. "Looks like a mild concussion. Nothing alarming but nothing to dismiss. Someone should be checking on you every couple of hours tonight. Is there someone?"
"Yes," you said, a lie. You know concussion protocol and you know what happens if you say no, and you were in no mood to sit in a hospital hallway all night.
She turned to her supplies. "I'd hate to see the other guy."
That made you laugh, a real one, small but genuine. "I think he actually beat me here."
You looked down at your hands, made two loose fists, watched the split skin across your knuckles where scabs were trying and failing to form. "Big white guy. Over six feet. Dragon tattoo on his neck. Drunk."
Ellis went very still. Then she turned around slowly, gauze in hand, and stared at you. "No. No way." She shook her head with the delighted disbelief of someone whose night had just become considerably more interesting. "I think I know exactly who you're talking about. He came in maybe five minutes before you, looked like he'd been through a car wash face-first."
That sat in your chest in a way that wasn't entirely comfortable. Even if he deserved it. Even if some part of you, somewhere dark and unfamiliar, had wanted to. You weren't someone who hurt people.
"Like I said," you said quietly. "It got away from me."
She worked while you talked, cleaning the cut at your temple, assessing your knuckles, asking questions in the easy unhurried way of someone skilled at making people forget they're being examined. You told her about Kalista. About the bar. About the ambulance.
"Okay, I have to ask," she said, not looking up from your hand. "How did you drain a septal hematoma in a moving ambulance?"
"I've done scarier procedures with less," you said. "It needed to be done. So I did it."
"Now I am hoping... you're a doctor?"
"Technically an R3." You looked at the ceiling for a second.
She glanced up. "Technically?"
"I was completing my residency overseas. Afghanistan, Syria, a few others. I was on track to specialize in surgical trauma, combat medicine." You watched her close a small stitch across your knuckle. "Plans change."
"So you're back here now." She was quiet for a moment, reading what you didn't say. "Does that mean you were discharged?"
You let the silence answer for her. She got the message.
"Okay." She didn't push. "So what's next? Big plans for Pittsburgh?"
"No. I landed about a week ago. I've been setting up my apartment. Before that I was in Washington for a few months." The VA hospital in DC, the rehabilitation unit, the physical therapy ward where you'd learned to walk again, twice. You didn't say any of that. "My sergeant major told me to come here. Said she had connections. I'm hoping that turns into something."
"Something… meaning work?"
"Something meaning work."
Ellis looked out through the room's interior window into the bay for a moment, something turning over behind her eyes. "Because," she said, with the careful casualness of someone floating an idea they're pretending is a joke, "these jokers out there are getting predictable, and I have about fourteen follow-up questions about what happened to that guy in North 17." She turned back to you. "If you're an R3 and you know the right people, you might be able to get a position here. Theoretically."
You looked at her. She looked at you. Neither of you said anything for a second.
"What is this place called?" you asked.
She stood, set down her supplies, and performed a small formal bow. "Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Centre." She said it with ceremony. "But everyone calls it The Pitt."
You let out a breath that was close to a real laugh. "I like that."
She moved toward the door, then paused with her hand on the frame. "Seriously though, I was told to not let you leave. Can I trust you to stay put?"
"Yes." You looked at her, and she raised an eyebrow, and you raised your right hand. "Scout's honour."
She laughed.
"I am waiting for the doctor I upset earlier, right?"
"He's a good guy," she said, and she meant it. "You just caught him on a bad night. And whatever you said to him out there, definitely hit a nerve." She shook her head, still smiling. "Okay. I need to start you a chart. What's your name?"
"Y/N," you said.
"Last name?"
"Abbott." You spelled it out of habit. "A-B-B-O-T-T."
She didn't move right away. A smile was forming on her face, slow, like she was trying to hold something back.
"A-B-B-O-T-T?" she repeated.
"Yeah."
"Your… Dr. Abbott?"
"...Yeah? Why?"
"No reason," she said, too fast. Then she walked out the door, and you watched through the window as she made it approximately six steps before she started laughing.
You stared after her.
What on earth was that about?
Jack Abbot's POV
It had been a bad night before the ambulance pulled in.
It had been a bad day before that, if I was being honest, which I generally tried not to be when the alternative was getting through a shift. The ED was running at capacity, one of my attendings was out sick, and somewhere around hour nine I'd made a call I wasn't entirely sure about and had been quietly replaying it ever since, the way you did when you knew the outcome was fine but couldn't stop examining the path that got you there.
I was at the nurses' station when Kowalski came in off the rig.
I watched him approach and clocked immediately that he had something on his face. Not urgency. Something closer to preemptive apology.
"What," I said.
"So the patient we're bringing in has a broken nose, possible fracture… and a drained septal hematoma."
"Drained?" I said, turning to the chart.
"We drained it in the rig."
I looked up.
"Eighteen-gauge," Kowalski said. "Clean drainage, gauze in place, patient's airway is clear."
"And tell me why you would drain a septal hematoma in the rig."
"It wasn't me."
I put the chart down. "What do you mean it wasn't you."
"There was a woman with the patient. Friend of hers. She saw the compensation pattern before I did, before Jackson did, and she asked for the needle."
"You gave a civilian--"
"She said she was a doctor."
"You gave someone who said she was a doctor--"
"She knew what a septal hematoma was, she saw the compensation, she asked for specific equipment by gauge size, and she drained it clean in under thirty seconds in a moving vehicle." Kowalski paused. "I didn't exactly let it happen. She grabbed the gloves before I'd finished deciding. She saw it first. If she hadn't done anything--"
"Who." I cut him off. "Where is she."
Kowalski pointed.
I looked.
There was a woman standing with her back to me, talking to the other paramedic off the rig. Young, mid-to-late twenties. Dressed up, which meant she hadn't been working, which meant she was exactly the civilian I'd feared. She was bleeding on my floor, I noticed, a slow drip from her hands pooling faintly on the tile. I tracked it up: her knuckles.
Alright, Rocky.
Then my eyes went back to her posture. The way she was standing. Something registered that I didn't have words for immediately, just a small internal flag, the kind you made when a detail in a chart didn't fit the pattern and you didn't yet know why it mattered.
She had the posture of someone who'd been trained to have it.
My feet were moving before I'd consciously decided to move. She turned as I got close, and when she squared up to face me I saw the rest of it. Black eye, already darkening. A cut at the temple. Someone had hit her tonight, and by the look of those knuckles she'd returned the favour.
I also noticed, the way I noticed things I didn't mean to, that she was--
Stop.
"You were the one who drained the septal hematoma in a moving ambulance?" I kept my voice measured and looked her over once, head to toe, clinical, logging.
"Yes," she said. "And I would do it again."
Direct. No qualifier, no apology in it.
"And who gave you the authority to do that?"
"I did," she said, "when I saw her compensating while we were still eight minutes out with a narrowing airway."
She saw her compensating.
I let that sit for exactly one second. Specific phrase, used correctly, by someone who knew what it meant.
"You saw her compensating," I repeated, testing the edge of it.
"She's my friend," the woman said, and there was no apology in that either. "What was I supposed to do, sit there and watch her struggle to breathe?"
I was angry. I was aware of being angry and aware that some percentage of that anger was not entirely about this specific situation. I kept it behind my teeth.
"And you think," I said, gesturing briefly at her face, "in this state, you were making sound medical decisions?"
She looked at me with an expression I had not anticipated.
"Is she dead?"
The question hit the air and sat there.
Who the hell does this girl think she is talking to me like that.
I knew the answer, obviously I knew the answer, but she wasn't waiting for me to give it.
"No. She's not. Because I performed a clean field drainage of a septal hematoma." Behind her gaze was a burning she was trying to hard to hide. "In a moving ambulance." She took a step toward me. I don’t step back. "I knew exactly what I was doing and I can explain every decision I made if you'd like. Or maybe," a beat, short and deliberate, "you weren't paying attention in medical school."
I stared at her.
She did not just say that to me.
I had been a lead attending physician in this ED for several years. I had been told difficult things, wrong things, offensive things, things designed to rattle me and things not designed to rattle me that did anyway. I could count on one hand the number of times someone had genuinely caught me off guard.
She was looking at me with the absolute stillness of someone who had nothing left to lose and had made a kind of peace with that. It was not performance. I'd seen performance. This was something else, a particular quality of calm that lived in the eyes and didn't waver.
She stands the way I stand.
The thought arrived before I could stop it. Not a memory. Not a comparison to anyone else. Just the plain, clear observation: the squared shoulders, the weight distributed exactly right, the hands, the particular stillness that wasn't passivity but its opposite, something coiled and learned and earned.
She holds herself like I do. Did she-- Wh--
I shut down my thoughts before it could go any further.
I was still angry. I was also, beneath that and more quietly, something close to impressed, which I had absolutely no intention of showing her.
"Do not leave this hospital." I said it once, quietly, which was how I said things I meant. I turned my head slightly without breaking eye contact. "Ellis."
Ellis materialised at my shoulder with the expression of someone who had watched this whole exchange with barely concealed enjoyment and was going to be insufferable about it later.
"What's up."
"Take her to South 7. Check her out. Don't let her leave. Come get me when you're done." I pause. "And don't forget the knuckles."
I could see that the woman's face registered something at that, a fractional shift, there and gone. She walked away before she could comment on it.
I was forty minutes further into the night when Ellis reappeared.
I was standing at the board when I heard her laughing across the bay near the admit desk, where Mateo was saying something with his hands and the wide grin he wore when he'd found something he couldn't keep to himself. Ellis covered her mouth. Mateo was shaking his head like he couldn't believe it either.
I watched with the patience of a man who had learned his staff generally arrived at the point if you waited long enough.
Ellis clocked me watching and peeled off from Mateo, crossing toward me still holding down a smile that was losing the fight.
"She's fine," Ellis said, leading with business. "Temple cut is dressed, mild concussion, knuckles cleaned and closed. Nice bruise forming around the eye but nothing structural."
"Good."
"She's a doctor," Ellis said. "R3. Residency overseas, Afghanistan and Syria, combat trauma surgery. Army. Discharged, from the sounds of it."
I looked up from the board. "Army?"
"Army," Ellis confirmed.
There it is. She holds herself like a soldier--like me.
I held her gaze for a moment, then looked back at the board.
"Also," Ellis said, with the careful timing of someone who has been waiting to deliver the main event, "she's the one who put the guy in North 17 in the condition he's currently in."
I set the marker down. "She did that."
"Apparently he was the one who broke her friends nose, and then things, quote, got away from her." Ellis's expression was doing something complicated. "She’s got some crazy strength that guy outweighs her by at least what, like, eighty pounds?"
Eighty, maybe ninety pounds. He was a big guy--she wasn’t that big.
"And," Ellis continued, pressing her lips together briefly, "her name is Abbott."
I took the chart from her. I looked at the name for a moment longer than was strictly necessary.
"Abbott." Ellis pointed at her name. There it was in clean block letters: ABBOTT, Y/N. "She spelled it out for me. A-B-B-O-T-T. Two T's."
Abbott.
Not a common name. Not a coincidence I could file away and ignore.
I handed the chart back.
"She has no idea," Ellis said, watching me carefully. “She does not know your name yet." I pause for just a second too long. "You should go talk to her. And I don't mean for documentation purposes."
"I intend to talk to her," I said. "It is for documentation purposes. She performed an unsanctioned field procedure on a civilian patient."
"Absolutely," Ellis said pleasantly.
"I need the incident on record."
"Of course you do." She tilted her head. "Go on then, Dr. Abbot, one T. Go introduce yourself to Dr. Abbott, two T's.” Her eyes widen and she releases a laugh, “Abbot squared." She was already turning away, raising her voice just enough for Mateo to catch it. "I'm telling everyone, by the way."
"You're not telling anyone."
"I'm telling everyone," she said cheerfully, and was gone.
I stood at the board.
Abbott. Two T's. Army. I would put my money on combat physician. Eight minutes out and she saw the compensation pattern before a trained paramedic did. And she beat the shit out of a man nearly twice her size.
I set the marker down. I looked at the chart I was supposed to be reviewing, and set that down too.
Then I turned and walked toward South 7.
The door to the room was open. I knocked on the frame anyway.
She was sitting on the edge of the bed, her feet dangling off the side. She turned when she heard me. Something moved across her face, not quite the wariness from earlier, not quite a smile. Something in between. She was reassessing, same as me.
"I owe you an apology," I said, which was not what I'd planned to open with, but it was true so it came out first. "I came at you hard out there without the full picture."
She watched me for a moment. "You had enough of the picture."
"I had Kowalski's version."
"Which was…"
"Which was accurate," I let that settle. "Your friend is going to be fine. They've got her in imaging now, precautionary, but the nose is straightforward. She was asking about you."
Something moved through her face at that, soft and fast and gone as soon as it appeared.
I pulled the chair from the corner of the room and sat, which I could tell surprised her. I'd intended to stay standing. I wasn't entirely sure why I'd sat down, except that this felt like a conversation that deserved it.
"I'm Jack Abbot," I said. "Attending physician. I run the ED."
She looked at me. Then she looked at the name badge clipped to my coat, which she clearly hadn't clocked until this moment.
A-B-B-O-T.
One T.
"You're kidding me," she said.
"I'm not."
The corner of her mouth moved. Not a smile exactly, but the beginning of one. "Y/N Abbott," she said. "Two T's."
"I noticed."
"Of course you did." A quiet exhale through her nose that might, in another life, have been a laugh. "Of course the man who yelled at me in the middle of a trauma bay is named Abbot."
"I didn't yell."
"You raised your voice."
"It's a loud room."
She looked at me with an expression that was both tired and faintly, reluctantly amused. I found that I didn't entirely mind being on the receiving end of it.
"It's been a long night," I said, which was the closest I was going to get to explaining myself.
"Yeah," she said. "It really has."
We sat with that for a moment, the particular quiet of two people deciding whether a bad first impression was going to be the whole story.
“You know you’ve set off a domino effect of paperwork for me to complete tonight between your friend's broken nose, your impromptu procedure in the ambulance and the sad sap in North 17.”
“Are you looking for my official statement?” There is a slight smile on her face, amused.
I look at the forms in front of me on her chart and click my pen in an exaggerated way ready to report the events of tonight, “I’m ready when you are.”
AN: Thank you for reading if you made it this far. I’m still figuring this out, but comments, reblogs, or any thoughts are always appreciated <3
oh yea i’m going LOVE this series
house tour!
pairings: jack abbot x roommate!reader, baran al-hashimi x roommate!trinity santos, michael ‘robby’ robinavitch x roommate!dennis whittaker
summary: you sneak Jack into your shared apartment space but little do you know, so has Trinity with Al-Hashimi and Dennis with Robby.
contains: crack LOL, implied smut but nothing explicit, fluff, age gaps with all pairings, cliff hanger? rushed ending?
notes: hey this is insane sorry i came up with this while high and on a walk eating ice cream lmao big day for anyone who ships trinity x al hashimi and dennis x robby i guess? this is also kinda giving that one spider-man meme where they’re all like pointing at each other HAHAHAHA
Jack feels like a teenager again whenever he sneaks into your apartment. you usually spend the weekends at his place but this weekend you insisted he stayed over at yours so you could try a nearby breakfast cafe in the morning.
you’ve been living with Trinity since your med school days and recently Dennis has moved into the third bedroom space that was previously used as a giant storage closet. you liked living with them and despite working the night shift, you were still able to make time for each other.
though, the apartment has felt a bit off lately. you’ve noticed movie nights have been getting cancelled, Trinity and Dennis stay in their respective rooms more often, and sometimes you hear different voices that don’t belong to your roommates right as you’re about the fall asleep from a long shift. you’ve convinced yourself that the sleep deprivation is driving you insane and those voices were just in your head, maybe they were just remnants of patients in the ER.
you come out of your bedroom to see Trinity making dinner in the kitchen. she’s got a three course meal laid out on the counter.
“Woah, who’s the Michelin star dinner for?” you ask, peering over her shoulder as she stirs sauce around.
“I’m trying something new! Meal prepping, you heard of it?” she bites back. Trinity comes off a bit more defensive than usual. you back away in defeat, she’s probably stressed out over Garcia texting her suddenly, or maybe Dennis pushed her buttons again.
“Kay, well I’ll see you in a bit.” she turns to look at you and sees that you’re a little more dressed up than usual. your hair is blown out to perfection and your cheeks are extra pink from your blush.
“Hot date tonight or something?” Trinity smirks at you.
“Wouldn’t you like to know!” you reply with a similar smirking expression. “I bet Huckleberry’s out on a date with Amy right now.” you change the subject quick to avoid her pressing further.
“He hasn’t been home in days and y’know he’s been kinda avoiding me whenever I see him at work! Like he’s practically running away from me.” she says, turning the stove off.
“And what about you? Still hung up on Garcia? I sure hope all this is actually meal prep and not you trying to win her back over.” you say gesturing to food she’s got out on the countertop.
Trinity rolls her eyes and you take that as your cue to leave.
Doctor Al-Hashimi is the first of the three attendings to enter the shared apartment space that night. her and Trinity eat dinner together alone in the empty apartment before continuing behind Trinity’s closed door. Dennis comes home later that night with Doctor Robby. he sees multiple sets of plates by the sink but thinks nothing of it. you probably just ate dinner with Trinity before leaving, he assumes. Robby already knows his way around and heads straight to Dennis’ room.
a few hours later, you and Jack stumble into the apartment giggling. you had spent a few hours out together at a new fancy cocktail bar you saw on tiktok, then at a dive bar Jack suggested since he wanted to end the night with something “old and classic”
“I hope I get to end the night with someone old and classic.” you remember saying as you winked at him. he knows you’re just joking around but he takes your suggestion seriously.
by the end of the night, you’re stumbling around trying to get to his car, giggling as you hold onto his arm for balance. Jack is practically sober and just happy to see you let loose after a long week. he takes pride in taking care of you and didn’t mind that you were a little tipsy.
you slip your kitten heels off before Jack has you against the front door kissing you deeply. you moan into his mouth and wrap your arms around his shoulders. you try to pull away from him for a second,
“Jack, my room, we can’t out here-” he cuts you off with another kiss before slowly kissing down your neck,
“I know pretty, give me a second.” he pulls away and grabs your hand, pulling you towards your bedroom to finish what he’s started.
𝜗ৎ
Jack is wide awake, staring at the walls of your bedroom. you’re passed out curled up against him, snoring softly. he smiles with pride at the sight. if he wasn’t such a night owl, he’s sure he’d be the exact same, especially after the several rounds you put him through. Jack has seen your bedroom a dozen times now. you’ve got a small vanity in the corner, with an overflowing dresser beside it. for a doctor who spends most her week in scrubs, you sure have a lot of clothes, he thinks to himself. there’s film and music posters all over your walls and a small collection of photobooth strips in a wall corner. Jack makes a mental note to make sure you put up the newest addition to the corner of the wall.
he slowly pulls himself away from you and sits up to put his prosthetic back on. he looks down at you and sees you shuffle around before laying on your other side. as he exits your room, he makes sure to shut the door as softly as possible before turning around to see Doctor Al-Hashimi with the same idea. she’s completely frozen with a glass of water in hand as she stares back at the other attending,
“I was just grabbing some water.” she starts as she breaks the silence.
“Me too,” Jack replies awkwardly. he walks towards the cabinet to grab a glass and fills it with water. Baran hasn’t moved and doesn't know if she should go back to Trinity’s room or if she should explain herself. “So you and uh- Whittaker?” Jack questions.
“God, no!” Baran whispers in shock. she almost looks offended at the accusation. Jack raises an eyebrow as the response. The door knob to Dennis’ door starts to jiggle, causing Baran and Jack to look over. The tallest of the three attendings emerge from Dennis’ room.
Robby’s eyes are wide at the sight. two of his attendings (one of which is his best friend) are standing in the kitchen of his secret partner’s apartment. Robby awkwardly shuts the door,
“So, do you wanna start first or should I?” Jack starts in disbelief
“I was gonna tell you-“ Robby replies. Jack is quick to cut him off.
“Well, why don’t you tell me all about it over breakfast? We can cook it in the kitchen of our resident’s apartment!” Jack whisper yells back.
“Oh, as if you’re any better. Y’know I thought Ellis was joking when she said you were giving her special treatment but now I’m seeing it’s a lot more than just special!” Robby says gesturing to your bedroom door. Right as Jack is about to reply, Baran lets out a harsh Shh!
The apartment is quiet again. No one moves.
“I suggest that we all go back to bed and we figure this out tomorrow,” Baran says calmly. Robby and Jack stare at each other, still in disbelief. “Or at least I will.” Baran is the first of the three to retreat back into her girlfriend’s room. Jack and Robby stay, both still confused.
“So, how long?” Robby asks, breaking the awkward silence.
“Six months, you?”
“Nine.”
“Hm,” Jack acknowledges as he puts the glass in the sink. neither of them push on any further questions for the time being.
“Well, good luck tomorrow morning.” Jack slowly opens the door to your bedroom. Robby lets out a chuckle.
𝜗ৎ
the morning sun shines through your sheer curtains waking you up. you slowly open your eyes to a small hangover headache and empty bed. Jack liked to wait for you to wake up so the empty bed made you panic slightly. you grab your phone to check if Jack had left you any messages. usually, he’d leave you a goodbye text or let you know he stepped out if he needed to, but there was nothing. however there were dozens of messages from Trinity and Dennis all along the same premise.
wake the fuck up
why is abbot in our living room
how long has this been going on
explain now
you get up in a rush to explain. you knew you were going to have to tell them eventually, you just didn’t think that they would find out because your boyfriend decided to get up early and watch tv. you open your bedroom door to see Trinity and Dennis eating breakfast at the dining table, eyes wide as they stare at you.
“Morning!” a deeper voice says. you whip your head towards the kitchen to see Doctor Robby, Doctor Al-Hashimi, and of course your boyfriend Doctor Jack Abbot all looking at you with big smiles.
“So which couple wants to start explaining first?” Jack says with a big smirk on his face. couple? you look back at the dining table to find Trinity and Dennis staring at their apparent partners.
what have you walked into?
LMAOOOOO nahh this is like the spider-man meme
headphones on
summary: it’s an extra stressful shift at ptmc and doctor abbot notices how it’s affected you. you show him how you cope with the stress by putting him on your favourite music album
contains: jack abbot x resident!reader, never explicitly mentioned but there is an implied age gap between them, angst/comfort, happy ending, jack being a yearner and a little shy about it
word count: 1.2k
notes: helloooo this is my first fic ever :O!! i tried to keep the album as nondescriptive as possible (but let it be known i’m talking about ctrl by sza here LOL) also this is a little corny i fear but this is me being self indulgent in my own coping methods :-) enjoy ! (edited to add word count)
every emergency department doctor/nurse at PTMC had different stress coping methods (healthy or not, that’s up for debate). Shen had his ice coffee, Mel and her lava lamp and Robby with his motorcycle. your coping method though was listening to your favourite album on repeat or putting together a new playlist of the week. you had nearly hundreds of playlists saved to your spotify, all varying from your different moods, situations, etc. you were the go-to for last minute concerts and someone to ask for a song recommendation.
“And in central 4, there’s a thirteen year old boy with a concussion just waiting on a CT scan. Took a nasty baseball to the head, no other signs of a brain bleed,” Trinity says passing the tablet to you.
“Hey, you still good to come with me and Crash to the PinkPanthress show next week right?” you look up at her and smile. this wasn’t the first time Trinity asked you to come with her to a concert. it had almost become a routine of her buying an extra ticket for you.
as expected, the emergency department had a strict no music and no headphones policy. you came in every shift with one earbud in and one out softly singing whatever your song of the day might’ve been. charting was extra boring without music so you were left to finish humming your song of the day while you typed away. it’s a habit your night shift attending had caught onto the first day you joined.
“You ever notice how she’s always singing something?” Jack says to Lena, tipping his head towards you.
“Yeah but she gets her work done so what’s your point, Abbot?” Lena responds with her eyebrows raised. she’s known about his infatuation and interest in you since day one, maybe even before Abbot himself has realized it.
it’s a rough shift for everyone that night. theres a huge accident on the bridge, a few casualties and multiple injured. Jack began to notice how it was affecting you when you stopped making small talk with your patients. you kept it to a short introduction and went straight into the diagnosis and plan, which was unusual for you. he always took an interest in the way you cared about your patients and how you’d ease them into it with small talk about themselves. when it finally slows and the day shift begins rolling in, you rush to get through your hand offs. you keep the conversation short and get straight to the point. you needed to get out of the ED for a bit, just a few minutes to catch your breath and smell something other than antiseptics. you’re quick to grab your stuff and head to the roof, but not quick enough for Jack.
“What’s going on with the mom in south 2? I’m seeing we ordered an ultrasound over three hours ago,” Robby says looking at the tablet. when Jack doesn’t respond he looks up to see his gaze diverted to the stairwell entrance. Robby turns his head in time to see you enter and head up to the roof. “You know I thought Lena was joking when she said you’ve got a little crush, but you’ve got it bad, brother.” Robby mutters just low enough for Jack to hear. Jacks attention snaps back to Robby.
“I’ll check on that ultrasound before I go and you can fuck off.” Robby chuckles at the response, he can’t recall the last time he’s seen his best friend so down bad for someone. Jack races towards the stairwell entrance in hopes of catching you but is cut off by an incoming trauma announcement.
you lean your arms against the rooftop railing, headphones in and taking deep breaths. the sun is rising and you close your eyes as the sun hits your face. you can finally feel the stress of this shift leave as the music plays. you hear the muffled sounds of the door opening, then a voice,
“Thought I’d find you here.” you turn around to find your attending standing there with his hands in his pockets. you pull both your headphones out,
“Doctor Abbot, sorry I just needed a few minutes before finishing my hand offs. I’ll be back down in a minute.” he walks over and stands beside you, looking out to the Pittsburgh skyline.
“What’re you listening to anyways? I swear every chance you get you’ve got those things on.” he says pointing at your phone. you unlock it to show him your favourite album, scrolling through the song titles.
“It’s, uh, my favourite album. I listen to it when I get overwhelmed or if a shift was kinda rough like tonight.” you feel your cheeks warm up a bit as you explain. you feel like you’ve been caught doing something wrong for some reason, maybe you were nervous he just wouldn’t understand. Jack reaches to grab an earbud and puts it on. He grabs the other and tries putting it into your ear. You can feel him struggle to put it on securely so you reach to help correct him. His hand doesn’t move so you put your hand on top of his to secure it.
“There we go,” he mumbles, eyes softening when you finally look up at him. “Tell me more about it, or play me something actually.” your mind goes blank, you’ve done countless sutures, see bodies cut open, bones broken, but nothing could compare to the way Jack Abbot was looking at you. you break eye contact to play him your favourite song.
“Uh- it’s an album about love and intimacy and heartbreak. There’s also a few songs that talk about femininity and the role love plays in feeling feminine enough in a sense,”
Jack nods as he listens to you ramble “Like this song, there’s certain like play on words.” You hum some of the lyrics, emphasizing your point.
“I like it. I see why you like it too,” he says. you feel the corners of your mouth slowly form a smile. Jack turns to see you bopping your head to the beat a little. “Is this that PinkPanthress I overheard you and Santos talking about?” you chuckle, is he keeping tabs on your or something?
“No she makes totally different stuff! Should I be concerned that you’re eavesdropping on very private conversations between your residents?” It’s Jacks turn to chuckle. A slower, softer song comes on. You both listen in silence before he turns to you.
“I gotta head down to make sure Robby has what he needs today,” you try to hide your disappointment with a small smile. “But maybe if you’re still here in 15 minutes, we could go for breakfast? And you could show me another album you like?” Jack asks, voice getting a bit quieter as he asks you. The Jack Abbot, the SWAT physician that likes to get shot at for fun, is suddenly getting shy with a few words.
“I would really like that, yeah. You could show me some Beethoven songs or something, I know those are more from your times.” you respond, feeling your spark come back. Jack laughs and takes his headphone out before walking to the stairwell.
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be back in a bit to come get ya!” he calls out. you look back out to the Pittsburgh skyline and put your headphones back on.
Flowers - Jack Abbot x Reader
Description: Jack is flabbergasted to learn his girlfriend has never received flowers from a romantic partner before.
Warnings: Fluff with a little bit of angst sprinkled throughout. Details of a panic attack. Use of y/n and she/her
Notes: I just started thinking about how Jack would be the kind of person to buy his partner flowers without thinking about it. He'd be absolutely pissed to learn he's the first one to do so. We love mature and respectful men around here :)
______
The knock on her door instantly brought a smile to her face, despite how early it was. She knew who it was. Getting up from the couch, she paused the movie she was watching and went over to the door. Opening it, she found her boyfriend standing on the other side.
He gave her a soft smile, although she noticed how tired he looked. The kind that settled deep in your bones. He'd just finished a night shift, yet the first thing he did after was come and see her.
"Hey."
"Hi."
Moving aside, she let him in and he tugged her into his side for a hug and he kissed her head while shutting the door behind him.
"How was your shift?".
He shook his head. "Tell you later. Jus' let me hold you."
"Okay." It was then she heard a crinkling of plastic and looked down to see he had flowers in his other hand.
She tilted her head. "What's that?".
"Oh." He paused. "These?". Holding them up, he showed her the pretty bouquet of pink, yellow and white flowers.
She was confused. "What for?".
"No reason. Just saw them and thought of you."
"Wait... they're for me?".
He raised an eyebrow. "Of course, they are. Who else, sweetheart?".
"Oh." She breathed out. "Thank you."
He smiled, amused. "Why do you look confused?".
"I don't know. Sorry, I guess I just wasn't expecting it. Thank you."
Taking the flowers from him, she brought them to the kitchen and got a vase. Jack followed behind her, a slight limp in his walk. Y/n lifted her head, taking notice of it.
"Why don't you sit down, Jack?".
He shrugged, taking a seat at the kitchen counter opposite her. "I'm fine."
She pursed her lips. He hid it well, the aches in his stump from walking around on his prosthesis all day and night. Most of the time he seemed to handle it, but when she noticed it taking a toll on him, it always made her feel awful for not seeing it sooner.
She put the flowers into the vase with some water and put it on the counter. "They're beautiful, Jack. Thank you."
His head tilted to the side. "Why do you keep doing that?".
"What?".
"Thanking me. You're my girlfriend, I'm gonna get you flowers."
She shrugged. "Well, I don't know. No one's given me flowers before."
His eyebrows shot up. "Sorry?".
"I mean, apart from friends and family for like birthdays and stuff. But... I've never gotten flowers from a partner before."
He looked utterly baffled. "You've got to be kidding me."
She shook her head. "In their defence, I never really liked flowers."
"That's not a defence! It shouldn't matter. You do like flowers because when I gave you those your eyes lit up. It's a shitty excuse."
Her expression softened, rounding the counter to stand in front of him. "Jack-".
"No, honey. I won't accept that."
"What'd you expect? You treat me better than anyone I've ever dated before."
He frowned, pulling her into him and having her stand in between his thighs.
"Hey." Her voice gentled, finger tracing his stubbly jawline. "It's okay."
Despite himself, he turned his head to kiss the inside of her wrist. "You deserve better."
Leaning closer to him, her hands rested on his thighs loosely. "It's only flowers, Jack. It's not a big deal."
His expression softened like her words devastated him. "You don't get it, do you?".
"What?".
"It's not about the flowers. It's more than that."
Her head tilted slightly, fingers carding through the material of his scrubs that he was still wearing.
"I'm not sure I understand."
He frowned. "Sweetheart, this is kinda basic stuff. You're telling me no one has done the bare minimum?".
She shrugged. "Can I be honest?".
"Yeah."
"Sometimes it's overwhelming when you take care of me. Like when you do things for me, it takes a minute to get used to."
He straightened, eyes softening as he looked at her. "Flowers are overwhelming?".
"Well... no. It's more the act of getting them for me. I guess I just don't really understand why."
"Okay." He sighed. "Let me explain something; I don't get you things with the expectation of something in return. Most of the time, when I'm buying you something I don't think about it. Not because it doesn't matter, but because you matter more to me. And it's the little things, like getting you flowers after a shift, that's one of the ways I like to show you that."
"Show me what?".
"That I care about you. I was thinking about you and that I love you."
"But I already know you do."
He chuckled. "What's the point in me saying it if I can't back it up, hm?".
She shrugged. "That makes sense."
Tugging on her wrists, he brought her closer to him and her hands came up to rest on his biceps. He just pressed his lips against her forehead.
"You're touchy this morning."
"Just missed you." He then kissed her cheek and then her jawline, under her eye, corner of her lips and everywhere on her face until she was giggling and trying to pull away.
"Jack, stop." Her attempt to stop him was futile as she only swatted at his chest lightly. But he chuckled, stopping anyway because she told him to. His hand caught hers before she could pull it away, though.
"Come on."
"Where are we going?".
"The couch. I want to cuddle."
He smiled, letting her pull him up. "Yes ma'am."
She helped him take off his prosthetic leg, then set it to the side as he made himself comfortable on the couch. He tugged her hand, making her let out a yelp as she fell on top of him, laughing.
"Jack!".
"What?". He hums innocently. She rolled her eyes playfully before settling into his side with a sigh. His arm wrapped around her as she rested her head on his chest.
"So, what do I do for you?".
"What?".
"Well, you said you do things for me to show me that you love me. But I don't think I do the same for you."
"Oh, honey. You do plenty for me."
"Yeah? Like what?".
He hums in thought. "Hm... you notice when my leg is bothering me, and learned everything you could about taking care of it so you could help me. You always try to wait up for me after shifts even when I tell you to go to sleep. You wear my t-shirts and steal my only hoodie all the time, I know it's because they smell like me. You're there with me through the nightmares and PTSD shit, which you don't have to deal with. But you do anyway. I know you love me because you show it in big ways."
"And that's not a bad thing?".
"No, it's just... different. Good different. It's nice to be loved by you, sweetheart. Those assholes who didn't get you flowers are missing out tremendously."
His words flustered her and she quietened. "Oh." She didn't even realise she did most of those things. She just did them, and suddenly it started to make sense to her.
He seemed to notice the moment it clicked for her and he smiled. "Understand now?".
"I think so." She muttered.
_
The conversation didn't stop there. It wasn't that easy. But Jack didn't mind. He'd have the same conversation with her a hundred times if that's what it took for her to understand. It was her first time in a mature relationship with someone who treated her right. He couldn't blame her too much.
Every time he offered to do something for her, and she had to question it, he just reminded her of the flowers. And it seemed to settle her, at least until the analogy stopped working for some things.
Buying her lunch, calling her on shift when he had the chance, letting her have the last of any food they shared, bookmarking the page of the book she was reading after falling asleep, going along with whatever random hobby she picked up at 3am when she couldn't sleep. Those were all things she thought were equivalent to the flowers.
But him giving her his old dog tags was not the same thing, she was sure.
He had something in his closed hand, joining her on the couch where he had told her to wait.
"What's that?".
"Hold out your hand."
She pursed her lips, but did as told and he put something metal and cool in her palm, closing her fingers around the object. It felt like a chain that you'd wear around your neck.
When she opened her hand, the cold metal chain had two silver tags attached to it. Both engraved with his first and last name, service number and blood type.
Confused, she looked back at him. "These are your dog tags."
"Mhm." He hums. "I want you to have them."
The words left his lips and they made her heart freeze. "W-What?".
He smiled slightly. "You can have them. Wear it around your neck or keep it in your pocket, whatever you want. But... they're yours now."
"Jack, I can't take these."
"Sure you can."
"No. I... I can't. I'll lose them, or something."
He shrugged. "I don't care if you do. But I wanted to give you something a little more permanent than flowers."
He nodded at the flowers that were on the counter, already wilting after he'd just bought them a few days ago.
She sighed. "I probably should've warned you that I don't know how to look after flowers."
He chuckled, bringing her closer to him so he could kiss her head. "I noticed. Why do you think new ones keep appearing every couple of days?".
She shrugged. "Just thought I was that good at it."
He smiled in amusement, shaking his head as she giggled at herself.
"So, if flowers mean you love me, what do these mean?".
"Honey, what do you think they mean?".
She hums, letting the chain run through her fingers.
"I don't know. You think I'm pretty cool?".
"Sure." He mumbled. "Yeah, that's exactly it."
She smiled, knowing he was teasing. "Just tell me, Jack."
"It means I'm yours." He leaned back into the couch, bringing her with him and letting her lean against him. "I know that you worry about me with the whole SWAT thing. And you miss me when I'm working nights at the e.d. So... it's a reminder that I'll come back to you."
She blinked. "This is not the same as flowers."
"No." He shook his head. "It's not."
"But I don't have anything to give to you."
His expression softened immediately. "I don't need anything from you, sweetheart."
She frowned. "What if you need to know I love you?".
"I know you love me. Trust me, I know. I don't need something to remind me of that."
"You don't?".
He nodded, nuzzling into the side of her neck. "I promise. I don't give you things expecting anything in return. Remember?".
"I know. It just feels like this time I should."
With a sigh, he looked up at her. "The only thing I'm after is this."
His finger gently prodded at her chest, making her look down with a raised eyebrow. "My boob?".
"Jesus christ." He breathed out. "Your heart, y/n."
"I know." She giggled. "I was just kidding."
He rolled his eyes. "Give me those tags back."
"No, they're mine now."
His hazel eyes shone with utter adoration as he looked up at her, sure now more than ever that he loved her with everything he had.
"Yeah, they are." He sighed.
_
This was exactly why she knew he shouldn't have given them to her. She'd had the chain around her neck for a little over three months. And now her heart was in her throat because she had basically torn her whole apartment apart. She'd looked everywhere. The couch cushions were on the floor, drawers were left fully open, her kitchen and bedroom were an absolute wreck. It looked like a tornado had passed through.
She'd misplaced Jack's tags and now she couldn't find them. Her brain was working overtime, trying to retrace her steps and think where she had them last. Her palms were sweaty, hands trembling with nerves. Her breathing had even started to pick up, not that she noticed.
By the time Jack came over, she was sitting on the floor in the middle of it all, attempting to hold back sobs. She heard the door click open and her body froze.
"Y/n? Hey, honey. I-".
He came into her apartment, slowing to a stop, voice trailing off as he took in the sight before him.
"What the hell happened in here?".
Her eyes caught sight of the flower bouquet in his left hand, wrapped in light pink tissue paper. And she started sobbing.
Jack, startled by her outburst, put the flowers down and quickly made his way over to her through the obstacle course that was her living room and knelt in front of her.
"Hey, hey. What's the matter, sweet girl? What happened?".
"I'm sorry! I... I looked e-everywhere and I don't know where they are. I'm sorry, Jack. I'm so sorry."
She spoke through gasps that were making her breathing worse.
"Okay, okay." His voice softened. "Shh, let's take some breaths. Yeah?".
"I... I can't."
"You can. Look at me, just watch me."
He took an exaggerated breath, encouraging her to do the same. "In."
He held it for a few seconds, then breathed out. "Out."
"Come on, sweetheart. I need you to try for me."
Her hands trembled, finding his forearms as she tried to catch her breath. It was hard with the lump in her throat and the hot tears streaming down her cheeks.
"Here we go. Try again." His voice gentled, soothing enough for her to hold on to.
He repeated the steps, getting her to do it with him. Hers came out shaky and uneven, but he accepted it.
"That's it, good job. Just like that. You're okay."
They did it over and over again, him coaching her through it until she could breathe easier. When she finally settled enough, he gave her a soft smile and wiped her tears with his thumbs.
"Hi."
"Hi." Her voice cracked.
"What happened, baby? Talk to me."
She sniffled. "I lost them."
"Lost what?".
"I don't know where they are. I'm so sorry."
"Shh, you're okay. What have you lost, honey?".
"Your tags. I can't find them anywhere." She hiccuped.
His expression softened. "Oh... y/n, come here, sweetheart."
Pulling her into his arms, he held her against his chest as she cried a little more. "Please don't be mad."
"Hey, hey. It's okay. I'm not... it's alright."
"Why not?".
"Shit, I'm so sorry, honey."
She frowned. "What?".
He looked fully guilty as he reached into his pocket and brought out something silver and metal to show her.
"It's my fault. I should've told you I was taking them to get cleaned. I didn't think it would take long."
The chain he held in his hand had two tags attached to it, now more shiny and cleaner than the last time she saw it.
Her jaw dropped. "You had it?".
"Yes." He winced. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to panic you."
She sighed in relief, taking the chain after he gave it back to her. "Thank god. I thought I was gonna have to start selling body parts to get you new tags."
He chuckled softly, pulling her closer to him and kissing her head. "No, no. It's okay, I promise."
His hands came up to her cheeks, gently making her look at him. "Hey, please don't ever worry about losing them. I never want you to be that afraid to tell me anything, okay? I can always get new tags, even if you did lose them."
She sighed, looking around at her bomb site of an apartment. "I guess I did go a little overboard."
He smiled softly. "Want me to help you clean up?".
"Yes please." She mumbled quietly, making him give her one last squeeze before attempting to get up.
"Oh, honey?".
"Yeah?".
"Next time you have a panic attack, try not to make me get on my knees." He groaned, making her giggle as she watched him use his good leg to hoist himself up. He glared at her playfully before offering a hand to help her up.
Before they started to put her apartment back together, he grabbed the flowers he had brought for her and gave them to her.
"These are for you."
She smiled slightly, almost sheepishly. "I keep killing them, Jack. When are you going to stop getting me flowers?".
He leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. "I'll give you one guess."
She rolled her eyes playfully. "Never."
"Hey, now you're getting it."
__________
awwww omggg cutteee
OR OR reader goes out with santos and mel after the fourth of july shift and gets drunk with them and calls jack for a ride home and he drops them off one by one but he stays with her and tucks her in and it’s sooooo fluff
yay thank u for the request i hope u enjoy!! | 1.6k of fluff, ‘her’ used in reference to reader once
The humidity outside somehow feels less stuffy after having been in the bar for a couple of hours.
You tip your head back when a gentle breeze blows through, soft as a whisper but it kisses your heated skin all the same.
“Shit,” Trinity mutters from behind you, looking down at her phone. Her face shines a little with sweat, baby hairs sticking to her forehead.
“What’s wrong?” Mel asks immediately. She’s let her hair down tonight, both literally and metaphorically, and you’re glad to have witnessed it.
Today’s shift was a lot. More so than usual, and when Santos had suggested a night out to Mel, and then to you when she caught you listening in, it was easy to accept.
Your throat aches a little from the numerous songs you shouted more than sang, but it’s a welcomed scratchiness. It reminds you that you’re here and alive.
You turn towards the pair that are now both focused on Trinity’s screen, their brows scrunched. One concerned, one more annoyed.
“What is it?” you ask.
“Literally no Uber wants to go to three different drop-off spots,” Trinity tells you. “And if they do, they're charging an insane amount.”
You let the next words slip out before you really think of it. Later, you’ll blame it on the alcohol, but you’re hardly more than tipsy by now. The last two drinks you had were water.
“I can call Jack.”
Trinity and Mel stare at you.
“Abbot,” you add.
“You can call Jack Abbot?” Trinity asks you, something almost teasing in her tone.
“Yeah,” you say, shifting on your feet. “Unless you wanna walk?”
“Oh, no. Please, call Abbot,” she tells you.
“I think it’s a good idea,” Mel says, smiling a soft, encouraging smile.
“Okay, I’ll just-” you point over your shoulder and step away, digging your phone from your purse. His contact is easy enough to find. You stare at it, your finger hovering over the screen.
You’ve had his number saved for a few weeks now. He’d given it to you after a rough shift, finding you by your locker and typing it into your phone himself with an urge to “call if you need anything.”
And you just… haven’t. You’ve pulled up his contact countless times. Looked at his name there as he’d typed it; Not Dr. Abbot. Just ‘Jack.’
Still, you couldn’t bring yourself to just hit the call button. He’s your attending, and sure he’s flirty with you, but he’s a little flirty with almost everyone. And ‘call if you need me’ is just a thing people say. At least, that’s what you’ve been telling yourself lately.
You suppose tonight you’re testing to see if he really meant it. If you’re not totally alone in wanting to get more of him somehow.
You press the button and hold your phone up to your ear, looking to see if Trinity and Mel are watching you. They are. Mel gives you a thumbs up.
And then you’re turning back around, because after only three rings, the line clicks, and a low “hello?” slides through the speaker.
“Hi!” you say, wincing at how awkwardly it comes out. “Um, it’s me. Are you busy?”
Jack ignores your question. “What’s going on?”
“Me and Mel and Santos are out and no Ubers are taking us. You know, Trinity’s actually a pretty good singer. Anyways, I was wondering if you could come get us? It’s totally fine if not, I mean, it’s warm, so we could walk-”
“How drunk are you?” Jack asks you, not judgemental or accusing, just curious.
“Just enough to let myself call you,” you say quietly. “Not enough to not know what I’m doing.”
“Okay,” he says. “Tell me where you are.” Like it’s that simple for him to drop whatever he’d been doing just because you asked him to. Like whatever he heard in your voice was convincing enough. Almost like he didn’t need any convincing at all.
He shows up only a few minutes later, pulling up to the curb right in front of you and leaning over to open up the passenger side door.
You wave at him. He wiggles his fingers back and nods at you, urging you to get in beside him.
Trinity and Mel climb into the backseat, chatting quietly between each other.
You watch as Jack pulls away from the curb, listening to Mel’s directions back to her place. Watch as he turns up the AC when he catches you fan yourself, an arm reaching over to aim the vent towards you.
“Thank you,” you say.
And when he turns his head to quickly wink at you, it’s hard to come up with anything else.
He drops Mel off, and soon enough it’s Trinity’s turn.
“You gonna be okay?” Santos asks you, more suggestive than anything, once Jack’s parked.
Only, Jack takes her seriously. He twists around in his seat to look at her and say “I’ve got her.”
You sink into the passenger seat, embarrassed and delighted.
She salutes him and climbs out of the car. And then it’s just you and Jack.
“Is it okay?” you start, a sudden nervous flutter in your stomach. “That I called? I mean, I hope you weren’t busy, or-”
“Sweetheart,” he stops you, that same low, patient but sure voice as on the phone. “I gave you my phone number. I want you to use it.”
“Oh, okay. Good. That’s good.”
Jack has the hand not holding the steering wheel resting on the centre console. He shifts his over just enough that his knuckles brush your arm once, twice, before pulling away again.
“Good,” he agrees with a little nod.
And before you can say something else, he’s parking outside your building. You only just realize then that you hadn’t been giving him any directions to get there.
You look at him, his black t-shirt tights across his shoulders, his hair curling around his ears. Then, there’s his fingers squeezing the steering wheel, his knee bouncing.
He’s nervous, too, you think. Or affected, at the very least.
It’s what makes you brave enough to say: “Do you want to come up?”
And Jack, turning his head to look into your shining, shy, hopeful eyes could never say no to you. Not even when he probably should.
He lets you lead the way to your door, a hand hovering behind your lower back in case you stumble. You fumble with your keys until he takes them from your hand and unlocks your door for you, holding it open with an outstretched arm that you have to duck under to walk inside.
It’s only when you bend down to take off your shoes that you feel the lingering effects of the alcohol, your vision a little fuzzy around the edges, your head swimming and focused all at once. Because every thought is about Jack.
Jack, standing in your living room like he was meant to be there, like the space just miles itself around his presence. Jack, leaning down to help you slip your shoes off when he catches you struggling, a warm hand on the back of your leg, letting you use his shoulder for support.
When he straightens up again, he’s much closer than before. You suck in a breath, eyes dancing across his face. His do the same, before settling on your mouth.
Your chin tips up the slightest bit, like you’re making room for him, inviting him, and Jack nearly accepts it. But you’ve been drinking, and this isn’t anything new for him. It’s not spur of the moment. He’ll want you the same tomorrow, more even.
So when he leans in, and you let your eyes slip closed, he doesn’t let himself kiss your mouth, but presses his lips softly to your cheek, then to the hinge of your jaw, before pulling away.
“You should get some rest,” he tells you.
You nod, a hand coming up to your cheek like you’re keeping his touch there a little longer. “Will you- do you wanna stay?”
“Sweetheart.”
“We don’t have to do anything, it’s just late, and-”
“I’ll stay,” Jack tells you.
You lead him to your bedroom, and if you thought his presence in your living room was something, this is entirely more destabilizing.
Where there’s an alternate reality where he’s in here for more. Where he’s leaning over you on the mattress, where his smell is etched into your sheets. And maybe it isn’t so far fetched, not with how he looks at you.
How he’s taking care of you tonight.
To that point, Jack goes into your dresser and picks out some pajamas for you once he finds the right drawer, setting them on the edge of the bed. He’d assumed you’d go into the bathroom to change.
Instead, he watches you reach for the hem of your top. His eyes widen slightly as you lift it, exposing your stomach. He turns around before it gets above your chest.
Jack’s meant to be a strong man, but the sight of your bare skin—skin that’s new to him—makes his heart stutter. Makes him weak.
“I have a spare toothbrush in the bathroom,” you tell him, prompting him to turn back around to find you now changed. “And I have some sweatpants if you want to change. They might not fit you, but-”
“I’m alright,” he says. Really, he’s thinking similarly to you. Thinking about a world where his toothbrush lives beside yours and he’s got a spare change of clothes here already.
And when you settle into bed after brushing your teeth, Jack’s prosthetic leaning against the nightstand, facing him with your cheek pressed into your pillow, that world doesn’t feel so far away.
“Thank you for coming,” you whisper, eyes fluttering sleepily.
“Thank you for calling,” he says.
You Never Asked
Prologue: Before The Pitt
Pairing: Jack Abbot x wife!Reader
Quick note before we start: Reader is a child life specialist, so she works with kids and families in the hospital to make scary medical things feel a little less scary. Also, present-day Reader will be pregnant in this fic. It’s very much soft/established-marriage pregnancy content, but if pregnancy fics aren’t your thing, totally okay to skip this one. Protect your peace, besties.
Summary: Years before PTMC, before night shift, before anyone would mistake your marriage for a new crush, Jack Abbot met you in a military hospital hallway outside room 417. He was tired of being treated like something breakable. You were the first person all day who didn’t.
Warnings: references to limb loss/prosthetics appointment, military hospital setting, injury recovery, emotional vulnerability, Jack being deeply allergic to pity, child scared to see an injured parent, soft meet-cute energy
Author’s Note: Welcome to You Never Asked, aka the secretly-married Jack Abbot fic my brain latched onto and refused to let go of. This prologue starts before PTMC, before the workplace chaos, before everyone else is hilariously late to the truth. It’s the beginning of Jack and Reader: a military hospital hallway, a stuffed rabbit, a child life specialist who sees too much, and Jack trying very hard to pretend he is not immediately interested. This one is softer and quieter, but the present-day chapters will bring the secret marriage, shift-change overlap, Robby knowing everything because of course he does, and Jack being absolutely normal about his pregnant wife. Which is to say: not normal at all.
Xoxo, Del
Prologue: Before The Pitt
Jack Abbot hated these appointments.
He hated the waiting room. He hated the clipboard. He hated the fluorescent lights and the cheerful laminated signs reminding him to ask questions, as if he had ever needed encouragement to interrogate a medical professional doing something inefficient near his body.
Mostly, he hated the way appointments made him feel like a thing being adjusted.
A socket.
A gait.
A residual limb.
A pain scale.
Useful words. Clinical words. Words he understood perfectly and still resented.
By the time he left prosthetics, his jaw ached from clenching it.
The new fit was better. That was the irritating part. The adjustment had helped. His stride felt cleaner, less pull through his hip, less pressure where the skin had been threatening to break down.
He should have been pleased.
Instead, he stood in the hallway of the military hospital with his discharge papers folded in one hand and the particular fury of a man who had gotten what he needed and still hated needing it.
He was supposed to go home.
Instead, he went up two floors to visit Miller.
Then Torres.
Then maybe Kline, if Kline wasn’t asleep or pretending to be asleep to avoid talking to people.
Jack told himself it was because they were his people. Because visiting was practical. Because nobody in recovery needed another civilian standing at their bedside making sad eyes and saying thank you for your service, like grief was customer service.
It was not because the hospital was easier when he had a reason to stay inside it.
It was not because outside the building, everyone looked too long or too quickly away.
Inside, at least, people had the decency to be clinical about it.
Usually.
Outside, there were softer voices. Averted eyes. Too much gratitude. Too much careful space. Men who had once shoulder-checked him in doorways now moved around him like he was made of something breakable. Women at grocery stores looked at him like he had carried tragedy home in his hands and might drop it if startled.
Jack did not want to be pitied.
He did not want to be inspirational.
He did not want someone else’s discomfort dressed up as kindness and handed to him like a casserole.
He wanted his body to be his body without the whole world acting like it had become a public service announcement.
He turned the corner toward the rehab wing and stopped.
A little girl was sitting on the floor outside room 417.
She couldn’t have been older than seven. Maybe eight. Her hair was in two uneven braids, one already half coming loose, and she had a stuffed rabbit clutched so tightly against her chest that one of its ears had folded over its face.
You sat cross-legged beside her.
That was the first thing Jack noticed.
Not the badge. Not the child life kit open on the floor near your knee. Not the laminated cards spread between you with pictures of IV poles, monitors, oxygen tubing, and bandages.
You.
Soft scrubs. Cardigan sleeves pushed to your elbows. Hair slipping loose near your cheek. Warm eyes focused completely on the little girl beside you, like the hallway could fill with officers, alarms, doctors, ghosts, and you would still make sure that child had somewhere safe to look.
Jack noticed that you were beautiful.
It hit him plainly, almost inconveniently.
Then you started talking, and the beauty became the least interesting thing about you.
“Your dad might look a little different than he did the last time you saw him,” you said gently.
The little girl’s fingers tightened around the rabbit.
You noticed, but you didn’t rush to fix it.
“He has some bandages,” you continued. “And some machines near his bed. The machines are there to help the nurses and doctors take care of him. They can look scary if you don’t know what they’re for.”
The little girl looked down at one of the laminated cards. “Will he be asleep?”
“He might be,” you said.
You touched the edge of the card with one finger and turned it slightly so the little girl could see it better.
“Or he might be awake and tired,” you added. “Sometimes bodies need a lot of rest after they get hurt.”
The girl’s mouth trembled. “What if he doesn’t look like my dad?”
Something moved behind Jack’s ribs.
He should have kept walking.
He didn’t.
You leaned a little closer, your voice low enough that the whole hallway seemed to quiet around it.
“Then you can take your time,” you told her. “You don’t have to decide how you feel right away. You can look. You can ask questions. You can step back out with me if you need to.”
The little girl sniffed.
You touched the rabbit’s folded ear and smoothed it down.
“He’s still your dad,” you said. “Even if some things look different today.”
Jack looked away.
Too late.
You had already seen him.
Your eyes lifted to his, and for one strange second, Jack had the unnerving sense that you had caught more than a man standing in a hallway.
You had caught the flinch.
You did not soften your face with pity.
You did not glance down at his leg.
You did not give him the careful, wounded-veteran smile people used when they wanted him to know his existence moved them.
You just looked at him.
Then your mouth curved slightly.
“You need something?” you asked.
Jack blinked once. “No.”
You stayed seated on the floor beside the little girl. “Okay.”
Jack waited.
You tilted your head. “Then you’re hovering.”
His eyebrows lifted.
The little girl looked at him, then back at you.
“I don’t hover,” Jack said.
You nodded toward him, solemn as a judge. “What do you think?”
The little girl studied him with the ruthless honesty of children and commanding officers.
“He’s hovering,” she decided.
Your smile widened.
Jack should have hated that.
He didn’t.
“I was walking by,” he said.
You raised your brows. “You stopped.”
“People stop,” Jack said, mirroring your expression.
“Near doorways,” you replied. “Usually for a reason.”
The little girl’s rabbit drooped in her lap as she watched the exchange, her fear interrupted by curiosity.
Jack looked at you for another beat.
Most people in the hospital now handled him carefully. Not obviously. That would have been easier to despise. They did it in little ways. Softer voices. Averted eyes. Too much gratitude. Too much space.
You did none of that.
You looked at him like he was just a man who had been caught doing something mildly annoying in a hallway.
It was the first normal thing that had happened to him all day.
Maybe all month.
“I’m visiting someone,” he said.
“Ah.” You nodded. “Then you’re hovering with purpose.”
The little girl giggled.
Jack’s gaze flicked to her.
You noticed that too.
“See?” you said softly to the girl. “People can be nervous and still go into rooms.”
The child looked toward the closed door.
Jack understood then that you had not been teasing him only for sport.
You had used him.
Efficiently.
He should have minded that too.
He didn’t.
The door opened a few inches, and a nurse stepped out. Her eyes went to you first.
“He’s ready when you are,” the nurse said.
You nodded, then turned back to the little girl.
“Do you want to bring Rabbit in first,” you asked, “or should I carry him?”
The girl hesitated.
Jack stood very still.
Then she held the rabbit out to you. “You.”
“I can do that,” you said.
You took the rabbit carefully, as if it were a sacred thing and not a toy with one plastic eye scratched nearly white. Then you gathered your cards with one hand and stood.
Jack was tall enough, broad enough, and used to people adjusting around him.
You didn’t.
You rose into the space like you belonged in it, child life badge swinging from your lanyard, one hand full of laminated hospital equipment pictures, the other holding Rabbit by his soft, battered middle.
As you passed Jack, you paused.
“Try not to scare anyone else while you’re hovering with purpose,” you said.
His mouth twitched before he could stop it. “I’ll do my best.”
You gave him one last look, quick and assessing and entirely unintimidated.
“Do better than that,” you said.
Then you turned back to the little girl.
Your voice changed immediately. Not fake. Not sugary. Just warmer.
“Ready?” you asked.
The girl reached for your hand.
Jack watched her take it. He watched the way your fingers closed around hers. Not tight. Not leading. Just there.
An offered thing.
Steady enough to trust. Gentle enough not to trap.
Jack had seen plenty of people mistake softness for weakness.
This was not weak.
He could see it in the pause before you answered hard questions. In the careful breath you took before choosing the next right words. In the way you let the little girl be afraid without trying to rush her out of it.
You were not calm because none of it touched you.
You were calm because it did.
You walked the little girl into room 417.
Jack watched the door close behind you.
For a moment, the hallway seemed louder than it had before.
Monitors. Footsteps. A cart rattling somewhere near the elevators. Someone laughing too hard at the nurses’ station because hospitals made people laugh strangely when the alternative was worse.
Jack looked down at the papers in his hand.
Then he kept walking.
Miller was awake when Jack got there, which was unfortunate for both of them.
He was sitting propped against three pillows, one arm braced in a sling, bruising yellowed along the side of his face. His grin appeared the second Jack stepped through the door.
“You’re late,” Miller said.
Jack pulled the visitor chair closer with his foot. “You’re ugly.”
Miller smiled. “Doctors say it’s temporary.”
“They’re lying,” Jack replied.
Miller laughed, then winced. “Still charming. Good to know the leg didn’t take that from you.”
Jack sat.
Miller watched him for half a second too long.
Jack hated that too.
“How’d the appointment go?” Miller asked.
“Fine,” Jack said.
Miller squinted at him. “Fine as in fine, or fine as in you’re being an asshole about it?”
Jack looked at him.
Miller grinned. “Second one.”
Jack leaned back in the chair and stretched his bad leg out carefully enough that Miller’s eyes tracked the movement despite his best effort not to.
“Fit’s better,” Jack said.
Miller nodded once. “Good.”
That was why Jack liked him.
No speech. No pity. No swelling orchestral score.
Just good.
A comfortable silence settled for almost thirty seconds.
Then Jack ruined it.
“Who was the woman in the scrubs and cardigan?” Jack asked.
Miller’s grin returned slowly.
Jack immediately regretted every decision that had led him into this room.
“You’re going to have to narrow that down,” Miller said.
Jack gave him a flat look. “Outside 417. With the kid.”
“Oh,” Miller said, brightening. “The pretty one who can smell bullshit a mile away?”
Jack looked toward the door.
Miller’s grin widened. “Yeah. She got you.”
“She was preparing a kid to see her father.”
“And catching you hovering.”
“Hovering with purpose,” Jack corrected.
Miller laughed, then winced. “God, she really did get you.”
Jack looked toward the door.
Miller made a sound of deep, delighted pain. “You got called out by Child Life.”
Jack sighed. “She was working with a kid outside 417.”
“Yeah,” Miller said, softer now. “That’s Harris’s daughter.”
Jack looked back at him.
Miller’s expression shifted, humor thinning around the edges. “She’s been scared to go in. Mom’s trying, but it’s a lot.”
Jack thought of the rabbit in your hand.
“She any good?” he asked.
Miller huffed. “You saw her, didn’t you?”
That was answer enough.
Jack looked toward the hallway again.
Miller was quiet for a beat.
Then, because he was Miller, he added, “Her name’s on her badge, you know.”
“It was flipped,” Jack said.
Miller pressed his lips together. “Tragic.”
Jack gave him a flat look.
Miller smiled like a man who had found a reason to live another day.
“You want me to tell you?” Miller asked.
“No,” Jack replied immediately.
Miller stared at him for half a second. Then his grin went dangerous.
“Oh,” Miller said.
Jack narrowed his eyes. “No.”
Miller raised his hands, “I didn’t say anything.”
“You said oh.”
Miller settled deeper into his pillows. “Because there was an oh.”
Jack stood.
Miller laughed and winced again. “Careful, Abbot. She’s nice.”
Jack paused at the foot of the bed.
Miller’s smile gentled into something more knowing.
“And she’s not scared of you,” Miller said.
Jack’s fingers tightened once around the folded discharge papers.
No.
He could still hear your voice. Not gentle because you were afraid of what might break. Gentle because you knew things broke and still deserved to be touched carefully.
“No,” Jack said. “She isn’t.”
Miller watched him for another second.
Then he told Jack your name.
Jack did not ask him to repeat it.
He heard it clearly the first time.
He found you again forty minutes later near the elevators.
Jack told himself that was not why he had taken the long way out.
It was a hospital. There were only so many exits.
Technically.
You stood beside the coffee cart with your bag hooked over one shoulder, flipping through a stack of laminated cards while the line moved at the pace of federal infrastructure.
The stuffed rabbit was gone.
Returned to its owner, probably.
Jack found himself glad about that before he could decide it was a ridiculous thing to be glad about.
You looked up before he could walk past.
Your mouth curved. “Hovering again?”
Jack stopped beside you like he had meant to be there. “Leaving.”
“Near the coffee cart?” you asked.
Jack shrugged a shoulder, “Scenic route.”
Your eyes narrowed with amusement. “Through caffeine?”
Jack glanced at the menu board, then back at you. “You drink coffee?”
“Religiously,” you said.
That should not have pleased him.
It did.
Jack slid one hand into his pocket because apparently his body had decided to act casual even if the inside of his chest had become a tactical failure.
“Good,” he said.
You waited.
Jack waited too, because he was stubborn and because some doomed part of him wanted to see what you would do with silence.
You tilted your head. “Was that the whole question?”
His mouth twitched. “No.”
“Okay.” You shifted the cards against your chest. “I’m invested now.”
Jack looked at you for half a second longer than he should have.
“Have coffee with me,” he said.
Your eyebrows lifted. “That wasn’t a question.”
“No,” Jack said. “It was an invitation.”
You studied him, and for the first time all day, he did not feel assessed like a patient.
He felt assessed like a man who had walked up to a beautiful woman and made his interest known.
It was inconveniently terrifying.
You looked calm.
Jack did not trust that.
He had already seen what your calm could do.
“You always this confident?” you asked.
“When I’m right,” Jack answered.
“And you’re right about me wanting coffee with you?”
Jack let one shoulder lift. “Religiously seemed promising.”
You laughed then.
Not politely. Not because you thought he needed it.
A real laugh, warm and quick, and Jack felt it somewhere lower than his ribs.
“I didn’t say yes,” you reminded him.
Jack raised his brows, “You also didn’t say no.”
The line moved forward. You did not. Jack counted that as a victory.
“You don’t even know my name,” you said.
He did.
Miller had told him. Jack had held onto it with the grim determination of a man refusing to admit he had been handed something he wanted.
But he looked at your badge anyway.
This time, it was facing out.
Jack said your name like he had only just learned it. Like it had not been sitting in his head for the last half hour.
Your expression shifted, pleased despite yourself.
“And you are?” you asked.
“Jack,” he answered.
“Just Jack?”
“For coffee, yeah.”
You looked at him for another beat, making him stand there in it.
Making him wait.
He did not fidget.
He was proud of that.
Finally, you reached into the side pocket of your bag, pulled out a pen and a stack of Post-Its, and you wrote your number.
Jack watched you do it with an amount of attention he would later claim was unnecessary.
You handed it to him. “Coffee. Sometime.”
Jack took the Post It.
Your fingers brushed.
It was nothing.
It was not nothing.
“Sometime,” he repeated.
Your eyes flicked over him, bright and unafraid. “Try not to hover until then.”
Jack tucked the paper into his jacket pocket. “I’ll do my best.”
You started toward the elevators, then glanced back.
“Do better than that, Jack,” you said.
He stood there after you left, one hand still in his pocket, the other resting over the Post-It like it might disappear if he stopped paying attention.
For the first time all day, he did not feel like something being adjusted.
He felt like something had started.
Years later, people at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center would make a hundred wrong assumptions before they ever made the right one.
They would see you walk into the ER with your child life badge, your soft sweaters, and your calm voice, and they would see Jack Abbot look up like some part of him had known you were coming before the doors opened.
They would know you by your first name because children trusted first names faster than last ones.
They would know Jack mostly as Abbot because the ER had a way of sanding people down to the sharpest syllable.
They would not think to put the two together.
You worked days.
Jack worked nights.
Most of what anyone saw of you together happened in the seams: shift change, late consults, cafeteria overlap, the parking garage, the brief handoff spaces where one version of the hospital exhaled and another one started breathing.
They would see you pass him in the hall and fix his twisted ID badge without breaking your sentence.
They would see Jack let you.
They would think, " Oh.”
Interesting.
Robby would think, finally.
They would think it was new.
They would think it was a crush.
They would think he was learning how to be soft around you.
They would not know about room 417.
They would not know about Rabbit.
They would not know that the first time Jack saw you, he had been standing in a military hospital hallway with his leg aching and his pride worse, pretending he was not hovering.
They would not know you had looked at him and seen a man instead of a wound.
They would not know that one day, he would marry you.
That one day, years after that hallway, you would stand beside him with a ring on your finger and his son tucked beneath your ribs, a name folded between the two of you like a secret.
That Robby would know.
That everyone else would be late.
They would only know what they saw.
Jack watching you from across the ER.
You rolling your eyes when he hovered.
And the thing between you looking so much like the beginning of love that no one thought to ask if it had already survived years of it.
@nosebeers, @moonz33, @littlewolfbird, @tubby23, @gandalfthegoatsblog, @melslavalampapp, @marauvderss, @supernaturalcat7,@jennataurus, @itwas-maroon16 , @nizzasspot, @meadow0434, @chezze-its, @callmefatherr, @amacphet, @imabapical, @offsavingtheworld, @ifyoubewooedingoodtime, @justreadinghere7, @rabbotseatcarrots, @vicky066, @manly-man-whore, @rosiepoise88, @alittlerayof-pitchblack,@woodxtock, @mafercita101, @kiatjuddae, @lacy1986, @cajunebugg76, @kittenmittensssworld, @generation-zero, @taniamiller, @countryandsweetbabygirl, @fantasyreader130, @thehockeynerd30 @angelryex, @michasia24, @itzpixiebabe
beautiful omg
oh to get pulled over for speeding by your husband sammy <3
shrugging your shoulders and forming a wince when you see the officer sammy bryant rolling up to your window. eyes squinted shut a bit at "okaaaay, license and registration."
when he finally gets a good look at you, he's cooing "baby... what the fuck? this is a 30, you were doing 45. what's the rush princess? whatsa matter?"
you're pleased to find out that crying does, indeed, still get you out of a ticket. you're hyperventilating as sammy watches, "shh, shhh okay, okay honey c'mon outta the car."
he opens the door for you, helping you stand up and hugging you, a gentle rock back n forth as he tuts into your hair "gotta be careful baby, you're precious cargo, you know that? huh?" sammy holds you for a few more minutes, big soothing hand running down your back to help even your breaths. you never did like getting in trouble, and it's even worse when you disappoint him.
after a few minutes and a call over the radio, sammy pulls back with thumbs rubbing at your arms. he meets your eye level, putting on that soft dominant voice you love so much, "now get your pretty lil ass back in the car, drive home- slowly now, okay? and go lay down for a little, you're too worked up sweetheart. i'll be home soon, kay? okay baby? alright.. g'head" tapping your butt as you get back in the car, closing the door for you on the way.
when you pull away he smiles at you, making the "i'm watching you" signal with his pointer and middle finger and flashing you his million-dollar, crooked, charming smile.
"mom... can you please pick me up?" 🍓
pairing: strawberry shortcake x jack abbot. first part.
summary: after matching with your attending on tinder, you now have to spend an entire shift trying to avoid him. everything is going (almost) well until you get trapped in an elevator with him.
tags: fluff, joy is part of the night shift, langdon kinda too, er setting, workplace romance, age gap, coworkers to lovers, protective jack abbot, she falls first, he falls harder.
authors note: this is short and silly I KNOW. i just wanted to portray abbot the way I perceive him after that scene (in the gif). ALSO thank you so much for the reblogs and for asking to be added to the tag list. i never thought that was possible!! don't forget to reblog if you enjoyed it, please. 🙏🏻
@melissa66orion @rathatosy
The doors to the ER slid open once again, but this time you wished you could've stayed home.
You'd barely slept. Four hours at most, and ever since you woke up, you hadn't been able to think about anything except the mistake you made with your attending. You wondered if he'd slept well, probably he was sitting at home right now drinking coffee like nothing happened.
And here you were.
Technically your shift didn't start for another two hours, but the anxiety had dragged you back into the pitt anyway, which was funny because ten minutes ago you were seriously considering giving up and starting a new life somewhere in Alaska.
Your stomach twisted again just thinking about having to see him today.
Everything seemed calmer than usual, which honestly felt suspicious. You didn't even want to think too hard about it before you jinxed it. At this point you were convinced you personally carried bad luck around with you.
You nervously adjusted the sleeves of your oversized pink hoodie while scanning the station looking for the girls, and Whitaker.
It wasn't difficult to find Trinity. She was sitting beside Whitaker, aggressively stabbing at the computer keyboard before dramatically letting her head fall onto it. She quickly lifted her head again when Dennis touched her shoulder and pointed toward you with his head.
The second she saw you, her eyebrows pulled together in confusion.
"Why are you here?"
Not even a hello.
"What room is free?" You asked immediately.
"Okay… not even a coffee first?" Whitaker joked.
"This is serious."
Something in your expression must've looked genuinely unstable because Whitaker's smile disappeared almost instantly.
Both of them stood up immediately and started walking through the hallway looking for an empty room. Luckily you nearly ran straight into Victoria on the way there. She gave you a confused look but smiled anyway, though the second she noticed Trinity and Whitaker walking in front of you like bodyguards, she silently followed behind.
The moment they found an empty trauma room, they closed the door behind you. The silence didn't last long, but all you could hear was your own heartbeat while trying to figure out how to even begin explaining what happened.
"Are you dating Abbot?" Whitaker asked slowly, crossing his arms.
You stared at him with a deeply what the fuck expression before dramatically looking between all three of them and pacing once across the room. "This MUST stay here."
"Sure." Trinity answered casually.
"I mean it." You took a deep breath, trying to find the exact words. "I matched with Abbot on Tinder." You said it quietly, but loud enough for everyone to hear.
None of them spoke. Whitaker's jaw dropped slightly, Trinity closed her eyes like she was physically trying to process the information, while Victoria made a noise so high pitched it sounded almost dangerous.
"No you didn't." Santos whispered.
"YES I DID." A nervous laugh escaped you the second you heard yourself say it out loud. "It was an accident tho."
"Oh my GOD." Javadi grabbed your shoulders violently. "OH MY GOD."
Meanwhile Trinity was still staring at you suspiciously. "How is that an accident?"
"My phone slipped." You admitted embarrassed, rubbing your forehead while remembering the exact moment it happened.
"Wait, hold on." Santos started pacing too now. "So you swiped right and the match appeared immediately?"
"...Yes?"
Trinity slowly nodded while Javadi continued looking excited like she was personally watching the greatest romantic comedy of her life unfold in front of her. Meanwhile all you wanted was for somebody to tell you how you were supposed to continue existing after this.
"That wasn't even all of it... He texted me immediately after." You pulled your phone out and handed it to them.
Santos grabbed it instantly, holding it where all three of them could see the screen at once. While she scrolled through the messages, the only thing you could focus on were their reactions.
"No, because this is actually insane." Trinity finally said while handing the phone back.
You buried your face into your hands, already regretting everything that happened this morning.
Because it was insane.
Even though he'd always taken care of you, you'd never let yourself believe it could mean something else. That was exactly why having a crush on him always felt stupid and childish. Sure, he made your shifts better. Sure, your stomach flipped every time he looked at you too long. But it had always stayed harmless inside your own head.
Jack Abbot was supposed to stay safely inside your brain as your painfully attractive work crush. He was not supposed to flirt back, he was definitely not supposed to remember your favorite snacks, ask if you'd slept, or look at you like you personally softened something inside him every single shift.
"Why are we acting like this is a funeral?" Javadi asked, smiling. "He likes you. That's a good thing."
Her smile slowly disappeared when she noticed you still looked seconds away from cardiac arrest.
Honestly, you still couldn't process any of it correctly, and now you knew it was only a matter of hours before you had to see him again.
"Oh my god." You suddenly stopped pacing. "What if I say I feel sick and then pretend to faint, and you say you're coming with me so we can both clock out early?"
"That would be... amazing." Trinity admitted. "But no."
You genuinely considered throwing yourself through the nearest window. Or maybe walking outside and waiting in the ambulance bay long enough for somebody to accidentally hit you. But before you could answer, or even move, you heard Whitaker quietly go "Oh" then Dana saying hello to someone outside.
You could've died right there because the second you turned around, you saw Jack Abbot walking toward the nurses station. Coffee in one hand and backpack hanging from his shoulder, looking unfairly attractive for somebody who hadn't even finished his twelve hours of rest.
Maybe he was feeling the same way you were.
And almost like he sensed it, his eyes lifted immediately toward the trauma room. Toward you.
You were still wearing the bright pink hoodie that was impossible to miss but out of everything happening around him, you still couldn't believe the very first thing he noticed was you.
Abbot's expression shifted slightly with confusion when he noticed all four of you suspiciously crowded inside the trauma room. One eyebrow lifted with visible amusement before the corner of his mouth pulled into a small grin. It was subtle but you knew him well enough to know he wasn't stupid.
Your eyes followed him automatically as he got closer, and suddenly you completely forgot how breathing worked. Once he passed by the room, he lightly tapped two fingers against the trauma room window in greeting without even slowing down. Then he kept walking toward the lockers like absolutely nothing had happened.
The second he disappeared down the hallway, Victoria's mouth dropped open.
"This is the worst day of my life." You whispered weakly, still staring at the hallway where Abbot had disappeared.
"And your shift hasn't even started yet." Trinity replied while walking out of the room.
Not helping at all.
This was it now. There was no avoiding it anymore.
If luck was somehow still slightly on your side (which you seriously doubted) maybe this was just the calm before the storm. Maybe suddenly the ER would completely explode with emergencies and you'd spend the next twelve hours separated on opposite sides of the hospital. Maybe you'd get stuck in triage all shift and never have to leave it. But the second you clocked in, it felt like Jack Abbot was suddenly everywhere.
Every hallway, the bay, even somehow leaving the bathroom exactly when you were walking past it.
Maybe this had always happened and you'd just never noticed before. But now that you knew there was tension between you, real tension and not platonic, everything felt different. Worse.
And to make it even more unbearable, he clearly enjoyed it.
Every chance he got, he somehow ended up beside you. Like he was curious to see how nervous he could make you before you completely short circuited.
The first time happened barely twenty minutes later. You were restocking supplies into the tiny cabinet in triage, trying desperately to think about literally anything except him, when someone suddenly stepped beside you.
"You came in early."
The second you heard his voice, your entire body jumped, making a few gauze packets fall straight onto the floor. God, are you serious?
You crouched immediately to grab them while he casually leaned against the litter beside you, coffee still in hand, looking entirely too relaxed for somebody currently ruining your nervous system.
His eyes never left you. That was the problem with Jack Abbot, he looked at people too confidently, like he already knew exactly what effect he had on them and unfortunately for you, he was right.
You could feel his gaze following every movement while you picked up the gauze, and something about seeing him standing over you like that made heat crawl embarrassingly fast up your neck, making you quickly shook your head, trying to physically force the thoughts away before they got worse.
You didn't exactly have experience with this kind of thing. Honestly, you barely had experience with men at all. Most of your past attempts at flirting usually ended with you avoiding eye contact until the other person gave up and none of those guys had ever looked like that. None of them had been older either, which somehow made this whole thing feel even more dangerous.
"Are you okay?" He asked before taking another slow sip of coffee.
"Mhm."
"You sure, Shortcake?" One of his eyebrows lifted slightly.
Your head snapped toward him instantly at the nickname, and that little grin on his face widened just enough for you to realize that he knew exactly what he was doing. You stood up quickly nearly smashing your head directly into the metal shelf hanging from the wall but before you could hit it, Abbot's hand moved instantly above your head, stopping you from colliding with the sharp edge.
The gesture was small, almost automatic. Which somehow made it worse. He'd always been like that, like protecting you came naturally to him.
"Careful." He said softly.
Your eyes lifted toward him for half a second too long and the moment they met his, something in his expression shifted almost invisibly. Like he was watching every single nervous reaction cross your face in real time.
"Oh my god." You whispered under your breath before immediately escaping the room and leaving him standing there alone.
Within the next two hours, the entire ER somehow realized something was deeply wrong with you.
You dropped your pens constantly. Forgot to give the patients their stickers. Nearly handed someone the wrong chart. At some point you stress ate every single candy left in your pocket without even noticing.
"You dropped the blood pressure cuff three times." Shen whispered while walking beside you. "Is everything okay?"
"I'm just tired."
"Abbot said you came in early."
You stopped walking so abruptly Shen almost bumped into you. "I need to quit."
"You need a psychiatric."
Ellis suddenly appeared beside both of you like she'd materialized out of thin air. "What's wrong with the boss today?" She asked casually.
Shen shrugged, clearly not understanding what she meant, while you immediately kept walking before either of them could continue the conversation.
It was weird. Because it genuinely felt like something had suddenly snapped into place overnight. Like you'd become painfully aware of the invisible string that had apparently always existed between you and Jack Abbot.
And the worst part? Now that you knew it, you couldn't stop noticing it. Especially because he clearly wasn't helping.
If anything, he kept finding excuses to stay close to you. Whenever he handed you the tablet, his fingers brushed yours briefly before pulling away. Whenever he squeezed past you in crowded hallways, his hand would settle lightly against your back for just a second longer than necessary, guiding you forward while acting completely casual about it.
And every single time you looked at him, he was already looking at you first.
The hours dragged by painfully slow, each one bringing you closer to finally going home and sleep for ten consecutive years.
At least you were doing a decent job avoiding him until around five in the morning. That was when Lena sent both of you upstairs to pediatrics to deal with some transfer issue.
The second you heard your name attached to his, a long exhausted sigh escaped your body before you could stop it.
Jack appeared beside you a moment later, adjusting the stethoscope. Of course he looked good doing that too.
The two of you walked toward the elevators together in silence. Oddly enough, it wasn't awkward. Maybe both of you were too exhausted at this point to put actual energy into whatever this thing was becoming. Still, even without looking directly at him, you could feel him behind you constantly.
The elevator dinged open.
Jack stepped aside slightly and gestured for you to enter first with one lazy movement of his hand, just enough to make your stomach flip embarrassingly fast.
You stepped inside while he followed right behind you a second later, and the moment the elevator doors slid shut, your heart immediately started beating harder.
Suddenly you were very aware of the situation you were currently trapped in.
Small elevator. Jack Abbot standing directly beside you.
You focused aggressively on the glowing floor numbers above the doors instead of the man next to you, trying to force your brain to think about literally anything else.
The silence stretched for a few seconds. From the corner of your eye, you saw him open his mouth once like he was about to say something before stopping himself.
"Why are you avoiding me?" He finally asked, turning his head toward you.
"I'm not."
"You are." You could hear the grin in his voice before you even looked at him.
"I'm just tired."
"You can't even look at me." He said with a quiet laugh. Which unfortunately was true. "Did I do something wrong?"
"I did something wrong."
"You did?" He asked confused.
"You're my attending."
"Is that so?" He said, tilting his head. "I swiped right first, so..."
The elevator suddenly felt ten degrees hotter. You stared even harder at the floor numbers, silently begging for the doors to open already.
Jack leaned casually against the elevator wall beside you, arms crossed loosely now. Meanwhile you were one bad heartbeat away from passing out.
"Don't blame yourself." He said softly.
And against your better judgment, you finally looked at him properly. Huge mistake. Because he was already watching you with that same warm, entertained expression from earlier. Like he could practically see how flustered you were becoming and didn't mind it one bit. Maybe even liked it and somehow that made your entire face burn hotter.
You weren't used to this. You weren't used to men who flirted this confidently. While Jack Abbot looked at you like he already knew exactly what would happen if he got any closer.
The elevator suddenly jerked violently, both of you stumbled slightly before everything stopped completely. The lights flickered once and then the elevator went still.
Jack slowly looked up toward the ceiling and your stomach dropped instantly.
For a second, neither of you moved.
The soft hum of the emergency lights filled the elevator while your own heartbeat pounded so loudly you were convinced he could hear it too.
Nope. Absolutely not. You refused to get trapped inside a tiny elevator with Jack looking like that.
"This is actually my personal hell." You whispered, staring at the closed doors.
"You're being dramatic." A quiet laugh left him.
"I'm trapped in a metal box with my attending after accidentally matching with him on Tinder. I think I'm reacting appropriately."
That made him smile properly this time. You hated how much that worked on you.
He pushed himself off the elevator wall and reached toward the emergency panel, pressing the call button.
"Maintenance will reset it in a minute." He said casually.
Of course he sounded relaxed. Meanwhile you felt like your nervous system was slowly shutting down.
You crossed your arms tightly over your chest, trying to ignore how small the elevator suddenly felt. Or how good he smelled standing this close. Your eyes squeezed shut for a second and, for some reason, your brain immediately thought about that Trisha Paytas picture where she's choking herself.
That was literally you at that moment.
"You okay, Shortcake?" He asked again, quieter this time.
Jack was already looking at you again, like he was trying to read every reaction on your face until he finally got the truth out of you.
"Please stop calling me that."
"Why?" One side of his mouth lifted slightly. "You like it."
"I do not like it."
"Are you sure?" His voice dropped softer. "Every time I say it, I see something in your eyes."
You looked away immediately before he noticed the effect he was having on you.
Unfortunately for you, he definitely noticed.
His laugh slipped out again, low and tired and way too attractive for five in the morning.
Jack stepped a little closer then. Not enough to make you uncomfortable, but enough for your entire body to immediately become aware of it.
"You know." He said lightly. "Langdon told me you love it when I call you that."
"He told you that?" Your eyes snapped toward him in horror.
That cocky expression appeared again instantly, and the corner of his mouth twitched when he realized he got exactly the reaction he wanted from you.
You genuinely wanted the elevator to crush you alive.
He looked way too pleased with himself now, arms crossed too while watching you completely unravel in front of him. And the worst part was that your nervousness seemed genuinely cute to him. He clearly wasn't used to girls reacting like this around him. Most women probably flirted back confidently, meanwhile you could barely maintain basic eye contact.
"I hate you." You muttered weakly.
"No you don't."
The confidence in his voice should've annoyed you. Instead it made heat spread through places it absolutely shouldn't.
The elevator stayed silent around both of you for another moment. Neither of you looked away this time.
Your brain kept screaming at you to say something normal. Something professional. Anything.
But then his eyes dropped to your mouth. And the second you realized you were looking at his lips too, the tension inside the elevator shifted so hard it almost felt physical.
Jack's expression softened slightly, like he was thinking about it too now. About how close he was standing and the fact that there was nobody else around.
Your stomach twisted nervously when his gaze slowly lifted back to yours again, like he was silently trying to figure out if you wanted this as much as he did.
And for one horrible second, you genuinely thought he was about to kiss you.
Both of you breathing heavier now, like the air inside the elevator had suddenly disappeared. Your pulse was probably completely tachycardic at this point, which honestly felt embarrassing considering all he was doing was looking at you.
Then he took another small step closer.
Your breath caught instantly.
With his head tilted slightly down now, he searched for your eyes again before his gaze dropped back to your lips for half a second. And without even realizing it, you nervously licked your own lips.
The effect that had on him was immediate.
You stopped hearing everything around you for a moment. There was only him. Until the elevator doors suddenly slammed open with a loud mechanical ding.
Both of you pulled apart slowly, almost reluctantly, like it took actual effort to force distance back between you.
Joy and Shen stood outside the elevator staring at both of you in confusion.
"Oh, okay." Joy said slowly.
You immediately walked out so fast it almost counted as fleeing. Meanwhile behind you, Jack cleared his throat once before casually following after you like absolutely nothing had happened at all.
Which honestly only made the tension worse.
I have a request for Jack abbot, so him and the reader are a couple and the only people that know are robby and Dana (robby is readers brother). Reader is in a car accident Dana is first to find out and tells people to keep jack and robby out they only find out when paramedic gives them the readers bracelet or something. Had this one in my head for a while also I love your fics :).
💞Tags/Warnings💞: slight age gap relationship, secret workplace relationship, hurt/comfort, ( slight ) angst, Worried!Jack Abbot, OlderBrother!Robby
💞Plot💞: At one point or another in their careers, both Robby and Abbot have had to tell a patient’s loved ones to hang in there and let the doctors do their work. But when Y/N is involved in a car crash, they’ll find it doesn’t feel good being on the other side of those words..
💞Characters💞: Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader
💞Title💞: Waiting Room
💞A/N💞: Thank you sm! I really hope you like it!!
((Requests are ALWAYS open))
Masterlist
For as long as Y/N Robinavitch could remember, she was constantly behind her brother.
Most times it was literal. Sometimes though… It was a nagging feeling she’d get in the deepest parts of her chest.
Being raised by their strict, single, ER Nurse of a grandmother in downtown Pittsburgh wasn’t as easy as it sounded. And Robby heard the phrase ‘take your sister with you!’ more times than he’d like. Y/N would always stand somewhat behind their grandmother, smiling hopefully. Hoping this time he wouldn’t roll his eyes or argue back.
Or make her walk ahead of him and his friends.
She couldn’t remember when he started acting nice to her. But at a certain point in her late teen years and Robby’s early 20s, he began to actually like spending time with his baby sister.
He never really knew how much he inspired her to be better. To grow from where they came from. And so, even in her grown age.. Even with all her accomplishments..
Y/N was always behind her brother.
And not many people saw her there. His opposing frame hid her most of the time. But one man did.
Jack Abbot.
It had been a simple moment. One that Y/N wondered if Jack even remembered. Or even realized how significant it was.
One morning, she’d been at her desk after being told something by Robby. He’d walked over to check on her and then leaned in close to her ear. ‘Don’t listen to Robby. You’re doing. Fucking. Amazing..’
Those words.
They were casual enough to any outsider, but the look he’d given her afterwards, it had caused a blush to boil up to the surface. From then on, Y/N had a crush.
This wasn’t her first time having a crush on one of Robby’s friends. But this was the first time one of Robby’s friends made it clear they had a crush on her too. Jack found himself remembering the small things. He trained himself at being fluent over understanding the looks on her face.
Lips pressed tight? She’s thinking hard.
What does she need? Someone to listen to her idea.
Slight pout? She’s feeling drained.
What does she need? Coffee. Specifically from the deli a block away from the hospital because their coffee is stronger than the hospital’s.
Squeezing her eyes? She’s trying not to cry.
What does she need? Not you asking her what’s wrong. She’ll just say she’s okay. She’s Robby’s little sister after all. No, just get her something that’ll make her smile. Her favorite snack. Set it on her desk when she’s not looking. She’ll accept it only then.
Jack became an expert at reading Y/N like a book. And there were always new pages to explore. And then one night, drunk in the park from a terrible shift, Y/N made her move. The kiss ignited Jack. But he had to cut it short, much to her dismay. It had made him chuckle a bit. ‘If I’m gonna kiss you.. I’m gonna do it the right way..’
The very next day, Jack sat with Robby on the roof. And told him everything. Flat out. It wasn’t easy. They did fight. But once Robby let himself listen… He realized just how much Jack cared for her.
See… Life is too short. Being in this line of work, you get that. Robby could die tomorrow. He was the only family Y/N had left. And… It brought him some peace to know that even if it was his time to go… Y/N would still have someone. She’d have Jack.
Robby never thought about it the other way around though. He never considered that maybe one day… He’d lose the only family he had left..
And Y/N was guilty of this too.
Until she watched the red and black Subaru Outback run a red light and head straight for her…
*
*
*
“Where’s your better half?” Robby asks the minute Jack steps off the elevator. Jack slows his footing, eyeing Robby with humor clear on his face.
“First of all.. Ouch.” Jack taunts. “Secondly,” He continues as he walks over to his friend. “What are you talking about? She’s officially back on day shift..” He says to jog Robby’s memory. Robby frowns at that. If that was the case.. Y/N was late. Really late.
The red phone at the nurse’s station rings as Robby checks his phone. Usually there’d be a string of texts from her, apologizing and explaining why she’s running late.
But.. Nothing.
In fact, their last text thread had been from last night. Y/N had asked if Robby knew why Jack was acting so odd lately. Robby tried to push out the image of the ring his friend had shown him earlier this month, instead texting back ‘You know Jack. Could be anything..’
The two had ended their conversation with a goodnight and then an ‘I love you’ from Y/N’s side which Robby had replied to with a playful thumbs up emoji. Y/N had sent back a thumbs down, her last text being ‘You never say it back!’
Robby pockets his phone as Jack checks his. “I’m sure she’s okay. Uh… She left real early this morning. Something about uh… Your grandmother’s grave? I think? I think she was gonna go visit her..” Jack says softly. Robby frowns softly. She only went to visit their grandmother when she needed to rant about something. Probably about Jack acting weird lately.
“Sweet Jesus…” Dana breathes out as she gets the description of the two individuals coming in from a bad car accident just seven blocks away from the hospital. “Fuck.” She mutters as her eyes instantly move to the two men of Y/N’s life. Taking a deep breath, she gets off the phone with paramedics and rubs her forehead.
“Okay!” She finally shouts, needing all eyes on her. “We’ve got two incoming. Car accident. One code blue. One code green but intoxicated…” She shouts.
“You and me?” Jack asks Robby as he nods. Dana quickly walks over to them. “You two get the code green.” She orders. The two men frown at that. “Mel! Langdon! Code Blue incoming. Prep.” She orders them. They nod and run off to get ready.
“Shouldn’t we handle-“ Dana cuts Robby off.
“Shouldn’t you listen to me? Go. Prep.” She says to them, hoping they’d miss seeing Y/N get rolled in. They shake it off and go to get ready. Dana heads outside to the ambulance bay and paces a bit as the first ambulance pulls up.
“Male. 37. You can smell the drinks from here.” A female paramedic says as they jump out of the van and head to the back. Dana tries to keep the anger off her face.
Everyone deserves medical treatment…
Robby and Jack come rushing over, guiding the paramedics on where to go from here. The guy keeps slurring things like ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘Came out of nowhere’ as they wheel him to an operating room.
Ambulance two pulls up and Dana can’t look, but she owes it to Y/N. “Female. (your age). Unresponsive on scene…” A male paramedic says as Mel and Langdon come rushing out but freeze as they see who it is.
“Not a fucking word to Robby or Jack. You hear?” Dana mutters to both shocked doctors as they quickly nod, knowing time is too precious to hesitate. “Go! Work!” Dana orders. They guide the paramedics to another operating room, focusing on Y/N as if she was just another patient.
But she was so much more…
Jack and Robby pull in Santos to help out. The guy’s got two broken ribs, dislocated shoulder, and a laceration to his spleen from the seatbelt and impact. They work to stabilize him, and only when they’re sure he’s okay enough to head up to the OR, do they leave him in the hands of Santos and now Javadi.
The two men step out into the hallway and with a heavy sigh, Robby checks his phone again. Still nothing. Dana watches from behind the nurse’s station as Jack tries calling her phone finally. The ringtone comes from a paramedic’s back pocket.
It’s like time stands still.
Robby has heard that phrase before from people. He’s never questioned what that means exactly. He just always assumed it felt how it sounded.
But here’s how it feels..
Everything around you… Is barely moving now. You are barely breathing now. Hell, you don’t even know when your last breath was. But you think you can go longer.
No breathing.
If you don’t breathe, it won’t hurt. He doesn’t remember the paramedic handing over Y/N’s phone. He doesn’t remember taking it. He doesn’t remember walking over to the other operation room.
He’s on the outside looking in for the first time in his career. And he doesn’t like this position. He doesn’t like the view. Jack and Dana try to stop him. He can’t say how he slipped away from them. He’s moving in slow motion. Or at least that’s how it feels. He hears nothing but a loud ringing in his ears as he enters the room.
Have you ever watched a scary movie?
Maybe you’re in the audience. Watching on the big screen as a figure stands in the middle of a room with a blanket over them. The main character inches closer.
The tension builds.
Maybe your shoulders tense as you mumble a quiet ‘no’. And then the sheet is yanked back. And you feel a jolt through your heart and travel down your body. That was Robby.
Watching his actions. Watching his body on autopilot as he finally pulled the blanket back and saw who was being worked on.
His baby sister..
“No!”
The word leaves a mouth, but it’s not Robby’s. It’s Jack’s. He grips Robby, standing in front of him to hold him back and only then does reality seep back in to Robby’s head. He’s crying.
When did he start crying?!
It’s like he’s broken through the surface again, gasping without meaning to.
Fuck, it hurts.
Jack holds him back, pushing him out of the operating room. He still had enough sanity to know Y/N needed to be worked on. And him or Robby in that room would do more harm than good.
“You two gotta go. You can’t be here.” Dana says as Jack gets Robby out of the room and back into the hallway. Robby feels like the whole ED is spinning. And then his eyes land on the operation room where their Code Green was still in. Laid out comfortably while he waited for his turn in the OR.
“Son of a bit-“ Dana cuts Robby off.
“Hey! Hey..” She gets in his way. “That won’t help a thing. I need you to go have a seat. And let the doctors do their job..” She says.
It’s like a blow to the gut.
Robby clenches his jaw at those words. Words that have left his mouth in the past with ease. What a cruel thing to hear now..
He slowly gives in when Dr. Al-Hashimi walks closer to lead him away. Jack’s feet stay rooted though. It’s as if now that he’s not holding Robby back, he actually has to face the reality too. That on that operating table is the love of his life…
“Jack. You should go too..” Dana whispers as she touches his shoulder. He shakes his head fast, eyes welling up. It’s like a rope is tightening around his neck.
“No..” He quietly whispers, practically mouthing it. “Not her…” He manages to wheeze out. He slowly looks at Dana, breaking her heart. “It’s not her..” He mutters. If he says it enough times it’ll be true.
That’s not his Y/N. It can’t be.
“Go sit down..” Dana tries again as he lets her lead him away from the operating room and towards the break room instead.
*
*
*
Robby can’t sit down. And Jack can’t stand up.
The irony of it, really.
Two of the most capable doctors of this Pitt, completely at the mercy of fate.
And both men know.. Fate can be cruel…
The break room door opens and Mel rushes in first. She freezes though when she sees what Jack is staring at in silent mournfulness. She’s still wearing her bloody scrubs. “Oh. Uh…” She quickly yanks at the white coverup and sheepishly hands it over to an awaiting Langdon. She then looks back at Jack and Robby.
“She’s a fighter.” She begins with a soft nod to assure them. Jack shuts his eyes. It feels like he’s been plunged into an ice bath. He breathes shakily as Robby rubs his sweaty face, also allowing those three words a moment to breathe in the silence.
“She pulled through real well.” Langdon says, voice a bit rough with emotion. Like he could just imagine the panic and pain of today for these two men. “Obvious signs of a concussion though. Slight whiplash of the neck, fractures of one rib, and.. The most concerning thing is a bruised lung, but…-“ Jack cuts Langdon off.
“Where is she?” He asks. He just wanted to see her. See her with his own two eyes.
“She awake?” Robby asks.
“She might be? She got moved upstairs…” Mel says softly as she fidgets a bit, watching both men with a deep frown.
They two rush out of the room before anymore can be said. Up to the eight floor they go. With heavy arms, they step off the elevator. And from the look the girl who’s running the nurse’s station up there gives them, it’s clear word has spread on who Y/N is..
She nods towards a room without having to be asked and Jack is faster than Robby. He wants to push past him though. Wants to get to Y/N first.. But he knows deep down Jack can only act strong for so long. He watches from outside the room as Jack drops to his knees by Y/N’s bed, grabbing her hand ever so softly so he can hold it to his cheek. He turns his back to give his friend this moment…
*
*
*
No one bothers Jack.
No one brings up how odd it is that he has yet to leave Y/N’s side.
No one brings up how odd it is that Robby came back down to work instead.
No one… Except for Princess, that is.
Robby sits at his desk trying to focus on the task at hand when he hears her and Perlah walking over to the nurse’s station together. “I’m telling you. I think they’re dating. 10 bucks on it..” Princess says.
“You really think that?” Perlah asks in surprise.
“Why else is he up there?” Princess raises an eyebrow back. “It’s obvious..” She shrugs. Robby has heard enough.
With a low huff, Robby gets up from his desk and walks over to the two women as they stand by the nurse’s station. “I didn’t know Dr. Y/N’s personal life was apart of your job description, ladies.” He states sharply as he watches the nurses. Princess stiffens a bit, as if she didn’t expect him to be here.
“I… Am so sorry, Dr. Robby..” She mumbles as he eyes both women.
“Why don’t we focus on work.” He suggests shortly before walking past. Dana watches the interaction from afar, sighing to herself.
Robby knew sitting in that room, watching Y/N in that bed, wouldn’t help him in any way.
He needed to keep moving.
He needed to keep busy.
So he worked.
He worked until 7:40pm or so. He kept his head down as he did, until he’s practically shoved out of the ED by Shen who had heard everything from day shift.
Stepping off the elevator, he nods politely to the night nurse at the nurse’s station. He moves over to Y/N’s room pausing as he sees Jack stroke her face and push back her hair to tenderly kiss her forehead. Y/N is awake and the two seem to be having a moment. He averts his eyes to give them some privacy before he finally taps on the glass door to make himself known.
Jack looks over and so does Y/N. She smiles a bit, some cuts on her face and a bruise on her left shoulder, but she smiles.
And Robby feels settled..
She slowly lifts her left hand with a slight wince, showing off the ring on her finger. Robby keeps his emotions down enough to whisper a soft ‘congratulations’ to them both. Jack eyes the siblings. “I… Uh… I’m gonna get you more pillows..” He says. Y/N gently touches his cheek before letting him go.
Robby watches Jack leave before looking back at his sister. “No more driving for you.” He says simply. She goes to chuckle and then winces, coughing as she touches her chest. She grabs a notepad on her bed tray.
‘Don’t make me laugh! Hurts!’
Robby reads it and chuckles quietly. He shakes his head at that. “Y/N..” He whispers, getting slightly choked up. She frowns softly and places her finger to her lips in order to stop him from talking before she goes back to writing. She turns the notepad towards him.
‘I’m glad you two had each other today..’
Robby stares at the sentence for a while as it begins to really sink in. See… Life is too short.
Being in this line of work, you get that.
Robby could die tomorrow, and he was the only family Y/N had left. It brought him some peace to know that even if it was his time to go one day, Y/N would still have someone.
She’d have Jack.
Robby never thought about it the other way around though. And as he watched Y/N, he realized the same thought brought her peace too.
The thought that if anything happened.. He’d have Jack too.
Smiling softly, Robby slowly sits down by her bedside.
“Let’s see that ring. It better be expensive.” He finally jokes, making Y/N smile as she lays back in the hospital bed, showing off her left hand again..
!!The End!!
the heavy heist
pairing: andrew “pope” cody x reader
content: angst with a happy ending | includes backstory of how pope and reader met | reader is pregnant with pope’s baby | the cody family pulling off a heist
🟡 author’s note: i had a few of you guys request it, and your wish is my command, so here is part two of the blurb i wrote!
part one. part two.
—
growing up under smurf meant affection came twisted and transactional. pope learned to view love as a favor, a distraction, a weapon; he never treated it as something sacred to protect or cherish.
that was until he met you.
he first ran into you at one of the many rowdy parties his brothers loved to host. pope was never one to indulge in their celebrations, deterred by the crowd of bodies and germs, but he needed the distraction. his silent desperation for affection had funneled into a loneliness he couldn’t escape, and he found that the quickest temporary fix was alcohol.
in a private corner of the kitchen, he poured shot after shot for himself and hoped that the liquor would soothe his haunted mind, even if it was just for the night.
“hey pope! i got a little gift for you!” baz called out, his arm slung over some girl’s shoulder.
it was obvious that the girl under his arm was only pretending to show interest in pope, most likely after being paid off by his brother. it was baz’s sick way of “helping him be a man”.
pope awkwardly stared at baz, his brows furrowed as his hand held onto the shot glass a little tighter. baz’s cocky taunts drew the attention of the other partygoers around them, which pope began to become too aware of. in that cramped space, pope felt an overwhelming need to make everyone stop looking at him like he was broken.
he stiffly marched right past baz and the girl as his feet hurriedly took him toward the bathroom. he slammed the door shut behind him and let out a shaky sigh of relief, before looking up and making eye contact with you.
you were stood at the sink, a wet tissue paper in your hand, as you harshly scrubbed at a green stain on the fabric of your white dress.
you didn’t flinch when he entered, instead your annoyed expression shifted into something more along the lines of sympathy. “hey… you alright?” you asked softly as your eyes carefully searched his face.
you moved to grab another tissue before holding it out to him. “here,” you offered, your hand still outstretched.
“what?” he croaked out, before his hand reached up, feeling a few stray tears on his cheek. he quickly turned to face the door as his hands clumsily wiped at his eyes.
“i’m fine,” he grumbled before reluctantly turning to face you again.
“okay… what’s your name then?” you asked.
“andrew,” he shared, his fingers fidgeting at his sides.
you never liked beating around the bush, so instead you decided to ask, “right then, andrew, why were you crying?”
“i wasn’t crying,” he huffed defensively, which was clearly a lie, but he liked the way his name sounded from your mouth. his real name.
“uh, okay, then why were you upset?”
a heavy, awkward pause followed after your question, leaving the two of you to stare at each other until pope finally broke the silence.
“your dress is dirty,” he noted, purposely avoiding your question.
you let out a quiet sigh as you allowed him to change the conversation topic, “yeah… i tripped against some guy who brought his own gallon jug of green apple koolaid.”
pope’s lips quirked up slightly as you recalled the awkward moment, rambling on and on about how easily it could’ve been prevented if you hadn’t let your friends convince you to dance with them.
“i can clean it for you,” he offered.
“no, no, it’s okay. i can handle it. i’ll wash it myself when i get back home. thank you for the offer though, andrew,” you said.
pope bit back his disappointment as you rejected his offer. he was embarrassingly desperate to see you again. desperate to hear how his name would sound from your lips when you were happy, sad, pleasured, or angry, he just wanted to hear it all from you.
as you moved to throw away the soiled tissue paper, he stuttered out, “what about soup? we can walk. it’s, uh, down the block.”
“soup?” you repeated as you considered his offer for a moment.
you knew better than to follow a man you just met at a party, but something about him drew you in. “okay,” you shrugged, flashing him a small smile as he nodded and led you out the front door.
that night, the two of you spoke for hours in the corner booth of a quiet, cozy diner. you laughed and listened and traded stories of the hectic and mundane things in your lives. near the end of that conversation, you could tell that you were already hooked onto him. and from the way pope stared at you and hung onto your every word, it was evident that he felt the same.
scheduled late talks at the diner shifted into regular dates, and after several months of dating, you happily agreed to move in with him. however, the closer you got to pope, the more you unraveled about the true nature of his work and his family. naturally, the two of you got into heated disagreements, typically with you pleading for him to walk away, to choose a life of normalcy with you. but pope was loyal to a fault, he never learned where the line was supposed to be, and his attachment to his family wasn’t something you could expect him to willingly let go of.
his blind loyalty to the codys led him straight to folsom state prison for three years after getting caught in a bank robbery. that should’ve been your sign to walk away, to cut ties with pope before things between you two became more… permanent. but instead, you lingered. you visited him in prison when no one else bothered, took his calls, put money on his account even though you had more than enough to worry about for yourself.
your unconditional consistency did not go unnoticed by pope. each time he’d hear your voice over the phone or see your face on the other side of the glass was a reminder that he’d try harder once he got out. that he’d make sure to officially tie you down. he knew it was selfish and greedy of him to want to keep you. in fact, he was well aware that you were too good to him, but you had been the only person in his life who willingly offered your love without the expectation of something in return.
once he got out, he made good on his promise to fully take care of you. he constantly smothered you with his love and praise. he bought a cozy home right next to the beach because he knew you loved listening to the waves at night. he found you the perfect engagement ring and wedding band for you to flaunt that you were officially taken. he hosted a small wedding, and made sure to keep smurf away from your special day. he even looked into a gig as a firefighter after you requested him to invest in a more “stable” career.
it didn’t take long until you woke up from persistent waves of morning sickness, only to discover you were pregnant after you tested positive on an at-home pregnancy test.
pope was over the moon when you shared the news. he rarely believed that someone as perfect as you would agree to be his wife, let alone carry his children. he was so close to undoing himself from the deep tangle of his family’s toxic web, until his brothers reached out and pleaded for his help.
apparently they had cut smurf out of planning their heists, and felt the need to prove it to her and themselves that they were able to pull off their own jobs without her assistance. despite pope’s initial hesitance when they informed him of their plan to steal from the megachurch, he caved in once he realized that he needed the extra money for your baby.
“it’s only temporary, and think about it… at least with this, you won’t have to stress about any financial bullshit for a while,” craig said, giving him a reassuring pat on the shoulder.
pope’s brows furrowed as he thought it through. he thought about how he was meant to explain this to you. he hated the idea of having to “pursue” another woman, especially when the love of his life was carrying his child.
getting amy to come around took a lot more work than pope had anticipated. instead of being at home and tending to you like he wanted to, he was stuck attending group bible study, grabbing dinner at noisy restaurants, and watching crappy rom-coms while amy clung to his arm.
maintaining his double life had been complete torture. he was always left exhausted by the time he’d come home, only to face you and meet that depressing look in your eyes. he hated the way you looked at him. it made him feel dirty and unclean, unworthy of even touching you, in case his filth would infect his precious wife and unborn child. it only made him even more determined to get the job done.
and now he was slumped on amy’s couch, mindlessly watching a sea life documentary he turned on, to serve as his alibi while his brothers stole the loaded safe from the megachurch. his phone buzzed in his pocket, a text message from you lit up his screen.
a small smile crept on his face as he read your message. “you told me tonight is the last time you have to do this. pick up some soup from our usual spot on your way home. i hope you know you owe me a trillion kisses.”
he always found you cute when you were bossy. he’d eagerly get you anything you requested to see you satisfied. with the church robbery finally coming to an end, the strain on your marriage began to lighten with the hope that things would return to the way they should be once this was over.
“you staying tonight?” amy asked as she sat down next to him, her voice rudely cutting off pope’s lovely fantasy of you.
“huh? no… i actually wanted to talk to you about something,” he replied, his hands stiffly resting on his thighs.
“is this regarding what you asked me earlier before we left the church? about us being intimate?” she said, her hands moving to take one of his. pope internally cringed as he recalled that moment. he had only brought it up to stall for time, so that baz and j were clear to make it out the vent.
“premarital sex is a sin… but there are ways around it,” she whispered, missing the subtle frown on pope’s face.
without letting him answer, she abruptly stood up in her dim living room, her fingers working to unbutton her blouse. “take off your clothes,” she commanded.
pope immediately diverted his gaze toward the carpet, a flush creeping up his neck.
“no. this wasn’t–this isn’t what i want anymore,” he grumbled, his eyes fixated on the pattern of the carpet.
amy froze, her fingers stilling as she processed his words.
“what?” she breathed out.
“i miss being home,” he truthfully admitted, deeply craving your scent, the warmth of your arms around him, the sound of your voice lulling him to sleep.
“...okay… look, you don’t have to stay tonight then, you’re free to go back to your own place. i’m sorry if i misread this, we can just meet up tomorrow…” she offered as she fixed her blouse.
“no. i’m done. with this and with you… it’s late and i need to grab soup,” he replied bluntly, standing up and grabbing the keys to his truck.
amy let out a sharp breath as she scrambled to meet him at the door.
“s-soup? andrew, wait! where is this coming from?” she huffed. she planned to stop him from leaving, but she froze just a few feet from the doorway as she met his cold, detached gaze, watching him leave her life completely.
he quickly drove to the diner where it had all started, picking up your favorite order before rushing back home.
as he entered, most of the house was dark, with a lamp left on in the living room. he set the food down on the counter in the kitchen before quietly creeping into your shared bedroom, his gaze falling on your sleeping form.
he stood there for a while, savoring the peaceful expression you wore in your sleep, before retreating toward the bathroom. he scrubbed his skin raw in the shower, relieved to finally be free from amy, eager to be clean and good for you again.
he silently eased onto the mattress next to you, the bed dipping under his weight as he carefully propped himself over you. his large, rough hands gently cradled your face as he leaned in to press a lingering kiss to your temple. he released a shaky sigh, his heart finally feeling complete again as he held you.
you stirred at the sensation, flinching slightly as you registered pope’s shadowed figure hovering over you.
“you’re home…” you mumbled groggily, your hands reaching up to grab the fabric of his shirt. a small smile crept onto your face as you noticed how he smelled like the shower gel you picked out a week ago.
“i’m home,” he answered, peppering kisses over your face. “ for good this time,” he added.
he pulled back slightly as he reached over to turn on the bedside lamp. as the warm light lit the room, his eyes roamed over your vulnerable form, greedily taking in how soft and compliant you looked in your sleepy state. his fingers trailed down your arm, bringing your hand up to his lips as he pressed a kiss to the wedding band on your ring finger, the one that matched his now that he could freely wear it once more. he then grazed his hand over your body, eventually stilling as his palm rested against the round swell of your stomach as he kept his intense gaze on your face.
“soup’s outside on the counter,” he mumbled.
“the soup can wait,” you answered, your breath hitching as his large hand moved heavily to your hip.
“i’m ready to pay what i owe you,” he said, his tone gentle. “a trillion kisses, isn’t that right?” he teased, giving your hip a playful pat.
“nuh-uh, it’s going to be a trillion kisses plus interest… you need to pay up now, andrew,” you demanded softly, your hands moving to grip his broad shoulders.
he let out an amused huff as he leaned down, his nose brushing against yours.
“whatever my wife wants,” he answered, eagerly meeting your lips.
𝘕𝘰𝘸 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨…
💿 Nobody's Son 💿
𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘴: 𝘚𝘢𝘮𝘮𝘺 𝘉𝘳𝘺𝘢𝘯𝘵
I think it's time we took a break / So I can grow emotionally / That's what he said to me
All my friends in love and I'm the one / They call for a third wheeling / Probably should have guessed / He's like the rest / So fine and so deceiving
Overview: You've been his partner for years, but one fight with his wife and he's willing to throw it all away just for a brief night of relief. Now, your life is ruined and you don't want to ever see him again. But the death of your friend brings you back together and suddenly, you're backed into a corner you don't know how to escape from. (Basic knowledge of the show Southland is helpful but not necessary as this follows some plot points).
a/n: my twist on the pregnancy trope which basically means the majority of this is angst and not so much focused on being pregnant. This is more about the psychological toll it takes on a on a woman unprepared. Idk I tried to avoid the pitfalls of this trope that piss me off, like a baby doesn't magically fix everything ever. Hope you enjoy!
wc: 20.7K
warning: dark thoughts toward self and unborn baby, allusions to abortion but not explicitly mentioned
Find more at: Belle’s 3k Extravaganza
“-and I promise,” you drone out the rest of Dewey’s BS. He claims it’s a retirement party, but you give it three months tops before he’s crawling back. You bet his wife will leave him, he’ll drink worse than he already does, and all of a sudden he’ll need a job again.
You tilt your head to the left, lips parted and then stop yourself. Nate and Sammy aren’t beside you like they usually are. There’s no one to bitch to because they’re both with their wives. Letting out a tired sigh, you lean back in your chair and try not to pass out.
Usually, you guys go to these functions together. You talk shit about the cops you don’t like and make bets on who’s going to have the biggest fuck up of the month. But Dewey’s party is being held in some crappy back alley bar with tiny tables. Meaning you’re shamefully outed as being single while they hold their wives hands.
Although, glancing over your shoulder, you’re pretty sure Tammi would rather break Sammy’s hand before she held it. She’s not even saying anything and you can already tell that he’ll be sleeping on the couch tonight.
With a low groan, you slip out of your chair and head outside. Leaning back against the wall, you light up a cigarette and try to pretend you're actually content with the direction your life is heading.
Sure, being a detective means more pay and better hours. But it also means that you’re not out in the field as much. You don’t see action anymore. Not really. Plus, you have to sit in a station with a bunch of assholes and listen to them talk shop.
They’ve gotten so used to you being around they seem to have forgotten that you’re a woman. Always talking shit about their wives or what rookie’s ass is getting fatter. It’s nasueating and, yet, here you are. Same old thing day in and out.
Letting out a shaky breath, you watch the smoke billow in front of your face before drifting into the night. The door to the bar slams open and you jump, peering around your hidden alcove.
Tammi and Sammy both walk out, you can’t hear what's being said, but Tammi looks hysterical. Then again, she always looks like that. At some point in her life she learned that tears get men to shut up or sit down and you’d respect the hustle if you didn’t despise her.
That has nothing to do with your unresolved feelings for Bryant, either. She has made it clear quite loudly that she thinks you’re all a bunch of pigs. Sometimes you agree, but she’s given you too much shit about riding in the same car as her husband for you to ever admit that out loud.
Sammy walks to their car, waving Tammi off as he pops the trunk open. That retired k9, Richter, that Sammy got jumps out and an older guy walks over to take his leash. Tammi tries to hold on, but Sammy forces her to let go and then she’s running back into the bar crying.
You put your cigarette out, tossing it into a trash can while you make your way over to him. “Sammy!”
He pauses, shooting you an easy grin as you move to lean against the trunk of his SUV. Sammy walks over, joining you, shoulder nearly brushing yours. “You’re really getting rid of him?” You ask, nodding toward the truck Richter’s now sitting in.
Sammy looks down, shoes scuffing against the pavement. “Yeah.” He checks over his shoulder before turning back to you, voice lowered. “Tammi’s been smoking weed. Richter caught a whiff of it and went nuts. I just can’t risk anything happening.”
Your brows furrow as you let out an incredulous scoff. “Aren’t you guys trying for a baby?”
Sammy nods, rolling his eyes as his head thunks against his car. “We are.”
“So…, why the hell is she smoking?”
“Well, apparently, I stress her out and her prenatals are making her nauseous.” he throws his hands up and you can’t help but laugh at his expense.
“Well, everyone knows marujana’s the best prenatal there is.”
He smirks, nudging you with his elbow. “Shut it.” You smile at him, heat flushing through you. With a sigh, you catch yourself and force your eyes to the pavement rather than him and his crooked smile.
The silence lingers, neither of you ready to head back inside and listen to more of Dewey’s shit. After a while Sammy lets out one of those long sighs that just sound pathetic.
“What’s up?” You ask, nudging him.
Sammy rubs the back of his neck, eyes stubbornly pointed down. “I’m not,” he shakes his head, finally meeting your gaze. “I don’t even know if I want a baby with her. I mean, it’s not like we’re happy. And I can’t get through a damn sentence without her crying and shutting down.”
“Well, speaking from experience…” His brows lift with interest and you offer a sardonic smile. “Kid ain’t gonna fix it. Trust me. All that’s going to happen is it’ll get caught in the crossfire.”
“Yeah?” His voice is soft and you realize you’ve never really told him any of this before.
Sucking your teeth, you wish you’d taken another shot before coming out here. “My parents thought a baby might fix their problems. But I was colicky and just made ‘em hate each other more. Then, when I got older, I was always in the middle, forced to pick a side.”
Your voice trails off, throat closing as you force yourself to stop sharing so much. Sure, you like Sammy, too much, but you’re still a cop. You don’t like giving away anything that someone might use against you.
Sammy sucks in a sharp breath. “We’re practically separated, you know?”
Your head whips up and there should be guilt at how excited you feel, but you can’t find any. “What?”
“Yeah. She hasn’t let me in the house in a while.”
A shock of anger bursts through your chest on his behalf. He’s the one paying their damn mortgage, why should he have to leave? “Where the hell are you staying?”
“Oh,” he shrugs, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “This crappy little motel near castaic.”
“Nah, that’s bullshit. You shouldn't have to pay for a shitty mattress.” You smile at him, poking his side and he grins. “Why don’t you take my shitty couch. For free,” you add.
He shakes his head, waving you off. “I don’t want to intrude.”
“Shut up,” you snap, already pulling out your car keys. “Let’s go,” and you don’t give him any choice but to obey.
You park the car and let out a low whistle, taking in the, frankly, terrifying motel. “Shit, man. You weren’t lying.”
He chuckles, opening his door and shaking his head. “I might have undersold it.”
“I’m saying,” you mutter, slightly hesitant to even get out of the car. This looks like a place you’d get called down to check out a missing woman’s body. Not any place you should be within twenty feet of. But you want to help Sammy out, so you suck it up and follow him.
The motel room is moderately less dismal. He’s trashed it a bit but you can’t imagine it was ever truly clean to begin with. “So,” you watch as he picks up his bag, tossing clothes inside. “Seperated, huh?”
You clench your eyes shut, you couldn’t have made your eagerness any more obvious. You sound practically giddy. Might as well skip around the room while you’re at it.
Sammy straightens, laughing slightly as he takes a step toward you. “Yep.”
Gnawing your lip, your pulse tightens in your chest. Now or never. “Sammy, I’ve always-”
Sammy doesn’t give you a chance to finish. His hand is already cupping the back of your head, body being shoved against the motel wall as his lips press against yours. You let out a sharp gasp, hands flying to his shoulders as you slump against him.
His knee nudges between your own, sliding your legs apart until you’re practically sitting on his thigh. “Oh my god,” you mutter, finally catching your breath as he drags his lips across your jaw.
It takes a moment for you to realize his fingers are already working on the buttons of your blouse. Your head is swimming, heart racing as you attempt to process what exactly you’re doing right now. He’s married, separated sure, but married.
He nips at your neck and your hands are already undoing his belt. Guilt, shame, dignity, it’s all tossed to the floor. They land right beside your shirt.
“Need this,” he groans into your skin and your hips grind down against the firm muscle of his thigh. “Need you,” he admits and you think your brain is dripping out between your legs, because why the hell aren’t you stopping him?
“Yeah?” You ask, breathless as you shove him back toward the bed.
He nods, hands greedy as he cups your ass and drags you into him. “I can’t keep working with you. Seeing you every day, not knowing what you feel like. You’re driving me crazy.”
You kiss him to shut him up, heart thudding against your ribs far too much for him to rile you up further. His knees hit the mattress and suddenly you’re landing in his lap, jerking his jeans down as he lifts his hips.
“Protection?” You mutter, laughing as he struggles with the clasp of your bra.
Sammy shakes his head and you reach back to help him out. “Finally,” he mutters, tugging your bra off and tossing it to the depths of the room.
“I’m clean,” you tell him and then he’s flipping you over, hands pinning your wrists to the bed.
“Tammi hasn’t let me near her in months,” he promises.
You wrench a hand free, drag your fingers through his curls and jerk his head toward you. “Don’t talk about her when you’re about to be inside me,” you whisper, dragging him down for another kiss. He groans against your mouth, grabbing your hips and tugging you down the bed to meet him halfway.
The shrill ringing of two phones wakes you both up. Sammy groans as he lifts his arm from your waist. You squint through the sunlight beaming through the blinds and force yourself up. It takes a minute for you to find your jeans in the mess of clothes from last night.
You snatch them up, digging through the pockets until you’ve got your phone. Of course, it’s Sal with another case. “Damn,” you look over your shoulder and he’s wearing the same disappointed expression as you. “So much for a day off,” you tease.
Sammy shakes his head, already tugging his clothes back on. “Need a ride?” You ask, redressing yourself. It’s not uncommon for you to repeat an outfit once or twice, hopefully no one pays too much attention.
“Yeah,” he rubs the back of his neck. You frown, head titling as you note the stubborn way he won’t meet your eyes. “Yeah, that’d be great, thanks.”
You hum, slightly disconcerted as you go wait for him out in the car. When he joins you, he’s quiet. Slightly unusual for a man whose voice you can hear halfway across town. But you don’t mention it, figuring he’s probably just struggling to understand how he’s supposed to treat you now.
Admittedly, you’re struggling with that a bit yourself. You wished you’d had any time at all to talk this morning. Last night he said some things that…
Well, the implications of always wanting to feel you makes you think that the feelings might be a little mutual. Something in your gut, though, is warning you away from that. Call it the instincts of a detective or a woman, doesn’t matter. He proves you right at the end of your shift.
He’s avoided you all day and you just manage to catch him as he’s walking out of the station. “Sammy,” you race after him. He pauses at the edge of the steps, but he doesn’t turn to face you. “Hey,” you reach for his shoulder and he jerks back, finally meeting your eye.
The flat look on his face has you straightening, your own expression turning painfully neutral. “Figured we might need to talk,” you tell him, doing everything you can to keep your voice emotionless.
You know it’s coming, you have since this morning. But it still knocks the wind out of you. “Tammi called me at lunch,” you purse your lips, eyes dropping to the ground. “She asked me to come back home. She wants to try, for real this time.”
You let out a cold laugh, nodding as you finally meet his eyes. His expression has softened slightly, guilt bleeding through. “Thought you guys were sepreated.”
“Practically separated,” he snaps, so defensive it makes your head spin. “We hadn’t discussed anything concrete.”
You scoff, biting your tongue as tears burn in your eyes. He takes a step forward but you shake your head, jerking back. “No, no this is on me. I can’t believe that I fucking fell for that.”
He says your name, soft and placating but you just shoot him a glare. “Fuck off, Sammy. We’re friends, man. And, what, you just tossed that away because your wife wasn’t giving you any? You want an easy lay? You go to a street corner, you don’t, literally, fuck over one of your friends.”
Sammy doesn’t even try to defend himself. He shoves his hands in his pockets, eyes growing wet in a way that pisses you off. “Fuck off to your wife.” He looks up, lips pursed like he wants to stop you, but you’re already walking away.
You turn, licking your lips as you glare at him. “I pray that any kid you have doesn’t have to suffer through you two being immature assholes. I mean, you can’t even talk to her, Sammy. How the hell are you gonna raise a baby with her?”
When Sammy moves forward, mouth open like he could say anything to fix this, you get in your car. You keep your eyes on him in the rearview as you drive off. He looks pathetic, with those sad eyes and little frown that you want to slap off his face.
You get it (not really) he needed a release. But he just risked years of friendship and having each other’s backs in the field for one night. Do you truly just mean nothing to him?
A month later, you stare down at your period tracker with a frown. Two weeks late. “Huh,” you mutter, pocketing your phone and ignoring it. Sure, you’ve been steady since college, but this could just be some stress-induced one-off. Your best friend of over ten years suddenly going ghost mode will do that to you.
Your eyes flit up to Sammy and you swear if looks could kill he would be dead fifty times over. He lifts his head, face paling at the glare you’re shooting him. Like the little coward he is, he goes back to the paperwork you know he finished ten minutes ago.
He can’t even look at you, anymore. Pathetic, you think and some petty part of you thinks of calling up Tammi and telling her what happened. But that comes from an evil place deep down inside of you that you know you’re supposed to ignore.
With a huff, you grab your bag and storm past his desk, clocking out for the night. And just like every night, you can feel his stare on the back of your head as you leave. Still, he’s too much of a coward to do anything but look.
You stop by a drive-through on your way home, ordering an egg sandwich so you can stuff your face quick and pass out. But as you pull the bag into your car, your stomach begins to turn.
“Oh god,” you groan, pinching your nose and wondering if they’d given you spoiled eggs. You try and take a bite, just to see but the taste makes you gag. You’ve never been a huge fan of eggs but this is pretty extreme.
“Huh,” you say again, frowning as you dump the sandwich.
It’s when the period tracker hits week three of being late that you start to panic a bit. “That’s normal, right?” You mutter to yourself, gnawing on your nails as you try and relax on your day off. But with the way your chest is starting to tighten you don’t think that’ll be happening anytime soon.
Grabbing your keys, you force yourself off your couch and drive to the run-down convenience store nearby. You swallow roughly, sunglasses on as you head into the pharmacy aisle.
You know no one from work is going to spot you. They all live in those clean, lame neighborhoods like castaic. They wouldn’t be caught dead in some run-down, crime-heavy neighborhood like yours.
Still, though, you can’t help the way you glance over your shoulder every other minute, thinking Nate or Sammy’s gonna pop out.
You wander down the long selection of pads until you’re staring at pregnancy tests. “I’m fine,” you tell yourself. “Definitely not pregnant.”
Still, you end up walking out with five tests in your bag.
Then, you find yourself sitting on your bathroom floor as you read the last one. Taking a good long look at the two clear lines. “Fuck me,” you groan, head thumping back against the wall as you toss this one in the trash.
Three of them read as negative and two of them are positive.
Which is how you end up at your OBGYN, fingers twiddling anxiously as you wait for the results to come back. The door pops open and you perk up.
“Alright, let’s see what we’ve got here.” Your stare is intense and probably slightly terrifying as you watch her read her paper. She hums under her breath, taking a seat on her stupid little chair, spinning slightly.
One more second of making you wait and you will be discharging your gun-
“Congratulations,” she beams. “You’re pregnant.”
Your jaw drops and you begin to feel a little lightheaded. But she’s still smiling like she didn’t just give you the worst news of your life.
Okay, you have been shot before, right in the femur. And you were told as a child, in quite explicit detail, how your cat got squished under your mom’s rear tire.
That has to count as worse news, right?
No, you think, slamming your purse down on your desk. Nate jumps, shooting you a wary look that you don’t concern yourself with. Fluffy’s passing was not worse news than learning you are carrying Sammy Bryant’s offspring inside you.
That short, red-headed, freckled bastard knocked you up. First try! He’s been with Tammi since high school, that’s over a decade of trying to get her pregannt. All of a sudden he’s got strong swimmers?
You turn in your chair, hands steepled over your stomach as you stare at him. He goes stiff the second your eyes land on him, sensing the hatred you’re trying to burn into the side of his face. Asshole, you think, can’t even look at me.
Yes, life has been feeling stagnant lately. You were sick of all the “You on the rag?” jokes and the guy’s ridiculous complaints about their third wives. But you did not want change to come in the form of a fetus planted in you by a man who can’t even make eye contact with you.
Nate looks up from his paperwork, doing a slight double-take when he catches the look on your face. He rolls over in his chair, frowning. “Everything good?”
“Fine,” you snap, catching some of the other’s attention. Nate’s eyes widen as he raises his hands, backing off.
You have to tell him. Sammy needs to know what’s going on before you head to the clinic and take care of this mess you’ve gotten yourself into.
You are planning on putting the majority of the blame on him, but you really should have told him to pull out. Or, at the very least, gotten a Plan B before work.
“Sammy,” you call out. His eyes flick up before dropping right back down to his papers. “Samuel,” you snap, not caring that some of the other detectives are staring.
He purses his lips, huffing slightly as he finally undertakes the horrendous task of meeting your eye. “Did you need something, detective?”
You let out a sharp noise that has Nate poorly trying to hide a laugh. “Oh, okay. That’s how you’re playing this?” Maybe, when you’re already pissed off and emotional, you shouldn’t drop this bomb in the middle of the office. But you need it over and done with so you can just take care of it.
Still, before you can consider the HR ramifications, Sal’s walking in with a case. He drops the file on your desk and you purse your lips, angrily shaking your head at Sammy. He just lets out a little breath of relief.
Which is immediately sucked out of him as Sal says, “Nate, Sammy, I want you to go with her. Check this out. One of your CI’s might know something.”
“Oh,” you purr, snatching up the file as you stand. “I can’t wait.” Sammy’s head drops and you give him an extra firm pat on the back as you pass him.
However, as much as you would love to give him hell, you always keep your personal business away from work. Messy emotions and the urge to put a gun to your partner's testicles can lead to released suspects and the wrong people in cuffs.
You force yourself to wait until lunch to ambush him. Watching him carefully as Sammy carries his tray of food to the table. He sets it beside Nate, dropping onto the bench next to him as if he hasn’t sat beside you almost everyday since you’ve known each other.
You wipe your mouth off, eyes honed on him. He senses it, too, shifting around like a little weasel.
“Sammy,” you try making your voice soft, kind. Lull him into a false sense of security.
His brows shoot up and he briefly looks at you. “Yeah?”
“I need to talk to-”
“Oh,” he holds up a finger and checks his phone. “Sorry, it’s Tammi, gotta take this.” You scoff, chest caving as you watch him run off.
You glance over at Nate who’s got a tired look on his face. “Was she actually calling him?”
He shakes his head, disappointed in his partner. “Nope.”
“‘Course not,” you snap, appetite gone as you toss your taco down.
For the rest of the day, you ride along with them, pretending the case file is the most interesting thing in the world. They take you to their informant, let you talk to her for a little while, and then you all get back in the car.
There’s no more meal breaks or stops where you might be able to finally just toss the information at Sammy. Soon enough, it’s dark and Nate’s dropping you all off at the station so you can get your cars.
Nate waves as he drives off but your attention is fully focused on the man attempting to speedwalk away from you. “That’s it,” you mutter. You don’t call his name, don’t warn him, just chase him down like you would a suspect.
When you plant yourslf in front of him he lets out a surprised noise that would make you laugh in any other context. “Enough,” you snap, shoving at him when he tries to get around you.
“Sammy, I really need to talk to you. Please,” you feel like a damn beggar and it just makes you angrier. He’s the one that should be groveling. He’s the one that did this to you, to both of you.
“Tammi’s pregnant,” Sammy rushes out before you can continue. Your jaw drops, eyes widening as you stare at him.
“What?” You hiss and Sammy just nods. As if he didn’t just completely destroy your plans. Like he didn’t just drop a bomb on you that makes your chest ache and eyes water.
Eyes clenched shut, you try and suck in a calming breath, but it only makes you feel more panicked. You can’t tell him.
You can’t tell Sammy you’re pregnant when he just figured out his wife is.
He crosses his arms, expression guarded. “What did you need to say?”
He is such a prick. The only reason he blurted that out is because he thought you were running over to beg him for another round in bed. Shame burns in your stomach as you swallow down the venomous words crawling up your throat. You’ll tell him another day when you’re not itching to have a gun in your hand.
Through gritted teeth, you force out the words, “No hard feelings.”
Sammy’s face falls and you would laugh if you weren’t actively fighting back tears. “Wait-” he shakes his head, arms slowly falling back to his sides. “What?”
“Yeah, no hard feelings, right?” And then the words keep coming, the lies spinning themselves. Because, on your end, there are most definitely some bitter feelings. “Look, we’ve been friends for years, Sammy. I don’t want one stupid mistake to ruin that. I just… I want my friend back, alright?”
Sammy’s brows pinch together as he narrows his eyes. As if he doesn’t believe you. You expect him to go storming off, stonewall you some more. Instead, he’s throwing an arm around your shoulders and dragging you into a hug.
You let out an affronted noise and your hands hover over his back, entirely unsure of what to do with yourself. Part of you wants to shove him off, to tell him you didn’t mean any of that and hope every time he pees from now until etertniy it burns.
But there is that desperate part of you that has held a flame for him for so long. It’s begging you to just give in. Enjoy his kindness while you can.
He’s pulling away before you can make your decision. “No hard feelings,” he promises. Sammy lingers for a moment, offering a tentative smile before he pats your shoulder and walks past you, heading to his car. Going to drive home to his pregnant wife.
When you manage to slump into your own car, you glare down at your stomach. You will tell him another time, you swear. And then you’ll get it taken care of.
You can feel them staring and it is driving you nuts. Sure, five tacos might be a lot, but you’re getting these cravings that are kicking your damn ass. Nate watches as you scarf down your fourth with something like awe and disgust in his eyes.
“Jesus,” he lets out a low whistle. “You hungry?” He snarks.
You roll your eyes, shooting him a sharp glare. “Shut the fuck up, Nate,” you snap around a mouthful of tacos and fries.
Sammy lets out an astonished laugh. “Goddamn,” he grins but it’s Nate you’re watching. He’s got the look of someone who just solved a case and you do not appreciate it being pointed at you.
Sammy’s phone rings and you finally look away from Nate. “Dammit,” he shakes his head. “I have to take this.”
“Take it somewhere else,” you immediately tell him. He frowns and you just shake your head. “Dude, if I have to listen to you bitch at Tammi or her european lover again-”
Sammy holds his hands up, “Alright, damn.” He takes his phone and ambles further into the park. You still somehow manage to hear it and it drives you nuts. For two months it’s just been Tammi this and Tammi that. First, she's pregnant, then she's leaving him for her photography instructor. Now, the kid might not even be his, who fucking knows? You’re going to shoot the next person that says her name within a two mile radius of you.
“So,” Nate crosses his arms, observing you. Your skin crawls as you push your food away. “You been craving anything lately?”
“What?” Your eyes snap to his and he grins.
“Mariella always used to crave, uh… what was it,” he closes his eyes as he thinks. “Oh! Pickles and peanut butter. It was nasty. So, I’ll take the taco truck, but you been craving anything else?”
You glance down at your hands which have been busy rummaging in your purse, seeking out the chocolate bar you were sure you had stashed in there. “Um,” you pull your hands back and shake your head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Nate rolls his eyes, lips falling flat as he scoffs. “Please, I’ve been through this three times. You’ve quit smoking, you’re scarfing down junk like it’s a sport. And, you have this look in your eye like you’re a second away from popping a cap in Sammy.”
You let out a small sigh, sinking onto the table as you scrub your hands over your cheeks. “God dammit, Nate. Couldn’t you just be a worse detective?”
He laughs and pats you on the back. “No luck on that.” Nate tilts his head, surveying your body carefully. You shift a little, tugging at your shirt even though the bump isn’t showing, yet.
“Is he the dad?” Neither of you have to look to know he’s talking about the dumbass currently arguing with his ex-wife’s mistress.
Eyes dropping to your lap, you shrug, feeling like a child caught in a lie. You’ve done well so far keeping this to yourself. But Nate’s always had a keener eye than Sammy. At least when it comes to women. You should have seen this coming.
“Yeah,” your voice cracks slightly and you hate yourself for it. “He is.”
Nate reaches over, placing his hand on your shoulder and squeezing. “Have you told him?”
Your head whips up, anger shoving through the tears. “Are you kidding me? He lied to me, made it seem like he and Tammi were over and then got me in bed. He doesn’t want me and he doesn’t want this kid, either.”
Nate gets that expression you only ever seen when he’s scolding his kids. “That is not true-”
“Alright,” Sammy’s enbittered voice interrupts Nate and you couldn’t be more grateful for it. He storms back to the bench, cheeks ruddy from all his yelling. “I’m back.”
“Great,” you jump to your feet. “Let’s get out of here.” Nate shoots you a sharp look that has shame curling tight inside you. But you don’t acknowledge him, just brush past them both as you rush to the car.
Nate remained the only one aware of your little problem. Right up until the day those bastards murdered him.
You stand in your dress blues, Mariella sobbing into your shoulder as Nate’s casket is lowered into the ground. Beside you, Sammy stands holding Petey’s hand, tears streaming silently down his face.
There’s a wicked part of you that wishes it was you dropping to the ground. Nate has a family, kids, people to cry at his grave. You don’t, not really. And you had been right next to Nate, it easily could have been you they targeted. But, no, Sammy got his ass whooped and you got dragged into the crowd, stabbed right in the gut.
And somehow, the kid survived and Nate didn’t.
It just doesn’t seem right.
In a few months you’re going to be nothing more than burden to the people around you. You’re going to have a kid you don’t even know if you want and it probably won’t have it’s dad around. Those assholes could have done everyone a favor and turned the pipe on the second person beside Nate.
Mariella releases you and moves away from the grave. Her shoulders shake, cries so loud it hurts your chest. Everyone begins to disperse or follow her to offer their condolences. You rip your cap off and take a seat at the base of the tree beside Nate’s grave.
You haven’t cried yet. The shrink told you it was a normal response. But you’re not so sure about that. Even Sammy cried. You should have too. There’s just something about you now that is numb.
You want to go back to three months ago and just take that night back.
You want to go back to when Nate was driving you all home. You want to have stopped him and dragged his ass back in the car. Told him to let it go because it was just a beer bottle tossed at the car. But you hadn’t. Every mistake sits with you. They burrow themselves under your skin until you can’t even feel them anymore.
Sammy walks over to you, dropping on the ground beside you. Quickly, you tug at your uniform, trying to hide the slight expansion of your stomach. You’ve gotten lucky so far, the baby barely showing. You know you’ll probably blow up soon, but you’re praying you’re one of those women who just never looks the part until month nine.
“I can’t,” Sammy wipes his eyes. He rests his arms on his knees, heads falling between them. His body shakes as he cries and you take in a sharp breath. You can’t just sit here and watch him fall apart.
Reaching over, you wrap your arms around his shoulders. He doesn’t waste a second, turning his face into your neck and crying as you hold him. You run your fingers over his hair.
“I know,” you whisper, squeezing him closer as you stare at Nate’s grave.
Sammy still doesn’t know. Nate had been giving you shit about it the day before he’d been killed. Something like guilt curdles in your stomach. Nate should have been around when you finally told Sammy.
He should have been standing there with an ‘I-told-you-so’ look that would make you want to slap him. But he’s gone and Sammy’s living in his widow’s home and you still can’t tell him.
You like to stop by Mariella’s house. You help her with the kids when you can, cooking, cleaning. Just whatever she needs. But Sammy’s doing a hell of a lot more than you are. Almost too much with the way Petey’s gotten attached to him.
He follows Sammy around constantly. Slides him into that slot where his dad should be. And Sammy doesn’t fit, no one ever will, but you’re worried the kid will get too attached. Sammy’s going to have a baby soon.
Whether or not Tammi’s is legitimate, you’ve got a backup waiting for him. He’s not going to be around for these kids forever.
You shake your head, taking your eyes away from the window. Away from the sight of Sammy roughhousing in the yard with the kids.
Instead, you turn back to Mariella, watching as she works on dinner. “What do you need help with?” You ask.
She turns to you, mouth opening and then snapping shut. Her eyes drop to the sweatshirt you're wearing. Entirely too large and heavy for an LA summer. You clear your throat, tugging at the collar.
“Mariella?”
“What’s wrong?” She asks, rather than giving you a task. You so desperately need something to keep your hands busy right now.
“Nothing-” She shoots you a sharp look before you can even finish the sentence. You offer a sheepish smile and shake your head. “You don’t need to hear about my issues, Mari.”
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t treat me like glass, please. I need something, anything, to distract me.”
You snort, “So, what, you’re exploiting my messy life?”
Mariella offers a smile, “Exactly.”
“Alright,” you move toward her and nudge her away from the stove. You make sure your back is to the window, and, in the process, fail to see Petey walking back in for a break and water.
You lift up the sweatshirt, showing her the five month belly that’s finally starting to show.
For the most part, the universe has decided to show you a little mercy. You haven’t experienced much changes on your body except the occasional ache or pain. You’ve only had to go up two pant sizes so far, and have managed to get away with wearing looser blouses to work.
Now, though, it seems like the baby’s deciding it’s ready to make its grand entrance.
Her eyes go comically wide, hands pressing against her mouth as she stifles a gasp.
You laugh at your own expense, taking one for the team as you let her focus on your issues rather than her own. “You wanna hear the worst of it?”
“I don’t know,” she offers a shaky laugh, eyes still trained on your stomach as you drop the sweatshirt.
You glance over your shoulder, making sure he’s still outside. “It’s Sammy’s,” you whisper. Her jaw actually drops and it’s enough to have you laughing at her. She shakes off the shock and lets out a disbelieving squeak.
“How?”
“Well, when two people love each other very much-” You yelp as she swats you with her towel. “Hey, that’s assault agianst a pregnant woman,” you warn and she just rolls her eyes.
“Come on,” she urges, leaning against the counter with an expectant look.
“We hooked up once a few months ago. I thought he and Tammi were pretty much over, but he told me they were going to give it another try the next day.”
In rapid succession, she lets out a string of curses in both spanish and english that have your ears burning. “Bastard,” she finally settles on as you watch her with wide eyes. “And you haven’t told him?”
You snort and shake your head. “How could I? I mean, he just straight up lied to me to get me in bed. Then, makes it clear he wants nothing to do with me. And Tammi got pregnant and he thought the baby might not be his…” You trail off, realizing just how Degrassi your life has become.
Hand resting on your stomach, you lean back against the counter. “I almost took it to the clinic,” it being the baby because you still really haven’t accepted this new reality. Mariella’s face quikly shifts into something carefully neutral and you try not to laugh.
“By the time I got there, I guess I’d just hit the cutoff mark. I had wanted to tell him beforehand but he was pretending I didn’t exist for a while. I keep having this recurring dream of giving it up. But I can’t stand the idea of putting my own child into the foster system.”
Your face sinks into your hands as you let out a pitiful noise. “Is there ever a good time to tell a man you’re carrying his illegitimate child?”
She snorts, slapping your arm. “It’s not a telenovela. You’re not carrying his illegitimate baby. You’re just his second baby mama.”
“Screw you,” you laugh, but it sounds hollow even to your ears. “Sammy’s been so volatile lately. He’s not processing anything and I just, I don’t want to tell him when he’s one bad day away from snapping.”
Mariella clicks her tongue, reaching out and dragging you into a hug. “I’m sorry,” she mutters, and pulls back slightly, brushing your hair away. “But I know you’ve always wanted a family.”
“Yeah,” you scoff. “A family. A mom, a dad, not just me. I mean, how am I supposed to do this on my own. Especially with my job?”
“You, of all people, are capable of figuring this out. Sweetheart, once you’re holding that baby in your arms, you’ll be glad you didn’t make it to the clinic.”
Your face screws up, not believing her. Plenty of the women you’ve known have led happier lives after going to the clinic. It’s not the same for everyone, you don’t think you’re going to be so lucky.
“What clinic?” The both of you go stiff, Mariella’s hands tightening around your shoulder as nausea rises in your throat. Sammy remains oblivious, wandering into the kitchen and grabbing a bottle of water.
“Uh,” Mariella lets out a nervous laugh. “I was talking about myself, you know. I asked her for some company to the OBGYN, but there are just certain things friends don’t need to see.”
“Yeah,” you laugh, the sound frantic and slightly broken. “That’s totally it,” your face screws up and Mariella shoots you a sharp look.
Sammy’s brows pinch, lips pursing in displeasure as he glances between the both of you. “Okay,” he drawls, clearly not believing a word of it. You just shrug, subconsciously adjusting your sweatshirt.
“Aren’t you hot in that thing?” He asks, eyeing it warily.
“No,” you snap. “No, I’m cold, actually,” you lie your ass off, you’ve already sweat through your undershirt. You rush out of the kitchen, heading to the front door to call the kids in for dinner. Anything to get away from Sammy’s scrutinizing glare.
The dining table is silent, even the little ones keep quiet. Your brain is pulsating with each scrape of cutlery against ceramic. The kids keep looking at the adults, eyes darting rapidly between you all. They sense it, somehow, the tension.
Sammy’s not aware of the source, but he’s been wary since your spaz attack in the kitchen. Mariella’s not helping anything, either. She keeps sending you the same look Nate always used to. It seems to say ‘Grow a pair and just tell him, already.’ But you’ve put it off for so long, you can’t possibly imagine just dropping the bomb at dinner.
“What does illegitimate mean?”
Your knife screeches against the plate as you freeze. The adult's heads snap toward Petey who just pushes around his vegetables.
Sammy laughs a little, but it trails off at the stricken look on your face. Mariella curses under her breath. “I told you to stop listening to our conversations, Petey.”
Petey just shrugs and Sammy’s eyes dart between you and Mariella. “Where’d you hear that, buddy?” His voice is deceptively calm.
Petey points at you and you feel your dinner coming up. “She said she had an illegitimate baby. What’s that mean?”
Your fork clatters against the plate as your head drops into your hands. Sammy whispers your name but you can’t meet his eye. “God damn, kid,” you lift your head with a watery laugh. “You’d make a great PI, I’ll give you that.”
Sammy calls your name again and you shoot out of your chair. “I am so sorry,” Mariella whispers but you can’t meet her eye. You just rush out of the house, biting your tongue so you don’t throw up all over yourself.
Sammy’s right on your heels, door slamming behind him as he easily catches up to you. You don’t like admitting it, but this damn kid has really been slowing you down. “Hey,” he grabs your arm, pulling you back toward him.
Slightly out of breath, you give up, eyes stubbornly pointed to the ground. “Are you pregnant?” He snaps. You nod your head and he scoffs, releasing your arm like it’s burned him. “Dammit,” he mutters your name and you shrink back. “I’m your partner,” he snaps, “I need to know about this. Were you ever going to tell me?”
Your head shoots up with a frown, “Yes.” But he clearly doesn’t believe you and you barely believe yourself.
“I mean,” he drags his hands through his hair, scoffing in astonishment. “Who’s the dad?”
Your jaw drops as you finally, really look at him. “Jesus, Sammy. How much do you think I sleep around?” His brows pinch together and you stare at him expectantly.
“Wait,” he stutters, shaking his head. “Me?” He points to himself and you would laugh if you felt any less emotionally volatile. “But, I mean, that was months ago.”
“Uh huh,” you drawl, crossed arms resting on your lightly distended stomach. Sammy’s eyes are drawn to them, narrowed like he might be able to see through the sweatshirt.
“Months?” He snaps. “And you didn’t tell me?”
You throw your hands up and let out an astonished guffaw. Yes, guffaw, that’s how stunned you are by his absolutely wild audacity. “There was no good time to tell you that I’m carrying around your freaking kid,” you hiss.
Sammy jerks back and takes a large step away from you. A lot of thoughts seem to be hitting him at once and you worry his brain won’t be able to handle the sudden influx of use.
“Is that what Mariella was talking about earlier? You were going to the clinic?” Okay, you really did not need him to connect that dot.
You rub your temple, eyes clenching shut as you shut out how betrayed he sounds. He has no right acting like you hurt him when he’s the one that did this by lying to you.
“Yeah, alright? I was going to tell you and then take care of it. But by the time I made it in, it was too late.”
“You were going to take my child from me?” He demands, and you glance around, making sure no neighbors can hear the soap-level drama your life has become.
“Fuck you,” you grit out, shoving him back from you. “You didn’t even know about it until ten minutes ago. And you already have a kid, Sammy! With your wife. You know, the one you told me you were leaving when you got me knocked up.”
Sammy flinches back and something inside of you feels slightly vindicated. “What did you expect me to do? I mean, you made it abundantly clear you didn’t want me. You made it seem like that night meant nothing to you. And then I find out that Tammi is pregnant with your kid and I know that the last thing you want is another baby with some chick you don’t even like.”
“Hey,” Sammy snaps and you jut your chin out, just begging for a reason to slap him. “I do like you, alright?”
You groan and shake your head, “Yeah, alright. You like me, but you don’t have the decency to respect over a decade of friendship. You didn’t even give me the courtesy of being honest with me, Sammy. Just lied your way right into my pants.”
Sammy’s head drops and you look away, eyes catching Mariella’s from where she’s watching you both through the kitchen window. Her hands are slowly drying a plate, body tilted so she can try and hear you.
You scoff and look back at him. “Look, there was just never a good time.” You actively soften your voice, not needing a noise complaint called on you. “But everything happened with Tammi and then-”
You bite down on your tongue, forcing yourself to keep Nate’s name out of the conversation. It’s just more pain that neither of you needs right now. “You’re in a bad place, Sammy. You don’t need me adding to that.”
He sucks in a sharp breath, hands pushing against his eyes as he actively keeps his temper in check. Honestly, he’s doing a lot better than you had expected. You’ve been waiting for him to kick over Mariella’s trashcan or storm off.
“How far along?”
Huffing, you lift your shirt for him to get a better look. “About five or so months. I think I’m getting close to the end of the second trimester.”
Sammy’s eyes bore into your stomach, hands twitching at his sides as if he wants to touch you. You drop your shirt quickly, stepping back from him. The hurt look in his eyes almost makes you feel bad. Almost.
“I haven’t even noticed,” he whispers.
You shrug, arms wrapping around your stomach as you rock back on your heels. “I honestly wasn’t even really showing until about a week or so ago.”
“I-” He steps forward, hands outstretched. You jerk back, shooting him a sharp glare and tilting your body away from him. He has lost any privileges he once had to affections or hugs. You don’t have the patience or willingness to offer him any more kindness than a honest conversation.
He lets out a watery laugh, eyes shining under Mariella’s porch light. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Yeah,” you scoff. “Join the club.” For a second he smiles and you return it, but it falters and falls too quickly to be real.
“What are you going to do?”
You suck your teeth and shrug. “I thought about giving it up.” His head snaps up and you hold your hands out. “Relax, I’m not gonna let my kid get tossed to foster care. I’m keeping her, I just don’t know-”
“Her?” He asks, eyes wide as you realize you accidentally let it slip.
“Uh, yeah, I thought about doing that gender reveal thing. Like, just get myself a cupcake or something. But it seems stupid to do that alone so I asked my doctor. Found out last week.”
He makes a noise like it pains him to think of you eating a pink cupcake all alone in your dingy apartment. You can’t blame him, you paint a pretty pathetic picture right now.
“Do you have an ultrasound, or-” He swallows roughly, cutting himself off.
You nod your head, pulling out your phone and passing it to him. He stares down at the picture, eyes wide and gleaming at the blurry little form of your daughter.
God, you haven’t actually referred to the baby as anything other than it or the kid. ‘Your daughter’ suddenly makes it feel too real.
His knuckles go white around your phone as he shakes his head. “You can’t stay in that neighborhood anymore,” he tells you.
Your head snaps up, you most definitely misheard him. “Excuse me?”
He doesn’t even look at you, just stares down at the picture. “You can’t.”
“Alright,” you roll your eyes and wave him off. “Screw you, Sammy. Give me my phone back.”
You reach for it and he jerks it out of reach, holding it above your head. If it didn’t hurt to get on the tips of your toes, you would totally grab it. But your feet are freaking killing you right now. And he smirks like he knows it.
“Think of how many GSW’s we’ve been called in for. Right by your apartment building, too. You should have moved years ago. Do you really think it’s safe to raise a kid there?”
“Of course not. But what am I supposed to do? It’s impossible finding a two-bedroom place that I can actually afford, now. Let alone after I take the pay cut for maternity leave and buy all the supplies for the baby.”
“What have you bought?” He asks, missing your point entirely.
You shrug, “Nothing. I haven’t really processed this.”
“Not even a crib,” he demands.
You bristle, finally giving up the fight for your phone.“No, asshole,” you snap. “Not even a crib. I’ve got four months before I have to worry about it.”
He makes a pained noise and you fight back a laugh. “I mean, your other baby mama’s got two guys looking after her. I don’t have anyone but me, alright. It’s kind of hard figuring this out alone.”
Sammy’s arm finally drops, your phone hanging by his side as he watches you. “You didn’t have to be alone.”
You roll your eyes, give me a break. “You didn’t want me, Sammy. Why would I think you’d want my kid?”
“Our kid,” he corrects and you’re sure he isn’t aware just how close you are to slapping that indignant look off his face.
“Look, you’re stretched thin enough as is. I don’t like making myself a burden.”
“You’re not,” Sammy’s head lolls back and he lets out an aggrieved groan. “You are not a burden,” he tells you firmly. “We’ve got a day off tomorrow, right?”
You nod and he claps his hands together with a definitive sigh. “We’ll look at new places.”
“Okay,” you shrug. “That doesn’t magically make me able to afford them.”
“No, but we can,” he says motioning between you both. “We can live together, split the rent so we can afford it.”
Your face falls, eyes narrowing as you shake your head. “And then what? We have two nurseries? One for mine and one for Tammi’s?”
You absolutely do not mean any of that. No way in hell are you letting your life get entangled with that woman. But he’s just nodding his head like this is a good idea.
“What?” You snap, slapping his shoulder. “No, Sammy!”
“You offered me your couch!” He argues.
“Five months ago! Before you put a baby in me,” you remind him, shaking your head with a glare.
Sammy finally hands you back your phone and returns the evil look tenfold. “This is not up for discussion.”
“Yeah, alright,” you wave him off, not taking him seriously for a second. With an irritated groan, you storm off to your car and pointedly ignore him as you pull out.
If only he could have done that five months ago.
Three firm knocks on your door have you shooting out of bed. You let out a low groan, glaring at the door while you clutch your stomach. You haven’t had horrific morning sickness, yet, but sudden movements seem to be testing your guts limits. Another knock and it’s like the police are about to bust through your apartment.
Grumbling to yourself, you throw the door open and glare. “What the hell?”
Sammy stands there, sunglasses on and two cups of coffee in his hand. “Why aren’t you ready?”
Your eyes turn into slits as you let out a strangled groan. “I didn’t think you were being serious about this,” you snap.
“Yeah, well, I am.” He shoves the cup into your hand and you take a sip, letting him inside.
“Ugh,” you stick your tongue out, glaring down at the coffee. “This tastes nasty.”
“Decaf,” Sammy tells you, glancing around your apartment with a disgusted glare. You can’t blame him. Objectively, it’s an absolutely horrible place for a baby to grow up in. You’re about 90% sure that there’s mold growing behind the walls of your shower and there is definitely asbestos.
But, your landlord gives you a major discount on rent as long as you turn a blind eye to some of his more unethical business practices.
“This is so not fair. Tammi gets to smoke weed and I’m stuck with this,” you slam the cup down and pick up some jeans to change into. Sammy shoots you a sharp glare and you wave him off, grabbing one of the few maternity shirts you own and tugging it on.
His eyes are immediately drawn to your stomach. It’s the first time in a while that you’ve been around him in anything other than loose clothes. You can’t exactly blame him for the shock on his face. It’s like you just got pregnant overnight to him.
Well, you guess that’s actually exactly how he feels.
“Alright,” you pick the coffee up and motion him outside.
Hesitating, you let out a tired sigh. “Are we really doing this?” You ask, peering over your shoulder as you lock the door.
“Yes,” Sammy tells you firmly. He places a hand on your lower back, eyes darting around the neighborhood as he shakes his head in disappointment.
“Should’ve gotten you out of here a long time ago,” he mutters, more to himself than you.
You just roll your eyes at him, grunting a little as you lower yourself into his car. He hovers over you, offering you a hand that you swat away. You’re just a little slower than normal, not helpless.
Sammy’s face screws up at how stubborn you are and he closes the door with far more force than necessary. You let out a sharp breath, wincing at a cramp in your side as he gets in.
“You alright?” He asks, brows pinched as he takes in your grimace.
“Yeah, just tweaked my back.”
“Doing what?” He asks, voice low in a way that sends goosebumps up your arm.
You don’t meet his eye, picking at a thread on your jeans, instead. “Uh, just, taking down a suspect last week.”
“Jesus,” he hisses, pulling out of your apartment complex. “You should be on desk duty,” he tells you sharply.
You reach over and punch his arm, smiling when he winces. “You get me put on desk duty, Sammy, and I’m going to shoot you.”
He dismisses you with a glare and you let out another irritated huff.
For the entire day, he drags you through every decent neighborhood he can find. You vehemently veto any places in castaic, however, which kills him. But you cannot live in that boring ass suburbia desert, it will drive you insane.
By the end of it all, your feet feel like lead weights. Every place you guys have been to, you’ve hated. Some were no-go’s because of a strict HOA. Others because modern architecture seems to mean sucking the soul out of every room in the home.
At the last townhouse, in an older but relatively safe neighborhood, you are thoroughly pissed off. Pieces of you that you didn’t know existed are aching and you are starving. Despite the fact that he got you food an hour ago.
“This is it,” you snap at him, finally taking his offered hand as he eases you out of the car.
“Yeah, yeah,” he brushes you off, leading you up the porch where a realtor’s waiting for you. Her overly enthusiastic smile makes you want to slap her and you would dismiss that as hormones if you weren’t a person prone to pettiness far before the baby.
“Well, look at you two! What a gorgeous couple!”
Sammy offers a weak smile and you slap his hand away from you. “Not a couple,” you grit out. “Can we get this over with, please?”
“Oh,” her face falls and she clears her throat uncomfortably. “Of course, come in, please.”
You leave Sammy to listen to her spiel while you explore the house. It’s older than the ones he’s been looking at. The kitchen is a little less modern but you prefer that to all the beige you’ve suffered through on the tours today. You like the wooden cabinets and colorfully tiled floors. You imagine a baby would too.
Humming, you check out the rooms downstairs. There are two of them, across the hall from one another. Peering in, you can already see where the cribs might go.
It’s not ideal having the kid’s rooms downstairs, but the master bedroom is right at the top of the stairs. Worst case scenario, you could get to them in under thirty seconds. Besides, you’ll have them in bassinets by your bed for the first few months.
The longer you wander around, the more you find yourself liking the place. In each room you can already imagine how you and Sammy would decorate, how the babies play areas would look. And then you catch yourself, realizing that you’re imagining Tammi’s baby actually being a part of this.
You’ve never been in such a messy situation before. You’re not sure what the rules are on taking care of another woman’s baby. You know that Sammy will have split custody with her. But you’ve yet to figure out how much she wants you involved with him.
Sighing, you shake your head and walk down the stairs. An issue for another day.
Sammy peers up at you, “Well?”
You glance down at the eager relator and scowl. “It’s perfect,” you reluctantly admit. She gives a smug grin and pulls out some paperwork for Sammy to look over.
Not even two weeks later, he’s got you forcefully removed from your old neighborhood and living in the townhouse with him. While you work on furnishing the nurseries and figuring out the complexities of your sudden proximity, he sleeps on an air mattress in the baby’s room.
You feel a little guilty each morning when he wakes up and there’s a clear limp to his walk because the blow-up is kiling him. You’ve yet to broach the topic, but when the baby gets here, it would probably just be better if he shared the bed with you.
This morning, you’re drinking orange juice while he sips tiredly on a mug of coffee. You flip through the newspaper, eyes lingering on an ad for a second too long. “What is it?” He asks.
You slide the paper toward him, finger tapping against the ad. “50% off at,” you sigh at the name and purse your lips. “Cuddle Couture.”
Sammy snorts into his coffee and you grin. “What the hell is that?”
“A baby store, dumbass. Probably a good place to finally pick out a crib.”
“Alright,” he checks his watch and nods. “We have a few hours before I have to head in. Want to go check it out?”
You shrug, “Might as well, right?” He taps the table once before he’s getting to his feet, a low groan escaping him as he rubs his lower back. You feel a little sympathy for him but also the slightest bit of vindication. Because if he wants to complain about back pain, he should try carrying his giant freaking baby for six months.
You lean against the cart, watching as Sammy’s eyes rove over all of the frilly little onesies. “Hey, what about this?” He picks out one that’s soft pink with teddy bear print. Something in your chest twists as you imagine your baby in it.
“Adorable,” you tell him. He tosses it in the cart as you kneel down in front of a onesie clearly aimed at boys. It’s darker blue with a police badge patched on the shoulder. “What the hell are they putting kids in these days?”
As much as you don’t like it, you’re sure Sammy would. “Hey,” he looks over and you toss it at him. His brow furrows as he looks down at it. “For the other one,” you tease, meaning Tammi’s soon-to-be son.
His face softens as he gives you a disbelieving smile. “You’re thinking about him?”
You jerk back a little, reaching for the cart as you shrug. “I mean, I don’t know. He’s gonna be at our house, isn’t he? He should have some clothes, that’s all,” you dismiss, suddenly eager for the conversation to be done.
Sammy grabs a few more sets of clothes, ones for each new stage of growth. You notice him putting in some for the girl, some for the boy, a few that would work well for both and find yourself smiling for some strange reason. Maybe it’s just because of how happy he looks going through all of the different supplies.
“Did, uh,” you clear your throat and offer a stiff smile. “Did Tammi let you shop with her for anything?”
Sammy’s hands freeze on a book he’d picked up. He shrugs. “She let me pick out the paint for the nursery, but, she took her boyfriend to get the crib and stuff.” Your lips purse, a sting in your eyes as you take in his pathetically sad face.
Dammit, you glare down at your stomach, this kid’s turning you soft.
“Well, congrats, now you get to pick out two.” He huffs out a little laugh as your tilt your head toward some odd looking machine on a shelf. Vaguely, you think you know what it is, but it seems like something better for milking a cow than anything human.
“What the hell is this?” You mutter, picking the box up.
“That,” you jump, heart racing as a worker pops up beside you. “Is the best breast pump on the market.”
You narrow your eyes at her as she smiles eagerly at you. “It looks like it’s a torture device,” you say, pointing to the clamps that are, apparently, supposed to go on your nipple. Clamps.
“That’s not the best,” Sammy suddenly interjects, moving to stand next to you. He takes the box from your hands and places it back on the shelf. You let out an astonished laugh when the woman picks it back up with a forced smile.
“Actually, sir, it is. It’s one of our most purchased products.”
“Doesn’t make it good,” he snips.
“All due respect, but this is quite literally my job. I think I would know.”
You hold up a hand before he can continue arguing with her. “Job or not, I don’t want my boobs clamped. It’s gonna be pain enough if my kid figures out how to bite.” You turn with a sigh, heading toward the foldable play pens.
You start talking, asking for his opinions. It takes a second to realize he hadn’t followed you. With a groan, you walk back toward him and find him still arguing with the over eager sales lady.
Pushing the cart back to him, you catch the tail end of their argument. “Look, lady, I’m having two kids. I’ve put some research into this. I don’t care what your job is.”
The woman huffs and puts the box back on the shelf. “Congragulations on the twins, ma’am,” she tells you curtly.
You raise your brows and shake your head. “Oh, I’m only having one. His other baby mama’s having the second one.” The poor lady’s face goes pale and Sammy glares at you. You snicker as she rushes to get away from you both.
“What?” You sigh at the look on his face.
“You’re enjoying this too much.” He frowns, nudging your side as you walk toward the cribs.
“Yeah, well, cut me some slack. I’m bullying for two, now.” The grin on Sammy’s face forces one onto yours and you look away from him before he can spot it. You’re not supposed to be enjoying this with him. But you are.
You’re enjoying it far too much.
Your foot taps impatiently against the linoleum as you wait for Sammy to walk in. He beelines straight to Sal and you hope he can feel your glare boring into the back of his head.
“I’m on rotation today. Why did Johnson and Walters get my case?”
“Oh,” you snap before Sal can answer. They both turn to you and you hold up your hand as you lift yourself from your chair. It takes longer than you’d like, but pregnancy is really starting to catch up to you.
With a low breath you stomp toward him. “Because you got me benched and you’re my partner, now, you ass.”
Sammy’s eyes narrow on you before they drop to your stomach. Specifically the profesional looking maternity shirt you bought this past weekend. It seems to be odd for both of you, having your stomach on display like this at work. You’d gotten some confused looks from everyone considering none of them had a clue you were pregnant.
You feel way too exposed and you hate it.
“What is she talking about?” Sammy finally tears his eyes from yours and looks at Sal.
Sal just holds up his hands. “I don’t know what you want me to do, Sammy. You told me about her… condition and it’s not like I can just have you both investigating some gangbangers shooting each other up. It’s too high risk.”
“Condition?” You scoff. “I’m pregnant, Sal, just say it. And don’t talk like I’m not standing right here,” you snap with complete disregard to the fact the he’s your boss.
Sal’s expression goes flat as he lets out a long-suffering sigh. You shove Sammy’s shoulder and he grimaces. “I told you that if you snitched I would shoot you, Sammy. Don’t think I won’t. You just earned us both two months of desk work. Do you think I’m incapable of doing my job now?”
Sammy crosses his arms and glowers. “You can’t even run anymore,” he hisses your name.
You hate when he’s right. “Why the hell would I let you out into the field carrying-”
Your eyes widen minutely and you shake your head. Sammy bites his lip, glancing down at Sal who’s pretending he’s not listening to every word. Both of you agreed that it was better not to let people know Sammy’s the dad. It would be an HR nightmare and you know how these guys talk about women. You can’t have them all looking at you like you're something to be passed around the station like some badge bunny.
“I won’t let my partner out in the field when she’s seven months pregnant,” he corrects.
“Ugh,” you throw your hands up and storm back to your desk, lowering yourself slowly into your chair. “I hate when you’re right,” you sneer. Sammy rolls his eyes at you and tosses himself in his chair with an irritated groan.
It only takes three hours for Sal to finally break. He’d been forced to listen to you and Sammy bitch at each other since you arrived and he couldn’t take it anymore. “Alright,” he snaps, interrupting you both bickering about what to get for lunch.
Your brows dip as you turn toward him. He runs his hands down his face and shakes his head. “I cannot listen to you two for one more minute. We just got a call about a body, you guys can go check it out.”
Sammy goes to interject, but you toss your pen at him before he screws you both over. He jerks back, shooting you an offended look. “Thank you, so much,” you rush out, already getting to your feet.
Sammy glares over at Sal who just holds up his hands. “It’s low-risk. I just need you both out of here for a few hours.” Sammy lets out a huffy sigh and follows you out of the station.
You stretch your arms out, grimacing as your back throbs. Sammy rushes down the stairs to catch up with you. Doesn’t take him long considering you’re going a snail’s pace. “Happy with yourself?” He asks.
You grin over your shoulder at him. “Incredibly.” Your smile slips slightly when you catch the harsh look on his face. It’s not necessarily directed at you, but he’s staring down at your stomach and you know how worried he is.
“Hey,” you nudge his side as he walks you to the car. “Why don’t we just get some lunch, drive around for a bit. We can let Lydia deal with the body. I just want to get away from my desk.”
He frowns, head tilting because he really doesn’t believe you. “Really? You’re just going to give in?”
You roll your eyes with a fond smile. “I know how dangerous our job is, Sammy. I’m not so selfish as to risk something happening to the baby. Besides, my feet are throbbing right now and I immediately regretted the idea of having to walk through a scene.”
Sammy lets out a laugh and shakes his head, helping you into the car. “You’re a ridiculous person,” he admonishes.
You just shrug. “Then you should pray our daughter doesn’t take after me.”
“You kidding me? I want her to be just like you.” He closes the door and you stare down at your lap, biting back tears as if he hadn’t just said something so sweet your chest hurts.
Damn hormones, you curse, absolutely lying to yourself because, deep down, you know it’s just him that makes you feel like this.
“I’m home!” Sammy calls out, door shutting behind him. His brows turn down as he glances around the living room. At this point, he usually just finds you laying on the couch, complaining about swollen feet.
“In here,” you call back and he follows your voice to the nursery. His lips part in astonishment as he finds you surrounded by an assembled crib and changing table. You, however, are laying flat on the ground, face absolutely defeated as you wave weakly at him.
“What is going on?” He asks, already settling beside you, helping you sit up. “I told you not to worry about any of this.”
You shrug, fiddling with the paintbrush in your hands. His heart stutters for a moment, terrified that you actually tried painting without him. But the walls are still bare and the can is unopened on top of a tarp. At the very least, you knew when to stop.
“I just needed to stop thinking. I like building this kind of stuff, anyway, calms me down.” Tears begin to line your eyes and his hands hover over you as he panics. You’ve always been slightly volatile but he is completely unsure how to act around you now. Never sure what’s going to set you off or have you smiling at him.
“But I couldn’t paint,” you swallow thickly and wipe at your cheeks. “Paint fumes are bad for the baby.”
He hums, nodding as he slowly takes the paintbrush from your hands. It feels disconcertingly like disarming a suspect. “Yeah, sweetheart. But you know I’m going to do it for you. Why are you so upset?”
Your face crumples and he winces as your head falls into your hands. Your shoulders begin to shake as you cry into your palms and he just sits there, hands hovering but not touching. Sometimes you want a hug, a lot of the times you’re snapping at him to back off.
Deciding to risk it, he wraps his arm around your shoulders. You slump into him immediately and something inside him warms. “You need to paint the nursery for Tammi’s baby. This is my baby, my daughter.”
Sammy stiffens, forehead falling against yours as he sucks in a sharp breath. He knows that this whole mess is his fault and he hates how much it’s bugging you. But, god damn, you make it hard not to lose it sometimes.
“I’m her father,” he reassures, pulling back and cupping your cheeks. “Which means I take care of her and you,” he wipes your tears away and your eyes flutter shut.
“But you don’t want us, Sammy. All we are is a mistake. An obligation,” you sob, sinking further into him.
“Hey!” You jerk back, eyes reddened and wide. It’s the first time he’s really snapped at you in a while but he just can’t take it anymore. “Don’t put shit in my mouth that I haven’t said.”
Your eyes narrow and you pull back from him, swatting his hands away. His jaw clenches, cheeks flushing as he actively bites back his temper. “But you said it,” you’re snapping now, pissed off and struggling as you try to get to your feet. He almost helps you but he thinks it might better if you’re grounded so this doesn’t turn into a real fight.
Giving up, you drop back to the ground. “When you slept with me,” you whisper. “You said that it was-” You clear your throat and wipe tiredly at your cheeks. “It wasn’t anything.”
Sammy rubs his eyes. He’s had a long shift and a worse day. He just wanted to come home, find you on the couch waiting for him, and have a quiet night with you. But you always have to be such a pain in his ass. So goddamn stubborn it hurts.
“I made a mistake, alright?” You glare as he raises his voice and he settles down with a long exhale. “I meant everything I said to you that night. I wanted you- I want you. I’ve been so damn happy since you told me you were pregnant. But you just won’t let me be happy with you.”
Your lips tremble and he worries he’s just kickstarted another round of waterworks. You don’t use your tears against him like Tammi used to. No, you cry the whole time you’re shouting at him and then continue to as he tries to talk you down. You never use it to get him to leave you alone and he loves you for it, but right now he just needs you calm for once.
Before you can lay into him or sob, your face is screwing up in pain. “Oh,” you flinch, hand going to your stomach.
“What is it?” He rushes out. You’re only seven months along. Water doesn’t break that early. Right?
You laugh a little and finally smile at him. “Relax,” you mutter, reaching out and taking his palm in yours. He frowns as you settle it under the curve of your stomach. A second later he feels it, sees it even through your tight shirt. The baby kicking against his palm.
“Damn,” you hiss. “Kidney shot.”
Sammy laughs and moves both hands to feel. It’s something Tammi won’t allow him. Sure, he’s the father, but as far as she concerned that doesn’t matter until the baby’s out. Getting to experience this with you of all people was more than he could have ever asked for.
He glances up at the soft look on your face, the sweet way you run your hand along your stomach. A far cry from the woman who cussed the baby out everytime you felt her boxing with your bladder.
Sammy slips his hand into yours, smiling when he sees the surprise on your face. “Even if you’re not in love with me,” it physically pains him to say that. “We’re still friends. We’ve always taken care of each other. That is not going to stop now.”
Your eyes water again and he shakes his head, leaning forward to press a brief kiss to your forehead. That only makes you sniffle and he forces himself to stand before he really makes you cry again.
And you, you just sit there, watching as he rolls up his sleeves and opens the paint can. He’s painting the nursery, tonight, because you wanted to so bad. Despite the fact that you know he had a bad day.
What he said finally settles in you and your throat tightens. He only said that you weren’t in love with him. Sammy didn’t say anything about himself.
You’re sitting on the couch one night, feet elevated because your ankles are killing you today, when Sammy comes out of the nursery. He’s got something that looks like a walkman in his hands and he’s beelining straight for you.
You would sit up if it didn’t take so much effort. “What’s that?” You ask, reaching out for it. Sammy dodges your hands and you scowl. He lets out a little laugh, gently sitting you up so he can take the seat beside you.
“Tammi gave me this book, forced me to read it so I would know how to properly coparent.” You hum, head tilting as you watch him press a button on something that is most definitely a walkman. But the headphones stretch far more than any you’ve ever seen.
“It said that classical music is supposed to be good for the baby’s development.”
“Seriously?” You mutter, watching him put the headphones over your stomach. You snort at how ridiclous it looks. “So I probably shouldn’t have been listening to freak on a leash on the way to work.”
He nudges your side and you smile. “Be serious,” he mutters, ignoring the grin on his own face.
“I am,” you insist, but he doesn’t believe you for a second. His hand lingers on your stomach, face soft when the baby kicks. You grumble, shifting uncomfortably as she settles her giant head comfortably against your liver.
Sammy wraps his arm around your shoulder, helping you rest your head on his lap so you can try and get comfortable again. His hand smooths gently over your hair and you smile, mind drifting back to the ridiculous reality show you’d been watching.
Vaguely, you can hear a little bit of the classical music seeping out from the headphones. Ridiculous, you think, trying not to laugh. Who would’ve thought he’d be the one freaking out over the parenting books?
You lay your palm on his thigh and he takes it in his immediately, sinking further into the cushions behind him. It’s quiet for a while. Peaceful in a way you haven’t experienced in years. It’s nice, especially after such a horrid shift.
You’d done paperwork for nine hours, sitting on the same flattened chair, getting up to pee every other minute. You’ve been wondering if you could somehow go on maternity leave early, but the thought of just sitting around the house bugs you. Work seems to be the only thing you know how to fill your time with.
“I’m going back on patrol.” Sammy’s voice cuts through the peace and immediately sends your heart into overdrive. You try and sit up, but his arm is heavy around your waist. He isn’t holding you because he wants to, he’s subduing you so you can’t tear him a new one.
“What the fuck, Sammy?” You hiss, tilting your head so you can get a decent look on his face. He offers you a sorry smile that makes you want to dig your elbow into his groin.
“I just,” he cuts himself off, eyes darting back to the TV even though he’s not watching it. “There was a boot that got shot today. He was barely six months in and he got shot by the same asshole that was there when they killed Nate.”
Your eyes flutter close as you rub at your brow. “Sammy,” you mutter, heart aching for him.
“I just feel like I might be able to make a difference. I need to do something that feels like I’m making this a better place for my kids.”
You shake your head, biting your tongue so you don’t start a fight that you know will just end with you pissed and him unchanged in his decision. “You’re unbelievable, Bryant.”
He smiles down at you. “In a good way or a bad way?”
“I’ll decide when I’m not furious,” you bite out. You turn your face away from him, forcing yourself to look at the TV as you bite back tears. You don’t care about the pay cut he’s going to get. Or that his hours will probably be completely irregular now. You just hate the idea of him being back on the street, out in the open driving around in a black and white target.
He lifts your hand, pressing a gentle kiss to the knuckles as you swallow past the lump in your throat. You can’t lose him like you both lost Nate.
“What is that?” You call from the doorway of the house. Sammy’s pulled into the driveway with a truck you’ve never seen and a mangled mess of metal poles in the back. Stepping down the stairs, you rub at the ache in your lower back and tilt your head as you try and figure out what it is.
“The people that bought Nate’s house didn’t want the slide. They told me I could take it.”
You raise your brows as you watch him struggle to drag it from the bed of the truck. “Yeah, uh huh, did they tell you how to put it back together?” Sammy pauses and offers you a weak smile.
“It can’t be that hard,” he shrugs.
You shake your head, rolling your eyes as you walk back into the house. You can still hear him grunting in the driveway, struggling to even unload the thing. Picking up your phone, you call Ben.
You haven’t met him yet, but you’d demanded Sammy give you his partner’s number in case of an emergency. This wasn’t necessarily an emergency, but it is finally an excuse to meet him. Maybe interrogate him a bit to make sure Sammy’s in good hands.
“Sherman,” he says in lieu of hello.
“Hi this is Sammy’s…” you trail off. You’re certainly not introducing yourself as his damn baby mama. “Roommate,” you settle on slowly, even if that doesn’t feel right either.
He lets out a small laugh and says your name. “Yeah, Sammy’s told me about his roommate. Is something wrong?”
“Uh,” you walk to the front door and watch as Sammy drags the poles to the backyard with bright red cheeks. “Not really. It’s just, Sammy’s trying to build this thing for the baby. It’s not really a one-man job. Would you mind coming over for a minute?”
He’s quiet for a while and you figure he’s probably going to just hang up. But then he’s letting out a long and weary sigh. “I need to drive to castaic?”
“Oh,” you snort. “Hell no, you think I’m letting him move me over there?” You give him your new address and Ben lets out a relieved laugh.
“Yeah, give me half an hour.”
You hang up just as Sammy walks in. His eyes narrow on your phone and you offer him a wide smile. “Who was that?”
“Who was what?” You ask innocently, tucking your phone into your pocket.
“I don’t need any help,” he insists. You just nod and pat his back as he goes to drag more pieces out of the truck. And, then, almost half an hour on the dot, Ben is pulling up. Sammy rolls his eyes as he sees him.
He glares over at where you’re sitting on the porch steps and you grin. “You haven’t even gotten it all out of the car, Sammy. You need help.”
Ben jogs up the driveway and waves at you. “Nice to meet you,” he offers.
“I would stand up but once I’m down it takes a while to get back up.”
He shakes his head, “Don’t worry about it.” He turns to Sammy who’s still looking pissy at you. “Can’t even build a slide, huh?”
Sammy rolls his eyes and motions Ben forward. “Just hurry up and don’t scratch the truck. This thing’s a loan.” You leave them to it while you slowly get to your feet. It’s coming up on the halfway mark for month eight. While you did relatively well through the first and second trimester you have started to seriously slow down.
Your ribs are getting kicked at, organs squished as a concerningly large baby takes up space in your body. Every morning is a different ache and you have found that your usually small threshold for idiocy has become nonexistent. You’re snapping at anyone and anything.
Sammy had walked in on you cussing the crib out one day because you’d stubbed your toe. And then you were snapping at him for laughing.
You hobble back into the house as you roll your shoulders, trying to get rid of the everpresent strain in your neck. In the kitchen, you make them some lemonade and a small snack. A reward for a job well done if they actually manage to figure it out.
But, an hour later, you head out to the back porch and find that the slide is still not built and now they’re bickering with each other on what part goes where. You sigh, rolling your eyes as you walk down the steps.
The grass is cold against your bare feet and you frown. You swear to god you’d put on shoes. Then again, you seem to be forgetting everything nowadays. “Hey,” you call out, laughing at their flushed cheeks.
“Go lay down, sweetheart,” Sammy tells you, clearly at the end of his rope. You ignore him and he lets out a long suffering groan. Tilting your head you kick at one of the poles.
“That goes with the red piece,” you tell them.
“No it doesn’t,” Ben tells you.
“Sammy I can’t bend down which means that you’re both spared from me shoving that thing up your asses. But be a dear and slot it into the red piece, please.” Sammy shoots Ben a look like you aren’t actively staring at his face. The ‘bitches-be-crazy’ ‘tude really makes you wish you could bend over.
Giving you a patronizing smirk, Sammy picks up the pole and the little red triangle. “I told you, honey-” He’s cut off as it slides into place with a distinct click. Both Ben and Sammy stare at you with wide eyes.
“I like building things,” you tell them. “And I’m good at it. I don’t know why men can’t just shut up and listen sometimes.” You kick at another pole and motion for Ben to pick it up.
In an hour, you’ve got the damn thing built and you’re sitting on the couch, eating the food you made for them, congratulating yourself on a job well done.
Ben sits in the armchair across from you, nursing the beer Sammy had passed him. “You know, I thought Sammy was being dramatic when he told me about you.” Your eyes narrow and Sammy shakes his head subtly. But Ben keeps on going. “I get it now, man.”
“Get what?” You snap, glaring at them both.
Ben just snickers, taking another swig from his beer. “Nothing, sweetheart, ignore him.” Sammy waves him off and you sink back into the couch with a cold glare.
“You two are so lucky I can’t get up.”
“I know,” Ben snorts and then he’s dodging the slipper you kicked off at him.
You know that Sammy’s out on patrol right now. He probably won’t answer his phone, at least not for another hour. But you’re currently sitting on the stairs with a puddle steadily growing around you. And you really don’t want to have to get an uber to the hospital.
Taking the risk, you call him. “What?” He snaps and your eyes go wide as you scoff.
“I know you did not just take that tone with me,” you hiss, grimacing as a sharp pain stabs through your stomach. It’s like period cramps on fucking steroids.
Sammy says your name in a questioning tone and you let out a strained hum. “What’s going on?”
“Everything alright?” You hear Ben in the background and let out a shaky sigh. There’s no way he’s going to be able to come get you.
“Um, my water broke.” You glance down at the wooden stairs and frown. “Everywhere.”
“Wait, what?” You can hear his tires screeching as he slams on his brakes and then Ben cussing him out. “I’m on my way.”
“No, no, it’s fine.” You grab the railing and try to stand up but another cramp hits and you’re plopping back down. “I can probably get an Uber, you’re at work and-”
“Sweetheart, I need you to shut up, please.”
“Yeah, fair enough,” you concede, resting your head on the step behind you. “I’m scared, Sammy,” you whisper and hear him let out a rough sigh. “I don’t want to push her out. She’s huge! She’s got your big ass head,” you snap.
Ben laughs in the background and you’re sure you hear the sound of Sammy hitting him. “It is not that big, honey.”
“I’m sorry, did we see the same ultrasound? I’m gonna be pushing out a watermelon, here, Sammy.”
He goes quiet and you frown, really needing him to distract you again. Then you hear doors slamming outside and suddenly the front door’s getting busted open like its SWAT on the other side. You flinch back, almost laughing when you see the panicked look on Sammy’s face.
He makes his way toward you, but his foot slips through the puddle and he nearly busts his ass. “Yeah, I told you it went everywhere.” Slowly, with your hand gripping the rail, you scoot down one step at a time. Sammy takes your hands, helping you to your feet.
“Are you okay? Does anything hurt?” He asks, eyes roving over you.
“Yeah,” you deadpan. “It feels like I’ve got a bowling ball pushing out of me, Sammy.” He scowls and turns you around to find Ben waiting outside the door. He offers you a smile that looks more like a grimace.
“Help her get in the car,” Sammy instructs. Ben nods, taking your hand and easing you down the stairs. You don’t make it to the car before another cramp is digging its claws into your uterus.
“Ooh, I’m looking forward to that epidural,” you mutter. “Finally gonna get to try the good drugs,” you grunt as you lower yourself into the car.
“Not going natural?” Ben asks, foot tapping impatiently as he waits for Sammy to come back outside.
“I’m a cop, Ben. This is my one chance to get as close to high as I can be.” He snorts and then Sammy’s walking out of the house, carrying the bag you’d packed forever ago for the hospital. He slides it onto the floor beside you and offers you a tentative smile that you can only return with a grimace.
Ben drops you both off at the hospital, returning to the station to explain where Sammy’s disappeared to. It takes you a few hours longer than you’d prefer to get you dilated enough to push.
They had you doing all sorts of things to get this party going. Bouncing on a medicine ball, one of the nurses even tried to get you to do some squats and lunges with her. But you’d given up almost instantly, back nearly going out as you crawled back onto the hospital bed.
Finally, your daughter decided to make an appearance and then you were pushing. You don’t remember some of it. You just know that it wasn’t as horrifying as the movies make it seem. You didn’t scream like you were getting murdered or bleed everywhere.
You might have soiled yourself, the nurses lied to you if you did, which you deeply appreciate. And then, your baby is in your arms.
People always tell you about how instantly they fall in love with the little bundle of joy in their arms. And as elated as you are, as peaceful as it is to finally hold her, you still find yourself frowning.
“She’s beautiful,” the nurse tells you, offering you a kind smile.
“She’s wrinkly,” you correct, nose scrunching at her pruned face. Sammy snorts, trying to hold back his laughter as the nurse scowls. “She’s gonna get cuter, right?” You ask, eyes darting between her and your daughter that’s glaring like an angry old man.
“Give it a few hours,” another nurse tells you. “And be happy she didn’t come out with a cone head.”
Your eyes widen, arms tightening around her. “That was a possibility?” Sammy runs his hand over his hair as the majority of the nurses leave. “Did you know that?” You ask him, staring down at your daughter and smiling as she gets a death grip on your finger.
“Yeah, I knew. I just didn’t think you needed that in your head.”
“Good call,” you lower your voice as her eyes slip shut and scoot marginally over in the bed. “Come here,” you tell him, patting the spot beside you. He takes a seat, smile so wide it makes your chest ache to look at. “Here, take our wrinkly baby,” you tease, grinning at the way he laughs.
You sink further into the bed, expression soft and tired as you watch him smile down at your daughter. She looks so small in his arms it’s terrifying. How are you supposed to take care of this tiny little thing?
Your eyes flutter shut and you rub your brow. With everything settling, what little energy you had has seeped out of you. Sammy glances up at you, taking your hand as you try to fight off sleep.
One of the nurses walks over to you both, smile kind as she gestures to your baby. “If you’d like, we can take her to the nursery. Let the both of you get some rest.”
Immediately, you’re trying to lift yourself up. Sammy presses his hand gently to your shoulder. “We’ll be keeping her in here, thank you.” You slump back in relief and smile at him, squeezing his hand.
“Alright, be honest. Did you watch?”
He lifts his brows and you nod toward your legs. “Yeah,” he huffs. “I watched.”
“And, were the guys all right? Have you been put off sex forever?” You tease, sitting up slightly to get a better look at your daughter.
Sammy shakes his head. “They’re all idiots. I haven’t been put off sex forever.” For some reason, you feel a little bit of relief at that. Not that it matters considering you’ve only had sex with him once and he’s holding the product in his arms right now. You doubt he wants any more with you.
“Just a few months,” he adds, smile teasing.
“Jerk,” you roll your eyes and swat his arm. He chuckles and moves closer to you, lowering his arms so you can rub her chunky leg with your thumb. She did come out with a big head, like you’d told him she would.
“We’ve gotta name her,” you mutter.
Sammy grins and the malicious glint in his eyes have your alarms going off. “You know, me and Tammi said it would be Rachel if it was a girl-”
The remaining nurses all look up, eyes narrowing as they stare over at you two. He just smirks, far too proud of himself. “Fuck off,” you hiss.
Sammy lets out a scandalized noise, covering the baby’s ears. “Language,” he admonishes.
You laugh, mind still a little foggy. “If you sign Rachel on the birth certificate, the next time I’m in the station, it’ll be in cuffs.”
She starts to fuss and you hold out your arms. Sammy passes her to you carefully, reaching over to help you sit up as you undo the top of your gown. He glances away as you press her to your chest.
“I’ve always wanted to name my girl Alexandria.”
Sammy goes quiet, brows furrowing before he looks at you with a scowl. “Like that library?”
Heat flushes through you and you shrug. “I mean, kind of, yeah.”
“You know you’re a nerd, right?”
You roll your eyes and he smiles as you settle back on the bed. “Shut up.”
It’s barely even a month later that Sammy’s in the hospital again. You’re holding Alex when you get the text, a picture of a wrinkly baby who’s pissed off face looks just like Sammy’s.
You put your phone down, glancing down at your sleeping daughter and feel panic settle slowly in your gut. You don’t know what this means for the both of you. Sammy’s known Tammi since high school, been with her longer than you’ve even known him. And they’d been trying for their baby for years. Now, he’s got it, how much will he still want you and Alex?
You stand slowly, placing Alex down in her crib as you slump back into the rocking chair. Your nails drum restlessly against the arm as you stare at her, now, adorable face. Once she de-pruned she was pretty freaking cute. You have about a thousand pictures of her on your phone but you know Sammy’s got even more.
You rub tiredly at your eyes and let out a weary sigh. You should get up, take a shower, try and clean up a bit. But your body is dead weight and you can’t find the energy to care about anything except your baby.
Sammy almost calls out to you once he gets home. But the last time he’d done that, he’d woken Alex up and you'd barely talked to him the rest of the night. Quietly, he drops his bag by the door and makes his way toward the nursery.
You’re slumped in the rocking chair, mouth open as you snore. Sammy bites his lip so he doesn’t laugh and walks toward the crib. He peers over, smiling at Alex’s sleeping face. But then she lets out a low whine and his eyes are wide as he jumps back. He does not need to be the reason she wakes up early, again. He thinks you might actually kill him this time.
Sammy kneels in front of you and gently nudges you. You shoot up, eyes wide as you scan the room. “Alex,” you mumble, one eye still closed as you check out the crib.
It’s a practice in self control to not laugh. “She’s fine,” he tells you, taking your hands in his. You blink slowly as you take him in. He almost feels bad for waking you up, but he knows your neck will hurt if you stay here.
You rub your cheeks and nod. He stands up, gently guiding you out of the chair. “I should clean,” you mutter and Sammy rolls his eyes, nudging you toward the stairs.
“I’ll take care of it,” he promises. You nod, eyes shut as you blindly make your way into the bedroom. Alex is a great sleeper, usually goes right through the night without waking you both up too many times.
But you are absolutely wired, as if someone’s going to break in and steal her at any given moment. He gets it, knows that instinct is typical for people in your line of work. At this point, though, the baby’s sleeping better than you.
Sammy just needs you to get at least one full nights sleep so your brain is functioning again. Gentle but firm, he guides you onto the bed, ignoring your mumbled protests as he lifts your legs and drags the blanket over you.
“Where’s Nate?” You mutter, eyes completely closed at this point.
Sammy sits beside you, brushing some hair off your cheek as he smiles. “He’s with Tammi.”
You let out a low hum, pushing yourself closer to him. “Are you still going to want us, now?”
Sammy’s hand freezes as his gaze drops to you. His chest tightens with panic, but you’re already sleeping. Face content like you didn’t just drop a bomb on him. What the hell is that supposed to mean?
You wake up to Sammy’s arm slung around your waist, keeping you pinned to his chest. Glaring at the sun, you sigh and try to wiggle closer to him. It’s become normal, waking up like this. You hated him sleeping on that air mattress downstairs and just getting stiffer every day.
Just a little while before Alex was born, you’d told him to start sleeping in the master bedroom with you.
Basically, you’re married without any of the benefits.
You look up, tracing the slopes of his face with your eyes. You have to enjoy him like this while you can. Peaceful, content, quiet.
Sammy turns over, burying his head deeper into the pillow as he wraps both arms around you. Something inside your chest squeezes until it’s hard to breathe. This is horrible, it hurts so bad and you hate it.
You’re pretty sure you’re in love with him.
There had always been something between you two. A tension you thought was sexual, a long-term friendship fueled from times at the academy and adrenaline-rush moments where you saved each other’s asses. But it had never felt quite like this.
You weren’t constantly aching back then. This feels all wrong.
You hate that you love the father of your daughter because you are so sure he doesn’t love you. At least, not in the way you need.
Sammy groans, head slipping from the pillow and dropping to your shoulder. You force a light laugh, reaching up to run your hands through his hair. Slowly, he lifts his head, smiling at you in a way that makes you want to mush his face away because he cannot keep making you hurt like this.
“How’d you sleep?” He mutters, voice still thick with exhaustion. You smile a little, it only widens when he reaches up and brushes some hair out of your eye.
“Like a rock,” you glance over his shoulder to see he moved Alex’s bassinet over to his side. Sighing, you slump back onto the bed. “I didn’t hear her wake up last night.”
Sammy just nods, hand idly moving up and down your side as he settles so he can get a better look at you. “Yeah, I took care of her. You needed a decent night’s sleep.”
Foolishly, you’d convinced yourself that once you had your baby, the hormones just went away. But, no, you’re still as sensitive as ever. Something as simple as him saying you needed sleep has your eyes welling up as you bite your lip to stop yourself from crying.
“I’m sorry,” you croak out.
His eyes grow comically large and you would laugh if you weren’t so afraid of the tears spilling. “What’s wrong?" He sits up, pulling you with him and you bury your face in his neck.
“God,” you groan, fisting his shirt in your hands as you shake your head. “I think I love you.”
Sammy’s body goes deathly still and its enough to finally push the tears over the edge. You try to pull back, but he just tightens his arms around you. “Why are you sorry?” He asks, allowing you to move back just enough to meet his eyes.
There’s something about his expression that has your crying abating, just a little. “You love Alex and you care about me. But you don’t love me.”
Sammy rolls his eyes and you would take offense if you weren’t so busy being sad. He cups your face, smushing your cheeks together slightly as he glowers. “Stop assuming, it makes an ass out of both of us.”
“What-”
He pulls you closer and you stiffen as he presses his lips to yours. It’s nothing like it was the first time. He’s not pushing you against a wall, kissing you like the only thing he’s thinking about is ripping your clothes off. No, this is sweet, gentle. The kind of kiss that people who’ve been married for years and never fell out of love share.
You sink into him, your tears sliding between your lips and tainting the kiss with salt. He doesn’t seem to care, arms dropping to your waist as he tugs you onto his lap. Sammy pulls back and you have to stop yourself from whining, missing the feel of him immediately.
“I do love you,” he promises, pressing his forehead to yours. “I loved you a long time before Alex was in the picture.” You start to shake your head and he lets out a sigh. “You don’t have to believe me now, but it’s true.”
You can’t find the words to smooth over this. To just pretend you never said anything at all. You want so desperately to believe him, but he’s lied to get what he wants from you before. Still, as you let yourself sink completely into him, you allow yourself that little bit of hope.
“All right,” you let out a groan as you lift Nate into your arms. You don’t know what the hell Tammi is feeding him at her house, but god damn the kid’s heavy. “Come on, little man,” the name isn’t fitting at all but you can’t help yourself.
You head into Alex’s nursery and glance between the two. “I got this,” you mutter, balancing precariously as you reach into the crib. You slip your arm under her back and slot her on your hip.
Alex’s head falls to your shoulder and Nate mimics her, smiling as he reaches for her hand. You jerk your head back, not willing to let your hair get caught in another tug-of-war match.
Their hands tangle together as you walk outside. And suddenly you’ve got two babies laughing on either side of you and it’s enough to make you want to cry. How the hell can one noise be so precious?
You let out a sharp breath. Freaking kids, they just make you soft.
“All set?” You call out to Sammy. He’s still bent over in the backseat, grunting as he secures the extra carseat.
Nate reaches up and pats your cheek. You turn your face to smile at him and then you’re getting punched in the nose with all the insane baby strength he’s got.
“Oh, christ,” you mutter, jerking your face back. You really should have seen that coming. Both of them seem to be realizing that they have hands, which means all they want to do is wave them around and see how much damage they can do. It would have been great if they figured that out one at a time, but nope, they’re beating the crap out of you as a team.
At least they get along.
“Sammy,” you groan. Alex’s got a hold of your hair and she’s tugging with all she’s got. You’d correct her if your arms weren’t stuffed full of babies. “Can you hurry up, please? I’m gonna look like a DV case before we make it to the barbecue.”
He finally pulls out of the car, a proud smile on his face. You raise your brows and he gestures toward the backseat. “Come on, check it out,” he urges.
With a fond smile, you walk over and then immediately feel your heart drop to your ass. “Jesus, Sammy, tell me you have not been driving around with them like that?”
He shrugs and glances at the carseats. “What’s the big deal?”
“What’s the-” You cut yourself off, lowering your voice before you scare the kids. “The big deal,” you hiss, kicking at his shin. He jumps back with a grimace. “Is that you have the seats facing forward!”
“So?”
Your mouth drops and you let out a strangled noise. “So! If you slam on your breaks, who goes flying through the windshield? I swear to god, I’m going to call Ben. He did that carseat seminar at the center, maybe he can tell you how to do it.”
Sammy rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. “Don’t call, Ben.”
“I am not putting my babies into the car like that!” You only realize your slip up because of how his entire expression shifts. Your tongue knots in your throat and you clench your eyes shut.
“Crap, I meant-”
“Did you just say Nate is yours?” He asks, taking a step forward. You click your tongue, hating that you can’t read the look on his face. It’s soft, certainly, but you can’t tell if that’s because he’s about to kindly tell you never do that again.
“I didn’t, I mean, okay, I did.” You let out a loud huff. “I’m sorry, Sammy.”
He shakes his head, hands wrapping around your waist while he tugs you into him. You’re both careful of the babies, his arms securing all three of you. “Don’t apologize,” he pleads, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.
You don’t have words, throat suddenly choked as your eyes burn. Instead you nod, letting your head fall into the crook of his neck. And you hate to ruin the sweet moment, but you meant what you said.
“If you don’t fix those seats,” you whisper, “I’m going to neuter you in your sleep tonight.” Sammy barks out a laugh, startling Alex. She flinches back, face screwing up as she decides whether or not she wants to make this a thing.
Sammy’s slipping her out of your arms before she can decide, bouncing her lightly to get a smile back on her face. A grin splits your lips and you are helpless, incapable of stopping it. Glancing down at Nate, you find him watching his sister enviously.
With a happy chuckle, you take him in your arms, bouncing him a little and just smiling wider when he lets out a delighted laugh. You miss the way Sammy watches you. The look in his eyes that would tell you everything you want to know.
“So, how’s it going with baby mama number two?” Ben’s got a smug smirk on his face that Sammy wouldn’t mind punching off.
“Shut the hell up,” he tells him, shaking his head. They’re both leaning against the patrol car, watching detectives circle the dead body they’d found. “Good,” Sammy admits after a minute.
Ben turns to him with a raised brow. “Yeah?” Sammy nods, resiting the urge to smile just because he’s talking about you. Fuck, Ben’s right, he’s whipped. “How’s Tammi handling you having another woman watch her baby?”
Sammy crosses his arms and shrugs. “We talked about it, she doesn’t mind considering she’s got that european bastard with her. Besides, she’s met Alex a few times, everyone gets along.”
Ben hums and glances back at the scene. “One big, dysfunctional family.”
Sammy chuckles and nudges Ben away with his elbow. “Hey, whatever man, it’s working.”
Ben clicks his tongue, glancing down at his shoes and Sammy narrows his eyes. He’s building up to something, he can feel it. “Have you thought about asking her, yet?”
Sammy pinches the bridge of his nose and groans. He knows exactly what Ben’s talking about. The little box that’s been sitting in Sammy’s bag for a few months now. Before Alex was even born.
“Yeah, man, it’s all I think about. But she’s just going to think I’m asking her because it’s convenient or something.” Ben frowns and Sammy shrugs. “She refuses to believe that I actually have feelings for her.”
“Women,” Ben mutters and Sammy can’t help but agree with the exhaustion in his voice. If only you guys didn’t have to make things so complicated. He loves you. You love him. You’ve got a kid together. He doesn’t understand what key component you’re missing but it’s starting to make him crazy.
“How about you?” Sammy asks. “You find a badge bunny you wanna settle down with, yet?”
Ben laughs and shakes his head. “Hell no. I’ll live the domestic life vicariously through you.” Sammy scoffs, grinning at the fear in Ben’s eyes at the thought of finally going monogamous.
“Protect and serve, indeed.” Sammy’s brows turn in as he whips around. You’re stepping out of your car, shamelessly ogling the pair of them. “How you doin’ boys?”
Ben lets out a little laugh, grinning at you while he watches Sammy slowly process the situation. You walk up to them, hand brushing against Sammy’s arm in greeting.
“What’re you doing here?” Ben groans under his breath, backing off as Sammy completely bypasses a hello. He’s tried to help him for months, but he seems stubbornly resistant to learning how to speak to women.
You frown, slightly taken aback. “I’ve got an informant that could help these guys out. Sal told me to come down, check it out, see if anything looks familiar.” Slowly, you cross your arms, sucking your teeth while you glare at Sammy. “Problem?”
Ben’s eyes drop to his shoes as he says a silent prayer that Sammy not be an ass. “Where the hell is Alex? And Nate? You were supposed to be watching both of them,” he snaps. Ben lets out a low groan, you’re going to kill his partner and he’ll be stuck with some ass like Dewey.
You let out a sharp scoff, stepping back from them. “Tammi took them both for the day. And it’s nice to see you, too by the way.” Ben knows he should walk away, but it’s just too damn entertaining.
“Tammi?” Sammy demands, like that’s not the woman he was married to since high school.
“Yes,” you drawl, lifting your sunglasses and looking at him like you’re trying to see if he sustained brain damage on shift. “I take care of Nate all the time. And she said she doesn’t mind doing the same for Alex. Besides, we found a daycare we both like so the kids can go there soon.”
“A daycare?”
Ben rubs his brows, slipping on his sunglasses so you guys can’t see him watching Sammy dig himself a deeper hole.
“Just for the off-chance that everyone’s working and no one can watch the kids.”
“Don’t you think it’s a little early to be leaving them alone?”
Your jaw drops, eyes flitting to Ben. He pointedly looks away, whistling as he stares up at the bottom of the overpass you’re all parked by. You huff and he knows that’ll bite him in the ass sometime soon.
“What’re you trying to say, Sammy? Because I had the department stop paying me just so I could go on maternity leave longer. I mean, do you know how many strings Sal pulled so they wouldn’t just fire me? You know how badly I’ve wanted to start working again.”
Sammy shrugs, tone far too abrasive. “I don’t know, I feel like you’ve already got a full-time job.” Ben’s head whips up, wearing the same astonished expression as you. Sammy purses his lips, catching his mistake and being too stubborn to backtrack.
“Oh,” you draw the word out, voice dropping an octave. Apparently, you’ve already got the mom voice figured out. “Uh uh, you do not try and pull that domineering, women belong at home bullshit with me. I hear you saying something like that, again, and you can just go ahead and take your shit to Ben’s house.”
“Hey-”
Sammy speaks over Ben’s objections. “I didn’t mean-”
You hold up your hand, turning around and walking toward the detectives. Ben finally lets out the laughter he’s been holding in. “Jesus,” he shakes his head. “You’re hopeless, man.”
Sammy groans, raking his hands through his hair as he swats Ben’s arm. “What the hell am I supposed to do? She just freaked me out, I thought she was starting work tomorrow.”
Ben shrugs, leaning against the patrol car. “Next time, start with hello before you berate her parenting.”
“Shut up, man, you know that’s not how I meant it.”
“Yeah, I know. She doesn’t,” Ben points out. Christ, did Sammy hit his head? He’s being an even bigger idiot than usual. Sammy lets out a sharp breath before he’s pushing off the patrol car and heading toward you.
You spot him coming and turn in the other direction. Ben laughs as Sammy jogs to catch up to you, snagging your arm and turning you around. He reaches for his coffee and takes a long sip. You two don’t seem to realize just how entertaining you are to the people at the station.
By now, everyone knows that Sammy is Alex’s dad. They know that Tammi is Nate’s mom. Ben had expected the majority of them to point the blame at you. But Sammy seems completely unaware of how much slut-shaming is going around the station about him.
He’s turned into the office joke and Ben, horrible as it is, laps it up. Sammy was an ass when they first partnered up. Calling him too soft and claiming going by the book made him look bad to the older guys. He’s grateful you’re in his life to give Sammy the hell that he can’t.
“Oh, no, come on.” Ben clicks his tongue in disappointment as you smile at Sammy, letting him squeeze your hips and press a kiss to the corner of your mouth. He was hoping you would hold out longer, make Sammy squirm the rest of his shift. Sammy deserves to get shoved in the doghouse a little longer.
But, he’s walking back up to Ben with a smug grin and he knows it’s not happening. Ben raises his brows expectantly as Sammy stands beside him once more. “Back in the bed,” he holds his hand out.
Ben shakes his head with a scoff and gives him a high-five and pats him on the shouler. “Just listen to me, man. You’re never going to get anywhere with her if you’re…”
“Myself?” Sammy asks.
Ben nods, “Yeah, exactly.” He ducks away from the punch Sammy throws at him.
“Let’s go to bed, yeah,” you whisper to Alex, rocking her softly as you head toward the nursery. You pause when you hear the low murmur of Sammy’s voice. Turning to the left instead of the right, you find him sitting in the rocking chair, reading softly to Nate.
You bite your lip, holding back a smile as you watch him. Nate’s head is smushed against his shoulder, chubby cheeks looking even cuter than usual. You’re going to turn around when Alex lets out a soft little noise.
Sammy’s head perks up and he smiles as he spots you. “Watching me now?” He whispers, careful of the two sleeping babies. You huff out a laugh and walk toward him. You stop in front of the rocking chair, hand idly rubbing up and down Alex’s back.
“Can you blame me? You two are adorable.”
Sammy rolls his eyes and uses his free arm to wrap around your hips. “I am not adorable.” You hum, giving in as he tugs you down onto his lap. He shifts Nate higher up his body and you chuckle as the little boy’s face screws up in irritaiton.
“What’re you reading?” You ask, titling your head to get a better look at the book. He holds it up, revealing an old comic with a sheepish smile. “Of course,” you laugh.
“Let me see,” you reach out and find yourself beaming. “Hey, this was my favorite in middle school.”
Nate chuckles, hand slipping up your waist. “I know, that’s why I got it.” Glancing back at him, you find it growing more difficult to breathe. God, that gleam in his eye, the unabashed affection, you almost believe he really does love you.
“You know,” you readjust Nate’s onesie and grin. “This is going to be a lot harder when they get bigger. Can’t just have us in your arms all the time,” you chide softly.
Sammy rolls his eyes, pulling you closer so he can get a better look at Alex’s smushed face. “Why do you think I work out, huh?” You shake your head as he presses a kiss to your temple.
His head tilts, resting against yours as you close your eyes. “I meant what I told you,” he says. Your heart stutters as you nod your head. “Really,” he insists.
Your eyes drift down to your daughter and you’re still surprised by how much of him you see in her. “I know,” you whisper. “I, uh,” you let out a little laugh as you pull back from him. “I was cleaning the kitchen, your bag got in my way…”
You don’t have to finish the sentence for Sammy to go stiff and his eyes get big and terrified. “I found it,” you tell him and he already knows you’re talking about that little box he’s kept hidden from you for months.
His eyes fall shut as he slumps against the rocking chair. Nate fusses and his hand comes up to pat his back, the move subconscious and so endearing. “Now, unless you have some secret third baby mama out there,” Sammy pinches your side and you try not to laugh too loud. “I think that’s meant for me.”
Sammy lets out a long sigh, rubbing his eyes. “Yeah, it’s meant for you.” He looks up at you expectantly but you just pull Alex away from your shoulder, resting her on your thighs.
“I’ve been thinking lately, maybe we should move their cribs in here together. Turn the second room into a playroom or something.” Sammy’s brows turn in, struggling to understand your point. “I, uh, I’ve held on to things from the past for too long, you know. I don’t want the kids separated just because I thought you didn’t want me when I was pregnant.”
Sammy frowns, sitting up. “What’re you saying?”
“I’m saying… I want to be a family,” you raise your brows, glancing at him knowingly. But he still looks shellshocked, lips parted as he straes at you. “I’m saying yes numb nuts,” you lean down, kissing him softly.
“I love you,” he whispers.
“Yeah, I know,” you grin at the little frustrated noise that escapes him.
Everything to get you here was messy, not at all like you’d always hoped your relationship would turn out. But you could make this work. This odd, twisted and messy family dynamic. It can be perfect for all of you.
What does the journey matter when you’ve got what you always wanted right here?
A sudden thought occurs as he grins smugly up at you.
Did this man babytrap you?
𝘕𝘰𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺'𝘴 𝘚𝘰𝘯
𝘚𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘢 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳 ♥︎
⇄ ◁◁ I I ▷▷ ↻
⁰² ⁰⁸ ━━━━━━━━━●━ ⁰⁰ ²⁵
💿 So fine and so deceiving 💿
end. — I do not own the characters or the show Southland, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2026. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.
awww I love thissss
